by Philip Roth
Long after the village was asleep, when only embers burned where the huge fires had illuminated the infield, Mister Fairsmith, hanging still from his post in the third-base coaching box, was stirred to consciousness by the noise of creatures scurrying back and forth across the diamond. In the dim light he gradually was able to bring his eyes to focus upon the crones of the village, bone-thin women, bent and twisted in the spine, who were scrambling and darting about like a school of crabs over the ocean floor. Combing the playing field, they had collected all the bats that had been discarded earlier on, and now with no regard for the sanctity of the ritual, for hygiene or for decorum, they proceeded to ape the ceremony of the virgins and the bats. Two and three together would roll in the dust around home plate, cackling and moaning, whether in mockery of the young virgins or in imitation, it was impossible for Mister Fairsmith to tell.
Then, with a blast of heat right up from Hades, the African dawn—and fast as they could, the old women departed, using the serviceable Louisville Sluggers for crutches and canes.
Across the field Billy still hung from his pole in the first-base coaching box. He too had escaped the kettle. But that was all he had escaped.
“Old … old-timers’ day…” he called to his uncle, looking with a lopsided smile after the departing hags.
To which Mister Fairsmith cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath: “The horror! The horror!”
In the morning, with the sun really cooking, one of the village boys came skipping out to the field, apparently without any idea at all that the season in the Congo had come to an end. Or maybe he was hoping that even if his friends and their fathers had returned to the round of life such as had existed in the village before Mister Fairsmith and his bearers had emerged from the jungle, the Mundy manager might at least play a game of “pepper” with him. It was the boy Mister Fairsmith had christened Wee Willie, after Wee Willie Keeler, whose famous dictum, “Hit ’em where they ain’t,” had taken a strong hold upon the youngster’s imagination. He was exceedingly bright for a dusky little fellow, and in the week’s time had even come to learn a few words of English, along with learning how to switch his feet and punch the ball through to the opposite field.
For several minutes he stood before the stake to which Mister Fairsmith was fastened, waiting to receive his instructions. Then he spoke. “Mistah Baseball?” He reached up and tugged at the Patriot League buckle on the manager’s belt. “Mistah Baseball?”
Nothing. So he ran clockwise around the diamond, sliding into second on his bare behind, then into first, before approaching the white man hanging from the stake in the first-base coaching box. Looking up into the lopsided smile, he gave him the bad news. “Mistah Baseball—he dead.”
The canoe in which the two Americans were discovered was decorated on either side with what must have been the tribe’s symbol for Death, a stick figure holding in one of his outstretched arms an oval shield looking something like an oversized catcher’s mitt. The bodies had been wrapped from head to foot in the yarn off the two dozen balls whose hides had been eaten by the boys of the tribe. They were discovered (just barely this side of the afterlife) in a stream twenty miles from Stanleyville, from whence they were borne by friendly natives through the jungle to a hospital in the city. And there they lay for weeks and weeks, first Mister Fairsmith, then young Billy, about to land, like a called third strike, in the Great Mitt of Death.
When they could walk again, it was the older man who led the younger through the gardens. Every time they came upon a doctor or a nun, Billy would launch into a description of the marvelous night game that he and his uncle had witnessed in the interior. He told them of the nine girls who had come up to the plate to “pinch-hit,” he told them of “the Old-Timers’ Game,” that had taken place just before dawn, but in that by and large the staff was composed of Belgians, they listened politely, without any understanding that the young American had lost his mind.
Thereafter, for so long as the Mundys made their home in Port Ruppert, Mister Fairsmith arranged for Billy and a nurse from the institution to be chauffeured out to the ball park on Opening Day, and for the two to be seated in a box directly beside his honor the mayor. That was the least he could do, for, loosely speaking, he was responsible for the boy’s mind having become forever unhinged. Not, mind you, that Mister Fairsmith would have conducted himself any differently if he’d had to live through that nightmare again. True, a bright young man whose ambition had been to become a missionary in the service of Christ had lost his bearings in the world. But suppose, on the other hand, Ulysses S. Fairsmith had consented to allow African baseball players to slide into first after a walk … suppose he had been the one responsible for an entire continent of black men turning the great American game of baseball into so much wallowing in the mud … No, he could never have borne that upon his conscience.
