Switch Pitchers

by Norman German

  “Naw,” Darnell said. “Really?”

  Bobby laughed. “That’s a sand trout. It’s just like a speckled trout, but without the specks. Some people call them white trout.”

  The fishing slowed for a while, then a large redfish broke Bobby’s line. He opened his tackle box and poked around. When Darnell turned to try another area, Bobby lifted the half pint and took a couple of swallows.

  “I know what’ll make ’em start biting again,” Bobby said. Darnell turned around as Bobby lifted a red-headed jig with green feathers from the top tray. Bobby spoke mysteriously. “You know what this is?”

  “No, what that?” Darnell said, mocking himself.

  “That a gya-mo,” Bobby said.

  “Why they call it that?”

  “’Cause when you cast out, you catch a fish so big you say, ‘Gya, look at the size of that one. I’ma cast back and get me some mo’!”

  Darnell laughed.

  “You think I’m kiddin’, boy?”

  “Yas-sir, I sho’ do.”

  “Watch this. First cast.” Bobby started to cast, then held back. He looked at Darnell. “Don’t believe me?”

  “Not for one second, Mr. Troutman. You good, but you ain’t that good.”

  Bobby shook his head. “It ain’t me. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It’s the gya-mo, the secret wonder bait. Nobody else knows about this bait.”

  “Yeah, why not?” Darnell challenged.

  “’Cause,” Bobby said, casting. “I made it myself.”

  Darnell watched Mr. Troutman bounce the bait slowly along the bottom.

  “Ha!” Darnell said when the bait was almost to the boat. “Told you so.”

  Something stopped the bait and Bobby quit reeling. The line moved slowly toward Darnell. Bobby set the hook and didn’t give the fish a chance to fight. He hoisted it into the boat and it beat a tattoo on the aluminum bottom.

  “Ha, yourself,” Bobby said. The fish continued to flap on the bottom of the boat until Bobby covered it with his shoe. He unhooked the fish and held it up.

  “Flounder,” he said. “You ever seen one of these? It’s got both eyes on the brown side and its white side is blind.”

  “Yas-sir, I seed them befo’, sho’ have. I mean, Yes, Mr. Troutman, I have seen this type of fish before. My dear old mother caught one last week and threw it back because she said it was a devil.”

  Bobby laughed. Darnell tumbled over the middle seat to inspect the brown fish more closely. When he touched one of its stalky eyes, it retracted. Bobby flipped the fish over and Darnell ran his index finger along the white underside.

  “Thas just like you and me, all in one, Mr. Troutman.”

  Bobby slapped the flounder’s tail across Darnell’s cheek. “Mista Daar-nell, you too smart for your own good.”

  For an hour, the fish moved up and down the submerged riverbank and bit on and off as they passed the boat. When the ice chest could not hold another fish, the two friends started back.

  They passed under the bridge, then the trestle. Darnell sat in the bottom of the boat, leaning his back against the middle seat and watching his teacher guide the small craft.

  Bobby whistled “The Tennessee Waltz,” repeating in his mind the words he recalled.

  I was dancing with my darling to the Tennessee Waltz

  When an old friend I happened to see.

  I introduced him to my loved one and while they were dancing

  My friend stole my sweetheart from me.

  I remember the night and the Tennessee Waltz.

  Now I know just how much I have lost.

  Yes, I lost my little darling the night they were playing

  The beau-tee-ful Ten-nes-see Waaaaltz.

  Darnell puckered his lips, silently practicing the tune. When he learned it, he whistled along haltingly. Bobby whistled the first line, then Darnell repeated it until he got it right and Bobby went on to the next line. When Bobby reached the last line, he pointed to Darnell and set him going. As Darnell whistled the song, Bobby extracted a cigarette and his lighter and smoked until they came to the first bend in the river. When the boat straightened, Bobby reached into the tackle box and pulled out the half pint of Old Crow. Darnell stopped whistling, then resumed. Bobby took a long swallow, then held the bottle out to Darnell.

  “Thirsty?”

  Darnell looked at the bottle and waved it off. “No thank you, Mr. Troutman, I never touch the stuff.”

  Bobby put the bottle back in the tackle box.

  “Darnell, let’s switch places.”

  Darnell’s eyes widened and he pointed to his chest as a question.

  Bobby looked quickly around. “Yes, you. Who else would I be talking to?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Troutman—”

  “Get back here,” Bobby commanded.

  They switched places.

  “When you want to go right, push the handle left. To go left, pull right. If you get it wrong, you probbly won’t kill us.”

  Darnell sat stiffly and didn’t move a muscle until the boat veered to the south bank.

  He eased the boat back to the middle of the river. Bobby sipped the whiskey and whistled “Goodnight Irene.”

  Last Saturday night I got married,

  Me and my wife settled down.

  Now me and my wife are parted,

  I’m gonna take another boat downtown.

  Irene, goodnight. Irene, goodnight.

  Goodnight, Irene. Goodnight, Irene.

  I’ll see you in my dreams.

