Carrying Albert Home

by Homer Hickam

  Homer wasn’t sure about the idea of the majors but he held the ball the way he’d been shown and threw it. It was a fastball to everybody who watched it leave his hand but it dropped at the last moment to the batter’s knees. Burnoski swung hard and the ball pounded into the catcher’s mitt.

  Burnoski cursed. “I didn’t see that coming,” he said to the catcher.

  The catcher stared at the ball in his mitt. “A forkball,” he muttered. “A goddamn forkball. Who the hell can throw a forkball that fast?”

  It didn’t take long for Homer to learn several other kinds of pitches besides the forkball. He learned the curve, the modified light curve, and the slider, but, most of all, he kept improving on his specialty, the forkball. He also studied the opposing pitchers and made mental notes about their change-ups and strategies. He was applying to baseball a lesson he’d learned in coal mining, that it was the man who studied success who succeeded. After a while, Homer started to believe Thompson was right. If he worked at it hard enough, and if he wanted to, he could go all the way to the pros.

  Homer kept believing it until the day Ty Kerns arrived. Kerns had played in the majors on several teams, and had even been in a World Series game. He was an angry man, a big-bellied, beefy-armed, red-faced kind of angry man who was certain he’d entered a kind of hell when he’d been sent down not to a triple-A or double-A or even an A ball team but to a club in North Carolina that surely didn’t even rate a B. When he first entered the clubhouse, he talked to a couple of players he knew, got the word on who was who, and, determined to show these amateurs how it was done, tossed a stuffed cloth bag with a pair of baseball shoes tied to it at Homer’s feet. “Clean up my gear, rookie,” he demanded.

  Homer had never had a man ask him to see to his laundry and his shoes and therefore hesitated. Kerns’s eyes narrowed and he stuck out his whiskery jaw. “I said, clean up my gear, boy.”

  Homer knew about hazing. Fresh new coal miners got hazed all the time. He’d been sent after a rail straightener, had his lunch bucket emptied out, and had grease put in his boots. Those were things to be expected. But this fellow, this big ballplayer, was different. The manner in which he was hazing was without any of the humor and good-naturedness Homer was used to in the mines. Therefore, Homer said, “Clean it yourself.”

  Kerns was surprised by the response. “I’m a professional baseball player, been wrote up in the papers. What are you? I heard a coal miner.”

  “I’m a pitcher now.”

  Kerns’s laugh was more a snarl. “Pitching from the bench, I heard. If you ever want off it, clean up my gear. I’ll put in a good word.”

  Homer, irritated, said, “You look pretty old. I figure you’ll be the one sitting on the bench.”

  Kerns growled like a bear startled out of hibernation. “You think you can get a ball by me, boy?”

  “One? I could get them all by you.”

  Astonished, Kerns pawed inside his jacket and brought out a pouch of Red Man tobacco. He stuck in a chaw, accomplished a test chew, grinned a nasty, tobacco-stained grin, and shifted his gaze to the bat boy. “You! Yes, you! I gave you my bat to be oiled. Get it ready.”

  Humphrey tried to pull in his head like a turtle. “I’m supposed to feed the alligator right now, Mr. Kerns,” he said from between his shoulders.

  Kerns’s mouth, leaking tobacco juice, dropped open. “Feed the alligator? You making fun of me, boy?”

  When the ball boy hesitated, Homer said, “The alligator’s name is Albert. He belongs to my wife.”

  “He’s our mascot,” a second baseman named Ziff said.

  “Have I got myself into a friggin’ loony bin?” Kerns demanded, wiping away tobacco drool. “Get my damn bat and forget the damn alligator!” He leveled a quivering finger at Homer. “And you! Meet me on the field.”

  The other ballplayers began to exchange money in a quick series of bets, then followed Kerns and Homer onto the field. Homer picked up a ball and walked to the pitcher’s mound while Kerns waited impatiently near home plate. Humphrey appeared with Kerns’s bat, Albert following on his leash. “You drop that bat, you damn midget, I’ll kill ya,” Kerns growled.

