“Sean,” Bobby said. It was his own boy’s name; he almost winced himself. “I’ve brought you something.” He raised the bat to where the boy could see. Bobby felt the boy’s hand straining beneath his. He let go. The boy’s hand rose again, an inch or two. Bobby slid the bat underneath.
“Would you sign it for him?” asked the mother.
The DCR gave Bobby a felt pen. Bobby wrote on the barrel, “To Sean”-then what? The pen kept moving, ahead of his thoughts: “a brave kid,” and he signed his name. The mother made a sobbing sound, clamped her hand over her face and turned away, but the boy heard. He sighed. The mother grew quiet. The room went silent. Bobby heard breaking glass, far away.
The boy licked his lips. They were cracked and dry, as was his tongue. He took a deep breath and spoke again. “Did you play today?” he said.
“Just practice. We’ve got a game tomorrow.”
“Against who?”
Bobby didn’t know.
“The Tigers,” said the DCR.
All at once, the boy tried to raise his head, tried to sit up. The cords in his shrunken neck rose, but he got nowhere. He stopped trying, lay panting for a moment or two.
“Bobby?” he said when he recovered his breath.
“Yeah?”
His eyes, muddier, hotter, found Bobby’s again. “Hit a home run for me.”
Bobby said nothing.
“Please,” said the boy.
“I’ll try.”
“You’ll do it,” the boy said. “I know you will. You’re a superstar.”
“I’ll try.”
The boy smiled a little smile. Then his eyes closed. Was he dead? Bobby almost blurted the thought before the nurse stepped forward, saying, “We’d better let him rest.”
They went out into the corridor, leaving the boy lying quietly on the bed, the bat beside him. The mother embraced Bobby, dampening his polo shirt with her face. “Bless you, Mr. Rayburn,” she said. “You’re like a god to him.”
The nurse walked Bobby and the DCR to the elevator. She slipped Bobby a note. He read it on the way down: “I’m off at eight,” she’d written over her name and number.
Bobby crumpled it. “Mind if I have that?” said the DCR. Bobby gave it to him, then put on his headphones and pressed PLAY.
Bobby got to the first tee at 2:55. Wald was taking practice swings. “How’d it go?” he asked.
“Okay,” said Bobby. “I promised the kid I’d hit one out tomorrow. Like Babe Ruth.”
Wald teed up, waggled his driver. “That wasn’t the Babe, Bobby. It was William Bendix.” He hooked the ball into a grove of scrub pine, not far away.
4
“… and so in a Freudian sense, Bernie, the catcher is the father, and the son is the pitcher. It couldn’t be more obvious, once you know the psychoanalytical lay of the land.”
“Fascinating, Doc. Running out of time here, absolutely fascinating, I love this stuff, but if what you’re saying is true, what’s the bat and ball represent?”
“The bat I don’t think I need to spell out. The ball symbolizes the family gene pool.”
“Gene pool?”
“In the form of ejaculate.”
“Meaning?”
“Semen, Bernie. The male fluid.”
“Wow. Wish we had more time. Thanks for being on the JOC.”
“You’re-”
“That was Dr. Helmut Behr, author of Three Dreams and You’re Out: Freud, Jung, Baseball. We’ll be back with all the scores from last night, and the morning spring-training roundup. Don’t go away.”
Gil, waiting at a red light, turned down the radio, dialed Everest and Co. on the car phone, got through to the purchasing VP.
“Sorry about that screwup yesterday, Chuck,” he said. “The weather…”
The VP was silent.
“So when can we get together? Can’t wait to show you our new Iwo Jima line. Heard about it?”
“No.”
Gil glanced down at the catalogue, lying on the seat. “Iwo Jima Experience, the full name. We’re taking on the Japanese head to head.” Gil waited for the VP to say something. When he didn’t, Gil said, “Any chance you’re free this afternoon?”
He heard pages riffling. “Tied up until the eighth,” said the VP. “Two-thirty.”
“The eighteenth, you mean? The eighth was last week.”
“Eighth of April.”
“Next month?”
“Got it.”
“But we always-”
“Taking another call. Bye.”
“-meet monthly,” Gil said to a dial tone.
Someone honked at him. Green light. He drove through the intersection, fishtailing on an icy patch. The asshole honked again, or maybe another asshole, and Gil honked back.
Make your quota, you son of a bitch. How was he supposed to do that without the monthly order from Everest and Co.? In his anger, Gil pictured himself doing all sorts of things-banging the steering wheel, yelling at the top of his lungs, sideswiping the car in the next lane. He turned up the radio.
“What have you got for us this morning, Jewel, besides a nice suntan?”
“No suntan, Bernie. Do you find melanoma attractive? The big news down here was the arrival in camp yesterday of high-priced free agent Bobby Rayburn-”
“Norm says the phones were lit up all day.”
“As well they might be. It was only batting-practice pitching, but let me tell you something, he looked prodigious. He’s got that textbook swing everybody talks about, but what you really don’t appreciate until you’re up close is the tremendous power he generates. The ball comes off his bat like a firecracker. Sid Burrows was positively beaming, and beaming is not the natural state of Sid’s face.”
“And that’s an understatement. Did you get a chance to talk to him?”
“Rayburn? Briefly, Bernie. Contrary to some reports, he seems very approachable.”
“What did he say?”
“I can play that interview if you like.”
“Okay. Before we open up the lines.”
Gil dialed FANLINE.
“Do you feel under any special pressure because of the big contract this year, Bobby?”
“No.”
“But what about the fans?”
“What about them?”
Gil got a dial tone. Someone picked up. “Fanline,” he said. “Hold the-” He shouted: “Fifteen seconds.” He lowered his voice slightly: “Name?”
“Gil.”
“Calling from?”
