Randy looked away from the stands. The first American Legion hitter was coming to bat. He toed the dirt on the pitcher's mound, looked to his catcher—a chubby old guy named Fournier, who'd been catcher here for at least five years—and let his first pitch go.
Beautiful!
Nice windup, great release, that satisfying thump in the glove, and—
"Ball!” came the shout of Tom Grissom, the umpire.
Randy stared at home plate in disbelief. A ball?
He snagged the return throw from Fournier, took the ball, and got into his windup again and—
Smack! In the catcher's glove. Even better than before and—
"Ball!"
Damn it to hell, what's going on? he thought, as the ball sailed back. He had pitched in front of Tom Grissom a dozen or so times before, knew how he worked, knew where the strike zone was, and maybe it took an inning or two to get things settled down so he could work the zone like magic, sending those pitches in like darts of white fire, but damn it to hell...
Three more pitches.
A swing and a miss.
Strike.
And then two more balls.
The first hitter walked, to scattered applause from the American Legion members in the stands.
He wiped at the sweat suddenly forming on his brow.
He had never walked a batter in the first inning. Never.
The second batter came up, and his fist was clenching the baseball so tight, it seemed like the stitches would burst.
* * * *
"Let me guess,” the man called Steve said. “Were you on the Palmer Mill team?"
"Yeah, I was, but not for long,” he lied. “You see, working in the mill back then meant a lot of long hours. Didn't have much time for practice and games."
"I'm sure you're right,” Steve said. “You know, it's kind of a pity, if you think about it, how times have changed. Sure guys back then were busy, but they made time, for the love of the game. Now we've got all these organized sports for kids, dads have second jobs or weekend places or they'd rather play computer games with their kids, and most of the leagues just broke up. A pity."
It had been so many years since he'd been to Palmer, but he was sure that he just had a few more minutes before the bus would arrive in town, and then he could get out of this man's clutches.
"Maybe so,” Randy finally said. “Who the hell knows?"
"What do you mean?"
"Maybe it's not a pity,” Randy said, surprised at how strong his voice became. “Maybe times just move on, maybe the whole idea of grownups playing a kids’ game, when they have no chance of getting onto a good minor-league team or the majors, maybe putting that idea away was a good thing. Who the hell knows?"
That put Steve silent for a few moments, and Randy again looked out, saw that the bus was descending into a small wooded valley, and his heart quickened. That's right, the Palmer River was just down there, and in just a very few minutes, he'd be back home....
"You know,” Steve said slowly, like he was trying to recall something very important. “You said something about grownups and playing a kids’ game, no chance of getting into the majors . . . my granddad, he said once that one of the Palmer Mill players . . . once he was seen by a major-league scout. A major- league scout coming into Palmer. Can you believe that?"
He thought of this bus trip, his bag at his feet, the .38 revolver right there, and the chances that brought this . . . this . . . this damn baseball know-it-all to his side.
"Days like today, I can believe in almost anything."
So he got out of the first inning, and his stomach ached. Two hits, two walks, and not a single strikeout. Only some good fielding by his team prevented a run from scoring, and he had never allowed a run to be scored in the first inning. Not ever!
He came in off the field, went up to Tom Grissom, standing there with his used gear and facemask, staring at him through the wire protection.
"Tom . . . what the hell are you doing?"
Through the mask, he looked like some sort of monster-movie character. “Calling the game. What are you doing?"
"Tom . . . shit, you know what I throw, what I can do. Those aren't balls you're calling out there! Those are strikes!"
One of his teammates started approaching the batter's box, bat in hand. Tom settled himself down behind the American Legion's catcher. “I'm the goddamn ump, Randy, and right now, we're in the bottom of the first inning. Get your ass back to your bench."
He strode off, mouth dry, heart thumping, holding his glove tight to his chest.
