The Natural

by Bernard Malamud

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  INTRODUCTION

  PRE-GAME

  BATTER UP!

  By Bernard Malamud

  Copyright Page

  For My Father

  INTRODUCTION

  BY KEVIN BAKER

  Bernard Malamud was thirty-eight years old when he published The Natural (1952), his antiheroic tale about a baseball player whose ambitions and desires are constantly thwarted, and one can’t help but wonder how much of the story reflects the author’s own frustrations. It was his first novel, and while thirty-eight is still young for a writer, if not for a ballplayer, Malamud’s career had already been deferred for years by his need to scrape out a living during the Great Depression, and then by the Second World War.

  The natural is Roy Hobbs, a pitching prodigy who begins literally in darkness, streaking through a train tunnel in Malamud’s superb opening sentence, where he “pawed at the glass before thinking to prick a match with his thumbnail and hold the spurting flame in his cupped palm.” As in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, the action in The Natural commences with a struck flame—and like Agamemnon, our hero will soon have his hands full.

  Before Hobbs can even get to his big tryout in the big town, he strikes out the Ruthian Walter “the Whammer” Wham-bold—in another wonderfully vivid scene, set at a carnival beside a train stalled at dusk, somewhere out in the heartland—and he is shot and almost killed by a deranged female fan he thought he was meeting for a hotel-room tryst. The rest of the book picks up an embittered Hobbs in his mid-thirties, just as he has finally clawed his way back to the big leagues as an outfielder, and is impatiently, recklessly trying to at last claim the laurels—and the financial rewards—that he is convinced should have been his long ago.

  Readers of a certain age will recognize the model for the book. Up until perhaps a generation ago, most public libraries still held shelves full of boys’ sports novels. They were a venerable line of American hack writing, churned out relentlessly by sportswriters and novelists, or even by a major college basketball coach such as Clair Bee.

  The excuse for their existence was an educational one. Their stories usually marched stoutly through a season to the final big game, drawing upon the natural drama of any sporting contest, and imparting life lessons freely along the way. The hero was sometimes a professional athlete, more often a high-school or college star. He was always blessed with great gifts, though his natural ability had to be molded and disciplined, lest it betray him and the team. He tended to have a mysterious pedigree, as heroes often do, and he invariably had to overcome some failure, even some dark secret from his past, in order to win.

  In The Natural, Malamud draws heavily upon this genre, then stands it on its head.

  For starters, Roy Hobbs is certainly as talented and as mysterious as any boys’ sports hero, even to himself. We are told next to nothing about his past, though from what little we do learn it seems to have been a nasty, brutish existence, relieved only by idealized romps through the countryside with his faithful dog. Young Roy has grown up literally in the backwoods, in “a green world shot through with weird light and strange bird cries,” and he is too poor to own so much as a wristwatch. His mother was “a whore” who “spoiled my old man’s life” and once drowned a fully grown cat in a bathtub, before abandoning the family altogether. And yet Roy longs to return to the forest, sometimes with a new family of his own, sometimes alone; even conjuring up a vision of himself, complete with dog, emerging from the woods along a lonely, nighttime road—and then only to allow his apparition to be run down by a speeding car.

  It is this ambivalence, this teetering between boundless ambition and the desire to return to the womb of anonymity, that Malamud deftly uses to keep the reader off balance. Hobbs never seems to doubt his raw ability and neither does the reader, not after he strikes out the Whammer. And yet Hobbs’s dreams are still dashed, deformed into an inchoate, aching need—in part by fate, but mostly because of his own foolish decisions.

  If the story does reflect Malamud’s own feelings, though, he is bracingly free of self-pity. There were many such deferred lives at the time The Natural was written, and it is juiced with the cynicism and disillusionment that permeated American letters in the years after the war. It is hard to find a truly likable character in the book. Nearly everyone is playing an angle, out for themselves. Women are depicted as symbols of danger, or of deceit, or of simplistic purity, to the point of misogyny. Men are almost as bad. Beggars spit on the sidewalk and curse the passersby: “You’ll get yours.”

