The Fan

14

Bobby Rayburn said: “Whenever I get headache pain, I just knock it out of the park with extra-strength Moprin.”

“Fantastic, Bobby,” came a voice from the other side of the bright lights, “DeNiro couldn’t have done it any better. And I worked with him when he was in his prime. Personally. So on this one let’s just try holding the product up the weensiest bit higher. Right about thereabouts. Absolument perfecto. Ready, everybody?”

“Rolling.”

“Speed.”

“Take nine.”

“Anytime you want, Bobby.”

Bobby said: “Whenever I get headache pain, I just knock it out of the park with new extra-strength Moprin.”

“Oscar time, folks. That’s a keeper if I ever… new? He said new? So? Where the hell doesn’t it say new? Stronger that way if you want my hum-”

Whispers.

“All right, everybody. Bobby. The account folks here say we’ve got to lose the new for some reason, FDA blah blah blah, although personally I like it better and think they should be grateful for your creativity, end of bracket, so this time let’s try it sans new, and with the product up nice and high where the art director likes it.”

“Sans new?” said Bobby.

“They don’t want you to say new,” said Wald, also invisible behind the lights.

“I said new?”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Wald. I’ll handle this. Everything’s okay, Bobby. Better than okay. I loved it. We all loved it. But this time let’s just stick to what’s on that tedious old screen.”

“Can he see it from there?”

“Can you see the screen, Bobby?”

“Yes.”

“What a question, with his eyesight. In hindsight. All right, now. In fact, it’s a gas. Ready, everybody?”

“Rolling.”

“Speed.”

“Take ten.”

Bobby said: “Whenever I get headache pain, I just knock it out of the tarp with extra-strength Moprin.”

Silence.

“Tarp?”

“They do that shit for a living?” said Bobby when it was over, and he and Wald were on the plane.

“A good living,” said Wald.

“I hate it,” Bobby said. He hated the way they treated him like an idiot, hated New York, hated planes. He liked only that it was an off-day. Still learning: today he had learned that off-days were good when you were batting. 147 at the beginning of June.

“How do you feel about the four hundred grand?” asked Wald.

“Is that what I’m getting?”

“Less my percentage.”

Bobby shrugged. “Easiest money I ever made.”

“Is it?” said Wald.

The flight attendant appeared. “More champagne, Mr. Wald?”

Wald had more champagne. Bobby had a Coke: no booze until he shook the slump.

“What did you mean by that?” said Bobby.

“By what?”

“When you said, ‘is it?’ ”

“Just making conversation, Bobby.”

The plane landed. They hadn’t even reached the end of the covered ramp before Wald’s phone buzzed. He took it out of his pocket, said, “Yes,” listened, said, “I’ll get back to you,” clicked off.

“Interesting,” he said.

Bobby looked beyond the gate for Val. She was supposed to meet him.

“That was Jewel Stern,” Wald said.

“Who?”

“Radio reporter. You met her down in spring training.”

Bobby tried to remember.

“In her forties. Attractive. She wants to do a piece on you for the New York Times Magazine. ”

Bobby spotted Val, hurrying in with a ponytailed man. “You’re telling her to forget it, right?”

“Might not hurt to meet her,” Wald said.

“Why, for Christ’s sake?”

“The Sunday magazine. A lot of important people read it.”

“So what?”

Val was coming forward, a big smile on her face.

Wald shrugged. “Baseball’s not forever, Bobby.”

“What does that mean?”

Val threw her arms around him. “I’m so glad you’re back, Bobby.” He’d only been gone for the day. “I want you to meet Philip.” The ponytailed man stepped forward. “Philip’s got the most exciting ideas.”

“About what?” Bobby said, shaking hands.

Philip opened his mouth to explain, but Val beat him to it: “The kitchen, Bobby.”

“What kitchen?”

“Our new kitchen, of course. Philip has a whole new approach. He’s an architect, Bobby. Famous.”

