Bang The Drum Slowly (24 page)

Lindon Burke worked and lost Friday night in Washington, a good job, complete, but the power was off. I felt sorry for Lindon. Sid did not pick up a base hit since his home run off Scudder the first inning Wednesday night and felt a slump coming on, which it soon did and would of meant “Curtains” only Bruce was on fire, and also Ugly. Dutch moved Bruce up to the 5 spot and Ugly 6 and later benched Sid altogether. The writers now forgot Babe Ruth and begun wondering if Sid would even equal himself as of 53, when he hit 51 home runs. WHA HOPPEN TO GOLDMAN? they wrote, SAD SLUMP SINKS SID’S SPIRIT, and they give him a good deal of advice on how to pull out of it.

If we had of lost Saturday we would of dropped back in a tie. This brought all Washington out hours early, and I remember the traffic was jammed and the cabbie Anally turned his motor off and sat with his arms folded and said back over his shoulder, “You gents from out of town?”

“From good old South Turtle Landing, Arkansas,” I said. “We run the dancing school down there but flew up in a hurry thinking we might see this whizzard Henry Wiggen pitch.” Bruce started jabbing Mike in the ribs with his elbow and whispering, “This is a gag.” Mike laughed on the inside, his whole stomach shaking, but his face straight, winking and nodding at Bruce, same as saying, “I am glad you told me or I would not of knew,” though God knows Mike knows a gag when he sees one after 59 years. “If you ever pass through South Turtle Landing, Arkansas,” I said, “drop in and waltz around with us one time.”

“I ain’t been out of town since 1921,” he said. “I hope this goddam Wiggen does not pitch. We ain’t beat him more than once or twice all summer.”

“You ain’t beat him
a-tall
all summer,” said I. “Do not think you can pass out phoney information just because we are clucks from the country. We get the paper down there, and many of us can read.”

“Nothing personal meant,” said the cabbie, and he turned back around and started up his motor, and Red put it in Spanish for George, Red never laughing, though George did, Red only smiling out of one side of his mouth. The cabbie drove on, saying nothing until when we got out he said, “Nothing personal meant again, but if I heard on the radio where Wiggen dropped dead tomorrow I would not shed a tear.”

There was an overflow, the first time in many years down there. They roped it in the right-field corner, maybe 3,500 people. I personally thought nothing about it, figuring our left-hand power was the equal of theirs, and Dutch said the same, saying “Anyhow, is it human to fight over such a small thing?”

“I do not know if it is human or not,” said Clint, “but I believe an overflow in Washington must be roped in left. It is libel to cost us the ball game otherwise,” and they sat around trying to remember the last time there was an overflow, Dutch and Joe and Egg and Clint and Mike and Red and Goose and Horse and Ugly, but none of them could, and Dutch called Krazy Kress in the press-box, saying, ”Krazy, do you remember where they roped the overflow the last time they ever had one down here?” for anything Krazy can’t remember probably never happened, and Krazy said, “Yes, Dutch old pal, I remember, only the clubhouse door is locked in my face these days.”

“It will be locked in your face forever and a day,” said Dutch, “unless you tell me.”

“In left,” said Krazy, and the brass all sat down with the Washington book and figured out which way was libel to hurt us less, and they figured left, and Dutch went and collared the umps and told them move the overflow in left, where it belonged according to the regulations, and Washington said “No!” though knowing they were wrong. But they finally done so, the field crew unroping the ropes and hustling the fans across the grass into left. The spot the crowd was hustled out of was covered with bottles and wrappers off franks and such, and by the time the field crew swept it up the game was 20 minutes late getting under way.

Washington yanked all its left-hand power and threw in right-hand power, not much, and Dutch done the same, dropping Sid to the 7 spot and Pasquale Carucci 8 and yanking Vincent Carucci altogether, batting right-hand power 1–2–3–4–5–6, George and Perry and Canada and Bruce and Lawyer Longabucco and Coker, the first and only time in his life Bruce ever batted as high as 4. It looked mighty peculiar, but it worked, and it was a wild and crazy ball game, your left-fielder laying in it looked like practically just behind short, and everybody aiming all afternoon for the overflow, popping them in there amongst the fans, 2 bases. We set all kinds of records, the most doubles in a ball game for 2 teams, the most doubles for one team, us, the most doubles in one inning, the most consecutive doubles, the most doubles after 2 out, the most doubles for one ballplayer in a 9-inning ball game, Bruce, the most consecutive doubles for one player in a 16 inning ball game, also Bruce, the most doubles with bases loaded and the most doubles with bases loaded in consecutive innings. We used 5 pitchers and Washington 7, all right-handers, and it run 4 hours, and we took it, 16–11, and the cushion was 2 again.

Sunday there was no overflow. It rained, and we were late getting started again, and we sat in the clubhouse and Piney played his guitar and sung, taking off his cap and putting on his 10-gallon hat instead, and wrapping his belt with his gun around his middle, half Mammoth and half cowboy. You could hear the crowd shuffling around above, trying to jam in under the roof and out of the rain. Piney sung pretty good, singing—

“Now the cowboy speaks,” said Piney.

“Try a different song,” said Mike. “That is all I heard all summer.”

“No,” said Piney, “it is the best of them all,” and he sung on—

“I believe it is letting up,” said Ugly.

“It is corn,” I said.

“No,” said many of the boys. “Leave him sing. It sounds good.”