* * *
To return now to the trial facing the venerable manager in his eightieth year, the hopeless ’43 Ruppert Mundys—how could they disgust and horrify him even more than those African savages? Precisely because they were not African savages, but Americans! (by and large), big leaguers! (supposedly). For heathen barbarians to defile the national pastime was one thing, but American men wearing the uniform of the major league team to which Ulysses S. Fairsmith had devoted his entire life? That was beyond compassion and beneath contempt.
So far-reaching was his disgust that when they arrived (on separate trains) in a P. League town, Mister Fairsmith would not even stay at the hotel where he might have the misfortune of running into one of his players in the lobby or the dining room. Instead he went off as a guest to the home of the local evangelist, as much for the sake of religious succor as for the relief it afforded him to be out of sight of those degenerates impersonating his beloved Mundys.
“First African savages. Then the Emperor of Japan. And now, now my own Mundys. Billy,” he asked the evangelist, “how can God exist and sanction such as this?”
“The Lord has his reasons, Samuel.”
“But have you ever been to watch this team on the field of play?”
“No. But I read the box scores. I know what you are suffering.”
“Billy, the box scores are as nothing beside the games themselves.”
“We can only pray, Samuel. Let us pray.”
And so instead of traveling out to the ball park, where nothing he could say or do would change these impostors into Mundys, Mister Fairsmith would remain on his knees throughout the afternoon, praying that the Lord might accomplish the transformation that was beyond his own managerial powers.
Each evening, after dinner, Jolly Cholly traveled out from the hotel to tell Mister Fairsmith the results of that day’s game. The minister’s wife always prepared a plate of cookies to bring to the Mundy coach while he sat in a chair beside Mister Fairsmith’s bed and, scorecard in hand, described the horrors of the afternoon, play by play.
Down in the living room, the minister asked his wife, “How is he taking it?”
“He just lies there, looking into space.”
“I’ll go to him, when Jolly Cholly leaves.”
“I think you had better.”
At the door, the minister would say to the Mundy coach, “And who will be the starting pitcher tomorrow, Mr. Tuminikar?”
And as often as not, Jolly Cholly shrugged and answered, “Whoever feels like it, I guess. We sort of have given up on any kind of rotation, Reverend. Whoever wants the exercise, he just grabs his mitt and goes on out there.”
Carrying his Bible and wearing his collar, the minister would enter Mister Fairsmith’s room.
“In victory,” cried the Mundy manager, “I was magnanimous. In defeat I was a gentleman. In Africa, I would have martyred myself rather than permit those savages to sully the national game. Why, why is this happening!”
“Tell me why, Samuel. Say what is in your heart. Why has the Lord chosen you for such suffering and pain?”
“Because
,” said Mister Fairsmith, bitterly, “because the Lord hates baseball.”
“But Our Lord is just and merciful.”
“No, He hates baseball, Billy. Either that, or He does not exist.”
“Our Lord exists, Samuel. Moreover, He loves baseball with a love that is infinite and all-encompassing.”
“Then why is there such a team as the ’43 Mundys? Why a Hothead Ptah! Why a Nickname Damur! And now a dwarf who blinded a midget! A dwarf in a Ruppert uniform! Why?”
“Samuel, you must not lose faith. He will answer our prayers, albeit in His own time.”
“But they are already in last place by fifty games!”
“Many that are first by fifty games shall be last, Samuel, and the last by fifty, first. Let us pray.”
So he prayed: in Tri-City with the Reverend Billy Tollhouse, in Aceldama with the Reverend Billy Biscuit, in Independence with the Reverend Billy Popover, in Terra Incognita with the Reverend Billy Scone, in Asylum with the Reverend Billy Zwieback, in Kakoola with the Reverend Billy Bun. Yes, the most famous radio preachers of the era sought to save the great manager from apostasy; but, alas, by the middle of September, with the Mundys having won but twenty-three of one hundred and forty-two games, those who patiently tried to explain to him that perhaps he would have to wait until next year for his prayers to be answered, feared that if the Lord did not intervene in behalf of the Mundys before the season’s end, Ulysses S. Fairsmith’s faith would be extinguished forever.