* * * *
Now, as they entered the town of Palmer, the bus was slowing and he tried to take it all in. He was stunned at how crowded the streets were. Oh, hell, they weren't crowded compared to what he had seen in Chicago and Seattle and L.A., but when his memory was of hot summer days when you could ride your bicycle down the center of Main Street without worrying about being struck by a car, seeing the parked cars and shops and new homes . . . it was stunning.
And he was so busy taking in what had happened to his hometown that he missed part of what Steve was saying about baseball scouts. He just caught the end, when Steve said something like, “. . . sure was different back then for the scouts."
"Yes, it was,” Randy said, his face almost pressed to the glass. “The scouts back then, they weren't connected like they are today. They didn't get all the information, have the e-mail, the Web sites, the ability to check out some remote newspaper through the Internet, to see who was making a mark where. And no radar guns for the pitchers! It was like a hunter, on opening day . . . looking for signs . . . looking for just the hint that out there in some remote ballpark, some forgotten town, was the next Mickey Mantle, the next Ted Williams, the next Roger Maris. And the players . . . just one chance to make an impression. The scout was there and you just had once chance. So you had better be on your game that day."
Steve said something in reply and he didn't quite hear him.
All Randy heard was the voice inside his head.
Just one chance.
* * * *
Another disastrous inning. He knew his pitching was first-rate, that he was sailing in with all his pitches, kissing the inside of the strike zone, but Tom was calling crap. Just the occasional strike and only through more luck did he get through the second inning without a run scoring. Not a solitary strikeout: two singles, one walk, and thank God for three back-to-back fly balls that finally ended the inning. But he felt his arm getting shaky with the last batter, knew that his confidence was melting away, like an ice cube on the sidewalk, and he stormed off to his bench, sitting by himself, knowing the manager, old Poulin, wouldn't say or do anything. And before he knew it, he was up in the batter's box, bat in hand.
He blinked his eyes from the sweat oozing down his forehead. Stood there, steaming, knowing Tom was just a few feet behind him. Tom was ruining his day, and he blinked his eyes again and the American Legion pitcher tossed one at him, a bloop pitch that was practically going to hit the dirt and he let it slide and Tom called out—
"Strike!"
Randy started to turn and Tom said in his low voice, “Keep your place, boy. Keep your place or I'll toss you out on your ass."
He squeezed the handle of the bat, waiting.
Another pitch and, Jesus, this one was going to be worse than the last one and—
"Strike!"
It was like he had been punched in the gut. Tom chuckled and said, “Your day going well, Randy? Hunh? Think I don't know about that scout watching you, hunh?"
Randy stared up at the mound, licked his dry lips, and said, “Tom . . . please . . . “
He could hear Tom shifting his weight back there, feet crunching on the gravel. “And another thing . . . you don't think I know about you and my sister? Know what you said to her? That you were going into the majors and were going to marry her? Christ, boy, you think me and my dad are going to let you take my sister out of Palmer? Do you?"
&n
bsp; Up on the mound, the American Legion pitcher took his stance. Tom leaned over a bit, lowered his voice, and said, “You think we'd let some white trash like you, son of a drunk whore, marry my sister and take her away from her family? Do you? When I'm lined up to run the whole business one of these days?"
Take a breath, he thought, calm down, take a breath, and—
The American Legion pitcher let loose.
Ball flying in.
He took a swing, wasn't going to watch this one fly by, took a heavy swing and—
Air.
All he caught was air.
"Strike three!"
He turned, tears in his eyes, hands on his bat, and through the wire of the mask, he could make out Tom's chilly smile. “You're done, Randy. Out of the batter's box."
Randy went back to the bench, dropping the bat, and when he looked up to the stands, the scout was gone.
* * * *
Now the bus finally stopped, in front of a place that in Randy's mind was still the Palmer Grill & Cafe, but which was now a Dunkin’ Donuts franchise. He reached down and grabbed his bag, and Steve got out into the aisle of the bus and held out his hand.
