The Natural

by Bernard Malamud

  “Twenty-five thousand,” said the Judge with an angry gesture. “The rest is silence.”

  Though Roy had a splitting headache he tried to think the situation out. The way he now felt, he wouldn’t be able to stand at the plate with a feather duster on his shoulder, let alone a bat. Maybe the Judge’s hunch was right, and he might not be able to do a single thing to help the Knights win their game. On the other hand—maybe he’d be himself, his real self. If he helped them win the playoff—no matter if they later dropped the Series four in a row—there would still be all sorts of endorsement offers and maybe even a contract to do a baseball movie. Then he’d have the dough to take care of Memo in proper style. Yet suppose he played and because of his weakness flopped as miserably as he had during his slump? That might sour the endorsements and everything else, and he’d end up with nothing—or very little. His mind went around in drunken circles.

  All this time the Judge’s voice was droning on. “I have observed,” he was saying, “how one moral condition may lead to or become its opposite. I recall an occasion on the bench when out of the goodness of my heart and a warm belief in humanity. I resolved to save a boy from serving a prison sentence. Though his guilt was clear, because of his age I suspended sentence and paroled him for a period of five years. That afternoon as I walked down the courthouse steps, I felt I could surely face my maker without a blush. However, not one week later the boy stood before me, arraigned as a most wicked parricide. I asked myself can any action—no matter what its origin or motive—which ends so evilly—can such an action possibly be designated as good?”

  He took out a clotted handkerchief, spat into it, folded it and thrust it into his pocket. “Contrarily,” he went on, “a deed of apparently evil significance may come to pure and beautiful flower. I have in mind a later case tried before me in which a physician swindled his patient, a paralytic, out of almost a quarter of a million dollars. So well did he contrive to hide the loot that it has till this day not been recovered. Nevertheless, the documentary evidence was strong enough to convict the embezzler and I sentenced him to a term of from forty to fifty years in prison, thus insuring he would not emerge from the penitentiary to enjoy his ill-gotten gains before he is eighty-three years of age. Yet, while testifying from his wheel chair at the trial, the paralytic astonished himself and all present by rising in righteous wrath against the malcontent and, indeed, tottered across the floor to wreak upon him his vengeance. Naturally the bailiff restrained him, but would you have guessed that he was, from that day on, sound in wind and limb, and as active as you or I? He wrote me afterwards that the return of his power of locomotion more than compensated him for the loss of his fortune.”

  Roy frowned. “Come out of the bushes.”

  The Judge paused. “I was trying to help you assess this action in terms of the future.”

  “You mean if I sell out?”

  “Put it that way if you like.”

  “And that maybe some good might come out of it?”

  “That is my assumption.”

  “For me, you mean?”

  “For others too. It is impossible to predict who will be benefited.”

  “I thought you said you were doing this to get rid of the gamblers—that’s good right off, ain’t it?”

  The Judge cleared his throat. “Indeed it is. However, one might consider, despite the difficulty of the personal situation —that is to say, within the context of one’s own compunctions —that it is impossible to predict what further good may accrue to one, and others, in the future, as a result of an initially difficult decision.”

  Roy laughed. “You should be selling snake oil.”

  He had thought there might be something to the argument. He was now sure there wasn’t, for as the Judge had talked he recalled an experience he had had when he was a kid. He and his dog were following an old skid road into the heart of a spooky forest when the hound suddenly let out a yelp, ran on ahead, and got lost. It was late in the afternoon and he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving the dog there alone all night, so he went into the wood after it. At first he could see daylight between the trees—to this minute he remembered how still the trunks were, as the tree tops circled around in the breeze—and in sight of daylight it wasn’t so bad, nor a little deeper in, despite the green gloom, but just at about the time the darkness got so thick he was conscious of having to shove against it as he hallooed for the dog, he got this scared and lonely feeling that he was impossibly lost. With his heart whamming against his ribs he looked around but could recognize no direction in the darkness, let alone discover the right one. It was cold and he shivered. Only, the payoff of it was that the mutt found him and led him out of the woods. That was good out of good.

