The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [319]
“I got it,” the center fielder called.
Studs stopped in his tracks, and watched the center fielder gracefully nab the ball on the run. Breathing quickly, but glad that his misjudgment hadn’t been serious, he returned to his position. He waited, over-anxious. A line single was driven to left, the pitcher picked a pop out of the air, and a dumpy texas-leaguer over third base placed runners on first and second.
“You better go back and play in a grammar-school league,” Spunk said, stepping to bat after Pfeiffer had dropped an easy toss at first base.
Spunk waited, swinging left-handed, and Pfeiffer motioned Studs backward. Spunk connected, and the ball travelled high out to Studs, who wavered around in circles, the ball landing three feet away from him.
“Jesus Christ, what a Babe Hermann that was,” the center-fielder exclaimed more loudly than he had intended, while Studs clumsily retrieved the ball. A pain cut paralyzingly into his shoulder when he threw wildly to the infield.
“Take it easy, Lonigan. It’s only a scrub game,” Pfeiffer said when Studs came in abashed at the end of the inning.
“Hell, I haven’t played in years. I used to be pretty good but I’m out of the practice.”
“Everybody muffs a few.”
“Hey, Artie, bushel baskets are cheap these days,” Spunk called from third base.
“I’m going to knock your hands off when I get up,” Artie called.
Studs stood several feet away from the players on his side, who grouped themselves on the grass edge. When he came to bat he’d redeem himself.
Pfeiffer, a left-handed batter, stood at the plate after the first two batters had flied out and, swinging late, stung a line drive just beyond Spunk’s gloved hand.
“What’s that you say about bushel baskets?” he megaphoned through his hands, standing on second base.
“Save us a lick, Pete.”
“I’m getting fed up with nothing to do but lay around this damn park.”
“Write a letter to Hoover. Maybe he’ll put you on some commission and you’ll get a job to help keep other people out of jobs.”
“No, Jack, I’m serious. I ask myself how long is this thing going to keep on.”
“Well, do what I say. Write a letter to Hoover.”
“The bathing beach is going to open soon and maybe we can all get on as life guards.”
“I can’t swim well enough.”
“Hang around until 1933 and you can get a job at the World’s Fair.”
“Swell hit, Pete. Come on, Al, lean on it.”
“All I can say is some damn thing has got to happen.”
“Hire a hall, you ain’t got no kick. Laying around in the sun, playing ball, looking at nursemaids, and hearing the birds sing.”
“Swell catch, Spunk, you lucky bastard.”
Studs waited anxiously in right field, but batter after batter came up without hitting to him. He walked in at the end of the inning more confident. He’d get a rap this time and sock one.
“Save us a bat, lad,” a fellow in a dirty gray sweatshirt called while Studs stepped up with two out. The bat seemed too heavy and, facing the pitcher, he lost confidence.
“Hey, which side am I on?”
“Wait till the inning’s up.”
He decided that this fellow could take his place. He swung late, fizzling a grounder to the pitcher, and didn’t even run. “Hey, Pfeiffer, he can take my place.”
“No, it’s only a scrub game, Lonigan.”
“Well, I’m kind of tired anyway.”
“Come around again and tell the kid brother I was askin’ about him.”
He crossed the driveway and walked along the gravel path flanking the lagoon, which lay below in shimmering sunlight. He should have gone on playing. He would have gotten into his stride, hit some solid ones, and nabbed fly balls, too. It would have been nice passing the time, and they seemed like a decent bunch. He imagined himself driving a home-run over the centerfielder’s head and then making one-handed and shoe-string catches in the outfield. He shrugged his shoulders, laughed at his sudden interest in baseball.
III
His watch pointed at eleven-thirty. What would he do? He could walk home to dinner and that would cut a hole in the long day ahead of him. He ambled on in a careless, unenergetic stride. Was the stock market going up, he asked himself, dropping down on a bench and lighting a cigarette.