The Dead Pull Hitter Read online

  “Shit.”

  The door to the dressing room wasn’t very effectively soundproofed, and sound of the angry voices could be heard. In a few minutes, a clubhouse kid opened it and we filed in, adjusting our faces to a properly funereal expression. A losing dressing room is a minefield of recriminations and emotion, especially late in the season with so much on the line. It wouldn’t do to smile. Someone might think you weren’t taking the game seriously.

  I went into O’Brien’s office with the herd of reporters and waited for someone else to ask the first question. Red hadn’t got his nickname from the colour of his hair, what there was left of it. He had what players call “the red ass,” a fierce temper. One of the out-of-town writers broke the silence.

  “What went wrong, Red?”

  “What the fuck do you think went wrong? The pitchers couldn’t pitch and the fielders couldn’t field. So goddamn glad to be home they just blew it. Probably left it at home in bed with their fucking wives. If these guys want to win this thing, they’d better start paying fucking attention. They’re paid enough to keep themselves in the game.”

  “The Yankees won tonight.”

  “I am aware that the fucking Yankees fucking won. I’m not fucking blind.”

  A radio reporter moved around the desk to stick a microphone in front of him.

  “Get that fucking thing out of my face. So we lost tonight. Big fucking deal. Even if the god damn Yankees don’t lose another game, all we have to win is four more. That’s so hard? That’s impossible? Don’t break your ankles jumping off the bandwagon, you fucking assholes.”

  He punctuated his last statement by firing a beer into the wastebasket. It shattered. There were no further questions. We were barely out of the office when he slammed the door and more crashes and bangs came from behind it. I stuck my head in the equipment manager’s office.

  “I hope you’re ready for a long night. The boss is trashing his office again.”

  “And me with a hot lady waiting at home.”

  “Hey, what’s more important? Sex or the pennant race?”

  I went into the clubhouse, looking for Alex Jones. He’d won a spot on This Week in Baseball, but not for the reason he would have liked. In the fifth inning, with one out and men on first and second, he had fielded a routine ground ball and stepped on second base for what should have been the first half of a double play. But instead of relaying the ball to Tiny Washington, he tossed it over his shoulder to the second-base umpire, thinking that the inning was over, and started to run off the field. The umpire, of course, let the ball roll into centre field and the alert runner scampered home.

  I found him at his locker, where he was denying any knowledge of the English language. He then put his towel around his neck and walked to the shower, winking at me as he passed.

  The dressing room was half empty. Dudley wasn’t there, nor was Sanchez. The game’s biggest culprits were waiting us out in the trainer’s room, which was off limits to the press.

  I had neither the time nor the inclination to hang around, so I collected some quotes from Gloves Gardiner about the game Dudley had pitched. Gloves never ducks the press.

  I wrote and filed my story at the ballpark and was home by one, but was nowhere near ready for bed. One of the drawbacks of the job is the time it takes to wind down after writing, at an hour when most people are asleep. I was checking out late movies when there was a knock on the door.

  It was Sally Parkes with a bottle of wine in hand.

  “Hi, kiddo. Welcome home. I waited up.”

  “Bless your heart, Sal.”

  “What happened out there tonight? We watched the game.”

  “Who knows. How’s T.C.?”

  “Inconsolable. And on top of the loss, his wretched father cancelled out again this weekend. They were supposed to go to both games.”

  “I can get tickets for him. What happened to Roger?”

  “He says he had to go to a strategy conference in Windsor, but I suspect it has something to do with the researcher from the Auto Workers he’s currently screwing.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll call in the morning. Two seats?”

  “That would be great. I really appreciate it, Kate.”

  “I’ll steer some players in his direction for an autograph if you get there early.”

  I like doing things for T.C. He’s a nice, shy kid who hasn’t had a lot of breaks. He’s small for his age, wears glasses, and is a target for all the bullies. If he can get some prestige because he knows some ballplayers I’m delighted.

