The Natural

by Bernard Malamud

  Still a doubt existed. Maybe white mustache was wrong? They could misjudge them too. Maybe there was a mite less wind behind the ball than he thought, and it would hit the ground at his feet rather than land in the glove. Mistakes could happen in everything. Wouldn’t be the first time a sawbones was wrong. Maybe he was a hundred per cent dead wrong.

  The next evening, amid a procession of fathers leaving the hospital at baby-feeding time, he sneaked out of the building. A cab got him to Knights Field, and Happy Pellers, the astonished groundskeeper, let him in. A phone call brought Dizzy to the scene. Roy changed into uniform (he almost wept to behold Wonderboy so forlorn in the locker) and Happy donned catcher’s gear. Dizzy prepared to pitch. It was just to practice, Roy said, so he would have his eye and timing alert for the playoff Monday. Happy switched on the night floods to make things clearer. Dizzy practiced a few pitches and then with Roy standing at the plate, served one over the middle. As he swung, Roy felt a jet of steam blow through the center of his skull. They gathered him up, bundled him into a cab, and got him back to the hospital, where nobody had missed him.

  It was a storm on and Roy out in it. Not exactly true, it was Sam Simpson who was lost and Roy outsearching him. He tracked up and down the hills, leaving his white tracks, till he come to this shack with the white on the roof.

  Anybody in here? he calls.

  Nope.

  You don’t know my friend Sam?

  Nope.

  He wept and try to go away.

  Come on in, kiddo, I was only foolin’.

  Roy dry his eyes and went in. Sam was settin’ at the table under the open bulb, his collar and tie off, playing solitaire with all spades.

  Roy sit by the fire till Sam finish. Sam looked up wearing his half-moon specs, glinting moonlight.

  Well, son, said Sam, lightin’ up on his cigar.

  I swear I didn’t do it, Sam.

  Didn’t do what?

  Didn’t do nothin’.

  Who said you did?

  Roy wouldn’t answer, shut tight as a clam.

  Sam stayed awhile, then he say to Roy, Take my advice, kiddo.

  Yes, Sam.

  Don’t do it.

  No, said Roy, I won’t. He rose and stood headbent before Sam’s chair.

  Let’s go back home, Sam, let’s now.

  Sam peered out the window.

  I would like to, kiddo, honest, but we can’t go out there now. Heck, it’s snowin’ baseballs.

  When he came to, Roy made the specialist promise to tell no one about his condition just in case he had the slightest chance of improving enough to play for maybe another season. The specialist frankly said he didn’t see that chance, but he was willing to keep mum because he believed in the principle of freedom of action. So he told no one and neither did Roy—not even Memo. (No one had even mentioned the subject of his playing in the Series but Roy had already privately decided to take his chances in that.)

  But mostly his thoughts were dismal. That frightened feeling: bust before beginning. On the merry-go-round again about his failure to complete his mission in the game. About this he suffered most. He lay for hours staring at the window. Often the glass looked wet though it wasn’t raining. A man who had been walking in bright sunshine limped away into a mist. This broke the heart … When the feeling passed, if it ever did, there was the necessity of making new choices. Since it was already the end of the season, he had about four months in which to cash in on testimonials, endorsements, ghost-written articles, personal appearances, and such like. But what after that, when spring training time came and he disappeared into the backwoods? He recalled a sickening procession of jobs—as cook, well-driller, mechanic, logger, bean-picker, and for whatever odd change, semipro ballplayer. He dared not think further.

  And the loneliness too, from job to job, never some place in particular for any decent length of time because of the dissatisfaction that grew, after a short while, out of anything he did … But supposing he could collect around twenty-five G’s—could that amount, to begin with, satisfy a girl like Memo if she married him? He tried to think of ways of investing twenty-five thousand—maybe in a restaurant or tavern—to build it up to fifty, and then somehow to double that. His mind skipped from money to Memo, the only one who came to see him every day. He remembered the excitement he felt for her in that strapless yellow dress the night of the party. And bad as he felt now he couldn’t help but think how desirable she had looked, waiting for him naked in bed.

  Such thoughts occupied him much of the time as he sat in the armchair, thumbing through old magazines, or resting in bed. He sometimes considered suicide but the thought was too oppressive to stay long in his mind. He dozed a good deal and usually woke feeling lonely. (Except for Red, once, nobody from the team had come to see him, though small knots of fans still gathered in the street and argued whether he would really be in Monday’s game.) Saturday night he awoke from an after supper nap more gloomy than ever, so he reached under his pillow for Iris’ letter. But just then Memo came into the room with an armful of flowers so he gladly let it lay where it was.

  Despite how attractive she usually managed to keep herself (he could appreciate that in spite of a momentary return of the nausea) she appeared worn out now, with bluish shadows under her eyes. And he noticed, as she stuffed the flowers and red autumn leaves into the vase, that she was wearing the same black dress she had worn all week, a thing she never did before, and that her hair was lusterless and not well kept. She had days ago sorrowed it was her fault that this had happened to the team. How stupid not to have waited just a day or two more. (Pop, she wept, had called her filthy names.) She had despaired every minute—really despaired—up to the time she heard he was going to be in the playoff. At least she did not have it on her conscience that he would be out of that, so she felt better now. Not better enough, he worried, or she wouldn’t be so lost and lonely-looking.

