For Love of the Game (4 page)

“Do what?”

“Fuck.”

“What?”

“No. Too … casual. Sorry. Won’t do that again.”

“What, never?”

“Well.” Smile began again. “Well, hardly ever.”

Then she said: “Let’s you and I … have fun. Together. I promise to be good to you. You’re a good man, Chappie. You’re just … a straight shooter. From the hip. Honest as a boy. I want to help you enjoy life a little. And you, me. You didn’t really want me to fuck like that last night … because we didn’t really know each other yet and it was too soon. I won’t do that again. Please don’t hold it against me.”

He didn’t hold it against her. They spent that day together. They sat and walked and talked all day and into the night. About marriage—hers—and death and God and school and baseball games and music. They went out that night and danced—
that
was a thing at which she was superb and he was not, and so she started to teach him, and she had real talent as a teacher, but he didn’t as a dancer, and then he took her back to her apartment very late, almost dawn, and she did not even
kiss him good night. She saluted him, as the lieutenant to the captain. Then she was gone. And from then on they saw each other every day he was in town … the ballplayer—she had never known an athlete of any kind at all and she was fascinated by the way he talked about it, living it with him. Then he left. And called when his team was back. And she was present in a splendid glow, and it was all very clear: they stopped seeing other people. She met him where he was playing in other towns: still didn’t go to bed. Didn’t talk about it. He played down in Atlanta and she came to stay with him for a week, and the right night came, and he felt the gigantic need and she opened, and it was in that enormously personal way different than it had ever been with anyone else, however much joy there had been in bed, where there had always been joy. From then on they bedded down as extraordinary adventurers, differently every time, in so many ways that for a short while it was a wild new game to two talented athletes, and then that passed and tenderness came, and they held each other wordlessly for a magic time, and never mentioned love. They were playing the greatest of games, but to Carol life was all a game, and she was going to play the damned thing from here on out and never again take anything seriously, the way poor Billy did too often when he lost, and so they did not use the word “love.” She did not want to talk any more of normal life and marriage and
she did not ever want to go back to “meditation,” which had taught her nothing and made her very blue. She promised him: “Champ, we’ll have a ball, as you fellas say, one way or the other. You’ll never see me cry. Never. I’ll cry to myself. And don’t you cry to me. Billy, bless your head, you’re more fun than any kid I’ve ever known. And you’re such a lovely boy. A sweet sweet boy. So. Let’s
do it
. Now. Chumley.”

Four years. They would see each other three or four days at a time. Then nothing for perhaps a week, never longer than a month. In the winter he went home to Colorado for the Indian summer and she came out and then he came in, every month, and then they went one winter to New Zealand, but she stayed only three weeks because of her job, and then next year they went again, and it was better and then … this summer past … her birthday … she was weary. In the late innings. Hot summer. Work. Never ask questions. She’ll tell you. But she was always
there
and he never told her troubles and sometimes she’d bitch a bit about the job, but never truly seriously in detail, never to lean on his shoulder and sob. They were light to each other whatever the darkness. But Billy Chapel needed no help against sadness. He took the death of his parents alone, no other way, no possible help. And that was true of the rest of it. He was playing toward the end with a very bad team that was there behind him and around him
every day and was a weight, a growing weight, and he hated to lose but he had always been able to take that with faith that it was only temporary, that he’d win the next time, and they knew it, they knew it was only luck that beat him. He often lost now but he went right on with no less faith … and he did love the game, did love to play, he loved just to be out there throwing, planning, dreaming, thinking, and was cheered to rest and dream between the endless games, waiting, and then came that day, that night, when she did not come. All this was summing itself up in one long, wide picture flowing across his mind, reaching an end, a true end that morning, as he jogged down a winding puddled path toward the high-spouting fountain he saw at a distance—and there she was sitting, the golden blonde, the long and perfect, yes,
perfect
legs, sitting on a green bench dressed in a classic gray raincoat leaning forward staring into the fountain, both hands in her pockets, herself tucked inside the raincoat, huddled. Slight jolt to the eyes to see her. She looked up. He slowed, stopped, lifted the right hand, small salute.

“Howdy, ma’am.”

“Hey.”

She did not look into his face. She moved over a small way on the bench. He sat.

He said: “How you doin’?”

“I’m sorry.”

“S’all right. I knew there was a good reason. I sure did miss you.”

He saw a tear on the corner of her eye. She turned her face away.

