The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [318]
He felt tired, and the hell with that nutty guy. He had been thinking about old times, too, when the fellow had interrupted him to give that phony Bolshevik spiel.
II
Studs stood on the grass edge of the large, rectangular skin-dirt athletic field, hearing the crack of a baseball bat while a group of fellows snapped through infield practice, and clad in a khaki shirt fungoed flies to five others in the outfield. About five yards from him a group of four sat watching.
The third baseman, a lank lad in a faded blue shirt, fozzled a ground ball, and, seeking hurriedly to pick it up, kicked it around in the dirt.
“The bush leagues for you, Spunk.”
“Get off your can and come out here and do better.”
“The bushes, boy. You’re getting old.”
“All right, Cal, get the lead out of your tail,” one of the fungo hitters called, lifting a long high fly which was easily caught by a swarthy left-handed fellow in a white shirt.
Studs watched the infield practice, the grounders slapped hard, cutting over the dirt, the ball snapped around from player to player. They were pretty good, and they worked fast. Even though he had never cared a hell of a lot for baseball, it was something to watch, neat, quick work. The shortstop ran low to his left, smeared a fast grounder with one hand, bobbed the ball, off balance, to the second baseman, who caught it, wheeled around in the same motion and whipped the ball to first base.
“Spunk, how do you like that?” one of those on the grass called while the ball was pegged around.
“This is the million-dollar infield.”
“Yes, if it had a third baseman.”
Studs edged a bit closer to the group on the grass. Looked like a nice bunch of lads, and they had enough for a game. He’d like to play.
“That boy Spunk is good.”
“He ought to get a try-out in the big shows.”
“He’s good around here, but he wouldn’t make the grade. Can’t hit a sharp-breaking curve ball. A pitcher like Jack Casey, who was with me at the Braves training camp last year, could make him eat out of his hand. And Jack never made the grade.”
“How about you, Artie?”
“Couldn’t get myself lined up, so I’m playing semi-pro. Hell, this country is full of guys trying to get into the game, and plenty of them are good. With minor leagues folding up like tents, and with old-timers coming down from the big leagues and the Class A. A. outfits, and then with chain-store systems like the one the Cardinals run, it’s damn hard getting lined up even in a dinky little X. Y. Z. league.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Look at Jack. He thought he’d make a go of it in pro athletics, and he did have one good season in the Three I League but then he threw his arm out. He’s up the creek, and he doesn’t make any too much peddling insurance. If I could get a decent job, I’d throw the idea up, too, and stick to my job, maybe just picking up a few pennies on Sunday playing semi-pro and having some fun playing basketball in the Christopher League in winter.”
A Christy. Studs looked at him, a light-haired, husky, square-faced fellow in his early twenties, the kind of a mugg and build a ball player would have.
“Let’s get going with the game,” Spunk called, walking in.
Studs watched them choosing up, hoping, because there were only seventeen.
“Hey, lad, want to play?”
“Sure, all right,” he said, slowly taking off his coat.
“You’re on my side,” the fellow named Artie said.
“Say, I just heard you talking. You’re a Christy, aren’t you? I just went through Kempis Council. My name’s Lonigan.”
“Mine’s Pfeiffer, Timothy Murphy Council. Say, a young kid named Lonigan went to Mary Our Mother when I was there.”
“Yeah, that was my kid brother.”
“What ever happened to him? I know he left M. O. M. to go to Tower Tech.”
“He’s working a little with my old man in the painting business.”
Studs put his left hand in the fielder’s glove offered him and walked nonchalantly out to right field. He stood with hands on hips, waiting. Easy pitching and he’d get by, even if he hadn’t played in years. And it would keep him in the sun. He bent forward with his hands on his knees, while the pitcher lobbed the ball up to the right-handed batter, a short fellow in a gray shirt. A high fly soared toward right center and Studs, seeing the ball come somewhere near him, ran forward to his right, confused, afraid of muffing the catch. Seeing that he was misjudging it, he ran backward, still to his right, with his eye on the lowering ball.