  After she had arranged the flowers, Memo stood mutely at the open window, gazing down into the darkening street. When he least expected it, she sobbed out in a voice full of misery, “Oh, Roy, I can’t stand it any longer, I can’t.”

  He sat up. “What’s wrong?”

  Her voice was choked. “I can’t go on with my life as it is.” Memo dropped into the armchair and began to weep. In a minute everything around her was wet.

  Tossing aside the blanket he swung his legs out of bed. She looked up, attempting to smile. “Don’t get up, hon. I’ll be all right.”

  Roy sat uneasily at the edge of the bed. He never knew what to do when they cried.

  “It’s just that I’m fed up,” she wept. “Fed up. Pop is terrible to me and I don’t want to go on living off him, even if he is my uncle. I have to get a job or something, or go somewhere.”

  “What did that bastard shrimp say to you?”

  She found a handkerchief in her purse and blew her nose.

  “It isn’t his words,” she said sadly. “Words can’t kill. It’s that I’m sick of this kind of life. I want to get away.”

  Then she let go again and looked like a little lost bird beating around in a cage. He was moved, and hovered over her like an old maid aunt trying to stop a leak.

  “Don’t cry, Memo. Just say the word and I will take care of you.” In a cracked voice he said, “Just marry me.”

  She sobbed for the longest time. So long he grew jumpy with doubts about their future relations, but then she stopped crying and said in a damp voice, “Would you have me, Roy?”

  He swayed with emotion as he got out thickly, “Would I?” To keep from hitting the ground he hopped into bed and sprawled out.

  She came to him, her white hands clasped, her wet eyelids like sparkling flowers. “There’s one thing you have to understand, Roy, and then maybe you won’t want me. That is that I am afraid to be poor.” She said it with intensity, her face turning dark at her words. “Maybe I am weak or spoiled, but I am the type who has to have somebody who can support her in a decent way. I�
��m sick of living like a slave. I got to have a house of my own, a maid to help me with the hard work, a decent car to shop with and a fur coat for winter time when it’s cold. I don’t want to have to worry every time a can of beans jumps a nickel. I suppose it’s wrong to want all of that but I can’t help it. I’ve been around too long and seen too much. I saw how my mother lived and I know it killed her. I made up my mind to have certain things. You understand that, don’t you, Roy?”

  He nodded.

  “We have to face it,” she said. “You’re thirty-five now and that don’t give you much time left as a ball player.”

  “What d’ye mean?” he asked, deadpan.

  But it wasn’t his blood pressure she was referring to. For a minute he was afraid she had found out.

  “I’m sorry to say this, Roy, but I have to be practical. Suppose the next one is your last season, or that you will have one more after that? Sure, you’ll probably get a good contract till then but it costs money to live, and then what’ll we do for the rest of our lives?”

  It was dark in the room now. He could scarcely see her.

  “Turn on the lights.”

  She smeared powder over her nose and under her eyes, then pressed the button.

  He stared at her.

  She grew restless. “Roy—”

  “I was just thinking, even if I had to quit right now I could still scrounge up about twenty-five grand in the next few months. That’s a lotta dough.”

  She seemed doubtful. “What would you do with it?”

  “We’d get hitched and I would invest in a business. Everybody does that. My name is famous already. We will make out okay. You will have what you want.”

  “What kind of business?” Memo asked.

  “I can’t say for sure—maybe a restaurant.”

  She made a face.

  “What do you have in mind?” Roy asked.

  “Oh, something big, Roy. I would like you to buy into a company where you could have an executive job and won’t have to go poking your nose into the stew in a smelly restaurant.”

  A jet of nausea shot up from his gizzard. He admitted to himself he wanted nothing to do with restaurants.

  “How much dough do we need to get in on one of those big companies?”

  “I should think more than twenty-five thousand.”

  He gulped. “Around thirty-five?”

  “More like fifty.”

  Roy frowned. Talk of that kind of dough gave him a bellyache. But Memo was right. It had to be something big or it wouldn’t pay back enough. And if it was a big company he could take it a little easy, to protect his health, without anybody kicking. He pondered where to get another twenty-five thousand, and it had to be before the start of the next baseball season because as soon as everybody saw he wasn’t playing, it wouldn’t be easy to cash in on his name. People had no use for a has been. He had to be married and have the dough, both before next spring—in case he never did get to play. He thought of other means to earn some money fast—selling the story of his life to the papers, barnstorming a bit this fall and winter, not too strenuously. But neither of these things added up to much—not twenty-five grand. Roy lay back with his eyes shut.

  Memo whispered something. His lids flew open. What was she doing with an old black dress on, her hair uncombed, looking like Lola, the Jersey City fortuneteller? Yet her voice was calm …

  “Who sent you,” he spoke harshly, “—that bastard Gus?”

  She turned flame-faced but answered quietly, “The Judge.”

