The Twilight Zone: Complete Stories (3 page)

Mouth turned to look expectantly over the little old man’s shoulder. Casey was coming out of the dugout. From cleats to the button on top of his makeshift baseball cap there was a frame roughly six feet, six inches high. The hands at his sides were the dimensions of two good-sized cantaloupes. His shoulders, McGarry thought to himself, made Primo Carnero look like the “before” in a Charles Atlas ad. In short, Casey was long. He was also broad. And in addition, he was one of the most powerful men either McGarry or Beasley had ever seen. He carried himself with the kind of agile grace that bespeaks an athlete and the only jarring note in the whole picture was a face that should have been handsome, but wasn’t, simply because it had no spark, no emotion, no expression of any sort at all. It was just a face. Nice teeth, thin lips, good straight nose, deep-set blue eyes, a shock of sandy hair that hung out from under his baseball cap. But it was a face, McGarry thought, that looked as if it had been painted on.

“You’re the lefty, huh?” McGarry said. ‘‘All right.” He pointed toward the home plate. “You see that guy with the great big mitt on? He’s what’s known as a catcher. His name is Monk. Throw a few into him.”

“Thanks very much, Mr. McGarry,” Casey said dully.

He went toward home plate. Even the voice, McGarry thought. Even the voice. Dead. Spiritless. McGarry picked up another long piece of grass and headed back to the dugout, followed by Beasley and the little old man who looked like something out of Charles Dickens. In the dugout, McGarry assumed his familiar pose of one foot on the parapet, both fists in his hip pockets. Beasley left the dugout to return to his office which was his custom on days the team didn’t play. He would lock himself in his room and add up attendance figures, then look through the want ads of
The New York Times
. Just Stillman and Mouth McGarry stood in the dugout now, and the elderly little man watched everything with wide, fluttering eyes like a kid on a tour through a fireworks factory. McGarry turned to him.

“You his father?”

“Casey’s?” Stillman asked. “Oh, no. He has no father. I guess you’d call me his—well, kind of his creator.”

Dr. Stillman’s words went past McGarry the way the superchief goes by a water tank. “That a fact?” he asked rhetorically. “How old is he?”

“How old is he?” Stillman repeated. He thought for a moment. “Well, that’s a little difficult to say.”

Mouth looked over toward the empty bench with a see-the-kind-of-idiocy-I-have-to-put-up-with kind of look. “That’s a little difficult to say,” he mimicked fiercely.

Stillman hurriedly tried to explain. “What I mean is,” he said, “it’s hard to be chronological when discussing Casey’s age. Because he’s only been in existence for three weeks. What I mean is—he has the physique and mind of roughly a twenty-two-year-old, but in terms of how long he’s been here—the answer to that would be about three weeks.”

The words had poured out of Dr. Stillman’s mouth and McGarry had blinked through the whole speech.

“Would you mind going over that again?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Dr. Stillman said kindly. “It’s really not too difficult. You see I made Casey. I built him.” He smiled a big, beatific smile. “Casey’s a robot,” he said. The old man took a folded and creased document from his vest pocket and held it out to Mouth. “These are the blueprints I worked from,” he said.

Mouth swatted the papers out of the old man’s hand and dug his gnarled knuckles into the sides of his head. That goddamn Beasley. There were no depths to which that sonofabitch wouldn’t go to make his life miserable. He had to gulp several times before he could bring himself to speak to the old man and when finally words came, the voice didn’t sound like his at all.

“Old friend,” his voice came out in a wheeze. “Kind, sweet old man. Gentle grandfather, with the kind eyes, I am very happy that he’s a robot. Of course, that’s what he is.” He patted Stillman’s cheek. “That’s just what he is, a nice robot.” Then there was a sob in his voice as he glared up at the roof of the dugout. “Beasley, you crummy
sonofabitch
!” A robot yet. This fruity old man and that miserable ball club and the world all tumbling down and it just never ended and it never got any better. A robot!

Dr. Stillman scurried after Mouth who had walked up the steps of the dugout and out on to the field. He paused along the third-base line and began to chew grass again. Over his shoulder Casey was throwing pitches into the catcher at home plate, but Mouth didn’t even notice him.

“I dunno!” he said to nobody in particular. “I don’t even know what I’m
doing
in baseball.”

He looked uninterested as Casey threw a curve ball that broke sharply just a foot out in front of home plate and then shrieked into the catcher’s mitt like a small, circular, white express train.

“That Beasley,” Mouth said to the ground. “That guy’s got as much right in the front office as I’ve got in the Alabama State Senate. This guy is a nothing, that’s all. Simply a nothing. He was born a nothing. He’s a nothing now!”