  Massed humanity, for Malamud, is even worse. His crowds turn against their heroes on a dime—and their creator almost seems to exult in their savagery. Before the big game, “fist fights broke out all over the stands,” and the police throw a man wrongly accused of gashing another man’s head open with a rock out of the park, where his own head and his glasses are smashed by still another fan until he “spat out two bloody teeth and sat there sobbing till the ambulance came.” Elsewhere, a beaten man makes “groans and squeals” and “had a bowel movement in his pants.” A little roadside game to settle a small wager immediately turns into mortal combat, its contestants yelling, “Close your trap,” “Cut his throat with it,” and “If he tries to dust me, so help me I will smash his skull.” It ends with one participant fatally wounded.

  It was Malamud’s brilliant conceit to convert the national pastime into this life-and-death struggle. Baseball has always been an American simulacrum: the green, pastoral game, with its playing field that stretches on forever, but which has its roots planted firmly in the hard city. Like Olmsted and Vaux’s greensward parks, the ballpark is a swath of idealized nature, plunked down in the middle of an urban block and meant to reform us, morally and physically. Malamud is having none of it. At a time now thought of as the golden age of the sport, in which money and power were only secondary considerations, his baseball is very much a business, and one that exposes the worst in us all.

  Yet for all that, Malamud the Brooklyn boy clearly knows his ball, and he revels in its rituals and eccentricities. He gives us a crackerjack pennant race, and some terrific games. He takes an obvious delight in the ruffles and flourishes of old-time sports-writing even as he sends them up, and his own descriptions of the action are elegant as well as ironic. Thus, the batter “realized with sadness that the ball he had expected to hit had long since been part of the past; and though Max could not cough the fatal word out of his throat, the Whammer understood he was, in the truest sense of it, out.” One pitch is “a whizzer but dripping lard”; another “floated in, perfect for pickling.” Hoary baseball cliches come miraculously to life. Roy literally knocks the cover off the ball, and he can catch everything in creation, even if that includes an unfortunate errant canary.

  Malamud lingers lovingly over a scene in which Roy is given a “day”—a now extinct ritual (and one that will come as a revelation to those fans who grew up in the era of the millionaire utility infielder) wherein everyone chipped in to give a favorite ballplayer a host of both practical and bizarre consumer goods, including “two television sets, a baby tractor, five hundred feet of pink plastic garden hose, a nanny goat, a lifetime pass to the Paramount, one dozen hand-painted neckties offering different views of the Grand Canyon, six aluminum traveling cases, and a credit for seventy-five taxi rides in Philadelphia.”

  Above all, though, the story of The Natural is taken from the most vivid and tragic legends of the game. Its immediate inspiration was the real-life case of one Eddie Waitkus, a first baseman for the Philadelphia Phillies who was also shot by a deranged woman in a hotel room. Here, too, is Pistol Pete Reiser, who could not keep himself from running into walls, and Shoeless Joe Jackson, who threw the World Se
ries on behalf of gamblers. Here are Veeck’s midget, Eddie Gaedel; Babe Herman; Babe Ruth, with his called shot and his terrible bellyache; Hilda Chester, clanging her cowbell out in the Ebbets Field bleachers; and players who hit home runs for critically ill boys, listening over the radio from their hospital beds.

  Malamud cuts through the mythology that encrusts all these fabulous things, but his vision is, finally, darker than even objective American reality. Ruth’s famous bellyache, after all, was no more than a blip in his gargantuan career; not so Hobbs’s horrifyingly insatiable hunger, which only increases the more it is fed. Eddie Waitkus had never even met the fan who shot him; he married his attending nurse, recovered in time to help the Whiz Kids win the pennant the next year, and by all accounts lived happily ever after.

  Malamud is after a deeper sickness of the soul, and his Hobbs is closer to another baseball prototype, the phenom who comes out of nowhere to set the world on fire. He is, perhaps, Mickey Mantle, signed by a bird-dog scout roaming the back roads of Oklahoma in a Cadillac, and brought up to the big club as a teenager—only to corrode his matchless skills through years of drinking and carousing. He is Joe DiMaggio, the Joe DiMaggio we know now through Gay Talese and Richard Ben Cramer: cold and bitter and aloof, yet with those perpetually boyish eyes, still full of hurt from the time the fans turned on him back in 1937.

