Burrows was standing over him, his cigarette cupped in his hand in case a camera was pointed his way. “You all right?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s that rib cage?”
“Fine.”
“Wanna come out?”
“No.” Bobby didn’t want to sit. He’d been sitting all winter. He wanted to play.
Burrows went back to his seat in the corner, took a deep drag. “Bibbity bobbity,” he said, rubbing his hands together.
First pitch. Slider; Bobby could tell from the dugout, before the ball was halfway to the plate. It came in just above the belt, and Primo slapped it over second base.
“Bibbity bobbity,” Burrows said.
“Knock off that bibbity-bobbity shit,” someone said.
“I can say what I like,” Burrows said. “Even the poor got rights in this country.”
Bobby pulled his bat from the rack and walked to the on-deck circle. “What’d he hit last year?” he asked Lanz.
“Primo? I don’t know. Two-fifty, two-sixty?”
Bobby nodded. He himself had hit. 319.
Lanz stepped in. Bobby slid the donut down the barrel. Sky blue, sun warm, his body loose and strong. He timed the pitcher’s first pitch to Lanz, swinging as it crossed the plate. Fastball, low and away. Lanz swung and missed. Now comes that chickenshit slider. Just wait on it and unload. But Lanz couldn’t make himself wait long enough. He topped the ball, sending a slow roller to the shortstop, who threw to second, forcing Primo.
Bobby went to the plate. The catcher, who’d been with him in California five or six years before, said, “Welcome to the bullshit league.”
“You can say that again,” the umpire said.
“Don’t spoil it for me,” Bobby said.
The pitcher stared down for the sign. Bobby waited in his stance, completely still, but loose, all the way to his fingertips. Show me that chickenshit slider, you asshole.
It came. Fat, clear, spinning sideways. Bobby got it all, hitting it so squarely he didn’t even feel the impact. It cleared the fence still rising, and disappeared. Foul by fifteen feet.
“Ooo-wee,” said the catcher.
Bobby took a few swings, stepped back in, looked for the fastball inside, and got it: fat, clear, spinning backwards. Bobby hit it as far as the first one, maybe farther, and not quite as foul.
“Oh and two,” said the ump.
Bobby took a few more swings, resumed his stance. Now would come the slider, but down and away, out of the strike zone. The pitcher checked Lanz, kicked. Bobby heard a voice from the stands: “Straighten it out, Bobby Rayburn, straighten it out.” He recognized that voice: the skinny little community-relations guy. He’d forgotten all about him, forgotten about the boy, forgotten all that home-run shit. John? Sean.
Pitch on the way. Fat and clear, but not the slider; back-spinning, but not the fastball: a change-up. An 0- and-2 change-up, so slow Bobby thought he could see the diagonal pattern of the stitches on the ball. He watched it all the way.
“Strike three.”
“Lucky son of a bitch,” said the catcher. He snapped a throw down to first, in case Lanz was napping.
A perfect afternoon for baseball. Bright sun, no wind, eighty degrees. Bobby struck out in the fourth, struck out in the seventh. Burrows substituted for everyone after that. Bobby walked to the end of the bench. “I’d like to stay in,” he said.
“Yeah?” said Burrows.
“Yeah.”
“Thought you got a little shook up making that catch. Outstanding.”
“I’m fine.”
“Okay.” Burrows rose and scratched the name of some rookie off the lineup card taped to the dugout wall and inked Bobby back in.
Bobby batted again in the bottom of the ninth, two out, no one on, thunderheads rolling in now, maybe a hundred people left in the stands, game meaningless. He heard the community-relations guy calling, “Come on, Bobby Rayburn.” He had one of those high, carrying voices that separated itself from the crowd noise.
“Shut the fuck up,” Bobby said.
“I didn’t say shit,” the catcher said.
Bobby struck out on three pitches. A cold raindrop landed on his nose as he went back to the dugout.
Bobby showered and changed. The community-relations guy approached his stall, talking on a cellular phone. He handed it to Bobby. “Call for you.”
“Yeah?” Bobby said.
“Mr. Rayburn?” said a woman. “I just want to thank you so much.”
“For what?”
“For trying.”
“Who’s this?” Bobby asked.
The woman spoke her name. It meant nothing to Bobby. “Sean’s mother,” she explained.
“Oh, yeah,” said Bobby. “Don’t worry. I’ll get hold of one for him, sooner or later.”
The woman made a strange sound, high-pitched, ragged. “He passed away, Mr. Rayburn. I’m sorry.”
“Passed away?”
“Right after the game. The doctor said by all rights he should have died last night. He just willed himself to stay alive. Because of you. Thank you for that extra day, Mr. Rayburn.” Her voice broke. The line went dead.
Bobby handed the phone back to the community-relations guy. “Screen my calls from now on,” he said.
Bobby took a taxi to a restaurant, remembering his new car only when he got there. The restaurant was dark inside, which suited him fine. Bobby sat by himself at a back table, watching the thunderheads through the window, waiting for the rain to fall. It never did. Just that one stupid drop. At sunset the sky cleared and then went dark. The moon came out. Bobby had a few beers, then a New York cut with salad and baked potato, then a few more beers. He called home on his way out. No answer.
Bobby took a cab back to Soxtown, stopping to buy a flashlight on the way. The complex was dark, Bobby’s car alone in the parking lot. Bobby walked all the way around, until he stood outside the center-field fence of the game field. He climbed over.
Beaming the flashlight a few feet ahead, Bobby moved back and forth across the grass in left center. After a while he got down on his hands and knees, combed the grass with his fingers. He found a divot, lifted by the impact of his diving catch, found the bared spot it had come from, even found a tiny plastic chip from the locket, buried in the skid mark. But he didn’t find the four-leaf clover.
Bobby drove back to the Flamingo Bay Motor Inn and Spa, let himself into his room, switched on the light. A woman was in his bed, sleeping on her stomach.
“Christ,” Bobby said.
The woman rolled over. “Disappointed?” she said. It was his wife.
“You said you were going to call.”
“I’m sure you meant that to sound more welcoming.”
Bobby saw she hadn’t been sleeping at all; she still wore lipstick, eye shadow, earrings. “Where’s Sean?” he asked.
“At my mother’s.”
“You should have brought him.”
Val looked at him in surprise.
His ribs hurt. And he’d stopped seeing the ball.