On the mound Casey wound up again and threw a hook that screamed in toward home plate, swerved briefly to the left, shot back to the right, and then landed in the catcher’s mitt exactly where it had been placed as a target. Monk stared at the ball wide-eyed and then toward the young pitcher on the mound. He examined the ball, shook his head, then threw it back to him, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

Meanwhile Mouth continued his daily analysis of the situation to a smiling Dr. Stillman and an empty grandstand. “I’ve had bum teams before,” he was saying. “Real bad outfits. But this one!” He spat out the piece of grass. “These guys make Abner Doubleday a criminal! You know where I got my last pitcher? He was mowing the infield and I discovered that he was the only guy on the club who could reach home plate from the pitcher’s mound on less than two bounces. He is now ensconced as my number two starter. That’s exactly where he’s ensconced!”

He looked out again at Casey to see him throw a straight, fast ball that landed in Monk’s glove and sent smoke rising from home plate. Monk whipped off the glove and held his hand agonizedly. When the pain subsided he stared at the young pitcher disbelievingly. It was then and only then that picture and sound began to register in Mouth McGarry’s mind. He suddenly thought about the last two pitches that he’d seen and his eyebrows shot up like elevators. Monk approached him, holding his injured hand.

“You see him?” Monk asked in an incredulous voice. “That kid? He picks up where Feller left off, I swear to God! He’s got a curve, hook, knuckler, slider and a fast ball that almost went through my palm! He’s got control like he uses radar. This is the best pitcher I ever caught in my life, Mouth!”

Mouth McGarry stood there as if mesmerized, staring at Casey who was walking slowly away from the mound. Monk tucked his catcher’s mitt under his arm and started toward the dugout.

“I swear,” he said as he walked, “I never seen anything like it. Fantastic. He pitches
like nothing human!
”

Mouth McGarry and Dr. Stillman looked at one another. Dr. Stillman’s quiet blue eyes looked knowing and Mouth McGarry chewed furiously down the length of a piece of grass, his last bite taking in a quarter inch of his forefinger. He blew on it, waved it in the air and stuck it in his mouth as he turned toward Stillman, his voice shaking with excitement.

“Look, Grampa,” Mouth said, “I want that boy! Understand? I’ll have a contract drawn up inside of fifteen minutes. And don’t give me no tough talk either. You brought him here on a try-out and that gives us first option.”

“He’s a robot, you know,” Stillman began quietly.

Mouth grabbed him and spoke through clenched teeth. “Grampa,” he said in a quiet fury, “don’t ever say that to nobody! We’ll just keep that in the family here.” Then suddenly remembering, he looked around wildly for the blueprint, picked it up from the ground and shoved it in his shirt pocket. He saw Stillman looking at him.

“Would that be honest?” Stillman said, rubbing his jaw.

Mouth pinched his cheek and said, “You sweet old guy, you’re looking at a desperate man. And if the baseball commissioner ever found out I was using a machine—I’d be dead. D-E-D! Dead, you know?” Mouth’s face brightened into a grimace which vaguely brought to mind a smile when he saw Casey approaching. “I like your stuff, kid,” Mouth said to him. “Now you go into the locker room and change your clothes.” He turned to Stillman. “He wears clothes, don’t he?”

“Oh, by all means,” Stillman answered.

“Good,” Mouth said, satisfied. “Then we’ll go up to Beasley’s office and sign the contract.” He looked at the tall pitcher standing there and shook his head. “If you could pitch once a week like I just seen you pitch, the only thing that stands between us and a pennant is if your battery goes dead or you rust in the rain! As of right now, Mr. Casey—you’re the number one pitcher of the Brooklyn Dodgers!”

Stillman smiled happily and Casey just looked impassive, no expression, no emotion, neither satisfied nor dissatisfied. He just stood there. Mouth hurried back to the dugout, took the steps three at a time and grabbed the phone.

“General Manager’s office,” he screamed into it. “Yeah!” In a moment he heard Beasley’s voice. “Beasley?” he said. “Listen, Beasley, I want you to draw up a contract. It’s for that left-hander. His name is Casey. That’s right. Not just good, Beasley. Fantastic. Now you draw up that contract in a hurry.” There was an angry murmur at the other end of the line. “Who do you think I’m giving orders to,” Mouth demanded. He slammed the phone down then turned to look out toward the field.

Stillman and Casey were heading toward the dugout. Mouth rubbed his jaw pensively. Robot-shmobot, he said to himself. He’s got a curve, knuckler, fast ball, slider, change of pace and hallelujah—he’s got two arms!