  Roy pulled the covers over his head. “Go home.”

  The Judge didn’t move. “There is also the matter of next season’s contract.”

  Roy listened. Would there ever be a next season? He uncovered his head. “How much?”

  “I shall offer—provided we agree on the other matter—a substantial raise.”

  “Talk figures.”

  “Forty-five thousand for the season. We might also work out some small percentage on the gate.”

  “Twenty-five thousand for dropping the game is not enough,” said Roy. As he spoke an icicle of fright punctured his spine.

  The Judge scowled and drew on his half-gone cigar. “Thirty,” he said, “and no more.”

  “Thirty-five,” Roy got out. “Don’t forget I stand to lose a couple of thousand on the pay I could get in the Series.”

  “Utterly outrageous,” snapped the Judge.

  “Don’t slam the door on your way out.”

  The Judge rose, brushed his wrinkled pants and left.

  Roy stared at the ceiling—relieved.

  The Judge returned. He removed his hat and wiped his perspiring face with his dirty handkerchief. His head was covered with a thick black wig. You never got to the bottom of that creep.

  “You are impossible to deal with—but I accept.” His voice was flat. He covered his head with his hat.

  But Roy said he had changed his mind when the Judge was out of the room. He had thought it over and decided the boys wanted to win that game and he wanted to help them. That was good. He couldn’t betray his own team and manager. That was bad.

  The Judge then hissed, “You may lose Miss Paris to someone else if you are not careful.”

  Roy bolted up. “To who for instance?”

  “A better provider.”

  “You mean Gus Sands?”

  The Judge did not directly reply. “A word to the wise—”

  “That’s none of your business,” said Roy. He lay back. Then he asked, “What if I couldn’t lose the game by myself? The Pirates ain’t exactly world beaters. We roasted them the last seven times. The boys might do it again even if I didn’t hit a thing.”

  The Judge rubbed his scaly hands. “The Knights are demoralized. Without you, I doubt they can win over a sandlot team, contrary opinion notwithstanding. As for the contingency of the flat failure of the opposing team, we have made the necessary arrangements to take care of that.”

  Roy was up again. “You mean there’s somebody else in on this deal?”

  The Judge smiled around his cigar.

  “Somebody on our team?”

  “A key man.”

  “In that case—” Roy said slowly.

  “The thirty-five thousand is final. There’ll be no changing that.”

  “With forty-five for the contract—”

  “Agreed. You understand you are not under any circumstances to hit the ball safely?”

  After a minute Roy said slowly, “I will take the pitch:”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The fix is on.”

  The Judge caught on and said with a laugh, “I see you share my philological interests.” He lit his dead King Oscar.

  Through the nausea Roy remembered an old saying. He quoted, “Woe
unto him who calls evil good and good evil.”

  The Judge glared at him.

  Memo returned and covered his face with wet kisses. She

  tweaked his nose, mussed his hair, and called him wonderful. After she left he couldn’t sleep so he reached under his pillow and got out Iris’ letter.

  “ … After my baby was born, the women of the home where my father had brought me to save himself further shame were after me to give it up. They said it would be bad for her to be brought up by an unmarried mother, and that I would have no time to myself or opportunity to take up my normal life. I tried, as they said, to be sensible and offer her for adoption, but I had been nursing her—although warned against it, nursing shrinks the breasts you know, and they were afraid for my figure—and the thought of tearing myself away from her forever was too much for me. Since Papa wouldn’t have her in his house I decided to find a job and bring her up myself. That turned out to be a lot harder than I had expected, because I earned not very much and had to pay for baby’s care all day, her things, the rent of course, and the clothes I had to have for work. At night I had supper to think of, bathing her, laundry, house cleaning, and preparing for the next day, which never changed from any other.

