The Dead Pull Hitter

by Alison Gordon

  “Maybe he set it up.”

  “He’s just small time. He gets guys grass or women or porn tapes, whatever they want. But he only deals coke in grams.”

  “Grams aren’t enough for anyone who’s seriously into coke, Gloves. Who are the guys who are using heavily?”

  “Nobody I know.”

  “Would you know? Could you tell?”

  “I have known guys who were heavy into it, like Terry Jackson, and none of the guys here now act that way.”

  Jackson was a pitcher who had been traded to Texas the previous season.

  “Jackson? Are you kidding?”

  “You didn’t know that?” Gloves laughed and started back towards the dugout. “Keep at it, kid. But be careful.”

  I was getting sick of all this touching concern. I was sicker of it by game time after being followed “discreetly” by Constable Donny, inconspicuous as a giraffe. The other writers were born journalists, every one, and I gritted my teeth through a lot of teasing.

  After dinner I took him out into the hall.

  “No offence, but there really isn’t room for you in the press box. Stay here in the hall with Charlie. He’s in charge of security on this floor, and he’ll tell you if anyone isn’t supposed to be here.”

  “Sure, I’ll take care of him,” Charlie said. “You come along with me, Constable. I was in the force myself for twenty-five years.”

  I liked the thought of MacPherson enduring good old Charlie’s stories for a whole game. With a rain delay expected at that. He glared at me as I left. I smiled.

  “Be sure and show him where he can watch the game, Charlie.”

  Charlie, already in mid-reminiscence, waved.

  I almost danced to my seat. Moose gave me the game notes. Alex Jones had a seven-game hit streak (big deal); Stinger Swain was celebrating his thirty-fourth birthday (thirty-four, going on thirteen); Mark Griffin hadn’t given up an earned run in nine innings; and Mitch Saxon, the Tigers’ backup catcher, wouldn’t be available because he had “pulled his groin.” (Keep it up and you’ll go blind, kid.) Invaluable stuff.

  It was a terrible night for a ballgame, damp and chilly. All the players were wearing thick woollen sleeves under their uniform jerseys, except for Swain, who always has bare arms, even when it’s snowing. He thinks he looks manly. I think he looks like a jerk, but what do I know?

  It would probably be a sloppy night. Batted balls are unpredictable on wet artificial turf. Some speed up when they bounce, rocketing through the infield, giving even the best fielders no chance. Some get trapped in puddles, leaving the outfielders poised like idiots ten feet back.

  Nothing happened until the top of the fifth, when Rafe Morgan, the Tigers third baseman, hit a homer to right, driving in two guys who had reached base on a walk and an error to Owl Wise.

  In the bottom of the inning the rain got heavier and lightning flashed out over the lake. The outfielders looked nervous.

  “Why don’t they call the damn thing?” I asked.

  “If they get the rest of the inning in, it’s an official game,” Moose said.

  “Thank you, Moose. I can always count on you to explain the finer points of the game.”

  “You’re getting testy, Hank. Maybe I should call your babysitter.”

  “Put a sock in it.”

  Red O’Brien obviously wanted to avoid the loss if he could. With the soggy fans shouting approval he trudged out of the dugout towards home plate. As he got within talking range, lightning flashed, followed by a tremendous clap of thunder. Red shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the sky, as if to say, “See, even He agrees with me,” and the umpire broke up.

  “Call it, call it,” chanted the crowd.

  The four umpires huddled at home plate with O’Brien and Billy Saunders, the Tigers manager. After a few seconds the crew chief stepped back and waved his arms, delaying the game. The crowd cheered.

  “Cards, Kate?” As usual, Stan Chapman was looking for a fourth for bridge.

  “Not tonight, Stan.”

  I had come prepared with the latest Martha Grimes mystery in my briefcase. I put my feet up on a chair and escaped into the English countryside until the game resumed at 10:45.