“What’s wrong with it the way it is?” Not that Bobby liked the kitchen, particularly, but he knew the fault must be his. How could it be otherwise with its terra-cotta floor, granite countertops, stained-glass windows from a church in some town he’d vaguely heard of?

A kid moved toward them, pencil and paper in hand. “Why don’t we talk about it over dinner?” Val said.

“That sounds perfect,” said Philip. “How about Fellini’s?”

“Have you ever been hypnotized?” the sports psychologist asked Bobby.

“No.”

“It can be very useful in imaging therapy.”

“Therapy?” said Bobby.

“Imaging training,” said the sports psychologist. “A kind of workout. No abracadabra, no Bela Lugosi business. Nothing but science, applied to the mind.”

“What do I do?”

“I just want you to relax, deeply. Deeply, deeply, deeply.” The sports psychologist’s voice deepened and softened with each repetition of the word. “Release the tension from the core of every muscle, from the marrow of every bone, from the nucleus of every brain cell.” Long pause. “If you feel inclined, turn your gaze to the painting on the wall.”

“With the cows?”

“And the farmhouse. Perhaps you’d like to watch the glow of the hearth fire, just visible through that window beside the deep-crimson shutter.”

Pause, perhaps long, perhaps not.

“Bobby?”

“Yes.”

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like you to lie down on the couch now. Yes. Like that, on your back. Comfy?”

“Yes.”

“Can you still see the farmhouse?”

“Yes.”

“And the glow of the fire?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to relax, Bobby, to deeply, deeply relax. Releasing tension. Relaxing.” Pause. “How is your rib cage, Bobby?”

“Fine.”

“No pain?”

“No.”

“No discomfort?”

“No.”

“Good. I want you to relax all the muscles around the rib cage, Bobby, releasing tension from all around the area where it used to hurt. Relax, relax, relax. Let go, let go, let go.”

Bobby sighed.

“Now, Bobby, now that you’re so deeply relaxed, do you think you could tell me what it is you’re afraid of?”

Pause.

“Or worried about?”

Pause.

“Or concerned about?”

“Something happening to Sean. I’m afraid of something happening to Sean.”

“Who is Sean?”

“My son.”

“Is he sick?”

“No-”

“Is-”

“-not to my knowledge.”

“Is there anything wrong with him?”

“No.”

“I see.” Long pause. “What I really meant to ask was what are you afraid of in baseball?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you afraid of getting hit with the ball?”

“No.”

“Are you afraid you’re not going to be able to perform as well as you have in the past?” Long pause.

“Are you afraid that you will have difficulty shutting out the distractions of off-field aspects of your life?”

“No.”

“Are you worried, or concerned, that in any way your new contract will make it harder-not hard, simply harder-to achieve what you’ve achieved in past seasons?”

“Yes.”

Pause.

“Bobby?”

“Yes.”

“Are you still looking at the glow of the fire in the window by the crimson-colored shutter of the little farmhouse?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to picture something, Bobby, an object, to see this object so strongly that everything else-the glow of the fire, the crimson shutter-vanishes. Everything else vanishes, Bobby. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Good. Now I’m going to tell you what it is I want you to see. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“The object is a baseball, Bobby. A perfect white baseball with perfectly even red-stitched seams. Can you see it, Bobby?”

“Yes.”

“See it and only it?”

“Like a coffee-table book.”

“I’m sorry?”

“As clear as those pictures in a coffee-table book.”

“Very good. What is the ball doing, Bobby?”

“Starting to spin.” Pause. “It’s a slider. Outside corner. Maybe low.” Pause. “Maybe not.”

“Could you hit it?”

“Don’t know.”

“I want you to hit it, Bobby. I want you to see that slider all the way, and do all the things you have to do to hit it. I want you to hit it on the sweet spot of the bat, and then I want you to feel the feeling of doing it.”

Long pause.

