Bang The Drum Slowly (27 page)

Washington begun stalling like mad in the third, hoping for heavy rain before it become official, claiming it was raining, though the umps ruled it was not. Sy Sibley was umping behind the plate. They stepped out between pitches and wiped off their bat and tied their shoe and blew their nose and gouged around in their eye, saying, “Something is in my eye,” and Sy said, “Sure, your eyeball,” and they stepped back in. As soon as they stepped back in again I pitched.

He never knew what was coming, curve ball or what. “Just keep your meat hand out of the way,” I said, and he said he would but did not. It did not register. He was catching by habit and memory, only knowing that when the pitcher threw it you were supposed to stop it and throw it back, and if a fellow hit a foul ball you were supposed to whip off your mask and collar it, and if a man was on base you were supposed to keep him from going on to the next one. You play ball all your life until a day comes when you do not know what you are doing, but you do it anyhow, working through a fog, not remembering anything but only knowing who people were by how they moved, this fellow the hitter, this the pitcher, and if you hit the ball you run to the right, and then when you got there you asked Clint Strap were you safe or out because you do not know yourself. There was a fog settling down over him.

I do not know how he got through it. I do not even know how yours truly got through it. I do not remember much. It was 3–0 after 41½, official now, and now we begun stalling, claiming it was raining, claiming the ball was wet and we were libel to be beaned, which Washington said would make no difference to fellows with heads as hard as us. Eric Bushell said it to me in the fifth when I complained the ball was wet, and I stepped out and started laughing, “Ha ha ha ho ho ho ha ha ha,” doubling over and laughing, and Sy Sibley said, “Quit stalling,” and I said I could not help it if Bushell was going to say such humorous things to me and make me laugh. “Tell him to stop,” I said. “Ha ha ha ho ho ho ha ha ha.”

“What did he say?” said Sy, and I told him, telling him very slow, telling him who Eric Bushell was and who I was, the crowd thinking it was an argument and booing Sy. “Forget it,” said he. “Get back in and hit.”

“You mean bat,” said Bushell. “He never hits,” and I begun laughing again, stepping out and saying how could a man bat with this fellow behind me that if the TV people knew how funny he was they would make him an offer.

“Hit!” said Sy. “Bat! Do not stall.”

“Who is stalling?” said I, and I stepped back in, the rain coming a little heavier now.

I threw one pitch in the top of the seventh, a ball, wide, to Billy Linenthal. I guess I remember. Bruce took it backhand and stood up and slowly raised his hand and took the ball out of his mitt and started to toss it back, aiming very careful at my chin, like Red told him to, and then everybody begun running, for the rain come in for sure now, and he seen everybody running, but he did not run, only stood there. I started off towards the dugout, maybe as far as the baseline, thinking he was following, and then I seen that he was not. I seen him standing looking for somebody to throw to, the last pitch he ever caught, and I went back for him, and Mike and Red were there when I got there, and Mike said, “It is over, son,” and he said “Sure” and trotted on in.

In the hospital me and Mike and Red waited in the waiting room for word, telling them 1,000 times, “Keep us posted,” which they never done and you had to run down the hall and ask, and then when you asked they never
knew
anything, and for all you could tell they were never
doing
anything neither, only looking at his chart, standing outside his door and looking at his chart and maybe whistling or kidding the nurses until I really got quite annoyed.

He was unconscious. Around midnight he woke up, and they said one of us could see him, the calmest, and I went, and he only said “Howdy,” but very weak, not saying it, really, only his lips moving. He looked at me a long time and worked up his strength and said again, “Howdy, Arthur,” and the doctor said, “He does not know you,” and I said he did, for he always called me “Arthur.” Then he drifted off again.

They told me take his clothes away, and I took them, his uniform and cap and socks and shoes, and I rolled them up with his belt around them and carried them back out. Red and Mike went pale when they seen me. They went pale every little while all night, every time a phone rung or a doctor passed through. “Relax,” said I. “He is not dying.”

“You never seen anybody die,” said Red.

“I seen them in the movies,” I said.

“It ain’t the same,” he said.

“He will not die,” said Mike. “He will only pass on.”

We went out and got something to eat. It was still raining, and we walked a long ways before we found a place open. It was very quiet in the streets. We ate in one of these smoky little places, everything fried. The paper said MAMMOTHS COP 2, GOLDMAN SWATS 42nd, and there was a picture of Sid crossing the plate and Bruce shaking his hand. “Then he hit,” I said.

“And then he did not know what happened without going back and asking Clint,” said Red.

“It is sad,” said Mike. “It makes you wish to ay.”

“It is sad,” said Red. “It makes you wish to laugh.”