"Well, this is where we get off,” Steve said. “Thanks for letting me chat with you. Sure made the time go by."
He gave the man's hand a quick squeeze. “Thanks,” he said. “Hope you get home all right."
Steve smiled. “Sure. I'll be just in time for my boy's Little League practice. Their team's struggling this year but still . . . they keep at it."
Randy, bag in hand, started going down the aisle, and although a young woman with a child was now between them, Steve leaned over and said, “Hey! One more question . . . just thought of it."
God, Randy thought, will this ever end?
"Yes? What is it?"
"The player . . . the Palmer Mill player who was scouted. Whatever happened to him?"
The woman with the child was glaring at him, so Randy used that as an excuse to make it quick. “Heard he left town, right after the scout checked him out. Never picked up a baseball, ever again."
And then he was out the door, free, bag in hand, heading out to make things right.
And so on that Saturday night in 1958, in Palmer, New Hampshire, Randy sat alone in his room, a warm six-pack of Schaefer at his feet, working his way through number five, refusing to think, refusing to plan, refusing to do anything except get drunk.
Just like Mom. Get drunk and end up dead somewhere—dead life, dead career, just dead.
Just get drunk, now. Don't think. Don't remember. Just hold that beer can.
But every time he tipped the beer back, he heard those sharp words of Tom Grissom, words he would never forget.
* * * *
Now his feet hurt, and he was happy that there was a park bench to sit on, right across from Tom Grissom's home. His legs were trembling some, as if he had hiked six miles instead of six blocks to get here.
And what had prompted him to come here, years into retirement? Why now?
Well . . . there had been a news broadcast, that's all. A little piece on ESPN, late at night, a retrospective of a pitcher who made it during the early sixties, had a good career, made it into Cooperstown, had a nice follow-up career in Florida real estate and was living the good life. And just a throwaway line, that's all, that this particular pitcher had been discovered as a kid, pitching in some little town in Pennsylvania, back in 1958.
Back in 1958.
And that little voice had started up, that this was wrong, that the man on the ESPN show should have been him, that he should have had the game of his life that day, a game that would have shown the scout what he could do, a game that would have made him rich and famous and, yes, living with Sandy Grissom, and having a family together, and—
Yes, that should have been his life.
Instead of...
Instead of...
What had happened. Took a bus out of Palmer that summer of 1958, never to return, leaving his dreams behind, going to New York state, one job after another, eventually getting a degree in accounting, working in small manufacturing companies in and around Troy, New York, married for fifteen dull years to a woman who produced plenty of headaches, sleepless nights, but no children, and then those long later years, widowed, things just slipping away, sometimes hearing bits of news from Palmer—Sandy had married and moved to California; Tom ran the mill and was mayor for a while, got a good payout when the mill finally closed—and then, in a small apartment that wasn't much bigger than the room at Mrs. Willoughby's boarding house, he just snapped. Seeing that ghost of himself, on ESPN.
He thought of Tom Grissom, fat and happy and content, successful in his little town, with his little life and little mind.
Then he knew it was time to go back to Palmer, and make it right.
He picked up his bag, walked across the street, and went up to Tom Grissom's house.
* * * *
A month earlier, after watching that ESPN program, he had planned, he had plotted, he had oiled and cleaned his old .38 revolver—bought years ago when he was responsible for getting the payroll for a tool-and-die company—and finally decided that he was going to see what was what.
He went to one of the few working payphones in his town, next to the laundromat. He unfolded a slip of paper, saw the number he had written down after searching on the Internet. A phone number for Tom Grissom in Palmer, New Hampshire.
Picked up the phone, tossed in a bunch of quarters, and dialed the number. Just wanted to hear his voice, know where he lived, and then—
Then he would hang up the phone and get his bus ticket.
The phone rang. It was picked up. And—
A woman's voice. “Hello?"
Randy cleared his throat. “Oh, hello. Is . . . is Tom Grissom there?"