  “Except for my baby I was nearly always alone, reading, mostly, to improve myself, although sometimes it was unbearable, especially before I was twenty and just after. It also took quite a while until I got rid of my guilt, or could look upon her as innocent of it, but eventually I did, and soon her loveliness and gaiety and all the tender feelings I had in my heart for her made up for a lot I had suffered. Yet I was tied to time—not so much to the past—nor to the expectations of the future, which was really too far away—only to here and now, day after day, until suddenly the years unrolled and a change came—more a reward of standing it so long than any sudden magic—and more quickly than I could believe, she had grown into a young woman, and almost as if I had wished it on her, fell in love with a wonderful boy and married him. Like me she was a mother before she was seventeen. Suddenly everywhere I looked seemed to be tomorrow, and I was at last free to take up my life where I had left it off one summer night when I went for a walk in the park with a stranger …”

  He read down to the last page, where she once more mentioned herself as a grandmother. Roy crumpled the letter and pitched it against the wall.

  On the morning of the game fist fights broke out all over the stands in Knights Field. Hats, bottles, apple cores, bananas, and the mushy contents of sack lunches were thrown around. A fan in one of the boxes had a rock bounced off his skull, opening a bleeding gash. Two special cops rushed up the steps and got hold of an innocent-looking guy with glasses, whose pockets were stuffed with odd-shaped rocks. They dragged him forth, although he was hollering he had collected them for his rock garden, and flung him headlong out of the park. He was from Pittsburgh and cursed the Knights into the ground. A disappointed truck driver who couldn’t get in to see the game tackled him from behind, knocking the rock collector’s head against the sidewalk and smashing his glasses. He spat out two bloody teeth and sat there sobbing till the ambulance came.

  The sun hid behind the clouds for the most part. The day was chilly, football weather, but the stands were decorated with colored bunting, the flags on the grandstand roof rode high in the breeze and the crowd was raucous. The PA man tried to calm them but they were packed together too tight to be peaceful, for the Judge had sold hundreds of extra tickets and the standees raced for any seat that was vacant for a second. Besides, the Knights’ fans were jumpy, their nerves ragged from following the ups and downs of the team. Some glum-face gents bitterly cursed Roy out, calling him welsher, fool, pig-horse for eating himself into that colossal bellyache. But he had his defenders, who claimed the Big Man’s body burned food so fast he needed every bit he ate. They blamed the damage on ptomaine. The accusers wanted to know why no one else at the party had come down sick. They were answered where would the Knights be without Roy—at the bottom of the heap. The one who spoke got a rap on the ear for his trouble. The rapper was grabbed by a cop, run down the catwalk, and pitched into the rotunda. Yet though the fans were out of sorts and crabbing at each other, they presented a solid front when it came to laying bets. Many pessimistically shook their heads, but they counted up the seven straight wins over the Pirates, figured in that Hobbs was back, and reached into their pockets. Although there were not too many Pirate rooters around, the bets were quickly covered for every hard-earned buck.

  Otto Zipp was above all this. He sat like a small mountain behind the rail in short left, reading the sports page of his newspaper. He looked neither right nor left, and if somebody tried to talk to him Otto gave him short shrift. Then when they least expected it, he would honk his horn and cry out in shrill tones, “Throw him to the hawks.” After that he went back to the sports page.

  When the players began drifting into the clubhouse they were surprised to see Roy there. He was wearing his uniform and slowly polishing Wonderboy. The boys said hello and not much more. Flores looked at his feet. Some of them were embarrassed that they hadn’t gone to see him in the hospital. Secretly they were pleased he was here. Allie Stubbs even began to kid around with Olson. Roy thought they would not act so chipper if they knew he felt weak as piss and was dreading the game. The Judge was absolutely crazy to pay him thirty-five grand not to hit when he didn’t feel able to even lift a stick. He hoped Pop would guess how shaky he was and bench him. What a laugh that would be on the Judge—serve the bastard right. But when Pop came in, he didn’t so much as glance in Roy’s direction. He walked straight into his office and slammed the door, which suited Roy fine.