We went back in the waiting room and stretched on the couches and slept. While we were asleep somebody threw a blanket over me, and over Red and Mike as weil. I don’t know who. When we woke up the sun was shining, and I went down the hall and asked, and they looked at his chart and said he was fine, and I heard him singing then, singing, “As I was a-walking the streets of Laredo, as I walked out in Laredo one day, I spied a young cowboy all wrapped in white linen, all wrapped in white linen and cold as the clay,” and I run back for Red and Mike, and they heard me come running and went all pale again, and I said, “Come with me,” and we went back down the hall again. You could hear him even further down now, for he sung louder, “It was once in the saddle I used to go dashing, once in the saddle I used to go gay, first down to Rosie’s and then to the card house, shot in the breast and am dying today.” We stood and listened and then run in, and he stopped singing and tried sitting up, but he was too weak, and we said, “Get on up out of there now and back to work,” and “This sure is a lazy man’s way of drawing pay for no work,” and he said, “Did anybody bring my chews?”

“I will go get them,” said Mike, and he went back to the hotel and brung them, and clothes as well, saying, “I hope I brung the right combination,” and Bruce said “Yes.” He never cares about the combination anyhow, only grabs the nearest. If I did not shuffle his suits around he would wear the same one every day.

We hung in the hospital. Dutch called from St. Louis around supper, glad to hear that all was well again, and he told Red why not come out now, as long as the worst was over. “Business before pleasure,” said Red, and he went.

He was so weak he even got tired chewing, shoving it over in his cheek and leaving it there, and his hands shook. He could not hold the newspaper nor his knife and fork but would eat a little and lay back again, saying, “No doubt I will pep up and be back in action again in no time,” and we said he would, me and Mike and the doctors and nurses as well, though we knew he would not. Maybe I never seen a man die and wouldn’t know if I did, but I knew when a man was not libel to be back in action very soon.

I picked up the club in Pittsburgh on Friday, and I pitched on Saturday and won, Number 22, which give us a sweep of the 2 in Pittsburgh, 6 wins in 7 starts, according to the paper, 9 in the last 11, and 14 in the last 17, counting back to August 26, Goose’s birthday, the night the boys all knew the truth. The cushion was 6½, and it was now only a matter of time. We needed 3 to clinch.

Him and his father and Mike were in the clubhouse when we hit Chicago, and the boys all went wild to see him, not phoney wild, neither, but the real thing, admiring him, and he stood up and said, “Howdy, boys,” and they pumped his hand and told him how they missed him, and he got dressed, and he was white and thin, and he was cold, always cold, and he sat on the bench all wrapped in jackets, getting up off the bench every so often and going back and laying down awhile, and then coming back out.

We whipped Chicago twice. Nothing in the world could stop us now. Winning makes winning like money makes money, and we had power and pitching and speed, so much of it that if anybody done anything wrong nobody ever noticed. There was too much we were doing right. It was a club, like it should of been all year but never was but all of a sudden become, and we clinched it the first night in Cleveland, Blondie Biggs working, and we voted the shares, 30 full shares and a lot of tiny ones, $1,500 to Mike and the same to Red, and $1,250 to Piney for playing the guitar, and $1,000 to Diego Roberto for talking Spanish to George, and little slices to batboys, big hands and big hearts like you have when you win, not stopping rolling then but rolling still and winning though we did not need to win but could of relaxed and played out the string, yet hating to relax either because we were playing ball at last like it was meant to be played.

He went with us all the way. He dressed every day, and then he sat, no stronger than ever, thin and white and his cheeks all hollow, but his spirit high. Sometimes he picked up a bat and swung it a couple times and sat down again.

The Series opened in New York on a Wednesday, and I pitched and won, and Van Gundy Thursday, and after the Thursday game Bruce went home. “It is practically copped,” he said. “I see no sense in trucking all the way out there and back.”

“No,” said the boys. “Come along for the ride.”

“No,” he said, “I will see you in the spring. I will be back in shape by spring,” and we said he would, saying, “See you in the spring, Bruce. See you in Aqua Clara.”

“See you,” said he, and I went with him and his father and put them on the plane. He could barely carry his bags. “Arthur,” he said, “send me the scorecard from Detroit,” and I said I would.

But then I never sent it. We wrapped the Series up on Sunday, my win again, and I took a scorecard home with me and tossed it on the shelf and left it lay. Goddam it, anyhow, I am just like the rest. Wouldn’t it been simple instead of writing a page on my book to shoved it in the mail? How long would it of took? Could I not afford the stamps?

Tuesday I got this letter from Arcturus saying Katie was up there raising holy hell and I better do some sensational explaining. I did not know what in hell to do now. I clipped it in the lampshade, and every night I looked at it. After about 3 nights I seen they took the letter “s” out of Perkinsville and tacked it on the end of Wiggen—

MR. HENRY W. WIGGENS
PERKINVILLE, NEW YORK

I figured one way to start off was bawl the daylight out of them for not spelling, and I hardly got warm when the phone rung. It was his father, and he was dead. That was October 7.

In my Arcturus Calendar for October 7 it says, “De Soto visited Georgia, 1540.” This hands me a laugh. Bruce Pearson also visited Georgia. I was his pall-bear, me and 2 fellows from the crate and box plant and some town boys, and that was all. There were flowers from the club, but no
person
from the club. They could of sent somebody.

He was not a bad fellow, no worse than most and probably better than some, and not a bad ballplayer neither when they give him a chance, when they laid off him long enough. From here on in I rag nobody.