  Kearns’s threat had the precise opposite effect. Humphrey dropped the bat. Albert, not paying attention, straddled it. Kerns stopped short when he was met with a full mouth of alligator teeth.

  Homer walked over and, wordlessly, took Albert by the tail and dragged him off the bat. He then strode back to the pitcher’s mound, bent over, and put a baseball into the small of his back, fingering it hungrily.

  Kerns gave Humphrey an angry look, picked up the bat, and lovingly ran his hands over it to remove the dust. After a couple of practice cuts, he stepped into the batter’s box and nodded to Homer. “Let’s see what you’ve got, rookie!”

  Homer instantly let fly with a forkball. Kerns grunted massively as his bat cut through nothing but air and the ball slapped into the catcher’s glove.

  By then, Manager Thompson had arrived on the scene. He stepped up to play umpire. “Strike one!” he called with some glee, then called out to the pitcher’s mound. “Homer, throw this bum a curveball, break to the left.” He grinned at Kerns. “You can get a hit off a rookie when you know what’s coming, can’t you, Tyrone?”

  Homer threw the curve. It came flying in, then jerked to the inside. Kerns did not swing, just dumbly watched it go by. “Strike two,” Thompson called. “Just caught the inside corner. Homer, give old Tyrone here a fastball, straight down the middle. He ought to be able to hit that, at least.”

  Homer threw as instructed and Kerns swung. He would have hit it had the bat made it around in time but it was late and the catcher was shaking his hand from the impact while Kerns was still swinging. Incredulous, the old ballplayer stared at the ball the catcher held up.

  Homer had gone from being proud of taking down this arrogant man to feeling sorry for him. He saw the power in the man’s swing, much more power than any he’d seen from the other players. He looked at Kerns and saw a pathetic fellow whose eyes were filled with a sad desperation and the haunted look of an old man who still wanted to play a young man’s game.

  “Give me one more!” Kerns yelled. “I got your number now, kid!”

  Thompson shook his head. “Three strikes and you’re out, Kerns. You don’t get another chance.”

  “This don’t concern you, Thompson,” Kerns spat. “That boy said I couldn’t hit anything he throwed. Well, I’m warmed up now. Bring it on, rookie. I’m going to show you how a pro can hit a ball!”

  “Don’t do it, Homer!” Thompson yelled but then subsided to see what his pitcher would do. “Your call, Jared,” he said to the catcher.

  Homer looked over the sign from the catcher. Jared called for a forkball. Homer’s fingers moved deftly to the seams, but then he looked down the barrel between the pitcher’s mound to home plate, moved his fingers off the seams, and placed them instead on the smooth rawhide. He wound up and threw and was not the least bit surprised when Kerns nailed the ball so hard it was still accelerating when it cleared the fence at center field.

  For just a moment the old player’s eyes met Homer’s eyes. Homer knew that Kerns knew the truth of what had just happened. Still, the old pro laughed aloud and turned to Thompson. “What do you think now, Mr. Manager?”

  “You can still hit a ball over the fence, Ty. That’s what I think. Welcome to the club.”

  Thompson met Homer coming off the field. “You lost me some money,” he said.

  Homer shrugged. “Officially, I struck him out.”

  “The bet was he couldn’t hit you. You should have stopped at three.”

  “I guess my forkball still needs work.”

  “No it doesn’t. You let Kerns hit the ball. Question is why?”

  “I wanted to let him keep his dignity.”

  Thompson squinted at Homer. “I guess I was wrong about you, which is a shame. You’re a good player, Homer, could be great, but I see now you’re missing somet
hing inside. You letting Kerns down easy means you think this is a game for the players. Those of us who love the game will tell you it ain’t for the players at all. It’s for the game. A fellow who believes in the game will never let up on another man just because he can’t play to the level he wants.”

  Thompson walked off, leaving Homer to think things over. He looked at the dugout, where the other players were applauding Kerns and slapping him on his back. Try as he might, Homer just couldn’t feel bad about what he’d just done.