She said: “I tried to make a telephone call. Couldn’t. Dammit. When I tried to call, I’d start to cry.” She pulled out a Kleenex from her purse, squeezed it, didn’t put it to the eye. “I
hate
that. Goddammit. You never saw me cry. That was … the agreement. The deal.”

“Why did you have to cry?”

“Ah.” She shook her head. “I was drinking too much. Much too much. You know, Billy, honest, I sometimes drink too goddam much. I know, hard for you to believe, you know how … prissy I get … but, oh, hell. I was smashed. And when I get smashed, lately, you know? I get very sad.” She glanced at him for the first time, then quickly away. She so rarely talked seriously about herself. He knew she was trying to break ground into something funny, but it wasn’t going to work. She put up the Kleenex, covered her eyes. She said slowly: “Didn’t want you to see me … 
too
drunk. Really. It’s unbecoming. There are things I say … Billy.…” Long pause. “We’ve had a good time, Billy.”

Billy said: “Yep.”

A couple came jogging by, round the fountain. On the sweatshirts: Harvard. Carol had settled a bit, composed, something firmer now in her voice,
no longer that waver, but … there was something else. Billy watched.

Carol said: “Four years.” Summing it up. As if: done. Truly done, over, finished. It hit him; he blinked. He said: “What’s the matter?”

“I’m going home.”

“Home?”

“I’ve quit the job.”

“Oh.”

“I did that this morning. I was going to tell you, but … ah. Well. You don’t need me, Billy.”

“I don’t need you?” Amazed.

“Billy.” She turned to look at his face, put out a hand, touched his shoulder. Her face had that deep, sweet softness. He realized she was saying good-bye.

“Billy Boy. I’m … back at my birthday. Do you remember? Thirty-four. I don’t know what happened, what it was, that number doesn’t mean anything, but suddenly, no, not even suddenly, it’s been coming up out of the dark all this year, coming out of the old back of the aging head: time to move on, move on. Take … the new path. Into old age. I was married all that time and it was bad and I wanted something else and got out, thank God, with you, sweet Billy, and the last four years have been.…” Her voice began to fail; she squeezed his shoulder. “It’s been the best time, Billy. I’ll always … but now … things have changed. Oh, God, how do I say this? Last spring I
began to look in the mirror. But it wasn’t that. I began to look out the window at the city, and then on the job at all those faces … and finally, Billy,” the tears were swelling, “one day I just wanted to go
home
. Rest. Start over. Somewhere else. I went back to see Mom. You knew about that. You’ve never met Mom. She said … come home for a while and just putter in the garden. Just get away from that place for a while. So I quit the job, but they’ll let me come back if ever I … but I won’t. I’m going … I won’t be back. I won’t be in this town anymore. And you … Billy … you don’t need me.”

“Don’t say that again,” Chapel said. Then he said: “There’s also a man involved in this. Fella who needs you. Are you thinkin’ of … getting married?”

Carol looked into his eyes. Voice very quiet. She said: “I haven’t decided yet. Not yet.”

“But there
is
a guy.”

“Yes.”

Chapel said nothing. No promises broken, no word ever given. Free. Carol said: “I didn’t hide anything, Billy. I didn’t do anything with … him. But he’s a good, quiet man. Gentle. I don’t love him. Understand that. Please, Billy? He’s a good, quiet man who seems to love me. Has from the beginning. Wants to take care of me … ‘forever.’ He has a fine home … we’d go overseas a lot. He’s
much older than you, Billy. He first asked me early in the summer.”

“You going to marry him.”

“I don’t know.”

Chapel put his hand to his face, rubbed his nose.

“Handsome fella?”

“No.”

“That’s good.” Chapel shrugged, blinked. “Christ,” he said. “This is my day.”

“Billy?”

He looked up. She moved her hand down to his. “There was nothing wrong you ever did. But, Billy … time goes by. I saw this title of a book:
Childhood’s End
. I’m getting old all of a sudden, Billy. I don’t know why. I won’t be fun anymore. When you go away now.…”

“I’ll be far away,” Chapel said.

Another couple came jogging by. Coincidence. This time: Yale.

Chapel said: “They never can trade you there. Never. Never from Harvard to Yale. Ah. But that’s for kids.”

He looked back to Carol. He said: “Time to grow up, I guess. Me, too. You go home, I go home. What was that book?
Childhood’s End
. Remember the one you gave me:
You Can’t Go Home Again
. Christ. Nothing makes sense today. Everything’s gone haywire.”

Carol was watching. She knew him well enough
to know that something large had happened. She caught it quickly.