“Then the cowboy tells him his sad story,” said Piney, and he sung on again—

“Come on, boys,” said Piney. “Why do you not all join in a little? The boys in QC sing all the time.” But nobody did, and he thumbed a bit, and then he sung it through—

It made me feel very sad. Yet I knew that some of the boys felt the same, and knowing it made me feel better. Not being alone with it any more was a great help, knowing that other boys knew, even if only a few, and you felt warm towards them, and you looked at them, and them at you, and you were both alive, and you might as well said, “Ain’t it something? Being alive I mean! Ain’t it really quite a great thing at that?” and if they would of been a girl you would of kissed them, though you never said such a thing out loud but only went on about your business.

Van Gundy worked when the rain stopped, and he was rocky. It is no good cooling after warming. Washington kept getting hold of little pieces of him, waiting for the curve when it did not break quite right, which it begun to do more and more until Dutch lifted him in the fifth, and Keith relieved, and I went down and warmed, and the crowd booed me on the way down, and I raised my arm at them and waved and smiled, like I thought booing was a compliment, and they stopped booing and laughed, and I warmed with Jonah and went in in the bottom of the eighth. The score was 5–5. I was hot and quick.

We went ahead in the tenth on a single by Bruce which drove Pasquale home, Bruce batting without his chew and using Perry Simpson’s bat, for Red told him, “A strong boy like you need only meet the ball, not murder it, so use a lighter stick,” and he used Perry’s, waiting up there for the one he was looking for, and splitting Perry’s bat on the drive, a hard smash punched through third and close to the line, and the crowd groaned but then cheered, seeing Sampson Opper coming over very fast and taking it backhand on the bounce in foul territory, the same boy we played Tegwar with on the train that time, and digging and stopping and firing it home, a perfect throw, a great young ballplayer that I know Dutch will dicker for at the winter meetings but probably never get, and Pasquale slid in under the throw, safe, and the one was more than plenty for me. Dutch played Canada at first in the tenth, and McGonigle in center, and he sent Coker in at short for Ugly, and Jonah caught, the best defense he could field, though it was not needed, for I was still hot and quick and could of went another 5, even with only the 3 days rest.

Perry eat out Bruce for splitting his bat, and the boys all laughed, saying “Go soak your head, Simpson,” and we went back home with the cushion at 3, the most lead we ever had all summer since May.

I BEAT Cleveland Friday night, Number 20, August 26, 1955. a date which I am not libel to forget very soon and probably never, going afterwards to The Green Cow. Katie had a girl with her, never mind her name. If I name her I am libel to be sued. I was almost sued by Old Man Moors for saying in “The Southpaw” that Patricia and Ugly had illegal relations on page 152, 155 in the quarter book, though I actually never said such a thing. It may of been between the lines, but certainly I can not help what relations go on between the lines. She introduced me to this girl and said, “Does her name sound familiar to you?”

“Yes,” said I, “I seen her on the TV and movies.”

“Plus which,” said Katie, “she was voted Miss Industrial Progress not long ago.”

“I believe I recall the event,” I said.

Katie pulled the curtain. “Get up and walk back and forth a couple times,” she said, and Miss Industrial Progress done so, and I watched her. It would of been difficult not to unless I was awful sick. She carried her knife and fork with her. “Thank you,” said Katie, and Miss Industrial Progress sat down again and went back to her food. “Tell Author what your present business address is,” said Katie.

“66 Street,” said the girl, not looking up, only eating.

“Where you got a golden lifetime pass to,” said Katie, “as soon as I clap my hand over the Change of Beneficiary form we discussed not so long ago if you remember.”

“I remember,” I said.

“What you been doing about it?” she said.

“What am I eating?” I said.

“Do not stall,” she said. She told me what I was eating in French. “In English it means the cow’s ass,” she said.

“It is awfully tasty,” I said.

“Stop stalling.”

“Well,” I said, “the next time we are in Boston I will drop in on Arcturus and shoot it all through.”

“When?”

“I do not know. I carry no schedule with me. All I do is follow the boys on the train.”

“Very well,” she said. “I will give you until you get back from Boston before I personally go up there myself and raise holy hell and pull the skids out from under you good and proper.”

“Stop worrying,” I said, “before you get ulcers. I won Number 20 tonight.”

“So I heard,” said Katie. “Miss Industrial Progress is a baseball fan from way back, ain’t you, honey?”

“I sure am,” said she.

“It was worth $1,000 to me,” I said. “So far I picked up $6,500 in bonus money with the summer still a month from over. Do you think I am too worried about losing my insurance license?”

“You will not be playing ball forever,” she said. “You have a short life.”

“So do you,” I said. “So does everybody.”

“Then why not live it up a little?” she said. “Why worry so much about Pearson’s old man?”

“I do not know,” I said, and that was true, for I did not. Do not ask me why you do not live it up all the time when dying is just around the corner, but you don’t. You would think you would, but you don’t. “I do not know why,” I said.

On the way past the desk Tootsie said, “Must be quite a celebration.”

“You said it,” I said. I didn’t know what in hell she was talking about, some kind of a celebration somewhere, always something going on that you never heard about or else forgot, like some days the flags are half-mast, somebody died, some high official, some brass, and you ask, “Who died?” and nobody knows, and you think you might see it in the paper tonight, and then you forget to look.

In the elevator Peter said, “What are they celebrating?”

“The fassa walla dogda, naturally,” I said, and Peter said, “Oh, I must of forgot,” and I got off and started down the hall and turned the corner and heard it, and it was my room, and I pushed open the door except somebody was sitting against it and it did not push all the way, and I squeezed through, and it was full, maybe 15 boys in there and others coming and going all night.