  Yet these comparisons do not quite work, either. DiMaggio, after all, ultimately learned how to work the system, carting away plastic bags full of money from mobsters and baseball-card shows; and even the Mick turned hero in the end, excoriating himself in public in hopes of saving his sons from his own fate.

  Roy Hobbs is more the mirror image of Willy Loman, in Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman (1949), that other befuddled, angry, postwar man who never will learn. Unlike Loman, Hobbs is supremely talented, yet he is no better able to fathom the schemes of lesser men, or to unravel the snares that life has set for him. Like so many geniuses, he is staggering in his self-absorption. Hobbs can be cruel and remarkably callous, even toward the woman who has saved him. He cares nothing for the fans, and little for his teammates or his long-suffering manager, and he hubristically ignores every portent and superstition. He is greedy and ruthless, preoccupied at all times with making the money he believes his talent entitles him to make—and yet he foolishly squanders both his talent and the money on things he desires so intensely. He drinks and eats and fornicates thoughtlessly, and in the big final game, he wastes one critical swing after another in order to hit foul balls at a midget who has been taunting him from the grandstand.

  Malamud is unflinching in the integrity of his portrayal, and it is this that carries The Natural to its ultimate triumph. Hobbs is one of the most thoroughly unsympathetic heroes in the history of American literature. To be sure, his ambition is not purely mercenary, but even his desire to have “broke most every record there was” is blind and blunt—American gigantism run amok. One can feel little real pity for any character who has so assiduously shaped his own doom. The best that the reader can manage, right down to the last page, is the same sort of atavistic horror one feels upon seeing the faces of Michelangelo’s sinners, realizing only too late they are damned forever, just as Roy Hobbs “wept many bitter tears” and realizes at long last, “I never did learn anything out of my past life, now I have to suffer again.” It is only then that we realize how thoroughly human he is.

  PRE-GAME

  Roy Hobbs pawed at the glass before thinking to prick a match with his thumbnail and hold the spurting flame in his cupped palm close to the lower berth window, but by then he had figured it was a tunnel they were passing through and was no longer surprised at the bright sight of himself holding a yellow light over his head, peering back in. As the train yanked its long tail out of the thundering tunnel, the kneeling reflection dissolved and he felt a splurge of freedom at the view of the moon-hazed Western hills bulked against night broken by sprays of summer lightning, although the season was early spring. Lying back, elbowed up on his long side, sleepless still despite the lulling train, he watched the land flowing and waited with suppressed expectancy for a sight of the Mississippi, a thousand miles away.

  Having no timepiece he appraised the night and decided it was moving toward dawn. As he was looking, there flowed along this bone-white farmhouse with sagging skeletal porch, alone in untold miles of moonlight, and before it this white-faced, long-boned boy whipped with train-whistle yowl a glowing ball to someone hidden under a dark oak, who shot it back without thought, and the kid once more wound and returned. Roy shut his eyes to the sight because if it wasn’t real it was a way he sometimes had of observing himself, just as in this dream he could never shake off—that had hours ago waked him out of sound sleep—of him standing at night in a strange field with a golden baseball in his palm that all the time grew heavier as he sweated to settle whether to hold on or fling it away. But when he had made his decision it was too heavy to lift or let fall (who wanted a hole that deep?) so he changed his mind to keep it and the thing grew fluffy light, a white rose breaking out of its hide, and all but soared off by itself, but he had already sworn to hang on forever.

