Bobby drove back to the airport. Coach Cole got out of the car, paused. “I’ve seen a lot of guys go through slumps,” he said. “I mean a lot. And you know what the truth is?”
“What?”
“The truth is slumps are like zits. No matter what you do, they go away all by themselves, when they’re good and ready. Nothing changes that, not even the big bucks.” He closed the door and walked into the terminal.
A skycap knocked on the window before Bobby could pull away. Bobby slid it down an inch. The skycap lowered his mouth to the opening. “Hey, Bobby, how’s it goin’?”
Bobby grunted.
“How about an autograph? For my kid.”
Bobby nodded.
The skycap passed him a baggage tag. Bobby signed it, gave it back. “Wee-oo,” said the skycap.
Bobby spent the rest of the afternoon just driving, bothered by nobody, trying to think about nothing, then headed for the ballpark. The phone buzzed as he was turning into the players’ lot.
“No go,” said Wald.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean they turned you down. Us down.”
“They turned down a hundred grand?”
“Yup.”
“But that’s what they wanted before.”
“I know.”
“They’re breaking their word.”
“So what are we going to do? Sue Primo?”
“It’s not funny.”
“I know that too.”
“Maybe you’re giving them the idea there’s something funny about this.”
“Now, Bobby-”
“Maybe that’s why we’re getting nowhere.”
“That’s not true, Bobby. I’ve been doing my very-”
“There’re other agents out there, you know.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Then get it done. I want you to take this seriously.”
“I am taking it-”
“As seriously as you took that Moprin bullshit, for example. Is that too much to ask? I want that fucking number.” Boyle, pulling up alongside in his Lamborghini, was staring at him.
“How much am I authorized to offer?” Wald asked.
“Whatever it takes,” said Bobby, lowering his voice.
“Okay,” said Wald, “but there’s something you should understand.”
“What’s that?”
“He doesn’t have to do it at all.”
“Why not?” Bobby’s voice rose again.
“Because it’s his number, Bobby, that’s why.”
“It’s my number. Goddamn it, Chaz, whose side are you on? I was wearing it up in the show before he ever got off his stinking island-”
“But that was with another team, Bobby. On this team he-”
“-and he’s a banjo-hitting little shithead and I’m-” Bobby stopped, lowered his voice again. “I want my number, that’s all. Eleven.”
“I’ll do my best, Bobby. Call you after the game.”
Bobby went into the locker room. The first person he saw was Primo, diddling his Nintendo. Relax, he told himself. Release the tension from the core of every muscle, from the marrow of every bone, from the nucleus of every brain cell. Let go, let go, let go.
“The object is a baseball.”
“Excuse me?” said Stook, the equipment manager, coming over.
“I didn’t say anything,” Bobby said.
Stook nodded. “Got that order,” he said, and handed Bobby a package.
Bobby glanced around, saw that no one was watching, opened the package. Inside was a plain white T-shirt, size XXL. Plain except for the number eleven, printed in red on the back.
“That do it?” Stook said.
“Thanks.” Bobby gave him a C-note.
Stook winked and went off. With his back to his stall, Bobby put on the T-shirt, then his sleeves, then his warm-up shirt. No number of any kind on the warm-up shirt. Just the secret number underneath. He felt good.
Not long after, Bobby was on the field, where the setting sun was splashing purple and gold all over the sky. Bobby gazed at the colors; maybe that kind of thing would help him relax. Lanz, shagging flies a few yards away, said: “Checking out the blonde?”
“What blonde?”
“In section thirty-three. With her tits hanging over the rail. She likes you.”
“How do you know that?” Bobby, looking at Lanz. Lanz had circles under his eyes. His average wasn’t much better than Bobby’s, and Burrows had dropped him down to six. Bobby was still batting third.
“ ’Cause she told me last night. She wanted your number.”
“My number?”
“Your phone number.”
“You didn’t give it to her, did you?”
“I don’t even know it.”
Bobby backpedaled a few steps and pulled down a soft liner.
Bobby was murderous again in BP, pounding drive after drive, feeling better and better. On the way into the clubhouse, he said to Lanz, “What’s her name?”
Lanz thought. “It’ll come to me.”
First time up, Bobby heard some boos. He’d been wondering when that would start. “Playin’ for forty thousand drunks,” said the catcher, a veteran Bobby had known for years. “I hate these Saturday-night games.”
“If you sniff real hard you can smell the urinals,” said the ump. “Let’s go.”
Bobby dug in. He knew the pitcher too, a marginal player who had spent most of last year in Triple A and was only up now because of injuries on the staff. He had a fastball that sank a little and a curve that sometimes broke sharply and sometimes stayed up; and that was it.
Bobby guessed curve on the first pitch, and got it. He picked up the topspin immediately, knew almost at the same time that it was going to hang, then swung, not from the heels, but under control, feeling that pull down the left leg and diagonally around the left side of his torso, the pull that always indicated proper form. And popped out to the second baseman.
More boos the next time. Again the curve on the first pitch, again hanging, and again Bobby was waiting for it. This time he watched it all the way, spinning down, seeing it with that coffee-table book clarity. The object is a baseball.
“Steeee,” said the ump.
Now he’ll try the fastball, Bobby thought. And it came, backspinning, up in the zone. Bobby took his rip, again smooth, controlled, perfectly coordinated. But this time, even as he swung, he was aware of something strange: something obtrusive, a shadow, a fog, that hadn’t been there on the pitch before.
“Two,” said the ump.
A fog? A shadow? Or was it simply a matter of blanking out when the pitch was on its way? Bobby picked up the next one right out of the pitcher’s hand, the fastball again, this time a better one, dropping an inch or two at the end. He saw it perfectly.
The ump rang him up.