  25

  THE GAMES TO DETERMINE THE WINNER OF THE COASTAL League midsummer series were best three out of five. The Chompers backed into the series after the league-leading Alexander City Clam Stompers lost ten straight games after half of their players were sent up to the double A’s. High Top and the Marion Swamp Foxes ended up being the teams in contention, with the first two games to be played in Marion. The Swamp Foxes were a talented club filled with young rising professionals and nobody gave the Chompers much of a chance.

  Elsie accompanied Mr. Feldman to Marion in his chauffeured Cadillac. For a man who had trouble with his speech, Elsie thought he had a lot to say. On the road, they talked their usual philosophy, religion, and politics. She also got up enough nerve to tell him at least one truth.

  “You know, Mr. Feldman, I’m not a registered nurse or any kind of schooled nurse.”

  “Knowit,” Feldman responded. “Doctolme.”

  “The doctor told you? That rascal! Well, I’m sorry I lied to get my job.”

  Feldman’s hand shook as he reached out to touch her arm. “Elzee . . . pay . . . yurskool.”

  “You’ll pay to send me to nursing school?” She kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Mr. Feldman!”

  “’appy,” he said and touched his chest. “’appy.”

  “I’ll come back and work for you. I promise I will!”

  Feldman smiled at her. “’appy,” he said again.

  Ball games in Marion were well attended. The bleachers were packed full, enough so that overflow spectators were allowed to bring their own chairs. They were a pleasant people, Marion folks, and they watched with enthusiastic contentment as their boys destroyed their opponents, the hapless Furniture Makers or Chompers or whatever the fellows from High Top chose to call themselves for the series. The Marion folks also thoroughly admired the new mascot of the opposition.

  Elsie was proud of how well Albert fulfilled his mascot role. Homer had affixed a handle and wheels to his washtub and Humphrey rolled him around, coaxing him out with hot dogs for the edification of the spectators. After being given a tiny bat to hold between his teeth, Albert even took swings at tennis balls Humphrey tossed to him, hitting them nearly every time. Albert seemed fascinated by nearly everything: the smells of the food, the excitement of the crowd, the sudden cheers, the running players, the thok of the bat on the ball, and the frenzy of the play. When Elsie came down from the stands to say hello, he swished his tail in delight and provided her his toothiest grin. “He surely loves you, Mrs. Hickam,” Humphrey said.

  “He was a gift from Buddy Ebsen, the dancer and actor,” Elsie said. “He and I had some good times.”

  “I’ve never heard of Buddy Ebsen,” Humphrey confessed.

  “That’s okay. You will. He’s going to be famous someday.”

  “Does Mr. Hickam know about him?”

  Astonished at the bat boy’s impertinence, Elsie rubbed Albert’s head, hard enough that the alligator flinched. “Of course he does.”

  “Well, doesn’t he . . .” Humphrey stopped.

  Frowning, Elsie looked up. “Doesn’t he what?”

  Humphrey plunged on. “Well, doesn’t Mr. Hickam get jealous about Mr. Ebsen? I mean because I think I would get so jealous I couldn’t stand it.”

  Elsie stood up and narrowed her eyes. “Just take care of Albert, Humphrey.”

  The bat boy ducked his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Elsie gave Humphrey a final look of warning and started up into the stands to be with Mr. Feldman but, for a reason she couldn’t quite discern, deviated toward the dugout. She found Homer sitting on the bench. He was startled by her appearance and startled anew when she asked, “How are you?” in a tone that was more of a demand.

  “F-fine,” he stuttered. “Never better. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing’s the matter.”

  “Yes, there is. I always know when there’s something the matter.”

  “Nothing, I tell you.” She turned to leave, then looked over her shoulder. “I hope you get to play today.”

  Homer shrugged and Elsie turned back around. “You know what, Homer? Your trouble is you have no ambition.”

  “So that’s what the matter is,” Homer replied. “You know that isn’t so. I was studying to be a foreman when we left Coalwood.”

  “That was then and this is now. Anyone who would sit on a bench and not say something about it can’t be ambitious. That’s what I think.”

  Homer looked around to see if anybody was listening. Every player in the dugout was, of course, but was pretending he wasn’t. Homer got up and went over to Elsie, leaning in. “I’m doing my best,” he declared.