  “Banner?” Somebody inside of him—this nervous character lately hanging around—crashed a glass to the floor. Roy’s pulses banged.

  “He said he’d pay you fifteen thousand now and more next season. He says it would depend on you.”

  “I thought I smelled skunk.”

  “He asked me to deliver the message. I have nothing to do with it.”

  “Who else is in on this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Pop?”

  “No.”

  He lay motionless for an age. She said no more, did not plead or prod. It grew late. An announcement was made for visitors to leave. She rose and tiredly put on her coat.

  “I was thinking of all the years you would be out of the game.”

  “What does he want me to do?”

  “It’s something about the playoff—I don’t know.”

  “They want me to drop it?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “No,” he said out loud.

  She shrugged. “I told them you wouldn’t.”

  She was thin and haggard-looking. Her shoulders drooped, her hands were bloodless. To refuse her just about broke his heart.

  He fell into a deep slumber but had not slept very long before this rat-eyed vulture, black against the ceiling, began to flap around the room and dripping deep fat spiraled down toward his face. Wrestling together, they knocked over the tables and chairs, when the lights went on and waked him. Roy grabbed under the pillow for a gun he thought was there, only it wasn’t. Awake, he saw through the glare that Judge Goodwill Banner, in dark glasses and hairy black fedora, was staring at him from the foot of the bed.

  “What the hell do you want here?”

  “Don’t be alarmed,” the Judge rumbled. “Miss Paris informed me you were not asleep, and the authorities granted me a few minutes to visit with you.”

  “I got nothing to say to you.” The nightmare had weakened him. Not wanting the Judge to see that, he pulled himself into a sitting position.

  The Judge, yellow-skinned in the electric light, and rumpled-looking, sat in the armchair with his potlike hat on. He sucked an unwilling flame into his King Oscar and tossed the burnt-out match on the floor.

  “How is your health, young man?”

  “Skip it. I am all right now.”

  The Judge scrutinized him.

  “Wanna bet?” Roy said.

  The Judge’s rubbery lips tightened around his cigar. After a minute he removed it from his mouth and said cautiously, “I assume that Miss Paris has acquainted you with the terms of a certain proposal?”

  “Leave her name out of it.”

  “An admirable suggestion—a proposal, you understand, made by persons unknown.”

  “Don’t make me laugh. I got a good mind to sick the FBI on you.”

  The Judge examined his cigar. “I rely on your honor. You might consider, however, that there is no witness other than Miss Paris, and I assume you would be solicitous of her?”

  “I said to leave her name out.”

  “Quite so. I believe she erred concerning the emolument offered—fifteen thousand, was it? My understanding is that twenty thousand, payable in cash in one sum, is closer to the correct amount. I’m sure you know the prevailing rate for this sort of thing is ten thousand dollars. We offer twice that. Any larger sum is unqualifiedly out of the question because it will impair the profitableness of the venture. I urge you to consider carefully. You know as well as I that you are in no condition to play.”

  “Then what are you offering me twenty thousand smackers for—to show your gratitude for how I have built up your bank account?”

  “I see no reason for sarcasm. You were paid for your services as contracted. As for this offer, I frankly confess it is insurance. There is the possibility that you may get into the game and unexpectedly wreck it with a single blow. I personally doubt this will occur, but we prefer to take no chances.”

  “Don’t kid yourself that I am too weak to play. You know that the doctor himself said I’ll be in there Monday.”

  The Judge hesitated. “Twenty-five thousand,” he finally said. “Absolutely my last offer.”

  “I hear the bookies collect ten million a day on baseball bets.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “It makes no difference, I am not a bookie. What is your answer?”

  “I say no.”

  The Judge bit his lip.<
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  Roy said, “Ain’t you ashamed that you are selling a club down the river that hasn’t won a pennant in twenty-five years and now they have a chance to?”

  “We’ll have substantially the same team next year,” the Judge answered, “and I have no doubt that we will make a better job of the entire season, supported as we shall be by new players and possibly another manager. If we take on the Yankees now—that is, if we are foolish enough to win the playoff match—they will beat us a merciless four in a row, despite your presence. You are not strong enough to withstand the strain of a World Series, and you know it. We’d be ground to pulp, made the laughingstock of organized baseball, and your foolish friend, Pop Fisher, would this time destroy himself in his humiliation.”

  “What about all the jack you’d miss out on, even if we only played four Series games and lost every one?”

  “I have calculated the amount and am certain I can do better, on the whole, in the way I suggest. I have reason to believe that, although we are considered to be the underdogs, certain gambling interests have been betting heavily on the Knights to win. Now it is my purpose, via the uncontested—so to speak—game, to teach these parasites a lesson they will never forget. After that they will not dare to infest our stands again.”

  “Pardon me while I throw up.”

  The Judge looked hurt.

  “The odds favor us,” Roy said. “I saw it in tonight’s paper.”

  “In one only. The others quote odds against us.”

  Roy laughed out loud.

  The Judge flushed through his yellow skin. “Honi soit qui mal y pense.”

  “Double to you,” Roy said.