The Chosen (4 page)

We scored only one run that inning, and we walked onto the field for the first half of the third inning with a sense of doom.

Dov Shlomowitz came up to the plate. He stood there like a bear, the bat looking like a matchstick in his beefy hands. Schwartzie pitched, and he sliced one neatly over the head of the third baseman for a single. The yeshiva team howled, and again one of them called out to us in Yiddish, ‘Bum, you apikorsim!’ and Sidney Goldberg and I looked at each other without saying a word.

Mr Galanter was standing alongside third base, wiping his forehead. The rabbi was sitting quietly, reading his book.

I took off my glasses and rubbed the tops of my ears. I felt a sudden momentary sense of unreality, as if the play yard, with its black asphalt floor and its white base lines, were my entire world now, as if all the previous years of my life had led me somehow to this one ball game, and all the future years of my life would depend upon its outcome. I stood there for a moment, holding the glasses in my hand and feeling frightened. Then I took a deep breath, and the feeling passed. It’s only a ball game, I told myself. What’s a ball game?

Mr Galanter was shouting at us to move back. I was standing a few feet to the left of second, and I took two steps back. I saw Danny Saunders walk up to the plate, swinging a bat. The yeshiva team was shouting at him in Yiddish to kill us apikorsim.

Schwartzie turned around to check the field. He looked nervous and was taking his time. Sidney Goldberg was standing up straight, waiting. We looked at each other, then looked away. Mr Galanter stood very still alongside third base, looking at Schwartzie.

The first pitch was low, and Danny Saunders ignored it. The second one started to come in shoulder-high, and before it was two thirds of the way to the plate, I was already standing on second base. My glove was going up as the bat cracked against the ball, and I saw the ball move in a straight line directly over Schwartzie’s head, high over his head, moving so fast he hadn’t even had time to regain his balance from the pitch before it went past him. I saw Dov Shlomowitz heading toward me and Danny Saunders racing to first, and I heard the yeshiva team shouting and Sidney Goldberg screaming, and I jumped, pushing myself upward off the ground with all the strength I had in my legs and stretching my glove hand till I thought it would pull out of my shoulder. The ball hit the pocket of my glove with an impact that numbed my hand and went through me like an electric shock, and I felt the force pull me backward and throw me off balance, and I came down hard on my left hip and elbow. I saw Dov Shlomowitz whirl and start back to first, and I pushed myself up into a sitting position and threw the ball awkwardly to Sidney Goldberg, who caught it and whipped it to first. I heard the umpire scream ‘Out I’ and Sidney Goldberg ran over to help me to my feet, a look of disbelief and ecstatic joy on his face.

Mr Galanter shouted ‘Time!’ and came racing onto the field. Schwartzie was standing in his pitcher’s position with his· mouth open. Danny Saunders stood on the base line a few feet from first, where he had stopped after I had caught the ball, staring out at me, too, and the yeshiva team was deathly silent.

‘That was a great catch, Reuven!’ Sidney Goldberg said, thumping my back. ‘That was sensational!’

I saw the rest of our team had suddenly come back to life and was throwing the ball around and talking up the game.

Mr Galanter came over. ‘You all right, Malter?’ he asked.’

‘Let me see that elbow.’

I showed him the elbow. I had scraped it, but the skin had not been broken.

‘That was a good play,’ Mr Galanter said, beaming ‘at me. I saw his face was still covered with sweat, but he was smiling broadly now.

‘Thanks, Mr Galanter.’

‘How’s the hand?’

‘It hurts a little.’

‘Let me see it.’

I took off the glove, and Mr Galanter poked and bent the wrist and fingers of the hand. ‘Does that hurt?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I lied.

‘You want to go on playing?’

‘Sure, Mr Galanter.’

‘Okay,’ he said, smiling at me and patting my back. ‘We’ll put you in for a Purple Heart on that one, Malter.’

I grinned at him.

‘Okay,’ Mr Galanter said. ‘Let’s keep this infield solid!’ He walked away, smiling.

‘I can’t get over that catch,’ Sidney Goldberg said.

‘You threw it real good to first,’ I told him.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘While you were sitting on your tail.’

We grinned at each other, and went to our positions.