  The rest was anticlimax. The Titans couldn’t put together enough hits to score, and the game ended at midnight, 3–0 for the Tigers.

  “Oh, goody. Now we get to go chat with the cheery chaps downstairs. What jolly fun.”

  Cheery they weren’t. But with the pennant won, there was none of the gloom that had become habitual after losses. I grabbed a few philosophical quotes from the ones who were talking, and left. Game stories weren’t really big news any more.

  My faithful bodyguard was waiting for me in the corridor. He fell in step beside me on the way to the elevator.

  “Enjoy the game, Constable?”

  “Not much. What’s it like in there after they lose?”

  “You don’t want to know. Your illusions would be shattered.”

  “How come?”

  “They all pretend they care about the team, but they’re really thinking about their own numbers and how good they’ll look come contract-renewal time. But they’ll get the Tigers tomorrow.”

  “I hope so. I just want to see them beat the Yankees. Those are the guys I can’t stand.”

  “And with any luck, you’ll still be stuck with this lousy assignment and you can see the games.”

  He looked at me sheepishly.

  “Hey, if I were in your shoes I’d feel the same way. And I appreciate your discretion tonight. Thanks.”

  I invited him into the deserted press box while I filed my story. Then he drove me home, full of questions about my glamorous job. He walked me to the door, like a prom date, and asked when I’d need him in the morning.

  “Get a good night’s sleep. I won’t be going out until the afternoon. I’ll call Staff Sergeant Munro and tell him.”

  He waited until I’d unlocked the door, then made sure there weren’t any villains lurking in the hallway before he left.

  I locked up and poured myself a glass of wine. Then I went to my study, Elwy racing me up the stairs, and turned on the TV. We watched a Perry Mason rerun. Elwy is particularly fond of Raymond Burr.

  Chapter 20

  The sun backlit Father Michael Scanlon’s full head of white hair, making a halo, and didn’t he know it as he beseeched the Lord to take Sultan Sanchez and Steve Thorson to His heavenly bosom. The phony old priest’s list of their virtues sounded more like a scouting report than a eulogy. He had been chosen for the service not for his position in the religious community—his was an insignificant suburban parish—but because he was a charter member of the Titan booster club. He said grace at all the Player of the Month luncheons.

  It was a glorious day, the sky a deep autumn blue and the air Indian-summer warm. The mourners, at least ten thousand of them, filled the seats between the bases behind home plate. The players, their families, Titan personnel, league officials, and local bigwigs were in folding chairs on the field. The widows were veiled in black, sitting together near the visitors’ dugout.

  The priest stood on a crêpe-draped dais behind the mound, praying into a microphone. His amplified voice was out of sync with his lips. A small plane flew over the stadium, trailing a banner that read “Pedro Sanchez, Steven Thorson, Rest in Peace.” At game time, the same plane would be advertising the appearance at a local strip club of Miss Nude Northern Ontario.

  “I’m surprised they didn’t bring in Ernie Banks for the service,” I muttered to Jeff Glebe.

  “How come?”

  “It’s a beautiful day. Let’s bury two.”

  Father Scanlon was the last of four ecumenical speakers, following Father Jorge Guerrero, who had spoken in Spanish for fifteen minutes. It looked as if Scanlon was out to break Guerrero’s record, bu
t he finally wound down and left the stage, stopping to embrace Sandi Thorson as the cameras clicked.

  Tiny Washington and David Sloane took his place. Tiny looked embarrassed, Sloane composed.

  “I knew Sultan Sanchez for thirteen years,” Tiny said, too close to the microphone, which squealed. “I played with him and I played against him. He always played hard. He was a leader on every team he was with. He taught pride to the young players. He also helped us remember to enjoy what we did. No matter what was going on, Sultan could make us smile.

  “Steve Thorson was a competitor. He played with intensity and never gave less than one hundred percent whenever he was on the mound. He was the heart of this team. He made us play our best because winning was all that mattered to him. He was respected by every hitter in the league.

