The Fan

7

“ You know what you can do with spring training.”

“What’s that, Jewel?”

“Get a grip on that dirty mind of yours, Bernie. What you can do with spring training is what Moby Dick did to Captain Ahab.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Deep-six it, Bernie. Spring training doesn’t mean-what would be a good word?”

“Squat? ”

“Perfect. When are we going to learn? It’s the same routine every year. The pitchers always jump ahead of the hitters-that was certainly true this spring, with none of the Sox swinging the bat well, excepting Primo, who’s turned into Lou Gehrig, for how long we don’t know-and everybody goes to Wallyworld and lowers his handicap. The end.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“It’s the overture, Bernie.”

“I like that. And the curtain goes up today?”

“The moment the president of the United States throws that first pitch in the dirt.”

“How do you know he’s going to do that?”

“Because that’s the way things are breaking for him. Check out the front section of the paper, Bernie. It’s not just a protective wrapper for the sports.”

Opening Day, and a beauty. Snow gone, temperature in the sixties, sky blue. Gil wore his lightweight tan suit, a blue shirt, the lucky yellow tie. He hit Mr. Fixit Hardware at nine on the dot, writing a two-box reorder on Swiss Army knives and selling a dozen Survivors, almost in passing; commission $59.36. Then he went to Cleats, ordered scrambled eggs, bacon, a draft. He took out his Survivor sample, just to assure himself he had really sold some.

“What’s that?” said Leon.

“The future of American blade making.”

“Cool handle. How much?”

“Retail? Seventy, seventy-five.”

Leon reached into his pocket. “How about sixty, for a friend?”

“It’s my sample.”

“Seventy.”

Gil sold the sample for $70. He felt a sudden lightness, as though something inside him had been cut loose from a heavy weight. Luck was in the air; such a rare sensation that at first Gil misidentified it as an alcohol buzz. He ordered another draft, a small one, and studied the Opening Day sports supplements.

The Globe had color photos of all the starters, complete with bios and lifetime stats. Rayburn lived in San Diego, with his wife, Valerie, a former cheerleader at the University of Texas, and their son, Sean, age five. He liked golf, country music, and, best of all, just hanging out with his family.

“Three hundred and twenty-seven doubles,” said Gil.

“Who?” asked Leon.

“Rayburn. That’s averaging better than thirty a year. Averaging.” Gil tore out the half column devoted to Rayburn and put it in his pocket.

“Where are your seats?” Leon asked.

“Right behind home plate.”

“Wave to the camera,” Leon said.

Gil picked Richie up at eleven-thirty. Ellen was waiting at the door, coat on.

“You’re late.”

“Traffic.”

“How original.”

Richie stepped forward, wearing a Sox cap, carrying his glove. “Hi, Slugger,” Gil said.

“Hi.”

“When will you have him back?”

“Hard to say, exactly.”

“Approximately.”

“Depends on the length of the game, right, Slugger?”

“Yeah, Mom. What if it’s thirty-three innings, like Rochester-Pawtucket, 1981?”

Ellen smiled. “Hum-babe,” she said, ruffling Richie’s hair. The moment she said that, Gil found himself wishing that he could undo some things, too many to count; that he could return to some fork in the road that he hadn’t even seen on the way by. Here were all the necessary parts-Richie, Ellen, himself-together in the front hall of Ellen and Tim’s triplex, no longer shaped to forge a whole.

“Six at the latest,” Gil said.

Ellen gave him a look he hadn’t seen in a long time, not completely hostile. Luck was in the air. “Have fun,” she said and kissed Richie good-bye.

They got in the car. Gil made sure the tickets were in his pocket, then flipped on the JOC. “I’m psyched,” he said “How about you?”

“What’s psyched? ”

“You know. Looking forward to it. Excited. Optimistic. Positive.”

“About the game?”

“Opening Day. The season. Everything.” Gil laughed, just for the hell of it.

“Me too,” said Richie. “Think we’ll snag a foul ball?”

“I don’t know. Feeling lucky?”

Richie didn’t answer immediately. Gil glanced at him. He was chewing his lip. “I hope so,” he said. “Today’s the draft.”

“The draft?”

“Whether I make the majors. Jason Pellegrini said his dad’s going to pick me, if I’m still available.”

“If you’re still available? That sounds good.”

“I thought so too,” Richie said.

“You’re a smart boy,” Gil said. “Take after your mom.”

He felt Richie’s eyes on him. “Aren’t you smart?”

“Naw,” Gil said. He turned up the volume. Jewel Stern was on.

“… players can’t help but feel jittery. I’m feeling a bit jittery myself.”

“An old pro like you?”

“Watch how you say that, Norm.”

“Jewel Stern, down at the ball yard. We’ll be back.”

