On the morning of the game fist fights broke out all over the stands in Knights Field. Hats, bottles, apple cores, bananas, and the mushy contents of sack lunches were thrown around. A fan in one of the boxes had a rock bounced off his skull, opening a bleeding gash. Two special cops rushed up the steps and got hold of an innocent- looking guy with glasses, whose pockets were stuffed with odd-shaped rocks. They dragged him forth, although he was hollering he had collected them for his rock garden, and flung him headlong out of the park. He was from Pittsburgh and cursed the Knights into the ground. A disappointed truck driver who couldn’t get in to see the game tackled him from behind, knocking the rock collector’s head against the sidewalk and smashing his glasses. He spat out two bloody teeth and sat there sobbing till the ambulance came.
The sun hid behind the clouds for the most part. The day was chilly, football weather, but the stands were decorated with colored bunting, the flags on the grandstand roof rode high in the breeze and the crowd was raucous. The PA man tried to calm them but they were packed together too tight to be peaceful, for the Judge had sold hundreds of extra tickets and the standees raced for any seat that was vacant for a second. Besides, the Knights’ fans were jumpy, their nerves ragged from following the ups and downs of the team. Some glum-face gents bitterly cursed Roy out, calling him welsher, fool, pig-horse for eating himself into that colossal bellyache. But he had his defenders, who claimed the Big Man’s body burned food so fast he needed every bit he ate. They blamed the damage on ptomaine. The accusers wanted to know why no one else at the party had come down sick. They were answered where would the Knights be without Roy — at the bottom of the heap. The one who spoke got a rap on the ear for his trouble. The rapper was grabbed by a cop, run down the catwalk, and pitched into the rotunda. Yet though the fans were out of sorts and crabbing at each other, they presented a solid front when it came to laying bets. Many pessimistically shook their heads, but they counted up the seven straight wins over the Pirates, figured in that Hobbs was back, and reached into their pockets. Although there were not too many Pirate rooters around, the bets were quickly covered for every hard-earned buck.
Otto Zipp was above all this. He sat like a small mountain behind the rail in short left, reading the sports page of his newspaper. He looked neither right nor left, and if somebody tried to talk to him Otto gave him short shrift. Then when they least expected it, he would honk his horn and cry out in shrill tones, “Throw him to the hawks.” After that he went back to the sports page.
When the players began drifting into the clubhouse they were surprised to see Roy there. He was wearing his uniform and slowly polishing Wonderboy. The boys said hello and not much more. Flores looked at his feet. Some of them were embarrassed that they hadn’t gone to see him in the hospital. Secretly they were pleased he was here. Allie Stubbs even began to kid around with Olson. Roy thought they would not act so chipper if they knew he felt weak as piss and was dreading the game. The Judge was absolutely crazy to pay him thirty-five grand not to hit when he didn’t feel able to even lift a stick. He hoped Pop would guess how shaky he was and bench him. What a laugh that would be on the Judge — serve the bastard right. But when Pop came in, he didn’t so much as glance in Roy’s direction. He walked straight into his office and slammed the door, which suited Roy fine.
Pop had ordered everybody kept out of the clubhouse until after the game but Mercy weaseled in. All smiles, he approached Roy, asking for the true story of what went on at the party that night, but Red Blow saw him and told him to stay outside. Max had tried the same act in the hospital last week. The floor nurse caught him sneaking toward Roy’s room and had him dropped out on the front steps. After leaving the clubhouse Max sent in a note, inviting Roy to come out and make a statement. People were calling him a filthy coward and what did he intend to say to that? Roy gave out a one-word unprintable reply. Mercy shot in a second note. “You’ll get yours — M.M.” Roy tore it up and told the usher to take no more slop from him.
Pop poked his baldy out of his door and called for Roy. The players looked around uneasily. Roy got up and finally went into the office. For an insufferable time Pop failed to speak. He was unshaven, his face exuding gray stubble that made him look eighty years old. His thin frame seemed shrunken and his left eye was a little crossed with fatigue. Pop leaned back in his creaking swivel chair, staring with tears in his eyes over his half moons at the picture of Ma on his desk. Roy examined his fingernails.
Pop sighed, “Roy, it’s my own fault.”
It made Roy edgy. “What is?”
“This mess that we are now in. I am not forgetting I kept you on the bench for three solid weeks in June. If I hadn’t done that foolish thing we’da finished the season at least half a dozen games out in front.”
Roy offered no reply.
“But your own mistake was a bad one too.”
Roy nodded.
“A bad one, with the team right on top of hooking the pennant.” Pop shook his head. Yet he said he wouldn’t blame Roy too much because it wasn’t entirely of his own doing. He then apologized for not coming to see him in the hospital. He had twice set out to but felt too grumpy to be fit company for a sick man, so he hadn’t come. “It’s not you that I am mad at, Roy — it’s that blasted Memo. I shoulda pitched her out on her ass the first day she showed up at my door.”
Roy got up.
“Sit down.” Pop bent forward. “We can win today.” His cold breath smelled bad. Roy drew his head back.
“Well, we can, can’t we?”
He nodded.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I feel weak,” Roy said, “and I am not betting how I will hit today.”
Pop’s voice got kindly again. “I say we can win it whichever way you feel. Once you begin to play you will feel stronger. And if the rest of those birds see you hustling they will break their backs to win. All they got to feel is there is somebody on this team who thinks they can.”
Pop then related a story about a rookie third baseman he once knew, a lad named Mulligan. He was a fine hitter and thrower but full of hard luck all his life. Once he was beaned at the plate and had his skull cracked. He returned for spring practice the following year and the first day out he crashed into another fielder and broke his arm. On the return from that he was on first running to second on a hit and run play and the batter smacked the ball straight at him, breaking two ribs and dislocating a disc in his spine. After that he quit baseball, to everybody’s relief.
“He was just unlucky,” Pop said, “and there wasn’t a thing anybody could do to take the whammy off of him and change his hard luck. You know, Roy, I been lately thinking that a whole lot of people are like him, and for one reason or the other their lives will go the same way all the time, without them getting what they want, no matter what. I for one.”
Then to Roy’s surprise he said he never hoped to have a World Series flag. Pop swiveled his chair closer. “It ain’t in the cards for me — that’s all. I am wise to admit it to myself. It took a long time but I finally saw which way the arrow has been pointing.” He sighed deeply. “But that don’t hold true about our league pennant, Roy. That’s the next best thing and I feel I am entitled to it. I feel if I win it just this once — I will be satisfied. I will be satisfied, and win or lose in the Series, I will quit baseball forever.” He lowered his voice. “You see what it means to me, son?”
“I see.”
“Roy, I would give my whole life to win this game and take the pennant. Promise me that you will go in there and do your damndest.”
“I will go in,” Roy sighed.
After the practice bell had rung, when he reluctantly climbed up out of the dugout and shoved himself toward the batting cage with his bat in his hand, as soon as the crowd got a look at him the boo birds opened up, alternating with shrill whistles and brassy catcalls. Roy hardened his jaws, but then a rumble erupted that sounded like bubbling tubfuls of people laughing and sobbing. The noise grew to a roar, boiled over, and to his astonishment, drowned out the disapprovers in an ovation of cheering. Men flung their hats into the air, scaling straws and limp felts, pounded each other’s skulls, and cried themselves hoarse. Women screeched and ended up weeping. The shouting grew, piling reverberation upon reverberation, till it reached blast proportions. When it momentarily wore thin, Sadie Sutter’s solemn gong could be heard, but as the roar rose again, the gonging grew faint and died in the
