The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

‘Okay,’ Joe said, and stood up. ‘Always nice to shoot the shit after a game, but I think I’ll go on home and fuck my wife on the sofa. Winning on Opening Day always makes my pecker stand up.’ He clapped our new catcher on the shoulder. ‘Kid, you played the game the way it’s supposed to be played. Good for you.’

He left. The kid cinched his towel around his waist and started back to the locker room. I said, ‘I see that shaving cut’s all better.’

He stopped dead in the doorway, and although his back was to me, I knew he’d done something out there. The truth was in the way he was standing. I don’t know how to explain it better, but … I knew.

‘What?’ Like he didn’t get me, you know.

‘The shaving cut on your finger.’

‘Oh, that shaving cut. Yuh, all better.’

And out he sails … although, rube that he was, he probably didn’t have a clue where he was going.

Okay, second game of the season. Dandy Dave Sisler on the mound for Boston, and our new catcher is hardly settled into the batter’s box before Sisler chucks a fastball at his head. Would have knocked his fucking eyes out if it had connected, but he snaps his head back – didn’t duck or nothing – and then just cocks his bat again, looking at Sisler as if to say, Go on, Mac, do it again if you want.

The crowd’s screaming like mad and chanting RUN IM! RUN IM! RUN IM! The ump didn’t run Sisler, but he got warned and a cheer went up. I looked over and saw Pinky in the Boston dugout, walking back and forth with his arms folded so tight he looked like he was trying to keep from exploding.

Sisler walks twice around the mound, soaking up the fan-love – boy oh boy, they wanted him drawn and quartered – and then he went to the rosin bag, and then he shook off two or three signs. Taking his time, you know, letting it sink in. The kid all the time just standing there with his bat cocked, comfortable as your gramma squatting on the living room sofa. So Dandy Dave throws a get-me-over fastball right down Broadway and the kid loses it in the left-field bleachers. Tidings was on base and we’re up two to nothing. I bet the people over in New York heard the noise from Swampy when the kid hit that home run.

I thought he’d be grinning when he came around third, but he looked just as serious as a judge. Under his breath he’s muttering, ‘Got it done, Billy, showed that busher and got it done.’

The Doo was the first one to grab him in the dugout and danced him right into the bat rack. Helped him pick up the spilled lumber, too, which was nothing like Danny Dusen, who usually thought he was above such things.

After beating Boston twice and pissing off Pinky Higgins, we went down to Washington and won three straight. The kid hit safe in all three, including his second home run, but Griffith Stadium was a depressing place to play, brother; you could have machine-gunned a running rat in the box seats behind home plate and not had to worry about hitting any fans. Goddam Senators finished over forty back that year. Jesus fucking wept.

The kid was behind the plate for The Doo’s second start down there and damn near caught a no-hitter in his fifth game wearing a big-league uniform. Pete Runnels spoiled it in the ninth – hit a double with one out. After that, the kid went out to the mound, and that time Danny didn’t wave him back. They discussed it a little bit, and then The Doo gave an intentional pass to the next batter, Lou Berberet (see how it all comes back?). That brought up Bob Usher, and he hit into a double play just as sweet as you could ever want: ball game.

That night The Doo and the kid went out to celebrate Dusen’s one hundred and ninety-eighth win. When I saw our newest chick the next day, he was very badly hungover, but he bore that as calmly as he bore having Dave Sisler chuck at his head. I was starting to think we had a real big leaguer on our hands, and wouldn’t be needing Hubie Rattner after all. Or anybody else.

‘You and Danny are getting pretty tight, I guess,’ I says.

‘Tight,’ he agrees, rubbing his temples. ‘Me and The Doo are tight. He says Billy’s his good luck charm.’

‘Does he, now?’

‘Yuh. He says if we stick together, he’ll win twenty-five and they’ll have to give him the Cy Young even if the writers do hate his guts.’

‘That right?’

‘Yessir, that’s right. Granny?’

‘What?’

He was giving me that wide blue stare of his: twenty-twenty vision that saw everything and understood almost nothing. By then I knew he could hardly read, and the only movie he’d ever seen was Bambi. He said he went with the other kids from Ottershow or Outershow – whatever – and I assumed it was his school. I was both right and wrong about that, but it ain’t really the point. The point is that he knew how to play baseball – instinctively, I’d say – but otherwise he was a blackboard with nothing written on it.

‘Tell me again what’s a Cy Young?’

That’s how he was, you see.