Gil parked in the closest lot to the ballpark-$15. He handed the attendant an extra five. “Keep it unblocked,” he said. “And up front.”

The attendant frowned.

Gil gave him five more. His calculations depended on a quick getaway.

The attendant nodded and pocketed the money.

They were in their seats an hour before game time. On the field, the Sox were still taking BP. Rayburn was in the cage. He topped two pitches toward short, then lofted a fly to medium right. “Close enough for you?” Gil said. Richie looked around. “But how are we going to catch foul balls?” It was true: they were behind the screen and under the net.

“Maybe you could get some autographs instead,” Gil said.

“How?”

Gil pointed to the kids packed around the Sox dugout on the first-base side.

“I can go down there?”

“Why not?”

Gil bought Richie a program, gave him a pen, watched him make his way to the dugout. The players began coming off the field. The kids surged forward, hanging over the railing, waving programs, baseball cards, scraps of paper, shouting the players’ names. Richie tried to push through, was forced back, sat down hard on the steps.

“Don’t cry,” Gil said, but Richie was crying, Gil could see that even from where he was, two or three sections away. He hurried through the almost-empty rows of seats and down the aisle to Richie.

“Stop crying,” he said, raising Richie to his feet, feeling again how bony the boy was; lifting him was effortless.

Richie wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I don’t want any autographs.”

“Sure you do.” Gil took Richie’s hand, pushed through the shouting kids to the rail, towing Richie behind him.

And there was Rayburn, so close he could have touched him. He was big, but not as big as Gil. His white home uniform shone in the sun. Rayburn was signing autographs; he looked at no one and didn’t say a word, just wrote rapidly, while his body leaned almost imperceptibly toward the dugout, as though drawn by gravity. He had a fresh tan, except for pale semicircles under his eyes; but hadn’t shaved that day, and there was a blackhead on the side of his nose. Gil could smell that coconut shampoo he used in the ads, and a faint odor of sweat, although there wasn’t a bead of it on his face.

Gil squeezed Richie forward, against the rail. Richie stood there, hands at his sides, eyes open wide. “Ask him,” Gil said.

“Autograph,” said Richie, the word barely audible even to Gil.

Rayburn signed someone’s scorecard, took a step or two toward the dugout.

“Not like that,” Gil said. “Louder. ‘Can I have your autograph, please?’ ”

Richie raised his voice. “Can I have your autograph, please?”

“ ‘Mr. Rayburn.’ ”

“Mr. Rayburn?”

Rayburn spoke. “That’s it,” he said, and ignoring the pens, pencils, and programs waving in his face, and the cries of “Please!” began moving away.

Gil leaned over the rail. “Hey, come on, Bobby,” he said, perhaps too loudly. “Sign one for the kid.”

Rayburn paused on the top step. His eyes met Gil’s. “You don’t look like a kid to me, Slugger,” he said, and ducked into the dugout.

Gil felt his face go hot. At first, he was aware of nothing else. Then he heard the stadium buzzing all around him. And finally felt the damp little hand in his. He looked down.

“Dad?”

“What is it?”

“How come he’s so mean?”

He let go of Richie’s hand. “When are you going to grow up?”

Richie’s eyes filled with tears.

“Don’t cry, for Christ’s sake,” Gil said. “He has to get ready, that’s all.”

“But he’s got all his stuff on.”

“Mentally.”

“Mentally?”

“The game’s ninety percent mental. Don’t you know that yet?”

“Then I’m going to be good,” Richie said. “I’m getting straight A’s.”

They bought food-hot dogs, onion rings, Coke for Richie, beer for Gil-and took their seats. The ballpark, hung with bunting, soon filled to capacity, kept buzzing. The players were introduced one by one. The marine color guard played “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Then the president of the United States came out and threw the first ball into the dirt. Odell backhanded it smoothly, ran out to the mound, shook the president’s hand. The president laughed at something Odell said, and walked off the field, waving and smiling, to cheers and boos; and all the time that buzz in the background never went away.

The starters ran onto the field; even Boyle, the pitcher, couldn’t quite slow himself down to a walk. He took his warm-ups. Odell threw the last one down to Primo, covering second. The umpire called, “Play,” in a voice that surprised Gil by how high it was, almost female. The batter stepped in. Socko the mascot danced madly on the home-team dugout. Buzzing turned to roaring.

The first pitch was a ball, low. Gil checked his watch. 1:14. Running late already. He went over the calculations one more time: five minutes to the car, fifteen minutes to Everest and Co., five minutes for parking. It meant leaving at 2:05 at the latest.

Ball two, high and inside.

Then half an hour, tops, with the VP, and twenty-five minutes of driving and parking in order to be back in his seat before 3:30, to catch the last two innings-maybe even more, the way they played these days.

Ball three.

