by Rick Wilber
Bea sat quietly in Doctor Doubleday’s private office, waiting. The office was decorated like a tiny comer of Cooperstown. On the walls hung various team photos and framed press clippings about Manny Doubleday in his heyday. On the desk were baseballs signed by Mickey Mantle and Hank Aaron, even one signed by Babe Ruth, although the authenticity of it came under suspicion since the “Bambino” signed his name in crayon.
From down the hall the doctor’s melodic whistling of “Take Me Out To The Ball Game” pierced through the space made by the slightly ajar door. Moments later the door burst open and in strode the portly doctor. Doctor Doubleday had been the Goldmans' family physician for what seemed like forever. He had delivered both Sam and Bea into the world and always looked upon the couple’s marriage as a match made by his own hands. He was also a former minor league pitcher and big baseball fan, something that had cemented a friendship between the doctor and Sam since Sam was a teenager. The doctor knew of Sam’s ability to remember statistics and thought it was simply wonderful.
“What seems to be the problem, Bea?” he asked, picking up a dormant baseball from his desk and wrapping his fingers around it as if to throw a splitfingered fastball right over the plate.
“It’s Sam, I think he’s—”
“How is the old dodger?” the doctor interrupted as he took a batter’s stance and pretended to swing through on a tape-measure home run. “You know I’ve never seen anyone with a memory like his. It’s uncanny the way he can tell you anything you want to know at the drop of a hat.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. I think he’s overdoing it a bit,” Bea said, sitting up on the edge of her chair anxious to hear some words of support.
“Nonsense,” replied the doctor.
Bea slumped back in her chair.
“What your husband has is a gift. He has a photographic memory that he’s chosen to use for recording baseball statistics. It’s harmless.”
“It used to be harmless. He used to do it in his spare time but now he’s obsessed with it. He lets other things slide just so he can cram his head with more numbers. He’s beginning to forget things.”
“Bea,” the doctor said, putting down his invisible bat. “Forget for a minute that I’m your doctor and consider this a discussion between two friends.
“Most people are able to use about ten percent of the brain’s full capacity. Your husband has somehow been able to tap in and exceed that ten percent. Maybe he’s using twelve or thirteen percent, I don’t know, but it happens. He could be making millions at the black jack tables in Atlantic City but he chose to use his gift for baseball. Just be happy it’s occupying him instead of something more dangerous. I’ll talk to him the next time he’s in. How are the kids?”
Bea was brought sharply out of her lull and answered in knee-jerk fashion. “Fine, and yours?”
***
She was satisfied, but marginally. It was one thing for the doctor to talk about Sam’s mind in the comfort of the office, it was another thing entirely to sit at the dinner table and watch Sam try to eat his soup with a fork.
“Honey,” she’d say. “Why don’t you try using your spoon? You’ll finish the soup before it gets cold.”
“Yeah, I guess your right-handed batters versus lefties,” Sam would reply and then sit silently for a few moments. “Did I say that? Sorry Bea, I don’t know where my head is.”
Sam knew he was spending a little too much time with his baseball books. He was weary of the numbers and after a couple hours study, some nights the inside of his skull pounded incessantly and felt as if it might explode under the growing pressure. But he loved the game too much to give it up.
Anyway, the money he earned on the bar circuit was too good to give up. It was so good in fact that he could probably put the kids through college with his winnings; something he could never do just working at his regular job.
Sam worked as an airplane mechanic in the machine shop at the local airport. He was good at his job and always took the time to make sure it was done right.
One day he was drilling holes in a piece of aluminum to cover a wing section they had been working on. The work was monotonous so Sam occupied his time thinking about the previous night’s study.
Pete Rose hit .273 his rookie year, .269 his second, .312 his third...
The drill bit broke and Sam was brought back into the machine shop. He stopped the press, replaced the bit, tightening it with the key.
Lou Gehrig hit .423 in thirteen games for New York in 1923, .500 in ten games in 1924, .312 in his firstfull season in 1925. ..
