Free For Love of the Game by Michael Shaara Page B

watched him: she knew. She said: “Very sorry, Billy Boy.” First time she called him that. “It was too soon.” Chapel didn’t understand why. But it was. She said: “I was doing you a favor, because you did one for me … but there’s more to it than that … or should be … or probably never will be. You wanted more than that, and I don’t have it, Billy, I don’t have it. I’m aweeper. I don’t have the right things … for anybody. Or was it—Billy—was it just … too quick? Was I too easy? Was that what it was? Because you are important to me already, you are not just another roll in the hay. What.…”
    “I don’t know what.”
    “Well, I’m sorry. I’ll go. But … thanks, Billy.”
    “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
    Long look. “You want to see me tomorrow? Really?” She was genuinely surprised.
    “Hell, yes.”
    She said: “We won’t go to bed tomorrow.”
    “I want to see you. Do whatever.… Want to go flying?”
    “I just want to have some fun,” she said.
    “I’ll look into the matter.”
    “I think I can make you laugh. I betcha I can.”
    “How about flying? I know this fella who has a plane. Do you like to fly? I was thinking of flying up the river.”
    And they did. And it began. And they did not go to bed for.…
    … tap on the shoulder. Gus.
    “Less go, Chappie.”
    Chapel stood up, yawned dreamily.
    Gus said, with a grin: “No. I mean it’s your turn at the plate.”
    “Oh.” Chapel looked round. Nobody on base. Hell with it.
    Gus: “Now you take it easy. Durkee’s throwin’ in close today. Think he’s tryin’ to keep up with you. Shit. Never will. But we don’t need nothin’.”
    “Eh.” Chapel, who had always been blessed with a fine hitter’s eyesight and excellent reflexes, was going to the plate not truly a good hitter but adequate, adequate: he knew where the ball was and sometimes guessed very well and had he gone into another position, not pitching, he might have had a pleasant surprise. Pops always believed that. With men on base Billy was consistent. But there was nobody on base at all and he did not want to use up the fuel by running, or even just standing there swinging, so he stepped casually up into position giving a happy cheerful peaceful grin, and Joe Birch, knowing him, said: “Howdy, Champ. Hell, you ain’t takin’ us serious.”
    “Josephus.”
    “What the hell you have for breakfast?”
    “Scotch and water.”
    “Hmm. Know what? You get older, goddammit, you gettin’
faster
.”
    “Wait till next time. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
    “Ah, come on. If that’s true, I quit.”
    Durkee threw: right up the middle: strike one. Durkee understood. Ah. Why not? Chapel dug in. Durkee watched him, threw the next one far outside. Chapel chuckled. Durkee grimaced. Chapel said: “Tell him I think it’s time I hit one. Yep. Time to swat.”
    They took him seriously and Durkee got careful and the next two pitches were fastballs, low. Chapel: don’t want to walk. Hell, waste time standin’ out there. Next pitch a slow curve: Chapel hit it on one hop to Durkee, didn’t bother to run, just went a few casual steps and then turned and ambled back to the bench.
    “See you, Josephus.”
    Birch laughed. “Hope I see you.”
    Chapel wandered back, but the inning was already over before he sat down; he stopped by the water cooler and drank that cool clear mountain dew, which was the kind the Old Man had started years ago and always tasted so fine on the warm days, and while he was standing there the next Hawk popped up, and so Chapel went back out for inning number three.
        This was the easiest time, the bottom of the order: the last three men, the pitcher, and Chapel relaxed just a bit, began to glide through it all with some music in the brain and the pitching all clockwork natural, machinelike, precise, more and more instinctive with each passing moment, his head doing all the work back there in the dark overconscious