  Sometimes I live in the country,

  Sometimes I live in town,

  Sometimes I take a great notion

  To jump into the river and drown.

  Darnell was too intent on his job to whistle along. After the boy gained confidence, Bobby pointed left and right as he wanted him to move. Soon he had Darnell cutting up with the slow-moving craft.

  Sometimes there’s a change in the ocean,

  Sometimes there’s a change in the sea,

  Sometimes there’s a change in my true love,

  But there’s never no change in me.

  At the landing, Bobby did not back the trailer into the water as far as he normally would. He clipped the winch rope to the bow of the boat.

  “Now,” he said to Darnell, “winch her in.”

  Darnell turned the low-geared crank until his right arm tired, then switched hands.

  “Unh-uh,” Bobby said. “Keep cranking with your right. That’s good work for your pitching arm.”

  When Darnell finished cranking, he held his arm and smiled proudly at his pain.

  Bobby pulled the trailer from the water. After securing the straps, he opened the ice chest and he and Darnell admired their catch—speckled trout, redfish, and flounder lying in all positions, some still gasping for water.

  “You want these stinking fish?”

  “You betcha, Mr. Troutman.”

  “Got a stringer?”

  “Sho’ do. Nylon.” Darnell pulled the stringer from his back pocket.

  After helping Darnell string up the fish, Bobby sat in his Bel Air ready to leave. He lit a Lucky Strike for the road. Placing his left arm on the windowsill, he put the car in gear. He waved at Darnell with the Lucky, then eased away. Reaching the cigarette to his lips, he heard Darnell call out.

  “Mr. Bobby!”

  Bobby stopped, the Lucky surprised between his hand and his lips. He looked at Darnell through the rearview mirror. “What?”

  “You holding back,” Darnell hollered as he took a few steps toward the car.

  Bobby grinned. “What in the world are you talking about, boy?”

  “Mr. Bobby, you didn’t fool me with that Mr. Troutman stuff.” Darnell slapped his left shoulder. “I know all about your shoulder. You didn’t fool me none, and you ain’t fooling them batters.”

  “And I suppose you got the cure?”

  A smile spread across Darnell’s face. “You’re well, Mr. Bobby. You just holding ba
ck ’cause you afraid. You need to rear back and rock-n-fire, rock-n-fire, just like you taught me to cast. You’ll see. Everything’ll be aawl-right.” Swinging his hand in a wide arc over his head, Darnell waved goodbye.

  With his hand through the open window, Bobby waved Darnell over to the car. When he came alongside, Bobby looked toward the icehouse, then at Darnell.

  “How would you like to haul ice for the rest of your life?”

  Darnell looked up the road and remembered his pain from carrying one small block a short distance.

  “I don’t think I’d like that too much, Mr. Bobby. Why?”

  “I tell you what. If you promise to do better in school, I’ll get you a job at Legion Field. How’s that sound?”

  “Aw, man, that would be great, Mr. Troutman—I mean, Mr. Bobby.”

  Bobby looked at Darnell and shook his head. He could not believe he had been conned by a boy. He took a pull on his just-lit cigarette, then flicked it at Darnell. It hit his chest and bounced off.

  Bobby pulled the car away from the landing. Starting up the gentle slope, he looked in his rearview mirror. He saw Darnell pick up the cigarette and take a drag. Leaning his head out the window, Bobby shouted, “Hey, I thought you was a Pall Mall man!”

  Smiling, Darnell waved the cigarette high in the air and blew out a happy stream of smoke.

  “Well, you knows us black folkses, Mista Bobby. We jes takes what we’s can get.”

  Chapter 18

  SUDDENLY they appeared. Rats in the dugouts and concession stands. Rats deep in the outfield. Rats in Galveston and Beaumont. In Houston, New Orleans, and Lake Charles. The only teams to escape the plague were not port cities: Lafayette, Crowley, and Laredo.

  It was Leo Tycer’s turn in the rotation. In the dugout before the game, Bobby introduced Darnell as the Lunkers’ newest peanut peddler and Coke crier. With a tray at his waste hanging from a sling around his neck, Darnell wore the green-and-gold striped paper cap of the roving concession boys.

  Bobby put his hand on Darnell’s shoulder. “And y’all aren’t going to believe it, but this boy ain’t got no last name.”

  “Doesn’t have a last name,” Darnell corrected to the merriment of the dugout.

  “I can tell this boy’s going places,” Tycer said. “I’m gonna rub his head for good luck to see if some of it wears off on me.”

  Tycer lifted Darnell’s cap and rubbed until he raised the nap on his matted hair.

  “Son,” Bill said to Darnell, “there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life. A name can make you or break you. When I was captured in Germany, an officer asked my name and I said ‘Bill German.’ He thought I was being a smart-ass, so he put a pistol to my head and asked again. I yanked out my dog tags but quick. The point being, you can’t call yourself a peanut peddler. We got to think up an extra special name for a smart boy like you.”

  Darnell beamed.