"Yes, he is,” she said. “But he can't come to the phone right now. Is there a message?"
Sure, he thought. Here's a message. Years ago, you stole what was rightfully mine. Made criminal calls as an ump. Oh sure, umps make bad calls all the time, part of the game, part of the process. But you made calls that destroyed my life, before it could really begin, shattered my dreams and kept me away from baseball, all because you wanted to protect your sister, you fool. You ruined my life because you wanted to—
He took a breath. “No, no message. Thanks."
And he hung up the phone.
* * * *
Now he was on the porch, looked around. A very nice house, in a very nice neighborhood. Oak trees in the corner of the yard, lawn well-maintained and mowed. With the mill closed, the air smelled fine. Looked like Tom had done all right for himself, after the mill was closed and after the buyout. The leather bag was in his hand, and considering what was in there, it should feel heavy, like it was stuffed with bricks. But no, it felt light, as if filled with feathers. He stood still, imagining the kind of life Tom must have had, all these years. Made lots of money, stayed in the town his family had always been in, ruling the roost, family and friends nearby.
He wondered if Tom ever thought back to 1958, back to that one Saturday, that one Saturday where he had the power in his motions and voice to choose what kind of life Randy would have.
Some power.
He switched the bag with the faded Granite League logo from one hand to the next, and then pressed the doorbell.
Randy waited. Ran through in his mind what he would do. He would have a brief and polite chat with Tom. Maybe Tom would recognize him at first, maybe not. No matter. They would go to the living room. Tom would be sitting and Randy would be across from him, and Randy would have his old league bag in his lap. Randy would start talking and talk some more, and show Tom his old uniform, his old glove, tell him about how much he loved that game, loved it more than anything else, and how Tom had taken it away from him, taken it all—even to the point where it had been fifty years since he had held a baseball in his hand—and by then he hoped Tom would be nervous, scared, for at that point, when he
saw the fear in his eyes, that's when Randy planned to take the revolver out and blow his head off.
He rang the doorbell again.
Footsteps.
Finally!
* * * *
There was a shape behind the door's curtain, movement of someone there, and now his heart was thumping so hard he was sure the noise would crack the glass. The door was unlocked, the door was moving, the door was opening, and—
A woman was there.
Damn.
Not part of the plan.
She was in her early sixties, it looked like, short gray hair, inviting smile, wearing a black turtleneck and gray slacks. “Yes?” she said.
"I . . . I . . . “ he stammered, and part of him thought, no, go, and another, stronger part, said no, stay, we stay and we finish it. We finish it now.
"Yes?” came the voice again, still friendly, still open.
"I . . . I'm sorry, I was wondering if Tom was home,” he said. “Tom Grissom."
She nodded. “Yes, of course. Would you like to see him?"
He paused, as his heart continued to race, as sweat started forming on the hand holding the leather case. Not part of the plan, but he would adjust. Would have to...
"Yes, I would,” Randy said. “Very much."
She opened the door wider. “Then please come in. My name's Evelyn, I'm Tom's wife."
He nodded. “Nice to meet you, Evelyn. My name . . . “
Well, there you go. How would he play it?
Damn it . . . he was an old man. He had come a long way.
He would play it straight.
"Randy,” he said. “Randy Jarvis."
"Nice to meet you, Randy,” she said, and he followed her into the cool house.
The living room was large, with two leather couches, a late-model television set hanging from the wall, bookcases full of books and assorted knickknacks, and as he sank into the couch, a thought came to him, that this room was a lot bigger than the one he had lived in all those years ago in the boarding house. The thought brought his mood back to where it should be, as he balanced the leather bag on his thin knees. The plan had changed, but it still remained pretty much the same. Tom would come in, handshakes all around, and then he'd ask to talk to him privately, Evelyn would leave, he would start up like he wanted, and then...
EQMM, September-October 2010 Page 22
