Free The Natural by Bernard Malamud

“Stick around, buster, you will get yours.”
    Roy knew he would never like the guy.
    Bump told him his room number and they exchanged keys, then Roy put a few things into his valise and went downstairs.
    Coming along the fourth floor hall he saw a door half open and figured this was it. As he pulled the knob he froze, for there with her back to him stood a slim, redheaded girl in black panties and brassiere. She was combing her hair before a mirror on the wall as the light streamed in around her through the billowy curtains. When she saw him in the mirror she let out a scream. He stepped back as if he had been kicked in the face. Then the door slammed and he had a splitting headache.
    Bump’s room was next door so Roy went in and lay down on the bed, amid four purple walls traced through with leaves flying among white baskets of fruit, some loaded high and some spilled over. He lay there till the pain in his brain eased.
    At 6:30 he went down and met Red, in a droopy linen suit, and they had steaks in a nearby chophouse. Roy had two and plenty of mashed potatoes. Afterwards they walked up Fifth Avenue. He felt better after the meal.
    â€œWant to see the Village?” Red said.
    â€œWhat’s in it?”
    Red picked his teeth. “Beats me. Whatever they got I can’t find it. How about a picture?”
    Roy was agreeable so they dropped into a movie. It was a picture about a city guy who came to the country, where he had a satisfying love affair with a girl he met. Roy enjoyed it.
As they walked back to the hotel the night was soft and summery. He thought about the black-brassiered girl in the next room.
    Red talked about the Knights. “They are not a bad bunch of players, but they aren’t playing together and it’s mostly Bump’s fault. He is for Bump and not for the team. Fowler, Schultz, Hinkle, and Hill are all good pitchers and could maybe be fifteen or twenty game winners if they got some support in the clutches, which they don’t, and whatever Bump gives them in hitting he takes away with his lousy fielding.”
    â€œHow’s that?”
    â€œHe’s just so damn lazy. Pop has thrown many a fine and suspension at him, but after that he will go into a slump on purpose and we don’t win a one. If I was Pop I’da had his ass long ago, but Pop thinks a hitter like him could be a bell cow and lead the rest ahead, so he keeps hoping he will reform. If we could get the team rolling we’d be out of the cellar in no time.”
    They were approaching the hotel and Roy counted with his eyes up to the fourth floor and watched the curtains in the windows.
    â€œI read Scotty’s report on you,” Red said. “He says you are a terrific hitter. How come you didn’t start playing when you were younger?”
    â€œI did but I flopped.” Roy was evasive.
    Red cringed. “Don’t say that word around here.”
    â€œWhat word?”
    â€œFlopped—at least not anywhere near Pop. He starts to cry when he hears it.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œDidn’t you ever hear about Fisher’s Flop?”
    â€œSeems to me I did but I am not sure.”
    Red told him the story. “About forty years ago Pop was the third sacker for the old Sox when they got into their first World Series after twenty years. They sure wanted to take the
flag that year but so did the Athletics, who they were playing, and it was a rough contest all the way into the seventh game. That one was played at Philly and from the first inning the score stood at 3-3, until the Athletics drove the tie-breaker across in the last of the eighth. In the ninth the Sox’s power was due up but they started out bad. The leadoffer hit a blooper to short, the second struck out, and the third was Pop. It was up to him. He let one go for a strike, then he slammed a low, inside pitch for a tremendous knock.
    â€œThe ball sailed out to deep center,” Red said,