  Pop had ordered everybody kept out of the clubhouse until after the game but Mercy weaseled in. All smiles, he approached Roy, asking for the true story of what went on at the party that night, but Red Blow saw him and told him to stay outside. Max had tried the same act in the hospital last week. The floor nurse caught him sneaking toward Roy’s room and had him dropped out on the front steps. After leaving the clubhouse Max sent in a note, inviting Roy to come out and make a statement. People were calling him a filthy coward and what did he intend to say to that? Roy gave out a one-word unprintable reply. Mercy shot in a second note. “You’ll get yours—M.M.” Roy tore it up and told the usher to take no more slop from him.

  Pop poked his baldy out of his door and called for Roy. The players looked around uneasily. Roy got up and finally went into the office. For an insufferable time Pop failed to speak. He was unshaven, his face exuding gray stubble that made him look eighty years old. His thin frame seemed shrunken and his left eye was a little crossed with fatigue. Pop leaned back in his creaking swivel chair, staring with tears in his eyes over his half moons at the picture of Ma on his desk. Roy examined his fingernails.

  Pop sighed, “Roy, it’s my own fault.”

  It made Roy edgy. “What is?”

  “This mess that we are now in. I am not forgetting I kept you on the bench for three solid weeks in June. If I hadn’t done that foolish thing we’da finished the season at least half a dozen games out in front.”

  Roy offered no reply.

  “But your own mistake was a bad one too.”

  Roy nodded.

  “A bad one, with the team right on top of hooking the pennant.” Pop shook his head. Yet he said he wouldn’t blame Roy too much because it wasn’t entirely of his own doing. He then apologized for not coming to see him in the hospital. He had twice set out to but felt too grumpy to be fit company for a sick man, so he hadn’t come. “It’s not you that I am mad at, Roy—it’s that blasted Memo. I shoulda pitched her out on her ass the first day she showed up at my door.”

  Roy got up.

  “Sit down.” Pop bent forward. “We can win today.” His cold breath smelled bad. Roy drew his head back.

  “Well, we can, can’t we?”

  He nodded.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I feel weak,” Ro
y said, “and I am not betting how I will hit today.”

  Pop’s voice got kindly again. “I say we can win it whichever way you feel. Once you begin to play you will feel stronger. And if the rest of those birds see you hustling they will break their backs to win. All they got to feel is there is somebody on this team who thinks they can.”

  Pop then related a story about a rookie third baseman he once knew, a lad named Mulligan. He was a fine hitter and thrower but full of hard luck all his life. Once he was beaned at the plate and had his skull cracked. He returned for spring practice the following year and the first day out he crashed into another fielder and broke his arm. On the return from that he was on first running to second on a hit and run play and the batter smacked the ball straight at him, breaking two ribs and dislocating a disc in his spine. After that he quit baseball, to everybody’s relief.

  “He was just unlucky,” Pop said, “and there wasn’t a thing anybody could do to take the whammy off of him and change his hard luck. You know, Roy, I been lately thinking that a whole lot of people are like him, and for one reason or the other their lives will go the same way all the time, without them getting what they want, no matter what. I for one.”

  Then to Roy’s surprise he said he never hoped to have a World Series flag. Pop swiveled his chair closer. “It ain’t in the cards for me—that’s all. I am wise to admit it to myself. It took a long time but I finally saw which way the arrow has been pointing.” He sighed deeply. “But that don’t hold true about our league pennant, Roy. That’s the next best thing and I feel I am entitled to it. I feel if I win it just this once —I will be satisfied. I will be satisfied, and win or lose in the Series, I will quit baseball forever.” He lowered his voice. “You see what it means to me, son?”

  “I see.”

  “Roy, I would give my whole life to win this game and take the pennant. Promise me that you will go in there and do your damndest.”

  “I will go in,” Roy sighed.