And then it happened. Mundys 14, Blues 6. Mundys 8, Blues 0. Mundys 7, Keepers 4. Mundys 5, Keepers 0.
Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
* * *
“So there is a God on high, and He does love baseball.”
“It would appear so, Billy.”
“And He has tested His servant, Ulysses S. Fairsmith, and He has not found him wanting.”
“Then that was His reason.”
“It would appear so, Samuel, it would appear so.”
Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
* * *
Perhaps they were a last place team with the worst record ever compiled in the history of the three leagues, but on the train ride back across the country following the 9–3 home-run extravaganza against Terra Incognita—their eleventh in a row—they were as joyous and confident as any Ruppert team Mister Fairsmith could recall, including the great pennant winners of the twenties.
The train was bound for Tri-City, where they were to play their final game of the year, a contest rained out earlier in the season against the Tycoons. And what a victory that was going to be! Oh sure, the bookmakers had them down as four-to-one underdogs (how on earth could they do it again? how could the Mundys knock the Tycoons out of first on the last day of the season!) but there wasn’t a Ruppert Mundy who heard those odds, who didn’t have to laugh. “Well, you want to be a rich man, George,” they told the grinning porter, “you lay down two bits and see if you ain’t got yourself a dollar in your pocket by tomorrow night.”
Soldiers on board the eastbound train continually drifted back to the dining car during the evening meal to get a peek at the miracle team of the Patriot League. “Our pleasure, our pleasure,” the Mundys said, when the G.I.s asked for autographs. The soldiers said, “You don’t know what it means to a feller headed to he-don’t-know-where, just to be ridin’ the same train with a team what’s done what you guys have. Wait’ll I write home!”
“Good luck, soldier! Good luck, G.I. Joe!” the Mundys called after them. “You make it hot for old Hitler now!”
“We will! We will!”
“Good luck, lads! You’re brave boys!”
“And good luck to you—in Tri-City!”
“Oh, tell that to them Tycoons! Them’s the ones need luck!”
They were up till midnight in the diner, playing spit-in-the-ocean and smoking Havana cigars. The waiters, who ordinarily would have shooed them off to their berths hours ago—after having flung their food at them, cold and greasy—were more than happy to stay and do their bidding, just for the privilege of hearing the rampaging Rupperts recount inspirational anecdotes from their amazing eleven-game streak. After all, if the Mundys could rise from ignominy to glory virtually overnight, who in this world could consider himself doomed?
“Yes, suh, Mistah Hothead! Yes, suh, Mistah Nickname! Mistah O.K.—you want sump’n, suh?”
“A new pack of Bicycles, George!”
“Yes, suh!”
At midnight, leaning on Jolly Cholly’s arm, Mister Fairsmith entered the dining car. Nickname doused his cigar in his beer, and Ockatur, who had the lion’s share of the winnings piled on the tray of the high chair in which he was seated, slipped the money surreptitiously into his pocket.
Following the two victories in Independence and the four in Asylum, Mister Fairsmith had rejoined the team in the dugout, remaining with them throughout their last five triumphs in Kakoola and Terra Inc. His cane across his lap, a beatific gleam in his blue eyes, he slowly rocked to and fro on his chair, as one Mundy runner after another crossed home plate. He was a far more decrepit figure than they remembered from Opening Day—the wear and tear of all that prayer. Indeed, if anything had the power to subdue these spirited Mundys, who now virtually quivered with energy from breakfast to bedtime, it was that look in Mister Fairsmith’s eye of exceeding wisdom and benevolence.