“Did you see the ball all the way, Bobby?”

“Yes.”

“Did you feel the feeling of hitting it on the sweet spot of the bat?”

“Yes.”

“Did you feel the feeling in every muscle, in every bone, deep in your brain?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. You will remember that feeling, in every muscle, in every bone, deep in your brain. You will remember that feeling, and you will remember that sharp image of that perfectly white baseball with its perfectly even red-stitched seams. Let us just be here in silence, building those memories.”

Silence.

“Bobby, I want you to get up now, to sit in the chair. Good. I’m going to count backward from five, and when I reach zero our session will be over. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Five, four, three, two, one, zero.”

“Philip has a vision,” Val said. They were at Fellini’s, one of those restaurants making a statement that Bobby didn’t understand. “Tell him about it, Philip.”

Philip leaned over the table. “It’s really a shared vision,” he began. “Mine and Valerie’s. Your wife has a good eye, Mr. Rayburn.”

“She does?”

“Certainly. When it comes to design.”

Food came, strange-tasting and not enough. Philip described his vision, a large vision that lasted through dessert. Bobby had stopped paying attention long before that. He didn’t want to hear about sculptured spaces and recessed cans. He wanted to hurry through the rest of the off-day, get to tomorrow, get to the ballpark, get to the plate, hit. He was going to hit: his hands, his wrists, his whole body had the feeling it always had when he was on a roll.

The bill arrived. Philip, drawing on his napkin, made no move to pick it up, so Bobby did. Under the table, Val’s foot pressed against his. “Well, Bobby,” she said, “what do you think?”

“Talk to Wald,” Bobby said, rising.

“Wait,” said Val. “We haven’t even discussed the pool enclosure.”

“Got to go,” said Bobby.

He went home, leaving Val and Philip with their coffee. Val’s mother was reclining in front of the forty-five-inch screen, her fingers in a bowl of popcorn.

“Where’s Sean?”

“Gone to bed, dear,” she said, her eyes on the young Marlon Brando.

Bobby went into Sean’s room. It was dark, except the space-station control panel, glowing in the corner. Bobby went to the bed, gazed down.

Sean was fast asleep. In the light from the space station, Bobby could see that he didn’t look at all like the other Sean, the bald, hollow-faced chemo kid from the hospital. His Sean was almost as big, but he was not yet six, and the other Sean had probably been at least ten. His Sean had thick blond hair, a broad face, broad forehead, well-knit frame. His Sean wasn’t dying. He was sleeping peacefully, recharging the batteries, his hands lying relaxed on the covers. His Sean had nothing in common with the other Sean. The other Sean wasn’t even around anymore, for Christ’s sake. Still, it was bad luck, two Seans, and no amount of rationalizing could change that.

Bobby went over to the space station. Did Sean like it? Bobby didn’t know: he’d been on a road trip almost the whole time since they’d moved in. He sat at the console. There was a message on the screen: “Captain Sean: Invasion of the Arcturian Web requires heroic action. Awaiting instructions.”

Bobby pressed a button. A menu appeared on the screen. “Choices. 1. Abandon planet. 2. Activate Weapon X. 3. Send negotiator bearing intergalactic white flag of peace.”

Bobby rubbed his rib cage. No pain at all, and he felt loose, as loose as he’d felt on the first day of spring training. Point one four seven. Just a stupid joke. In a month, two weeks even, no one would remember. No heroic action required: he just had to get up there and do what he did.

But a hero is what he had been to the other Sean. Hit a home run for me, and you’re my hero, and all that shit. Was hitting home runs on request heroic? It was luck, pure, blind, and simple. And what was luck? The residue of something-preparation? — according to some old baseball saying he’d heard from some coach along the way. Still, he could have handled the other Sean situation, the chemo Sean situation, differently, could have said that the grand slam in the opener had been for a little boy he’d met on a hospital visit in spring training. Or, better, let the facts slip out through that DCR guy, whatever his name was. Or Wald-Wald would have known the best way. A good idea-he was still learning to play the game-but too late.