  Sally opened the wine while I changed out of my work uniform and into sweats. We put the wine on the coffee table and, as we had so many nights before, curled up on opposite sofas and settled in for a gab.

  I missed the company of women on the road.

  “Okay, tell all,” she said, grinning wickedly. “How was Mr. Same Time Next Year?”

  “Same as last year.”

  I’d been having an odd affair with a Detroit columnist for five years. Sally couldn’t understand why we confined our activities to my semi-annual trips with the team, but it suited us just fine.

  “And I saw Tim in New York for lunch. But other than a couple of pub crawls in Chicago with the other writers it was pretty uneventful. A lot of hanging around the hotel bar listening to coaches tell the same old stories.”

  “How did the players treat you?”

  “Same as usual. Stinger was more obnoxious than usual and David Sloane made a big scene in the clubhouse in New York again.”

  “You’d think he would have figured out by now that you’re not in there to ogle.”

  “If I was, I wouldn’t be ogling him, that’s for sure.”

  Sloane, the centre fielder, is a Mormon who thinks that a woman in the clubhouse is an abomination against God and that I am Satan incarnate. It gets a bit boring. For years I’ve been trying to sneak the same typo into print: “David Sloane is a devout Moron.” No luck so far.

  “He’s been fine for months. I guess it’s the much vaunted pennant race pressure.”

  “Is that for real?”

  “I don’t know. Some of the players have been acting strangely lately. There are more short tempers in the clubhouse. There was almost a fight on the plane coming home between Steve Thorson and Joe Kelsey because he made an error. It’s not much fun these days.”

  “These guys are bigger prima donnas than artists.”

  “Right about now I’d trade jobs with you in a second.”

  “No thanks. Except for all those naked men you get to ogle.”

  I threw my pillow at her.

  Chapter 6

  I was leaning against the batting cage at noon the next day, talking with a Boston writer, when Tiny Washington ambled by.

  “There’s a gentleman admirer here for you,” he said.

  I turned to look where he was pointing, and saw T.C. in the stands next to the dugout waving at me, Titan cap on his head, a baseball glove on his left hand, and a pen clutched in his right. I waved and went to join him.

  “Hi, Kate,” he said. “My Mum said I could come down and say hi as long as I didn’t bother you.”

  “You never bother me, kid.” I refrained from kissing him. He had recently decided that kissing wasn’t cool. “Long time no see. I missed you.”

  Tiny joined us and stuck out his huge hand to the boy.

  “How’s my little man,” he said.

  “Fine, Mr. Washington.”

  “Mr. Washington! You hear that, Kate? Here’s someone who knows how to respect his elders. You can call me Tiny, son.”

  T.C. blushed.

  “Are you going to win today?”

  “Don’t you worry. Tell you what I’m going to do. If I hit a home run, you get the bat.”

  “Gee, thanks, Mr. Washington. Tiny.”

>   “What lies are you telling now?” Sultan Sanchez joined the group. “Don’t listen to anything that man says. I’m the home-run hitter today. Sid Fiore’s too tough for Tiny.”

  “Hi, Mr. Sanchez. Will you sign my glove?”

  “Let me see that. This little thing? You’re growing up too big for a kid’s glove. Wait right here.”

  He ducked into the dugout and came back with his own glove.

  “You’ve got more use for this than I do,” he said.

  “Oh, boy! Thanks, Mr. Sanchez!”

  “You’re welcome. Where are you sitting? I want to be able to see you after I get my home run.”

  T.C. pointed out where Sally was sitting, halfway up the section behind the Titan dugout. She waved. Sultan doffed his cap and bowed deeply, never missing a chance to flirt.

  “Go show her your glove, sweetie,” I said. “We’ve all got work to do.”

  His feet hardly touched the steps.

  “That was nice, Sultan. You’ve made his day.”

  “Any time you want to pay back the favour, you know where to find me,” he said, winking.

  I found Tony Costello slumped in a corner of the dugout.

  “I feel lousy, Kate. I don’t know if I’ll be able to pitch. I think I ate some bad food.”