“Did you see that curve?” Richie said.

“Just missed.”

“I could really see it.”

Gil wasn’t sure what Richie meant. Was he referring to his eyesight? He gazed down at the boy.

“These seats are great, Dad.”

“Oh,” said Gil. He tried putting his arm around Richie. A white-haired woman in the next seat smiled at them. She wore pearls and a Harvard baseball cap. Opening Day, a beauty, and the Sox were back.

Strike one.

It was 1:36 when Primo led off the home half of the first. He lined the first pitch over the second baseman’s head; clean single. But Primo took the turn at first and kept going. The crowd rose, Gil and Richie too. The throw from right field was on the money. Primo slid headfirst, reaching for the bag. Cloud of dust. Safe. The crowd roared, Gil and Richie too; Richie even jumped up and down a little. He had mustard on his nose. Gil wiped it off with his hand.

“Don’t,” Richie said.

Lanz flied to left, not advancing the runner. Rayburn came to the plate. The crowd rose in welcome, Gil too, but not Richie.

“Why are you clapping?” Richie said. “He’s mean.”

“I explained all that.” Gil stayed on his feet, but he stopped clapping. Still, he thought: bang one, Bobby, bang one. He could stop clapping, but he couldn’t stop his mind from thinking that. Rayburn took his sweet swing and popped to the catcher in foul territory.

1:47.

At the end of the inning, Richie said, “Where are the souvenirs?”

“Like what?”

“Those little bats.”

“Down below.”

“Can I go? Mom gave me some money.”

“Forget that,” said Gil. “You’re with me.”

He went down the ramp, first to the urinals, then to the souvenir stand for the bat. They sold posters too. Gil put his hand on Odell’s, on Boyle’s, on Zamora’s. Someone in the line behind him grew restless. Gil bought the poster of Bobby Rayburn. Quick stop for beers, and back to his seat. Richie was helping himself to peanuts offered by the woman in the Harvard cap and the Sox were batting again.

“What a nice boy you’ve got,” said the woman.

“What happened?”

“Happened?” said the woman.

Gil gestured toward the field, spilling a little beer.

“Quick inning,” she said. She handed the bag of peanuts to Richie. “You keep these,” she said, and turned to the diamond.

“Here,” said Gil.

“Thanks.” Richie put the bat and the poster on the seat beside him. Gil checked the time. 1:59.

“Having fun?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve got to go for a little while,” Gil said.

“Go?”

“Just make some calls. You sit tight. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Do you have to pee or anything?”

“No.”

“Good.” He patted Richie’s shoulder. 2:01. Down on the field, the Sox had something going. First and second, nobody out. A sac bunt. 2:04. He could get to the car in three minutes or less, if he ran. Base on balls to Primo. 2:08. He didn’t need five minutes for parking; he could doublepark if necessary. Lanz went to a full count, fouled off the next pitch. Socko raised his huge three-fingered hands to the heavens.

“Come on, come on,” Gil shouted.

Lanz fouled off three more before striking out. Socko rolled over and died on the dugout roof. Gil hated mascots.

2:14. Rayburn walked in from the on-deck circle, entered the batter’s box. The pitcher toed the rubber. Rayburn stepped out, knocked the dirt from his cleats.

“Jesus Christ, let’s go,” Gil shouted, barely conscious of the Harvard woman’s eyes on him.

Ball one, outside.

Rayburn stepped out again. 2:16.

“Down in front, down in front.”

Strike one, swinging. Rayburn glanced back at the umpire.

“Down in front.” Gil felt a tug on his jacket, realized he was standing, sat.

Ball two. 2:18. Rayburn tapped his cleats again.

“Let’s go, let’s go.”

“Down in front.” Another tug. Gil wheeled around, spilling more beer, this time down his shirt.

“Get your hands off me,” he said to the man sitting behind him.

“How am I supposed to see?”

“Just ask politely,” Gil said, feeling the weight of the thrower around his leg.

“I did.”

“Down in front, down in front,” yelled someone else.

Gil heard the ball smack leather, turned to see the catcher throwing back to the pitcher. Strike two. 2:19.

Then came a ball, a foul, another foul. Rayburn stepped out.

“For fuck sake.”

“Down in front.”

The stadium buzzed, louder and louder, beer seeped down his shirt. 2:23. He gazed at the numbers on his watch, and their meaning penetrated. All at once, his tie felt too tight and his heart began to race. He knew the meaning of 2:23: Move, asshole.

Gil pushed past Richie, past the Harvard woman’s stare, into the aisle. By the time he reached the ramp, he was running. He ran through the darkness under the stands, loosening his tie, pumping like a sprinter. A tremendous roar went up from the crowd. The whole stadium shook. The vibration came up from the cement floor, through the soles of Gil’s shoes, into his body.