  “Do better,” she said, and walked away. As she walked, she expected to feel vindicated, that she’d done the best she could do for her husband, but it was shame that she felt, instead. That stupid bat boy had come entirely too close to the truth. Buddy Ebsen was still in her heart where Homer ought to be and, as far as she could tell, that’s where he was going to stay.

  The Chompers lost that day eight–zip while going through five out of six pitchers on the payroll, the sixth being Homer, who toiled away in the bullpen but did not play. He didn’t play the next day, either, and, once more, the Chompers lost. If they lost one more, it was all over.

  As Homer walked back from the bullpen at the end of the game, he was met by two men, one very short and the other big and tall. They were wearing suits and ties and expensive fedoras.

  Homer stopped and stared at them. “Go away, Slick. You, too, Huddie. Go away before I call the manager and have you turned over to the police.”

  “You can’t do that,” Slick said. “We’re season ticket holders.”

  “How is that possible?” Homer demanded.

  “How’s your arm?” Slick asked.

  “My arm’s fine.”

  Slick cut his eyes toward Huddie. “What do you think, Hud?”

  “I ain’t paid to think,” Huddie growled, scratching up under his armpit.

  “Truer words have never been spoken, son,” Slick said, then put two fingers to his hat brim in a salute to Homer and moved off, Huddie in his wake.

  Homer watched them go, and felt unsettled. Those two were up to something. But what?

  26

  ELSIE ROSE THE DAY OF THE THIRD GAME IN THE SERIES and sensed something different. When she went on the balcony to greet the morning sun, a falcon appeared and performed a series of small acrobatics, apparently for no other reason than her delight, and then when she looked up, the clouds had formed what appeared to be an alligator just like Albert, its jaws wide and smiling. A window opened in the basement and she heard the chauffeur’s phonograph playing a Cole Porter song she really liked titled “What Is This Thing Called Love?”

  Elsie sang along with the song for a while, feeling a little deliciously sorry for herself because she’d been with Buddy the last time she’d heard the song. Afterward, she got dressed and went to Mr. Feldman’s bedroom. After helping him to the bathroom and checking all his vitals, she went down to the kitchen and brought up his breakfast. “Wih-we win, Elzee?” Feldman asked.

  “If Homer plays, Mr. Feldman,” Elsie answered, “we will.”

  The game began. By the fifth inning, Marion had scored three runs and High Top none. Thompson visited Homer in the bullpen. “Get in there, Homer. Let’s see what you can do.”

  “Why now?”

  “Because it is now. Now is when it is. Now is when you’re re
ady.”

  “There were two fellows who came to the bullpen the other day. A small one and a big one. I know them. I think they’re up to something.”

  Thompson stared at Homer. “This is baseball, Homer. Everything that happens in baseball happens in the game. If those fellows are in the stands, they can’t change the game. Now, get in there and win one for us.”

  Homer got in there. The Marion batter swung at his first pitch and missed. Encouraged, Homer threw twice more. The batter missed those pitches, too. No Marion batter came close to a hit for the rest of the game. When the game was over, the score was 5–3 in favor of High Top. Homer had scored one of those five with a mighty home run over the left-field fence.

  As Homer came around third, heading toward home, he looked up in the stands and saw Elsie standing beside Mr. Feldman. She was wearing her nurse costume and also a proud smile. After placing his foot on home plate, he doffed his cap in her direction. She waved and even sent him an air kiss. His chest swelled.

  In the second game, Homer started at pitcher, hit two home runs, and the Chompers coasted to an easy win, 5–0.

  All was tied with one more game to play.

  Thompson rested Homer the first five innings of the deciding game, until the score was tied 6–6. Then the manager beckoned to him and Homer walked out to the mound. Atop the mound, he leaned over, the ball behind his back, then wound up and threw, the ball a blur to the batter and everyone in the stands. It was an unswung strike, as were the next two pitches, the ball pounding into the catcher’s mitt with a mighty thwak!

  But the score remained tied. As it did for the next two innings.