  “You always feel lousy before you start. You’d feel sick if your mom packed your lunch wearing sterilized gloves. You’ll be fine after the first pitch.”

  How many times had I told him that? Sometimes I feel like a den mother.

  “This is a big game. We’ve gotta win today.”

  “You don’t gotta anything, Tony. What’s going to happen if you lose? Is someone going to drop dead? Will the sun refuse to rise tomorrow morning? Hey, it’s only a game.”

  Costello looked at the field, where a Red Sox hitter was knocking batting practice balls out of the park, and groaned.

  He must have been feeling better by game time. He struck out the side in the top of the first. Then the fun began. Carter led off for the Titans with a single. Once at first, he inched towards second, bent at the knees and waist, grinning at Sid Fiore, the Red Sox pitcher.

  Fiore was one of the best lefthanders in the league. Slim and handsome, he surprised with the power of his pitches, fastballs and sliders that were baffling when he was on his game. He was enough of a veteran not to let himself get rattled by Carter’s antics, but threw to first a couple of times before setting his attention on Billy Wise, waiting at the plate.

  On the first pitch, a pitchout, Carter was off. The throw to second was in time, but on the wrong side of the bag. The second-base umpire, Max Leonard, signalled safe.

  Carter signalled for time out and got to his feet, calmly brushing the dirt off the front of his uniform, then strolled back towards first to retrieve his batting helmet.

  Marty Hogan, the Red Sox manager, came out of the visitors’ dugout, hands in his jacket pockets. Carter stood on second, his face impassive, his eyes flashing with excitement.

  Fiore gestured to his catcher and began a soft game of catch, keeping his arm loose. Wise leaned on his bat and chatted with the home-plate umpire. The centre fielder hunkered down on his haunches.

  In the meantime, Leonard was making himself dizzy. After listening to Hogan’s argument for what he considered long enough, he turned his back on the enraged manager, but Hogan ran around to face him. Leonard kept turning, avoiding the argument. He didn’t want to toss the manager in such a crucial game, despite advice from the Titans fans. Finally, he marched into centre field while his colleague from first cut Hogan off like a sheep-herding dog and sent him back to the dugout. The fans gave Hogan a derisive ovation.

  The delay bothered Fiore. He walked Wise on three more pitches, picked up the resin bag, and threw it to the ground. He walked behind the mound and turned his back to the plate. He tucked his glove underneath his left arm and massaged the ball between his hands, gazing at the centre-field scoreboard. He took a deep breath, turned, and strode to the mound to face Joe Kelsey, always a home-run threat. Fiore pitched him carefully, working the count to two balls and two strikes. Kelsey fouled off pitch after pitch, waiting for the one he liked, then tapped a ground ball past the third baseman for a single. Carter held up at third, the bases were loaded, and the fans were on their feet.

  Sultan Sanchez was up next. He stood at the plate and glared at Fiore, who nicked the outside corner for strike one, then wasted one high and inside. The crowd was chanting: “SUL-TAN, SUL-TAN.” The Red Sox fielders were shifted towards left. He was a dead pull hitter—never hit a ball to the right side of field—and most teams played him that way. The Red Sox shift was so extreme their second baseman and shortstop were both stationed between second and third.

  He fouled the third pitch off, then stepped out of the batter’s box for a moment and glanced into the stands, towards where T.C. and Sally were sitting. Once back in the box, he dug in his cleats and waved his bat menacingly over his head, waiting for the pitch.

  It came, he swung mightily and missed, going down on one knee with the effort. The crowd groaned as Sanchez trudged back to the dugout, twirling his bat in frustration, then threw his helmet against the bat rack.

  Pumped up, Fiore watched Washington step to the plate. A left-handed hitter, he was less of a problem. He had hit only four of his season’s twenty-seven home runs off lefthanders, and had never hit well against Fiore.