He picked up one of Bertram Beasley’s cigars off the ground, smoothed out the pleats and shoved it into his mouth happily. For the first time in many long and bleak months Mouth McGarry had visions of a National League pennant fluttering across his mind. So must John McGraw have felt when he got his first look at Walter Johnson or Muller Higgins, when George Herman Ruth came to him from the Boston Red Sox. And McGarry’s palpitations were surely not unlike those of Marse Joseph McCarthy when a skinny Italian kid named DiMaggio ambled out into center field for the first time. Such was the bonfire of hope that was kindled in Mouth McGarry’s chest as he looked at the blank-faced, giant left-hander walking toward him, carrying on his massive shoulders, albeit invisibly, the fortunes of the Brooklyn Dodgers and Mrs. McGarry’s son, Mouth!

It was a night game against St. Louis forty-eight hours later. The dressing room of the Brooklyn Dodgers was full of noise, clattering cleats, slammed locker doors, the plaintive protests of Bertram Beasley who was accusing the trainer of using too much liniment (at seventy-nine cents a bottle), and the deep, bullfrog profanity of Mouth McGarry who was all over the room, on every bench, in every corner, and in every head of hair.

“You sure he’s got the signals down, Monk?” he asked his catcher for the fourteenth time.

Monk’s eyes went up toward the ceiling and he said tiredly, “Yeah, boss. He knows them.”

Mouth walked over to the pitcher who was just tying up his shoes. “Casey,” he said urgently, wiping the sweat from his forehead, “if you forget them signals—you call time and bring Monk out to you, you understand? I don’t want no cross-ups.” He took out a large handkerchief and mopped his brow, then he pulled out a pill from his side pocket and plopped it into his mouth. “And above all,” he cautioned his young pitcher “—don’t be nervous!”

Casey looked up at him puzzled. “Nervous?” he asked.

Stillman, who had just entered the room, walked over to them smiling. “Nervous, Casey,” he explained, “ill at ease. As if one of your electrodes were—”

Mouth drowned him out loudly, “You know ‘nervous,’ Casey! Like as if there’s two outs in the ninth, you’re one up, and you’re pitchin’ against DiMaggio and he comes up to the plate lookin’ intent!”

Casey stared at him deadpan. “That wouldn’t make me nervous. I don’t know anyone named DiMaggio.”

“He don’t know anyone named DiMaggio,” Monk explained seriously to Mouth McGarry.

“I heard ‘im,” Mouth screamed at him. “I heard ‘im!” He turned to the rest of the players, looked at his watch then bellowed out, “All right, you guys, let’s get going!”

Monk took Casey’s arm and pulled him off the bench and then out the door. The room resounded with the clattering cleats on concrete floor as the players left the room for the dugout above. Mouth McGarry stood alone in the middle of the room and felt a dampness settle all over him. He pulled out a sopping wet handkerchief and wiped his head again.

“This humidity,” he said plaintively to Dr. Stillman who sat on the bench surveying him, “is killing me. I’ve never felt such dampness—I swear to God!”

Stillman looked down at Mouth’s feet. McGarry was standing with one foot in a bucket of water.

“Mr. McGarry,” he pointed to the bucket.

Mouth lifted up his foot sheepishly and shook it. Then he took out his bottle of pills again, popped two of them in his mouth, gulped them down and pointed apologetically to his stomach. “Nerves,” he said. “Terrible nerves. I don’t sleep at night. I keep seeing pennants before my eyes. Great big, red, white and blue pennants. All I can think about is knocking off the Giants and then taking four straight from the Yanks in the World Series.” He sighed deeply. “But for that matter,” he continued, “I’d like to knock off the Phillies and the Cards, too. Or the Braves or Cincinnati.” A forlorn note crept into his voice now. “Or anybody when you come down to it!”

Dr. Stillman smiled at him. “I think Casey will come through for you, Mr. McGarry.”

Mouth looked at the small white-haired man. “What have you got riding on this?” he asked. “What’s your percentage?”

“You mean with Casey?” Stillman said. “Just scientific, that’s all. Purely experimental. I think that Casey is a superman of a sort and I’d like that proven. Once I built a home economist. Marvelous cook. I gained forty-six pounds before I had to dismantle her. Now with Casey’s skills, his strength and his accuracy, I realized he’d be a baseball pitcher. But in order to prove my point I had to have him pitch in competition. Also as an acid test, I had to have him pitch with absolutely the worst ball team I could find.”