The Complete Collection. William Wharton

around it. Now, Billy has never played baseball. He doesn’t even know the names of the positions. If I said shortstop, it wouldn’t mean anything to him. Like as not, he’d think it’s some soft drink or a deodorant for men.

      But, God, as a kid, I lived, breathed, died for baseball. There was no way I could’ve survived in my neighborhood if I didn’t play. Our year wasn’t spring, summer, fall, winter. It was baseball, football, basketball and ice hockey. We squeezed the kite, roller-skating and swimming seasons in the spaces.

      By March I’d be down in the cellar taping up balls and bats. Soon as the snow was gone we were throwing balls against steps, getting our eyes and arms in shape. We had more damned varieties of games we played against cement steps with tennis balls. Then, all summer long, it was baseball. We went from after breakfast till nine o’clock at night. We’d keep games going when you could only see the ball if it was against the sky.

      We’d play three or four nine-inning baseball games every day. The second game was at lunchtime and the unchosen usually got to play then. Bringing your lunch was an admission of defeat.

      Mornings, I’d put on my ragtag baseball uniform, crowned by my Philadelphia A’s baseball cap, fill a milk bottle with water, hang my glove on the end of the bat, tuck a ball in my pocket and go down to the baseball field. There’d always be a bunch there ready to play. It was usually choose up; we rarely had regular teams; but we always had more than enough to make two full nines, and it was tough competition getting chosen. There were whole rituals for the choosing process, involving swinging a bat round your head three times after catching it and then hand-fitting around the bat. After the teams were chosen, there were backup jobs for the unlucky: scorekeeping, umping, shagging fouls and hunting lost balls.

      It was interesting how the slotting happened, how you found out just what you could play according to your skills and abilities. At first, I caught because I wasn’t agile or quick enough to play infield and I wasn’t a good enough hitter to play outfield, even right field.

      But I wasn’t strong enough to be a good catcher either. When Ray Ziggenfuss moved into the neighborhood, it wasn’t long before I knew my days as catcher were over. Ray was strong, quick with his hands and he could hit. He could hit well enough to play outfield but he wanted to catch. A kid named Mickey Mullens was the other catcher and he was good, too. I was about to be slotted as foulchaser and lunch-bringer.

      I took my carefully saved Christmas money, and bought a genuine first baseman’s mitt. I practiced tagging and making all the combinations, day and night, for weeks. My left foot could stretch back the full length of my body. I could reach and grab with that glove like a lizard catching flies. It was the one place in the infield where I might make it.

      Only I wasn’t left-handed. A left-handed first-baseman has a tremendous advantage; his gloved hand’s to the infield so he has a bit more reach toward the ball. Also left-handers had an advantage on right-handed pitchers.

      So I still didn’t make it. I worked my way from foul-chasing to scorekeeping but I wanted to play more than one game a day.

      I decided to become a pitcher. In our neighborhood, pitching was the nonathlete’s job. I worked for hours pitching to Ziggenfuss or at a circle on a brick wall, and developed into a fairly accurate thrower with a reasonable slider. In those days we called it a drop or a hook. Today they call a hook a curve and what we called a curve, a screwball. Even baseball changes.

      Now here Billy and I are in this little Kansas town and two college teams are having a game. I’m excited; Billy says he’ll come but he’s not enthusiastic.

      We pass some motorcycles in the parking lot. The local thugs are racing each other fifty-yard sprints. I have a hard time getting Billy past this but we do get inside for the beginning of the game.

      There’s the smell of cigarettes being smoked outside, of wire, fresh paint and the overall odor of peanuts and hot dogs. This is an American baseball game complete with handles.

      But the quality of play isn’t so hot. We’ve probably all been spoiled with so much professional-level ball on TV.

      Billy’s bored out of his mind, anyway. I keep trying to explain what’s going on but it doesn’t mean anything to him. It’s no secret baseball’s a subtle strategy game. If you can’t go along with the minor shifting decisions, it can be a drag. If you don’t know how the infield should play with men on first and third, two out, actionwise, it’s only one guy throwing a ball past another with a stick.

      Billy sees it as really dumb.

      ‘Christ, look at that guy standing way out there, Dad!’

      He points to the right fielder.

      ‘Nobody’s hit one ball to him all night. He’s either standing, waiting for nothing, or running back and forth. And that fat one, squatting behind the guy with the club, is liable to find his left ear growing on the right side of his head.’

      I give up and enjoy the game. It’s too late, too many years in Europe. When the game’s over, we head back to the motel. I didn’t realize how tired I was. I lie there thinking about what different lives Billy and I have led. We’ve lived together most of his life but we haven’t actually shared much. It’s too damned bad.

       12

      That evening Billy shows up. I’m asleep and Mother’s still up watching the Johnny Carson show.

      It’s amazing she didn’t drop over dead. The first thing I know is the damned intercom beside my bed buzzes. It’s Mom, practically hysterical.

      ‘Jacky, come! COME! Billy’s here!’

      My brain’s spinning. ‘Billy here? Billy’s in Santa Cruz. He can’t be here.’ I come staggering out in my sleeping ex-running suit, portrait of the lost athlete.

      But there he is. I haven’t seen Billy since he left Paris for school. It’s damned nice to see him. We give each other a semi-hug. My God, he smells like a whore’s shoes. I step back and he’s a sight! He looks undernourished, pimply. When Billy doesn’t eat right, he breaks out. His clothes are filthy, his shoes falling off his feet.

      Mother’s standing there, her hands in little fists over her mouth. I have to admit, he’s enough to make anybody cry. He looks like an overgrown edition of a drawing for a Boys’ Town Christmas seal.

      He tells us he got a letter from Vron saying Grandma’s sick. He asks her how she’s feeling, but she still can’t talk.

      I tell him Dad’s sick now and is in the hospital. I’m trying to maneuver Mom into a chair. I don’t know how much to tell Billy about Dad here in front of Mom.

      I’m figuring where to put him. The best is the garden room where I’ve been sleeping. Out there it’s less chance he’ll bug Mom. I’ll move up here to the side room. I’ll give him a key and tell him to keep that place locked up. The way he slops his stuff, beds unmade and all, it could be too much. I can see she’s already working up a scene.

      I’m somewhat disturbed myself. If he looks bad to me, he must look ten times worse to Mom. Before I know it, she’s dashed into the bathroom and started a bath. I drag her back to the chair. I ask her to go to bed but she doesn’t move.

      ‘Please, Mother. It’s late.’

      I know every minute she’s out here looking at Billy she’s digging her grave. I help her from the chair and lead her to the bedroom. I ease her into bed, get a glass of water and Valium. I put these on the night-stand.

      I dash back and tell Billy to get those clothes off, and take a bath.

      ‘Put the clothes you’re wearing and any clothes in your sack into the clothes hamper. I’ll wash them tomorrow. Here’s a bathrobe and a pair of Granddad’s pajamas.’

      I’m not waiting for Joan, I’ll take those things to the Laundromat