Henry took the dice. While Ingram and Wilder popped up and James flied out to center, Lou told about the beekeeper. "So, anyway, see, he's finally got so he can translate a few
of the things they say and talk back to them, you know, things about going back to the hive, danger, and so on, and—oh, I forgot to tell you about this woman—"
"You're up, Lou."
Lou droned on about the bees while taking his turn, Henry helping him find the result of his throws to speed things up a little. Biff Baldwin popped up to the pitcher and Walt McCamish fouled out, but Bran Maverly doubled off the right-field wall. "Now, what'd I tell you about that boy!" Lou gloated, and Henry had to grin in spit of himself: fattening Flynn and his Daffy Dillies, new image of the Knicks? Lou pumped the dice in his puffy fist. "Seven come eleven!" he piped meaninglessly, and tossed them down. Triple three: injury.
"Now you throw again," Henry explained, after Lou had found the meaning of his throw, "and use this chart. See, the injury can be on either your team or mine. Some are more serious than others, and it makes a difference how old the player is. Your man O'Shea, for example, is twenty, came up this year, Year LVI—"
"Year what—!"
Henry felt the flush come again. Hadn't meant to go that far tonight. "I'll explain all that later Lou. Just go ahead and throw."
That cold Zifferblatt-like expression of incredulity and distrust crept over Lou's wide face, but he picked up the dice and pitched them again. Henry tried to watch it happen: O'Shea's line-drive sailing out to right center, Witness York drifting over for it, Stan Patterson calling for it, Knickerbocker fans raising a howl, drowning them out—but all he could see was Lou running his stubby greasy finger down the chart, lips in a skeptical pucker: "RF Inj Collision w/ CF: D Adv 3, RFout 4 G." Lou sighed deprecatingly. "What's it mean, Henry?"
"It's a double, your other man is home, my right fielder is out of the game." He wrote Tuck Wilson's name into the lineup, replacing Patterson. Out of action for four whole games! What a mess.
"I got a run?"
"That's right. Man on second and two outs."
"What about stolen bases? Can I have that man steal third?'"
"You can try." Oh boy. Steal third with two outs. Way to go, Flynn. "If you want to."
"Okay, why not? Try everything." O'Shea made it. Caught Halifax and Ingram napping. He always thought of catchers as slow, but there were exceptions. Maybe O'Shea was one of them. "I still haven't found it."
"There. He made it. He's safe."
"Look at that! Say, I'm beginning to like this game. Who's up?"
"Your third baseman. Galen Musgraves."
"He's just a plain type, hunh? Maybe I oughta pinch-hit somebody. Is that a good idea?"
"Well, pinch hitters have a slight advantage. But it's only the second inning, Lou. And then you only have one other third baseman."
"Oh, that's enough. How about this fella Sycamore Flynn here?"
"That's your manager."
"Can't bat, hunh?"
"No. Anyway he's in his fifties."
"Oh, the poor guy. Well, how about, uh, Kirk Abalon?"
"If you want." When Lou pronounced them, they did sound like comic book names.
"Okay, write him in there." Lou rubbed the dice between both plump palms. "Come on, big Kirk!"
"Abalon's a little man," Henry said.
Lou cast a glance of total wonder Henry's way. "Okay then," he said with a bemused shake of his head, "come on, little Kirk!" He threw the dice. Incredible. Henry sank back into his chair and drank off his own beer. "Hey, how about that, Henry! That PH means pinch hitter, don't it?" Henry nodded. "So it's a single, advance one, if pinch hitter, and otherwise fly out to right field, runners advance one." Lou clapped his hands. "Way to call those plays!" he congratulated himself. "Listen, where is everybody now?"
'Two runs in, two out, man on first, your pitcher at the plate."
"Not too good a batter, hunh?"
"Odds for him are a little less than those of a Regular hitter, but—"
"Okay, that's what I wanted to know. Who can I put in there? How about that Moon fella? He missed out there at the start, so I'll run him in now. Don't want any bad feelings."
'That's okay, Lou, but there are still seven innings to go, and your Ace—"
"I got another one. Is this Archie Moon big or little?"
Six foot two, 168 pounds, thirty years old, seven years in the Association. Dazzling fielder out in center, good throwing arm. Smooth-swinging choke hitter who sprayed to all fields. One big year in LII when he punched out a .281, just missing Star status. Hair sun-bleached blond, skin tanned, cigarette-ad smile. Played pro tennis in the spring. "He's... pretty big."
"Okay, come on, pretty big Archie!" Lou piped cheerfully. He belched and threw. "What's that?"
"Extra base hit."
Lou found it. "You're right. Now what ...?'*
"Throw again. Use this chart."
"Boy, this game takes forever." He threw and Moon tripled. "Hey!" Lou exclaimed when he found the place. "By golly, I think I've got this game figured out. What would've happened if I'd left the pitcher in there?"
"Samelhing."
"Oh?" Lou's enthusiasm sagged. He drank beer. "You want to bat for a while?"
Henry smiled. "You still only have two outs. Keep going." He probably ought to pull Halifax, but he didn't have the energy for it.