  “You all loved them, too, so I guess you know what all of us guys on the team are feeling. We will do the best we can to honour their memory, but we will miss them, on and off the field.”

  There was scattered applause, quickly shushed, from some fans who forgot where they were. Then Sloane stepped to the microphone.

  “Let us pray,” he began, and heads bowed around the infield, a ragged collective movement.

  “It’s a prayer wave,” I whispered. Glebe shushed me.

  Sloane shut his eyes and raised his arms to the sky.

  “Lord. You have taken two of our brothers from us. You know why You had to do it. It is not our place to ask why. Thy will be done. They are not truly gone because they live on in all of us.

  “We stand before You not in sorrow, not to weep, but to thank You for letting them be with us for a time, for enriching our lives.

  “We knew them well. We knew Pedro Sanchez and Steven Thorson as teammates. We knew them in joy and in sorrow. We knew them as brothers. We were soldiers together in a daily battle. And we will not shirk the battle because they have left us.

  “Lord, we dedicate ourselves to finish what our brothers helped us begin. And we will dedicate our victory to them. We will prevail. We will triumph over our foes and become World Champions and dedicate our championship to their memories.”

  “Yeah, but where are they going to send the World Series rings,” whispered Jeff. I fought back a giggle and Sloane, incredibly, began to sing.

  “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!”

  Ten thousand voices joined his as the airplane banked over right field.

  “And here I was hoping for ‘Onward Christian Shortstops,’” I said.

  “It always happens at funerals,” I explained to Jeff on the way to the reception. “Even real ones. My dad’s a minister, so I’ve been to a lot of them. I always get the giggles.”

  “You cry at weddings, I take it.”

  “And in movies, at hockey games, tractor pulls, and shopping centre openings. It’s only funerals that make me laugh.”

  “This one would have made a corpse laugh,” Jeff said. “I wonder what Father Guerrero said?”

  “Probably that Sultan’s giving 110 percent in heaven.”

  The reception, which was private, was in the Batter’s Box, the bar and banquet area of the stadium. The lineup snaked down a concrete stairwell that smelled faintly of hot dogs, popcorn, and beer. Everyone looked a bit odd dressed in their Sunday best. Just as we came to a bend in the staircase, Sam Craven tapped me on the shoulder.

  “I was hoping I would see you,” he said. “It’s a terrible business, isn’t it? That was a nice piece you did on Sandi. I’m sure she appreciated it.”

  “Thanks, Sam.” I introduced Jeff. “When did you get in from New York?”

  “Just now. I’ve been getting Steve’s affairs wound up. Talking to insurance agents, things like that. Tragic business.”

  “Who gets the money?” Jeff asked.

  “Most of it goes to Sandi. His parents inherit some, too. I had a small policy on his life, of course, as did the Titans. But they’ll have to pay the remainder of his contract to his estate.”

  “Would they have had a policy on Sanchez, too?”

  “I would imagine so.”

  We had made it to the Batter’s Box. I let Craven go in first. I wanted to watch him go through the receiving line. Ted Ferguson faked it, shaking his hand warmly, but passed him on quickly to Father Scanlon and turned his attention to us.

  “Kate. Jeff.” He nodded, then took my hand in both of his. “Thank you so much for coming. What did you think of David’s comments? Very moving, I thought.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “Very inspirational.”

  There was a small commotion just ahead of me. As Craven leaned to embrace Sandi Thorson, she twisted out of his arms.

  “I can take care of myself,” she hissed at him. “You just take your cut and leave me alone.”

  Craven glanced quickly around to see if the exchange had been overheard, then smiled and moved on. It was my turn.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Just stand here for a minute, would you?”

  “Of course.”

  “I hate that man so much. Why did he have to come?”

  “It would have looked funny if he didn’t, Sandi. He was Steve’s agent, after all.”

  “He’s horrible.”