Sam started the drill press and the key broke free of its chain, flew across the shop and hit another mechanic squarely on the back of the head.
He was once again brought into reality. He shut the drill off and rushed over to see if his co-worker was still alive. A crowd had gathered around the prone man and all eyes were on Sam as he neared the scene.
“What the hell were you thinking of?”
“You gotta be more careful.”
“That was pretty stupid.”
The other mechanics were crowing at him in unison and Sam felt like a baseball that had been used too long after its prime. His insides felt chopped up and unraveled as he looked at the man lying on the floor.
A groan escaped the downed man’s lips. “What the hell was that?” he asked. The crowd around him let out a collective sigh. Sam felt better too, but just slightly. The shop foreman walked up to him, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and told him to go home.
“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, before he gets up off the floor and these guys turn into a lynch mob.”
“Sure boss. I’ll go home run leaders for the past twenty years?’
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing. I don’t know what I was thinking of.”
* * *
On the way home, Sam stopped by The Last Resort, a local sports bar with big-screen TV and two-dollar draughts. He needed a drink.
After what happened at the shop, Sam thought he might be going crazy. Baseball trivia was fun but if it turned him into an accident waiting to happen, he might as well forget all about his baseball memory.
He sat on a stool in front of the bartender and eased his feet onto the brass foot-rail. Comfortable, he ordered the biggest draught they had. As he sipped the foam off the top of the frosted glass, he overheard a conversation going on down at the other end of the bar.
“Willie Mays was the best player ever to play the game, and believe me, I know ... I know everything there is to know about the greatest game ever invented.”
Sam watched the man speak for a long time. He stared at him, trying to see right through his skull and into the folds of his brain. Sam wanted to know just how much this blow-hard really knew.
“Go ahead, ask me anything about the game of baseball, anything at all. I’ll tell you the answer. Heck, I’ll even put ten dollars on the bar here—if you stump me it’s yours.”
“How many home runs did Hank Aaron hit in his first major league season?” asked Sam as he carried his beer down the bar toward the man.
“Awe, that’s easy, thirteen, Milwaukee, 1954. I want some kind of challenge.”
“All right, then. In what year did Nolan Ryan pitch two no hitters and who did he pitch them against?”
“Another easy one. Nolan Ryan was pitching for the California Angels and beat Kansas City 3—0, May 15 and Detroit 6—0, July 15,1973.”
Sam was startled. No hitters were something he’d studied just the night before. This guy was talking about them like they were old news.
“Okay, now it’s my turn,” the man said, massaging his cheeks between his thumb and forefinger. “But first, would you care to put a little money on the table?”
“Take your best shot,” Sam answered, slamming a fifty-dollar bill down on the bar.
“Well, fifty bucks,” the man said impressed. “That deserves a fifty-buck question!”
The man looked i
nto Sam’s eyes. A little sweat began to bead on Sam’s forehead but he was still confident the bozo had nothing on him.
“Okay, then. Who was the Toronto Blue Jays winning pitcher in their opening game 1977, and what was the score?”
Sam smiled, he knew that one. But suddenly something about the way the other man looked into his eyes made his mind draw a blank. It was as if the man had reached inside and pulled the information out of Sam’s head before Sam had gotten to it. The beads of sweat on Sam’s forehead grew bigger.
“I’m waiting,” said the man, enjoying the tension. “Awe, c’mon, you know that one. I only asked it so you’d give me a chance to win my money back.”
Sam closed his eyes and concentrated. Inside his brain, pulses of electricity scrambled through the files searching for the information, but all pulses came back with the same answer.
“I don’t know,” said Sam finally.
“Too bad. It was Bill Singer, April 7, 1977, 9-5 over Chicago. Fifty bucks riding on it too. Better luck next time, pal.”
The man picked up the money and walked out of the bar. Sam stood in silence. He’d never missed a question like that before—never! He finished his draught in one big gulp and ordered another.
***
Sam said nothing about the incident to Bea over dinner. He ate in silence, helped his wife with the dishes and told her to enjoy herself bowling with the girls.