Bobby selected 3. “Send negotiator bearing intergalactic white flag of peace.”

The screen went blank. A new message popped up. “Alien invasion successful. You are now a prisoner of the Arcturian Web. Awaiting instructions.”

The next day-the first hot day of the year, with the sun shining and the breeze blowing out-Bobby was on the field before anyone else. He ran for a while, feeling loose and strong, stretched, ran some more, broke a sweat. In BP the ball was a perfect white sphere with perfectly even red-stitched seams, and he punished it, sending six drives in a row over the wall in left, the last two over the lights as well. Punished it and felt good.

In the clubhouse Burrows handed him a printout, showing his lifetime stats against Pinero, the opposing pitcher. He was hitting. 471, 24 for 51, with eight doubles, a triple, and six home runs.

“Just remember what I think of stats,” Burrows said.

“What’s that?”

“Half the time they’re bullshit.”

“And the rest of the time?”

“They’re bullshit the other way.”

Bobby smiled. He was starting to like Burrows.

At his stall, Bobby pressed PLAY, listened to a few tunes, then put on his game shirt with number forty-one, not even seeing the digits today, for the first time not bothered by it at all. Then he took the field and went 0 for 4, lowering his average to. 138. The Sox fell to last. Primo hit for the cycle.

Bobby got home after midnight, driving with a beer in his hand, and then another. So what? He wasn’t some salesman on the road late after an office party, or some other-he couldn’t think what; he was Bobby Rayburn, he was under pressure, and he had to relax, had to let go, let go, let go.

Val was in the kitchen with the ponytailed guy, drinking white wine.

“Can I see you?” Bobby said.

Val followed him into the hall.

“What the fuck’s he doing here?”

“Planning, Bobby. The kitchen. You know all about it. And I’d prefer you didn’t talk to me so rudely.”

He gave her a push, not hard. She fell against the wall, her eyes opening wide in surprise. He’d never laid a hand on her. Then she started to cry, or would have, if Philip hadn’t stuck his head around the corner.

“One little point of clarification, Valerie, if you don’t mind.”

“Some other time, Slugger,” Bobby said. “Nighty-night.”

Meaning that Philip should leave. But he just stood there and said, “Sleep well.” So Bobby went upstairs by himself: he didn’t want to do any more pushing.

He took the phone out on the balcony, called Wald. Wald answered after four or five rings, his voice grainy with sleep.

“Missed the game, Bobby. How’d it go?”

“I’ll pay what he wants,” Bobby said. A ship slid across the dark sea, far away. He could distinguish every light showing: there wasn’t anything wrong with his eyes.

“Sorry, Bobby, I don’t get you.”

“Primo. My number.”

“You’re talking about the fifty grand?”

“Right.”

“You’ll pay it?”

“That’s what I just said.” Why not? He was spending twice that or maybe more to fix a kitchen that didn’t need fixing.

“You’re the boss,” Wald said.

“I want you to do it now.”

“Now? It’s-”

“I know what time it is.”

“I’m not sure I can reach-”

“Try.”

“Whatever you say.”

Bobby stayed on the balcony watching the ship sail out of sight. The phone buzzed.

“Yes?”

“No.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I offered them fifty and they turned it down.”

“Who is they?”

“His people.”

“Did they talk to him?”

“They said they did.”

Another ship appeared, smaller than the first, but every light on it just as clear to him. “Offer them more.”

“How much more?”

“Offer them a hundred. Isn’t that what they wanted in the first place?”

“That was then.”

“So?”

“So nothing. A hundred grand’s still a lot of money, Bobby, that’s all.”

“We can always bag the goddamned kitchen.”

Wald was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know, Bobby. I kind of like Philip’s vision.”

Peter Abrahams

The Fan