“Billy? What happened?”

“I’ve been a nice kid, you know that? Big good-natured kid, all my life. We were great kids, you and I. Why is it, when you grow up, they can trade you? Parents can’t trade you. But I guess that’s been done, too. In the real game. I bet there have been people who traded kids. Christ, no, couldn’t have been.”

“Billy. Billy, what happened?”

“I got traded.”

“What?”

“I just found out this morning. They traded me away, to another ball club out on the Coast. They say I’m over the hill.”

“Oh my God. But I thought … you said they could never.…”

“That was back in the old days. When the Old Man was alive and I was young. He made the promise. ‘I’ll never trade you, Billy. Never. When the time comes to hang it up, you hang it up
here
, on my wall. This is your team. This is your home.’ Ah. Everybody who knows me … knows that. I always said: If I’m not good enough here, I’m not good enough anywhere. When it’s time to go home, just let me know. Well. They just did.”

They sat in silence. After a while she said: “But … what are you going to do?”

He sat for a long moment. The answer was about to come, from the deep dark back of the brain. He said: “Strange thing about me. I never … I can’t go to a new place, a new town, put on a new uniform, play hard and strong for somebody else. Not now. Not after all these years. The money … with strange guys … in a strange town … I just can’t. So. What else? I’m going home. Just like you. Me and you. Going home.”

They sat in silence. It took her a long moment to realize what had happened and what it meant to him, although she could not know how much she meant and could not ask, not now, perhaps not anymore ever again, and she stood up, beginning to shake, because they had moved into another world and she wanted to hold him but couldn’t and was beginning to cry. She said: “Billy. Got to go. Good-bye. God bless.”

She started off, began to run. He watched her go, made no move, sat there wooden in the cool wet air of September. Harvard came by once more, jogging toward a broken sunlight. Chapel: feels like you’ve taken one hell of a punch and you have to hold on to get through the round. He rose, walked out along the path, saw a field and some big trees to the right, felt raindrops falling slowly, lightly, and went over to stand under the trees, without lightning in the sky. No game today? Ah then, no choice. Home, Mr. Chapel.

But there’s nobody there.

“You don’t need me, Billy.”

In the mountains, this winter, a lonely Christmas.…

There was only a light rain and he saw teams forming out on a baseball field a short way off, young kids, a junior league, and a game was beginning without worry about rain, the sky was clearing.

Weather report last night had said it would be clear in the afternoon.

There’ll be a game today.

There were a few parents scattered along the sidelines, a fat coach with a yellow baseball cap, an umpire with a white shirt yelling something about getting the game under way.

Billy walked over and sat a long way back under a tree watching that first inning begin. All kids—not even twelve years old. Dreamed of the early days, saw visions of … the big kids coming up to hit … that one kid who hit it over the fence that day, that crisp golden day, with the bases loaded, over the fence,
foul
, foul by less than a foot, and then, very carefully, threw him the slow curve knowing he’d be going for it, reaching, too soon, and he struck out, and Pops back there, up screaming with joy: “Way to go, Billy Boy, way to go! All the way, Billy Boy, all the way!”

All the way.

Done?

A tug at his sleeve. He looked down: faces of three very young boys.

“Hey, that’s you! You Billy Chapel. Jeez! Hey, Mr. Chapel, you gonna pitch today?”

T
HE STADIUM IN
that town was across the river, and it took a long while to get there in a cab. When Chapel arrived it was already jammed and he had heard the game was already sold out: it was. About eighty thousand people. All come to see the Yanks. To see the Yanks
win
. There would be almost nobody at all there from Atlanta, a reporter for the paper, some business types who just happened to be in town this day with nothing much else to do. But for the Yanks it was a very big day and the place was alive already with empty beer cans and signs being drawn and lifted and Chapel sat deep in the back of the cab while it pushed through. But … this really might be the last time. To come through the crowd up to the gate at the players’ entrance with all the sounds, along with those silent drums that beat in the brain long before the game, steady, slow, heavy, marshaling the power. He had done this all his life: got ready for the game. Approached the game with
that ritual of grandness, used to think of boys mounting chariots, just before the race, the trumpets blowing, the crowds gathering to scream and wave flags—wonder if they had known that same impending wave of elation, the same joy of
collision
ahead, just round the bend, back when they played their own game a long time ago. This may be your last time. But. You can watch television. Still there was something dreamlike in the air around him; he could sense the steadying of chariot horses, the shining of the spears. All over. He brushed that aside. Daydreamer.