When she was safely out of the driveway, Sam dove in his books. He vowed never to be made fool of again and intensified his study. He looked up Bill Singer and put the information about him back on file in his head. He studied hundreds of pitchers and after a few hours their names became a blur.
Noodles Hahn, Cy Young, Ambrose Putnam, Three Finger Brown, Brickyard Kennedy, Kaiser Wilhelm, Smokey Joe Wood, Wild Bill Donovan, Twink Twining, Mule Watson, Homer Blankenship, Chief Youngblood, Clyde Barfoot, Buckshot May, Dazzy Vance, Garland Buckeye, Bullet Joe Bush, Boom Boom Beck, Bots Nickola, Jumbo Jim Elliot, George Pipgrass, Schoolboy Rowe, Pretzels Puzzullo, General Crowder, Marshall Bridges, Van Tingle Mungo, Boots Poffenberger, Johnny Gee, Dizzy Dean, Prince Oana, Cookie Cuccurullo, Blackie Schwamb, Stubby Overmire, Webbo Clarke, Tynn Lovenguth, Hal Woodeshick, Whammy Douglas, Vinegar Bend Mizell, Riverboat Smith, Mudcat Grant, John Boozer, Tug McGraw, Blue Moon Odom, Rollie Fingers, Billy McCool, Woody Fryman, Catfish Hunter, Vida Blue, Goose Gossage, Rich Folkers, Gary Wheelock.
Sam slammed the book shut. His head was spinning.
He felt like he couldn’t remember another thing, not even if the survival of baseball itself depended on it.
But then a strange thing happened.
Sam swore he heard a clicking sound inside his head. His brain felt as if it buzzed and whirred and was suddenly lighter.
He reopened the book and looked at a few more numbers. He took them in, closed the book once more and recited what he had learned.
“We’re back in business,” Sam said out loud and returned, strangely refreshed, to the world of statistical baseball.
Bea came home around eleven o’clock and found Sam in the den asleep with his face resting on a stack of books.
“Doesn’t he ever get enough?” she muttered under her breath and poked a finger into his shoulder, trying to wake him.
“Huh, what... Phil Niekro, Atlanta Braves 1979, 21-20 at the age of 40. Gaylord Berry, San Diego Padres 1979, also 40, 12—11 . ..”
“Sam, wake up! Isn’t it time you gave it a rest and went to bed?” Bea said, pulling on his sleeve, hoping to get him out of his chair.
“Who are you?” asked Sam, looking at Bea as if they were meeting in a long narrow alleyway somewhere late at night.
“Well, I’ll say one thing for you, Sam, you still have your sense of humor. C’mon, time for bed.”
“Which way is the bedroom?” Sam asked. He thought his surroundings familiar but wasn’t too clear about their details.
“Into the dugout with you,” Bea said, caught up in the spirit of the moment. “Eight innings is more than we can ask from a man your age!”
After the two were finally under the covers, Sam lay awake for a few minutes looking the bedroom over. The pictures on the wall looked familiar to him and he thought he might be in some of them. Comfortable and exhausted, he finally dozed off.
* * *
Sam’s brain was hard at work while the rest of his body rested in sleep.
It had started with a faint click but now his brain hummed and buzzed with activity. After being bombarded with information over the past months, every available cubbyhole in Sam’s brain had been filled. There wasn’t room for one more ERA, one more home run, not even one more measly single.
But like an animal that has adapted to its environment over the course of generations, Sam’s brain was evolving too, and decided it was time to clean house.
The torrent of information it had been receiving must be essential to the survival of the species, the brain reasoned. Why else would so many names and numbers be needed to be filed away? So the brain began a systematic search of every piece of information previously stored, from birth to present, and if it did not resemble the bits of information the brain was receiving on a daily basis, out the window it would go.
Sam’s brain decided it wasn’t essential that he remember how to use the blowtorch at work so the information was erased to open up new space for those supremely important numbers.
By the time Sam awoke, a billion cubbyholes had been swept clean.
Sam walked sleepily toward the kitchen where Bea already had breakfast on the table.