Lou shrugged, rolled the dice. Scat Batkin went down swinging. At last. "Maybe I should've had that fella try to steal home," Lou said.
"Three to nothing, your favor," said Henry. "Who's pitching and playing third ?"
"Well, that other Ace there, Shannon, Uncle Joe Shannon, and then, let's see, this man Holden Chase—"
"He's an outfielder. Koane's your other third baseman."
"Okay," smiled Lou agreeably, settling back, "Koane."
Mickey Halifax bounced one down to Koane, who threw him out. Lou looked it up and Henry explained it. "I think that was a good idea, putting that boy in there," Lou said, a bit drunkenly. He should have stopped to think about Halifax. But then who would he have pitched? Lou went to the refrigerator for more beer. "Do you mind, Henry?"
" No, help yourself."
"Want one?"
"Mmm." Ramsey struck out. Impatiently, he threw again, and Locke fouled out, McCamish coming in from right to haul it in.
"Hey, wait, what's happening?"
"You're up. My lead-off man struck out and the next one fouled out to your right fielder."
"You should've used a pinch hitter, Henry. Works every time. Listen, I wanted to tell you how this movie ended. This woman, see, was really a queen bee, trans—how do you say?"
"Transmuted."
"That's right." He drank beer. "See, these bees knew a lot more than anybody had guessed. They had scientists and all, and they had figured out how to—how did you say... ? Well, you know, cross over, sort of. They were just putting this man on with his little experiments, but they were really planning a big take-over. Well, the point is—did I tell you about this guy's wife? No? Well, I gotta back up. See, his wife—"
"Listen, Lou, why don't you roll while you explain it?"
"Just take a minute. His wife didn't like this girl right off. Woman's intuition, you know. The girl, I mean, the one who came to be the secretary, the one who was really the queen bee—"
"It's getting late, Lou, and we won't have time—"
"By golly!" exclaimed Lou, glancing at his watch. "Almost ten already! Can't stay too much longer." He rolled the dice. Weeks singled, but Garrison, Baldwin, and McCamish hit successive groundballs to the infield and were thrown out, leaving Weeks stranded on second. Lou patiently looked up the significance of each throw, getting deeper and deeper the while into the plot of the movie he'd seen. "So this girl—but there was this man who came, the wife had asked him to come because—are you still following?"
"Not very well."
"Let me go back. This guy was keeping bees, tryin
g to talk to them, when one day this girl comes to ask for a job as an assistant, sort of, and he—that reminds me, that woman last night, was it, did everything... ?"
"What?"
"You know, I mean, work out okay?" Lou grinned sheepishly, going pink in the cheeks, or maybe it was just the beer. "I mean, is she, did you, do you like her?"
"Well, sure, but she's just a B-girl, Lou, nothing—"
"Yes, well, I only meant, I mean, she seemed . . ." He paused, took a drink of beer. "So anyway this girl comes and the wife sees something peculiar about her right off. Sense of smell or something."
"Maybe she got a good look at her in the can," Henry suggested sourly. Hines had grounded out to the first baseman, unassisted.
Lou giggled, belched softly. "That's right, if she was really a bee ..." His mind pursued the possibilities. "But, no," he decided in all seriousness, "if she'd crossed over and got human eyes and teeth and so on, well, she'd probably got... everything else."
"Hines is out, Lou. I'm batting now for York."
"How...?"
"Your first baseman, unassisted."
"Good boy," said Lou blowzily. "Of course, maybe not.. ."
"Maybe not what?"
"Well, the eyes and teeth and all, that's kind of on the outside, but the, you know, what we were talking about, the other, that's more like on the inside and that would be harder to change over—"
"Oh, hell, Lou!" He rolled. "York singles, line drive into right center!"
Lou frowned skeptically, looked it up. "Single, all right," he agreed. "I don't see the rest."
"York's a left-handed batter and pull hitter," Henry explained.
"Oh," said Lou. He rubbed his cheeks, staring at the chart.
"I'm going to have Wilson try a sacrifice bunt," Henry said.
"Why'd you take that fella with the star out?"
"That's the man who got injured, don't you remember?"
"Mmm. Guess I'd forgot." Lou sighed. "Care for one more?" He got up.
"I've still got some, thanks. But help yourself." Chauncey O'Shea fielded the bunt, cocked bis arm toward second, but York was way ahead of him. He threw to first, barely getting old Wilson. "York is safe on second, Wilson out, catcher to first."
"Just a minute, let me see," Lou said. Perfunctory offer, Henry sensed. Fffssst. Fffssst. He brought two beers back.
"What chart's that now?"
"Sacrifice bunts. See, here's—"
Lou grunted, looked away. "What inning are we in, Henry?"
"The fourth."
"And there's nine innings?" He looked at his watch. "We'll never make it, Henry."
"Well, damn it, let's try anyway. I usually play four or five games in the time it's taken us to get this far. York's on second, two outs, Ingram at the plate." He rolled the dice. "Extra base hit! Now we're moving, team!" he shouted. Lou ran his finger down the chart, but long before he'd found it, Henry had rolled again: "Home run! Hey hey! It's a 3-to-2 ball game!" He marked the scoresheet.