  Surprised at her vehemence, I changed the subject.

  “Will you be leaving Toronto now?”

  “I’m flying to California tonight. The funeral is tomorrow.”

  “What about Stevie?”

  “He went home with my parents last night. I didn’t think he should have to go through this.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “It’s hard enough for me. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’ve got my mom and dad. They’ll help.”

  “And you have lots of friends.”

  “Baseball friends. They forget pretty quickly. There will be a new pitcher. And a new wife. But some will stay friends, I hope.”

  I started to move on, but she stopped me.

  “I wanted to thank you for the article you wrote yesterday. My parents thought it was real nice.”

  “You’re welcome. Take care of yourself. Let me know where you end up. I’d like to keep in touch.”

  “I will,” she said, then suddenly, clumsily, embraced me, embarrassing us both a little.

  Sultan’s wife Dolores, whom I had never met, was lovely. Tiny and dark, she had extraordinary eyes and a great deal of style. Her English was not very good, but her teenaged son Eduardo helped interpret. He was tall and handsome, very like his father. The Titans had signed him to a minor-league contract early in the season. They each shook my hand formally.

  I declined coffee and cookies and went up to the press box. The ground crew had dismantled the dais and taken up the chairs and were rolling the batting cage into position. A few Tigers were waiting for early batting practice.

  There was no one else around but the technicians setting up for that night’s broadcast. It was very peaceful. The players on the field were horsing around in the sunshine. Life goes on. Many of the mourners who had just left the park would be back in a couple of hours, dressed in jeans and Titan sweat shirts, eating hot dogs and drinking beer. The voices that had sung hymns would be screaming at the umpires.

  In this philosophical mood it didn’t take long to write my piece on the memorial service. The team provided transcripts of the speeches. I even managed to quote David Sloane without mocking.

  When I finished, I rested my head on my arms.

  “Sleeping on the job?”

  It was Moose’s voice, and his strong hands massaging my neck and shoulders.

  “That’s heaven. Never stop.” I felt like Elwy. If only I could purr. “You may be saving a life here, Moose. I’ll do what I can to get you the Order of Canada.”

  He laughed and dug his knuckles into th
e really sore part between my shoulder blades. I groaned.

  “Time’s up. I’ve got work to do,” he said, giving me a last hearty thump.

  “Maybe it’ll be a short one tonight.”

  “I wouldn’t bet the rent on it.”

  Chapter 21

  The game wasn’t short, but it was so much fun that no one cared. A day that had started in tears and sombre reflection ended in jubilation. The Titans were winning 14–3 and still at bat in the bottom of the eighth when Jeff Glebe leaned over to check on a fine point of sportswriting.

  “Does this qualify as a trouncing?”

  “Not yet. You need a twelve-run lead for a trouncing.”

  “A drubbing?”

  “Yeah, you only need ten for a drubbing.”

  Every Titan had at least one hit. Tiny Washington, David Sloane, Joe Kelsey, and even Alex Jones had hit home runs. Kelsey also had a triple and a single. He was due up next, with two out, and looking for a double, if Wise got on base.

  The count was full, but Owl fouled off pitches to stay alive. He finally tapped a single between first and second. The crowd was excited, aware how close Kelsey was to hitting for the cycle: a single, double, triple, and home run in the same game. He would be the first Titan ever to do it.

  He hit the first pitch hard to left field. It looked like a home run, but hooked foul at the last moment. There was relieved laughter from the fans. They wanted the double.

  He gave it to them on the second pitch, a ball hit solidly into the gap in left centre. The fans stood and applauded for so long that Kelsey was forced to tip his cap, embarrassed. Dummy Doran signalled for the left fielder to give him the ball and pocketed it to give to Preacher.

  The cheering finally stopped and the game resumed. No one was disappointed when Tiny Washington grounded out to end the inning. And when the Tigers went down in order in the ninth I even had half an hour left to my first deadline.