“What’s that?” Sam asked, pointing at a yellow semi-sphere sitting on a perfect white disk.
“Are you still goofing around?” Bea answered. “Hurry up and eat your grapefruit or you’ll be late for work.”
Sam watched Bea closely, copying her movements exactly. He decided he liked the yellow semi-sphere called grapefruit and every bite provided a brand new taste sensation on his tongue. Sam’s brain couldn’t be bothered to remember what grapefruit tasted like, not even for a second.
Bea helped Sam get dressed for work because he said he couldn’t remember which items on the bed were the ones called pants and which were the ones called shirts.
Bea decided she’d speak to Dr. Doubleday the moment she got Sam out of the house and insist he come by and give Sam a check-up. She nearly threw Sam out the door in her rush to call the doctor.
As the door of the house closed behind him, Sam tried to remember just exactly where he worked and what it was he did for a living.
He also wanted to go back to The Last Resort and show that joker at the bar that Sam Goldman was no fool.
If only he could remember how to get there.
David Sandner's poetry and fiction have appeared in Asimov's Science Fiction magazine, Weird Tales, Pulphouse, and elsewhere. He is the editor of Fantastic Literature: A Critical Reader, and co-editor of The Treasury of the Fantastic with Jacob Weisman. Sandner is an assistant professor of Romanticism and Children's Literature at California State University in Fullerton. Jacob Weisman is publisher of Tachyon Books, an independent publishing house specializing in genre fiction. As publisher and editor he has been nominated for the World Fantasy Award several times. As a writer he has published stories in The Nation, Realms of Fantasy, and elsewhere. This story by Sandner and Weisman follows an elderly man and his young friend as, somehow, they find themselves reminded that baseball's long history can be very real, indeed, for those who know and love the game.
Lost October
David Sandner and Jacob Weisman
DEROSA WATCHED THE BOYS play baseball in the street below. They played with a tennis ball. First base was a rear tire of a car. Second base was a dark patch of asphalt in the middle of the road, the pitcher’s mound another. Third base was the tire of the car across from first. Home plate was a crushed tin can.
DeRosa rested in a large deck chair on the balcony of his third floor apartment, his right knee turned i
nward and his ankle twisted around the front chairleg. Only his eyes moved, following the high, bounding hops of the tennis ball.
One of the boys drove a deep fly ball that sailed the length of the street and bounced several times before coming to rest beneath the wheel of a parked car. An outfielder closed on the ball, chased it down and threw a two-hopper to the plate. The catcher caught the ball to his right, pivoted violently to his left, throwing himself to the ground to make the tag. An argument ensued.
The arguments always bored DeRosa. The balcony swirled in sunlight. DeRosa lay back, content in the brightness, sitting as still as empty bleachers. He dozed, listening to shrill voices punctuated by the womp of a flattened tennis ball.
DeRosa awoke uncomfortably, the tough fabric of the chair biting into his arm, etching deep, criss-crossing patterns into the flesh. He had on only a short-sleeved shirt, faded green, unbuttoned to his white undershirt. DeRosa rubbed his arm tenderly. His head swam. Gingerly, he turned his neck from side to side. He slipped his black socked feet into a pair of white leather shoes and stood slowly, keeping his hands firmly on his knees for support. He opened the sliding glass door and crossed the living room to the kitchen to splash some water on his face.
Standing at the sink, water dripping from his chin, DeRosa looked out his open kitchen window over the backyard. The trees were deathly still, yet he heard the branches creaking. It seemed unnatural to him, put him on edge. A German Shepherd crossed into the shade of a eucalyptus and sniffed at the trunk. It had been too close to the house to be seen before. The dog was old, gray mixed in his soft colored tan and brown coat. He was big shouldered.
DeRosa leaned out the window, holding tight at the sill.
“Hey,” DeRosa called. “Hey. Get out of there. Shoo.”
The dog turned, eyeing DeRosa evenly before moving across the yard to a hole in the fence. He looked back again and the sun glowed in his eyes, then he ducked through the hole and was gone.