Two more of the yeshiva team got to bat that inning. The first one hit a single, and the second one sent a high fly to short, which Sidney Goldberg caught without having to move a step. We scored two runs that inning and one run the next, and by the top half of the fifth inning we were leading five to three. Four of their men had stood up to bat during the top half of the fourth inning; and they had got only a single on an error to first. When we took to the field in the top half of the fifth inning, Mr Galanter was walking back and forth alongside third on the balls of his feet, sweating, smiling, grinning, wiping his head nervously; the rabbi was no longer reading; the yeshiva team was silent as death. Davey Cantor was playing second, and I stood in the pitcher’s position. Schwartzie had pleaded exhaustion, and since this was the final inning—our parochial school schedules only permitted us time for five-inning games—and the yeshiva team’s last chance at bat, Mr Galanter was taking no chances and told me to pitch. Davey Cantor was a poor fielder, but Mr Galanter was counting on my pitching to finish off the game. My left hand was still sore from the catch, and the wrist hurt whenever I caught a ball, but the “right hand was fine, and the pitches went in fast and dropped into the curve just when I wanted them to. Dov Shlomowitz stood at the plate, swung three times at what looked to him to be perfect pitches, and hit nothing but air. He stood there looking bewildered after the third swing, then slowly walked away. We threw the baIl around the infield, and Danny Saunders came up to the plate.

The members of the yeshiva team stood near the wire fence, watching Danny Saunders. They were very quiet. The rabbi was sitting on the bench, his book closed. Mr Galanter was shouting at everyone to move back. Danny Saunders swung his bat a few times, then fixed himself into position and looked out at me.

Here’s a present from an apikoros, I thought, and let go the ball. It went in fast and straight, and I saw Danny Saunders’ left foot move out and his bat go up and his body begin to pivot. He swung just as the ball slid into its curve, and the bat cut savagely through empty air, twisting him around and sending him off balance. His black skullcap fell off his head, and he regained his balance and bent quickly to retrieve it. He stood there for a moment, very still, staring out at me. Then he resumed his position at the plate. The ball came back to me from the catcher, and my wrist hurt as I caught it.

The yeshiva team was very quiet, and the rabbi had begun to chew his lip.

I lost control of the next pitch, and it was wide. On the third pitch, I went into a long, elaborate Wind-up and sent him a slow, curving blooper, the kind a batter always wants to hit and always misses. He ignored it completely, and the umpire called it a ball.

I felt my wrist begin to throb as I caught the throw from the catcher. I was hot and sweaty, and the earpieces of. my glasses were cutting deeply into the flesh above my ears as a result of the head movements that went with my pitching.

Danny Saunders stood very still at the plate, waiting.

Okay, I thought, hating him bitterly. Here’s another present. The ball went to the plate fast and straight, and dropped just below his swing. He checked himself with difficulty so as not to spin around, but he went off his balance again and took two or three staggering steps forward before he was able· to stand up straight.. The catcher threw the ball back, and I winced at the pain in my wrist. I took the ball out of the glove, held it in my right hand and turned around for a moment to look out at the field and let the pain in my wrist subside. When I turned back I saw that Danny Saunders hadn’t moved. He was holding his bat in his left hand, standing very still and staring at me. His eyes were dark, and his lips were parted in a crazy, idiotic grin. I heard the umpire yell ‘Play ball!’ but Danny Saunders stood there, staring at me and grinning. I turned and looked out at the field again, and when I turned back he was still standing there, staring at me and grinning. I could see his teeth between his parted lips. I took a deep breath and felt myself wet with sweat. I wiped my right hand on my pants and saw Danny Saunders step slowly to’ the plate and set his legs in position. He was no longer grinning. He stood looking at me over his left shoulder, waiting.

I wanted to finish it quickly because of the pain in my wrist, and I sent in another fast ball. I watched it head straight for the plate. I saw him go into a sudden crouch, and in the fraction of a second before he hit the ball I realized that he had anticipated the curve and was deliberately swinging low. I was still a little off balance from the pitch, but I managed to bring my glove hand up in front of my face just as he hit the ball. I saw it coming at me, and there was nothing I could do. It hit the finger section of my glove, deflected off, smashed into the upper rim of the left lens of my glasses, glanced off my forehead, and knocked me down. I scrambled around for it wildly, but by the time I got my hand on it Danny Saunders was standing safely on first.