  Maybe Fiore relaxed just a bit too much. Washington pounded his first pitch over the right-field fence. Showing no emotion, he trotted slowly around the basepaths to home plate, where Carter, Wise, and Kelsey waited to welcome him. As it turned out, the game was won.

  Between innings, I went to the dining room for a cup of tea. I stopped at the press box door on the way back.

  My home away from home it might be, but it’s an awful place to spend time. The architects, worried about our well-being early and late in the season, sealed us in behind plate glass. It’s a hothouse from June until August, but even when it’s chilly outside, the glass is only a mixed blessing.

  It keeps out the cold, certainly. But it also keeps out the sounds of the game and keeps in the rather unique pollution of jock journalists. I can’t in all conscience complain about the cigarette smoke, as some of it is my own, but the cheap cigars are foul. Their fumes are enriched by a subtle hint of undeodorized armpit and uncontrolled flatulence.

  I found Christopher Morris in the back row and sat next to him for a few innings. We agreed to meet for dinner at eight.

  Costello pitched shutout ball until the ninth. He loaded the bases then, on a pair of singles and a walk, and Griffin came in to get the final out for the twenty-first save of his rookie season.

  But the crowd saved its biggest ovation for the scoreboard flashing the message that the Indians had beaten the Yankees, 8–2, in Cleveland.

  Afterwards, the Titan clubhouse was jumping. I went to Costello’s locker, where he sat, a towel wrapped around his corpulent midriff. He had a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other and greeted me jubilantly, hooking a stool from the next locker with his right foot.

  “Sit down. I should have listened to you.”

  “No fair, Bony. Now I can’t say ‘I told you so.’”

  “The worse I am before the game, the better I feel when I start to pitch.” He took a long swallow of beer. “And the guys made it easy for me today. I could kiss Tiny Washington right now!”

  He directed the last statement loudly towards the first baseman’s locker. Tiny looked up and waved.

  “Except I don’t want to catch whatever he’s got,” continued Costello. “It sure turns you ugly.”

  Washington took a mock run towards Costello’s locker, growling. Suddenly, skinny Alex Jones leaped between them, naked as a newborn.

  “No, Tiny,” he shouted, raising his little fists. “If you hit him you wil
l have to answer to me!”

  Washington stopped, then raised his arms protectively in front of his face and cowered back to his locker.

  “No, no! Anything but that!”

  I followed him.

  “Yankees lost?”

  “They sure did.”

  “Never thought I’d be rooting for the Indians. I want to get this thing over with. I don’t want it to come down to the last series.”

  “Tiny, where’s your sense of drama?”

  “I’m too old for drama. You know that.”

  “You can clinch it tomorrow with a bit of luck. You win, the Indians win, and it’s done.”

  “That would be sweet.”

  “How many grand slams have you hit?”

  “Not enough. I don’t like them, though,” he deadpanned.

  “Why not?”

  “Too many handshakes. By the time I’ve figured out the high five, low five, soul shake, Latin shake, and plain old white bread handshake, I’m worn out.”

  Sultan Sanchez interrupted from the next locker.

  “I softened him up for you, Tiny. I should get half that dinger.”

  “Now I know where you got them brown eyes, Sultan. You’re full of shit.”

  I turned to leave them to it, but Tiny stopped me.

  “Take this to the boy,” he said, handing me his bat.

  Chapter 7

  I had time to go home and relax for an hour before going out to dinner. I took the streetcar to my favourite restaurant, the Fillet of Soul, a dark, cosy, barn-like place specializing in ribs and fried chicken, southern-style cooking transplanted north. I liked it for more than the food. I could drop in any time and find friends.

  I was talking to Sarah Jefferson when Christopher arrived. She and her husband Tom had owned the restaurant for twenty years. He came to Toronto from Alabama to play football, met Sarah his first season, and decided to spend his life with her. That he was black and she white and the time the early sixties had made her home town a more comfortable place than his. When he began to miss his grandmother’s cooking, he opened the restaurant and shared the cuisine with the rest of the city. Ontario was an unlikely place for soul food, but the restaurant had thrived.