With Jolly Cholly’s assistance, Mister Fairsmith was helped into a chair drawn into the aisle at the head of the car. “I have a telegram to read to you before I retire for the night,” he said, studying the face of each of the redeemed. “It has just this minute arrived, and was brought back to me by the engineer. ‘Dear Sam. No matter what the outcome of tomorrow’s game, I want you to know how proud I am of you and the Ruppert Mundys. As a result of what you have accomplished against the most insuperable odds, the R that once stood for Ruppert must henceforth be considered to stand for nothing less than this great Republic. The Mundys are a homeless team no more—they belong to an entire nation. Sam, I will consider it a great privilege if I may board the train in Port Ruppert tomorrow morning and accompany you and your team to their final game in Tri-City.’ Signed, ‘General Douglas D. Oakhart, President of the Patriot League.’”
With this, Mister Fairsmith signaled for Jolly Cholly to help him to his feet. “Good night, Mundys. Good night, my Ruppert Mundys,” and his creased and craggy face beamed with love.
* * *
Rupe-it!
There was a band to greet them—at 6 A.M.! And all along the tracks into the station, Rupe-it rootas, waving hand-lettered signs wildly in the air.
MUNDYS WE MISS YOU!
GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN!
MUNDYS COME HOME ALL IS FORGIVEN!
The players pressed their noses to the windows and waved at the crowd that had turned out at dawn just to watch their train pass through on the way to Massachusetts.
When the train stopped to receive passengers, mobs of schoolchildren surged to the side of the sleeping car to gape at the heroes whose names had all at once become legendary throughout the land. The players winked and laughed and blew kisses, and then, when they were moving again, lay back in their berths, not a few with tears on their faces. Winning! Winning! Oh, you just can’t say enough good things about winning!
* * *
Festooned with ribbons, General Oakhart stood at the entrance to the dining car to receive them; Mister Fairsmith, supported by Jolly Cholly, introduced the victorious players one by one. When the last Mundy was seated before his orange juice, the President of the league addressed them:
“Before I drink a toast to this brave and courageous ball club”—he amused the players, who were easy to amuse these days, by tapping a fingernail on his juice glass—“I have a telegram to read to you date-marked yesterday noon. ‘Dear General. No one could be more delighted than I am by the remarkable Mundy winning streak. As you know, at the outset of the season, I shared your fears that the burden they had chosen to bear might ultimately
do serious damage to their morale. And indeed, there were moments during the season when being a permanent road club seemed to be weighing too heavily upon the shoulders of the Ruppert team. But just when it appeared that our worst fears were about to be realized, they have astounded and heartened the entire country with the most incredible display of Big League ball many a fan has seen this season, or any season. It is a great moment, not only for the Mundys and Mister Fairsmith, not only for you and the Patriot League, not only for baseball, but for the nation. I am deeply honored by your invitation to join you in your box at Tycoon Park to watch this final contest of the Patriot League season, and wish to inform you that despite pressing business here in the Commissioner’s office, I will leave Chicago in time to be in Tri-City to address the Mundys in their clubhouse before the game begins.’ And, gentlemen, the telegram is signed by the Commissioner of Baseball, Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis.”
And there he was, craggier even than Mister Fairsmith, the czar of baseball, waiting to greet them as they entered the visitors’ clubhouse at noon. If till then the Mundys had any doubt that they had passed from being the most despised to the most beloved baseball team in America, it surely disappeared when the Commissioner, of his own accord, kneeled to exchange a few pleasantries with O.K. Ockatur. Then, while the flashbulbs popped, the fearless judge—so aptly named for an American mountain—read the following telegram to the team:
“‘My dear Judge Landis. It has been a bracing experience for me, as for my fellow Americans, to watch the Ruppert Mundys turn a season of seeming catastrophe into a gallant triumph. I firmly believe that the farmers and the factory workers, the children in our schools and the women who keep the home fires burning, and above all, our brave fighting men around the globe, cannot but draw inspiration from the “Never Say Die” spirit of these illustrious men. Though I cannot join you today at Tri-City to watch this undiscourageable nine in their final battle of the season, I assure you I will, from the War Room, be in continual telephone contact with the stadium in order to remain abreast of the inning-by-inning developments. Accepting your most kind and thoughtful invitation in my behalf will be my wife, a baseball fan in her own right, and one who has seen in the resurgence of the team everyone had counted out, a stirring example for all underdogs everywhere. With every best wish, very sincerely yours, Franklin D. Roosevelt.’”
