“What could that reason be, Jewel?”
“I’ve given that a lot of thought, Norm, and I just can’t tell you. Part of it has to do with Bobby Rayburn, of course. I’ve never seen a hitter stay this hot this long. He simply picked up this team after Primo’s death and carried them on his back.”
“But he was in a slump all year, Jewel. How did he get himself out of it?”
“How do you get out of slumps, is that the question? If I knew the answer to that, Bernie, I’d-”
“-own the team, right?”
“I was going to say I’d start my own religion.”
Bobby laughed. Gil looked at him. He was leaning forward, face rapt. A glory hound, Gil realized. Rayburn was a glory hound: after all the years and years of hearing himself praised, he still couldn’t get enough. The problem was that this time the glory didn’t belong to Bobby-it belonged to him. Gil almost blurted the whole thing, right then.
“Let’s go to the phones. Here’s-”
Bobby switched it off. He was smiling to himself, as though thinking about something pleasant, maybe those two doubles.
Casually, like someone making conversation, Gil said: “How did you get yourself out of the slump, Bobby?”
“Who the hell knows?”
I do. “There must be some explanation.”
“Oh, I’ve got an explanation, all right, but it doesn’t make much sense.”
“Try me.”
“I stopped caring.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I said it didn’t make sense.”
“You stopped caring?”
“About the game, how we did, how I did, everything. Especially that, how I did.”
“You think that’s how you got out of it-you stopped caring?”
“Until a better explanation comes along.”
“You stopped caring.”
“Right.”
“But how could you do a thing like that? You’ve got a chance to make the Hall of Fame.”
Bobby burst out laughing, as though Gil had surprised him with a witty observation. “Let’s just say I found religion.” He chuckled a few more times, then stopped abruptly. “I thought you didn’t follow the game.”
“Everyone knows about the Hall of Fame,” Gil said.
Bobby looked as though he was about to say more, but at that moment a Porsche whizzed by in the night, going the other way, and he said, “What’s Wald doing out here?”
“Managing things,” Gil said.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what he told me he did-managed things.”
They drove in silence the rest of the way, Bobby glancing at him once or twice.
Bobby carried Sean into the house. Val met them at the door.
“That was a quick game,” she said, taking the boy and starting up the stairs.
“Just a second,” Bobby said. “What was Wald doing here? He’s supposed to be in New York.”
“Chaz? What makes you think he was here?”
“I saw his car.”
“That was Philip. He drives one just like it.”
“Philip?”
“The architect, Bobby.” She went up the stairs.
When she was out of sight, Gil said: “Car of choice, for a certain type of guy.”
Bobby turned to him, then laughed. He’d been witty again. “How about a nightcap?” Bobby said. “And don’t say milk. I’m having a beer.”
“Beer’ll be fine,” Gil said. “But what I’d really like is tequila. Cuervo Gold, if you’ve got it.”
They sat by the pool: Bobby and Gil, with a sixpack of Heineken and a bottle of Cuervo Gold. Soft, starry, silent: a beautiful night.
“You married, Curly, or anything like that?” Bobby asked, cracking his second beer.
“Nothing like that,” Gil replied, thinking of Richie. See you, Richie. He was getting that cactus feeling inside again, but he refilled his glass anyway.
Bobby stretched out on a chaise, sighed, feeling good.
“Got a nice place here, Bobby,” Gil said.
“Not bad.”
Gil raised his glass to his mouth, found it was empty, took a hit from the bottle.
“You’re a lucky man,” he said.
“Lucky?”
“Sure.”
“I’ve worked pretty hard, Curly.”
“Taking BP? Shagging flies? Lying in the whirlpool?” Easy, boy, Gil thought.
But Bobby laughed again. “You’ve got a sense of humor, Curly.” He opened another beer, drank, closed his eyes. Gil watched him, and drank from the bottle, feeling the cactus growing inside him, watching. For a moment, he thought Bobby had fallen asleep. Then, without opening his eyes, Bobby spoke: “What kind of a pitcher were you, Curly?”
“First pick, every goddamn time.”
Bobby’s eyes opened. “I missed that.”
“I was good,” Gil said.
Bobby nodded.
“Fucking good.”
“I’m sure you were.”
“I still am. My arm’s stronger than ever, now that the soreness is all gone.”
“Yeah?” said Bobby, and closed his eyes again.
Gil took another hit from the bottle. He remembered how hard he’d thrown to Boucicaut in the woods, too hard even for Boucicaut to catch. And he had a wonderful idea, the kind of idea he never used to have, the kind of idea that accompanied this delayed coming into his own. Simple, daring: he would show Bobby Rayburn, just show him. It was perfect.
“Tell you something,” Gil said.
“What’s that, Curly?”
He took another drink. “Open your eyes.”
Bobby opened his eyes.
Gil looked right into them. “I don’t think you can hit me,” he said.
Gil felt a thrill when he said that. It reminded him of legends he had learned, of songs he had heard, of Steve McQueen movies. It was the kind of simple, daring statement that made America great.
But Bobby didn’t get it, because he said, “Why would I want to hit you? You saved my kid’s life.”
His obtuseness maddened Gil, but he kept it inside. “I meant hit my pitching.”
Bobby laughed out loud; Gil realized he must have been witty again. Bobby quickly stifled the laugh, putting his hand over his mouth, like a girl.
Gil’s own hand was moving down his leg. He stopped it. “What’s so funny?” he said.
“Nothing. Sorry. I’m used to guys challenging me, in bars and stuff, but no one ever challenged me to hit off them.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” Gil said.
Bobby shrugged. “Okay, if you really want to, someday.”
Gil rose. “Not someday. Now.”
