Free The Loud Silence of Francine Green by Karen Cushman Page B

me.
    "Not
everything,
" I said softly.
    Mr. Mandelbaum stared at me solemnly, smoke circling his head. "You maybe want to act, Francine?" he asked.
    "No, she's too chicken," said Sophie. "She wouldn't like everybody looking at her."
    What did Sophie know? I looked down at my lap, embarrassed.
    "Acting, you know, is like baseball," Mr. Mandelbaum said, puffing on his cigar. "Listen and I'll tell you."
    Mr. Bowman laughed and said, "This sounds like a two-beer story, Jacob. Wait a minute and I'll get us another one."
    Mr. Mandelbaum took a long drink of the new beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "So," he said, "once Lefty Gomez—I think it was Lefty Gomez. Or Dizzy Dean. No, Lefty Gomez. So anyway, in this one game he was pitching, the right fielder—was it Butch Moran? No. Never mind—the right fielder was a bum. Couldn't catch the ball to save his soul. Every time a hitter hit to right field, this fielder

would miss the ball, it would hit the fence and bounce off, and by the time he chased it down and threw to second base, a single had become a double, a double had become a triple. It happened one, twice, three times.

    "The other team catches on. They start hitting every ball to right field and scoring runs off the fielder's mistakes, and still he can't catch the ball. Finally, Lefty, he gives the right fielder such a frown, like he's daring the guy to miss again." Mr. Mandelbaum leaped up. He twisted his face into the grouchiest of frowns and started twirling his arm like a windmill. "Lefty winds up and pitches. The batter swings. The ball flies into right field, goes right through the fielder's hands, and bounces off the fence. By the time he grabs it and throws it to third, another run scores.
    "The ball comes back to Lefty. He's so angry, steam is coming out of his ears. He turns and stares at the right fielder. But the right fielder, his back is to Lefty. He's looking at the fence, examining it, like there's something wrong with the fence and that's the problem. Lefty, he's so mad, he winds up and throws the ball, not to the batter, but right at the Joe Knucklehead in right field. The throw is high, it hits the fence, just in front of the guy. The fielder, still staring at the fence, thinks it's a hit. This time he grabs it, spins, and sends a perfect throw to second base!" Mr. Mandelbaum grabbed at the air, spun, and mimicked a perfect throw. "Of course, there's no runner there. No runner anywhere. Everyone's laughing at the schmo in right field, and Lefty looks like he'll explode." He laughed until his cheeks were wet with tears. "No runner. What a schmo! True story."
    We applauded noisily. Mr. Mandelbaum bowed to us, sat down, and puffed again on the awful black cigar.

    "That's pretty funny, Mr. M," Sophie said, "but what does it have to do with acting?"
    "It's like this," Mr. Mandelbaum said. "As long as you're nervous out there, worried about making the play, about people watching you, about making a mistake, you won't do it right, whether you're in right field or on a movie set. You have to relax and let the ball come to you. Forget you are bashful and people are looking. Just relax and let the magic come. That's baseball. And acting. Probably life, too."
    I stared at Mr. Mandelbaum. He seemed twice as big as the rest of us, with his loud voice and wild ideas. Defending the communists? Comparing acting to baseball? I never heard such things before. I could see why Sophie and her father liked Mr. Mandelbaum despite the smelly cigar.
    "'Just relax and let the magic come,'" said Sophie as she walked me home. "What does
that
mean?"
    "I think I get it," I said. "It's like dancing."

14
Hammering the Nail Back into Place
    Sometimes when she's really excited, Sister Basil spits when she talks, and the girls in the front row try to hide behind their books. I know that Saint Comgall worked miracles with his magic spit, but all Sister Basil does is speckle the books, so it was a relief to watch a film in