"I haven't even got to the part where this girl falls out the window," Lou said disconsolately. "You should see that movie, Henry."
"Wilder up ... and he grounds out to short Three down. But it's a new ball game."
"You really oughta go more often. Makes you think about things. There's a real good one next week—"
"You're up."
Lou took the dice absently, tossed them down. "It's down in the south. There's these two brothers, and this one gets murdered."
"Your man Maverly just flied out to left."
Lou watched pensively, as Henry inked in the out. "Everybody thinks the other brother did it, but there's a surprise ending."
"Go ahead, throw."
Lou rolled. "Listen, Henry—"
"Base on balls. Now your man Koane is up."
Lou perked up a bit. "Koane? That's the one I... ? Mmm." He threw."How'd he do?"
"He struck out, Lou."
'Take him outa there."
"You can't, he's the only third baseman you have left."
"What's wrong with these other fellas? Here, put Casey in there." Lou was getting a little testy with the beer.
"He's a pitcher, Lou."
"Who's bossing this team, you or me?" Lou squeaked petulantly, then regretted it just as quickly. He smiled apologetically and drank some beer. "Oh, I don't care. Who's up?"
"Your pitcher."
"Pinch hitter."
"You don't have any more Aces—"
"That's all right, what's the difference? Let's see, this Chase fella ..." He rolled, as Henry dutifully inked the name in. "Where'dhehitit?"
"To the pitcher."
"You mean, he's out?" Lou sighed wearily, looked at his watch.
Before he could remark the hour, Henry asked: "What's the surprise ending?"
"Surprise... ?"
"The movie next week."
"I don't know, they never tell you. I think there's a girl mixed up in it."
"There usually is. Who are you pitching now?"
"Pitching...?"
"You used a pinch hitter."
"Oh! You jump back and forth so much, Henry, I can't keep up. I don't care who—who've I got? How about this Casey now?"
"Okay, Casey." A crazy game, but anyway he was where he wanted to be in the first place. Of course, he probably only had a couple innings before Lou used another pinch hitter. Too bad the bottom of the line-up was at the plate. "James batting. Rookie-to-Regular. Infield fly. Second baseman takes it." He showed Lou the place on the chart, though Lou really didn't seem to care any more. Halifax up again. Needed the Ace in there, but they had to hit Casey. "Axel Rawlings batting for Halifax." Barney Bancroft wouldn't have done it. Or maybe he would have. He'd be so bewildered by this game by now, he'd be apt to do about anything. But Rawlings struck out. "Oh, goddamn!"
"What's the matter, Henry?" asked Lou, starting up, suddenly concerned.
"He struck out."
"Oh. I thought you were, that something . . . well." He settled back with his beer.
Come on, Ramsey, damn it! A little pepper, boys, we gotta get a—Ramsey, waiting Casey out, watched a third strike go by. "You're up."
"Are you mad about something, Henry?"
Henry sighed. "No, go ahead and throw."
"Listen, let's go out and get another one of those pizzas."
"Ate too much already. Throw."
"Henry—"
"Throw, Lou, for crying out loud!"
Lou looked blearily disturbed, but he threw the dice just the same. Wait a minute. Get a new pitcher in. Who . . . ? Shadwell. No, he pitched yesterday. That's okay, the Knicks —no, it isn't okay. McDermott. He'd made mistakes like that before, pinch-hit for a pitcher then forgot he was out of the game and gone on using him, and it had been hell each time to get everything straightened out after.
They played in silence, except for Henry's reading of the significance of each throw, as he pointed the place for Lou. Batkin and Weeks walked, putting McDermott in trouble right off. Garrison flied out to left and Baldwin to right, Batkin advancing to third and then on home after the catches, Baldwin getting the RBI. McCamish walked and then Maverly singled, loading the bases and getting an "I told you so" peep out of Lou, but O'Shea struck out. Four to two. Casey'd be up at bat next inning and Lou would no doubt use another pinch hitter: it was now or never. Unless Lou was too sleepy and forgot. Couldn't take that chance. Barney sent Rusty Palmers in to bat for Locke. Locke had one for two in the ball game . . . ? That's all right. Play percentages. Bancroft's style, wasn't it? Didn't work. Palmers grounded out, second to first. The boys clapped him in, though. Don't lose the spirit. Remember who this guy is out there. They all knew. Barney didn't have to spell it out. Damon's killer. And then it happened! Hatrack Hines leaned into one and sent it clean out of the park: 6-6-6! Boy, were they pretty! "Now, we're going, men! we got him on the run! whoop it up! on your feet! chin music! It's the Mad Jock out there, boys, old Poppycock! And it's York up there now, come
on, Witness baby—hey, Lou! where are you going?"
Lou already had his coat on. "I kept trying to tell you, Henry, but you weren't listening." Lou was a little unsteady; you couldn't really tell it with Lou, except that he planted his feet a little wider apart than usual. "It's after midnight. Tomorrow's a working day. We gotta be there—you gotta be there, Henry. It's your last chance—"
The Universal Baseball Association, Inc., J. Henry Waugh, Prop Page 18