I heard Mr Galanter call time, and everyone on the field came racing over to me. My glasses lay shattered on the asphalt floor, and I felt a sharp pain in my left eye when I blinked. My wrist throbbed, and I could feel the bump coming up on my forehead. I looked over at first, but without my glasses Danny Saunders was only a blur. I imagined I could still see him grinning.

I saw Mr Galanter put his face next to mine. It was sweaty and full of concern. I wondered what all the fuss was about. I had only lost a pair of glasses, and we had at least two more good pitchers on the team.

‘Are you all right, boy?’ Mr Galanter was saying. He looked at my face and forehead. ‘Somebody wet a handkerchief with cold water!’ he shouted. I wondered why he was shouting.· His voice hurt my head and rang in my ears. I saw Davey Cantor run off, looking frightened. I heard Sidney Goldberg say something, but I couldn’t make out his words. Mr Galanter put his arm around my shoulders and walked me off the field. He sat me down on the bench next to the rabbi. Without my glasses everything more than about ten feet away from me was blurred. I blinked and wondered about the pain in my left eye. I heard voices and shouts and then Mr Galanter was putting a wet handkerchief on my head.

‘You feel dizzy, boy?’ he said. I shook my head.

‘You’re sure now?’

‘I’m all right: I said, and wondered why my voice sounded husky and why talking hurt my head.

‘You sit quiet now,’ Mr Galanter said. ‘You begin to feel dizzy, you let me know right away.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

He went away. I sat on the bench next to the rabbi, who looked at me once, then looked away. I heard shouts in Yiddish. The pain in my left eye was so intense I could feel it in the base of my spine. I sat on the bench a long time, long enough to see us lose the game by a score of eight to seven, long enough to hear the yeshiva team shout with joy, long enough to begin to cry at the pain in my left eye, long enough for Mr Galanter to come over to me at the end of the game, take one look at my face and go running out of the yard to call a cab.

We rode to the Brooklyn Memorial Hospital, which was a few blocks away, and Mr Galanter paid the cab fare. He helped me out, put his arm around my shoulders, and walked me into the emergency ward.

‘Keep that handkerchief over the eye,’ he said. ‘And try not to blink.’ He was very nervous, and his face was covered with sweat. He had taken off his skullcap, and I could see him sweating beneath the hairs on his balding head.

‘Yes, sir,’ I said. I was frightened and was beginning to feel dizzy and nauseated. The pain in my left eye was fierce. I could feel it all along the left side of my body and in my groin.

The nurse at the desk wanted to know what was wrong. ‘He was hit in the eye by a baseball,’ Mr Galanter said.

She asked us to sit down and pressed a button on her desk. We sat down next to a middle-aged man with a blood-soaked bandage around a finger on his right hand. He sat there in obvious pain, resting his finger on his lap and nervously smoking a cigarette despite the sign on the wall that said NO SMOKING.

He looked at us. ‘Ball game?’ he asked.

Mr Galanter nodded. I kept my head straight, because it didn’t hurt so much when I didn’t move it.

The man held up his finger. ‘Car door,’ he said. ‘My kid slammed it on me: He grimaced and put his hand back on his lap.

A nurse carne out of a door at the far end of the room and nodded to the man. He stood up. ‘Take care,’ he said, and went out.

‘How’re you doing?’ Mr Galanter asked me.

‘My eye hurts,’ I told him.

‘How’s the head?’

‘I feel dizzy: ‘Are you nauseous?’

‘A little: ‘You’ll be okay,’ Mr Galanter said, trying to sound encouraging. ‘You get a Purple Heart for today’s work, trooper: But his voice was tense, and he looked frightened.

‘I’m sorry about all this, Mr Galanter,’ I said.

‘What are you sorry about, boy?’ he said. ‘You played a great game: ‘I’m sorry to be putting you to so much trouble: ‘What trouble? Don’t be silly. I’m glad to help one of my troopers: ‘I’m also sorry we lost: ‘So we lost. So what? There’s next year, isn’t there?’

‘Yes, sir: ‘Don’t talk so much. Just take it easy: ‘They’re a tough team,’ I said.

‘That Saunders boy,’ Mr Galanter said, ‘the one who hit you. You know anything about him?’

‘No, sir: ‘I never saw a boy hit a ball like that.’

‘Mr Galanter?’

‘Yes?’

‘My eye really hurts: ‘We’ll be going in in a minute, boy. Hold on. Would your father be home now?’

‘Yes, sir: ‘What’s your phone number?’