  As dawn tilted the night, a gust of windblown rain blinded him—no, there was a window—but the sliding drops made him thirsty and from thirst sprang hunger. He reached into the hammock for his underwear to be first at breakfast in the dining car and make his blunders of ordering and eating more or less in private, since it was doubtful Sam would be up to tell him what to do. Roy peeled his gray sweatshirt and bunched down the white ducks he was wearing for pajamas in case there was a wreck and he didn’t have time to dress. He acrobated into a shirt, pulled up the pants of his good suit, arching to draw them high, but he had crammed both feet into one leg and was trapped so tight wriggling got him nowhere. He worried because here he was straitjacketed in the berth without much room to twist around in and might bust his pants or have to buzz the porter, which he dreaded. Grunting, he contorted himself this way and that till he was at last able to grab and pull down the cuff and with a gasp loosened his feet and got the caught one where it belonged. Sitting up, he gartered his socks, tied laces, got on a necktie and even squirmed into a suit coat so that when he parted the curtains to step out he was fully dressed.

  Dropping to all fours, he peered under the berth for his bassoon case. Though it was there he thought he had better open it and did but quickly snapped it shut as Eddie, the porter, came walking by.

  “Morning, maestro, what’s the tune today?”

  “It ain’t a musical instrument.” Roy explained it was something he had made himself.

  “Animal, vegetable, or mineral?”

  “Just a practical thing.”

  “A pogo stick?”

  “No.”

  “Foolproof lance?”

  “No.”

  “Lemme guess,” Eddie said, covering his eyes with his long-fingered hand and pawing the air with the other. “I have it-combination fishing rod, gun, and shovel.”

  Roy laughed. “How far to Chicago, Eddie?”

  “Chi? Oh, a long, long ways. I wouldn’t walk.”

  “I don’t intend to.”

  “Why Chi?” Eddie asked. “Why not New Orleans? That’s a lush and Frenchy city.”

  “Never been there.”

  “Or that hot and hilly town, San Francisco?”

  Roy shook his head.

  “Why not New York, colossus of colossuses?”

  “Some day I’ll visit there.”

  “Where have you visited?”

  Roy was embarrassed. “Boise.”

  “That dusty sandstone quarry.”

  “Portland too when I was small.”

  “In Maine?”

  “No, Oregon—where they hold the Festival of Roses.”

  “Oregon—where the refugees from Minnesota and the Dakotas go?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Roy said. “I’m going to Chicago, where the Cubs are.”

  “Lions and t
igers in the zoo?”

  “No, the ballplayers.”

  “Oh, the ball—” Eddie clapped a hand to his mouth. “Are you one of them?”

  “I hope to be.”

  The porter bowed low. “My hero. Let me kiss your hand.”

  Roy couldn’t help but smile yet the porter annoyed and worried him a little. He had forgotten to ask Sam when to tip him, morning or night, and how much? Roy had made it a point, since their funds were so low, not to ask for anything at all but last night Eddie had insisted on fixing a pillow behind his back, and once when he was trying to locate the men’s room Eddie practically took him by the hand and led him to it. Did you hand him a dime after that or grunt a foolish thanks as he had done? He’d personally be glad when the trip was over, though he certainly hated to be left alone in a place like Chicago. Without Sam he’d feel shaky-kneed and unable to say or do simple things like ask for directions or know where to go once you had dropped a nickel into the subway.

  After a troublesome shave in which he twice drew blood he used one thin towel to dry his hands, face, and neck, clean his razor and wipe up the wet of his toothbrush so as not to have to ask for another and this way keep the bill down. From the flaring sky out the window it looked around half-past five, but he couldn’t be sure because somewhere near they left Mountain Time and lost—no, picked up—yes, it was lost an hour, what Sam called the twenty-three hour day. He packed his razor, toothbrush, and pocket comb into a chamois drawstring bag, rolled it up small and kept it handy in his coat pocket. Passing through the long sleeper, he entered the diner and would gladly have sat down to breakfast, for his stomach had contracted into a bean at the smell of food, but the shirt-sleeved waiters in stocking caps were joshing around as they gobbled fried kippers and potatoes. Roy hurried through the large-windowed club car, empty for once, through several sleepers, coaches, a lounge and another long line of coaches, till he came to the last one, where amid the gloom of drawn shades and sleeping people tossed every which way, Sam Simpson also slept although Roy had last night begged him to take the berth but the soft-voiced Sam had insisted, “You take the bed, kiddo, you’re the one that has to show what you have got on the ball when we pull into the city. It don’t matter where I sleep.”