  “The man’s right,” Harry Chozen injected. It was rare for the manager to joke with the players at game time, so everyone turned to listen. “Take Geronimo and Jerry. One’s a good name for a warrior, the other’s nothing but a cartoon mouse.”

  Darnell laughed and the men chuckled.

  “And how do you think the famous Mr. Schickelgruber made his mark on the world?” Chozen looked around.

  Bobby guessed. “Wasn’t he that comedian went to Korea with Bob Hope?”

  Lambert whacked him on the arm. “No, he was one of them old vaude-villains that acted in the first talkies.”

  Chozen nodded as if to say “I told you so.”

  “He was born Adolf Schickelgruber. With a name like that, you could never conquer the world because people would just laugh at you. So he changed his name to Hitler.”

  After the men recovered from their surprise, they returned to the original problem.

  “How about Vendor,” Hardie suggested. “That sounds like a dignified name for a young businessman.”

  Bill put a hand to his chin. He inspected Darnell, squinting at him with one eye. “No, somehow that don’t strike the right note.”

  Zig Emory offered, “What about Salesman of General Concessions?”

  Bill rejected it immediately. “Too long.”

  “Concessions Salesman?”

  “Warmer.”

  “Concession Boy?”

  “Too lowly for a boy going places.”

  Bobby raised his hand. “What about something foreign? You always sound smarter if you call your job application a résumé.”

  “How does Concessioneer sound?” Charlie asked.

  “Is that a real French word?”

  “Who cares?” Bill said. “As the only Concessioneer at Legion Field, the fans’ll throw all their business his way and before you know it we’ll be taking out car loans from this boy.”

  Chozen ended the ceremony. “All right, Concessioneer it is. But I better not find any of you men leaving peanuts on the dugout floor. We’ve got enough rats around here to populate a research lab. Don’t even throw a spent chew on the floor. That’s what that trashcan’s for.” He pointed, and that was the end of the sermon. The Lunkers swarmed onto the field.

  Tycer won a close decision, and Darnell made four dollars and sixty-five cents, found a dime, then Bobby gave him a quarter to bring his take to an even five. After Darnell’s first big night, the team rallied around him to rub his head before every home game.

  Cyrus “Peanut Butter” Vance lost the night game and Ricardo won the next day. Then, two games out of second, the Lunkers started the eastward road trip to Crowley and New Orleans. Bobby asked Chozen if Darnell could travel with the team. The manager said no. He knew ballplayers were a superstitious lot and didn’t want the team to start relying on Darnell for luck.

  * * *

  Bobby warmed up slowly. In the first inning, he told himself it was just Crowley. Even if he didn’t pitch his best game, he would probably win on the strength of Lunker hitting. By the third inning, Bobby was beginning to think about letting go with his best fastball. He thought of Darnell, what he had taught the boy about casting, and what the boy had given him in return. “You’re well, Mr. Bobby. You just holding back ’cause you afraid. Just rear back and rock-n-fire.”

  But it’s Crowley, Bobby told himself. No need to rush. In the bottom of the fourth, with two out, none on, and a 1-and-2 count, Bobby looked over the top of his glove at Chozen signaling fastball. “What the hell,” he said into his glove. “This one’s for you, Darnell.” He reminded himself to keep his grip soft and his wrist loose.

  The ball always felt like it took a part of his body with it as it left for Little Rock. When Bobby hadn’t thrown his best fastball in a while, he always had to check his fingertips for blisters. Or worse. Because it felt like the end of his fingers were blown off when it happened.

  Bobby didn’t hear the called strike. Dazed and half amazed at his twice-resurrected ability, he was checking his fingertips.

  Coming in from third, Ziggy slapped Bobby awake with his glove. “Hey, are you nutty or something? Inning’s over, Lucky.”

  By the end of the game, Bobby had thrown his newly named Arkansas Traveler twenty times. Even though his fingers snapped like the end of a popping bullwhip each time he threw it, his arm held. The Lunkers won 9-2, Tycer and Vance split the double-header the next day, and the team woke up in the Crescent City half a game out of second.

  Ricardo struggled against the Pelicans. When he was pitching, he looked like a loose-jointed marionette about to come apart, and it was still a wonder to the Lunkers that his wild arms and legs produced such accurate throws. But the Pelicans’ better batters had gotten used to his odd deliveries, and the lead changed hands several times before the seventh inning. Chozen asked Ricardo if he wanted Bill to relieve him. He said no, reminding Chozen they were on a four-man rotation now and might need Bill in the nightcap.

  In the eighth, the Pelicans went ahead 7-6. Ricardo wanted the win and asked Chozen to keep him in. He said no. Bill mopped
up in the eighth, and the Lunkers scattered four singles in their half of the ninth to ratchet the score up by two, 8-7. In the bottom half of the ninth, Bill threw two groundball singles and picked both men off first, then embarrassed the Big Swede, Jan Decker, with a slow changeup off his slow fastball for a swinging strikeout to end the game.

  Ricardo pouted about not being allowed to finish the contest, but the Lunkers had won, and his spirits lifted by the third inning of the night game.