Lefty had as fast a pair of legs on him as he had a fast ball. He hit two batters, struck out eleven, and didn’t walk a man. The way he could move when a batter was charging him, bat in hand, was something to see. It took me back to the time when he and I were a team and how after he’d put a pedestrian on the ground with his Coke bottle he sped like the wind down the alley and out of sight. Now he was fleeing to the umpire for protection — or to the wide open spaces in centerfield, if necessary — to escape a charging batter.
Lefty had real talent. And he’d always known I’d never squeal on him. He’d sized me up, he said, before he ever let me be his partner. But when you spend four years in stir and the other guy, equally guilty, gets off free and has his name glorified in the sports pages, you begin to see things in a different light.
Me, I got a hot temper — like the time I slugged the guard and had to do two extra years — but I also brood a lot, and I never forget something when I feel like I ain’t been treated right.
The morning after the game I saw Lefty pitch, the Tulsa sports pages really made Lefty a big man. Eleven strikeouts — a shutout for the team. Lefty, they said, was certain to make the Cardinals next year. He had the speed of Bob Gibson, they said.
But I knew the sports writers were talking through their hats. Lefty wasn’t going anywhere next year. I bought the heaviest bat I could find at a sporting-goods store, stationed myself in an alley near the Tulsa ball club’s hotel, and waited there several nights, knowing my time would come. Once or twice Lefty passed with several other players, his mouth moving, same as usual. I could hear him coming long before he reached the alley, but I couldn’t do anything with those other guys around.
Then one night he came past alone, after the club’s curfew hour. He was starting out for a spree and was already half lit. The night was young for him and his future looked great.
“Lefty!” I called from the alley.
He stopped. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Mickey — your old pal.”
“Hey, Mickey! What do you need? A handout?”
His voice had the old arrogance I’d hated. He stepped toward me in the darkness of the alley. I swung for a home run with the power that had made me the home-run king of the prison league. The blow almost tore off the top of Lefty’s head. The Cardinals would have to get along without him next year.
I hurried through the darkness for blocks until I reached the bank of the Arkansas River, where I tossed the bat as far as I could. It hit the water with a slap out there in the darkness. It might float clear to the Gulf of Mexico before anybody noticed it. Anyway, my fingerprints would be washed off.
I turned back then, whistling. A burden had been lifted from my shoulders. Tomorrow was a new day. Maybe I could get a job selling peanuts and Cokes at the Tulsa ball park. And who could tell? Maybe in time I could become the best selling vendor at Busch Stadium in St. Louis.
The Forced Retirement of Elton Pringle
by Nancy C. Swoboda
The years had eroded rather than enhanced their marriage. Elton Pringle, trim, promising young business-equipment executive, had at age fifty become a balding, paunchy lump of clay. His fading lack of initiative had reduced him to a static, unchallenging salesman’s position with which he was perfectly satisfied. There was always Doris’s nest egg to smooth him over the rough spots.
Doris Pringle — exacting, fastidious, and extremely conscious of what others might think — had come to regard her husband in the same league with the aphids that threatened her roses, a blight that could dim the glory of her colorful garden. Periodically, he had eaten into her inheritance because of his failures. But then, what would people think if they found out that the Pringles were in financial difficulty?
She had always lived her life according to appearances. It was a tacit challenge among her peers to catch Doris without her makeup, with a strand of hair out of place. The story circulated for years about a local group who flew to Europe for a tour and observed Doris sitting bolt upright for the six-hour flight and emerging at Orly perfectly coiffed, pressed, and painted.
Lest someone drive by and see a weed or a bit of chipped paint, Doris kept the yard and house in House Beautiful condition. The dog Elton brought to live with them, surely as a small source of respect and affection for him, was given away because the poor creature turned the grass yellow in spots and traumatized the zinnias.
Elton’s favorite pastime was to settle deeply into his recliner in front of the television set and dust potato-chip crumbs comfortably across his wide girth. His relaxation was usually interrupted by the whine of the vacuum cleaner, vigorously wielded by his wife.
“What if someone stops by?” was her response to his futile protests.
For a time she had monitored his diet, tried to keep his weight at a reasonable level, but it was a hopeless, thankless endeavor. He would simply gorge himself during working hours and come home dutifully to watercress dinners. To preserve at least an illusion of trimness she insisted he have his clothes tailored to minimize his bulk. But at best, he reminded her of a well dressed bullfrog.
Doris was proud of her slim figure. It seemed she could exist for days on a piece of cheese while she cleaned or worked in her garden. The garden was her outlet, her refuge. Having children had never interested her. Tending and nurturing her plants and flowers was satisfaction enough.
The back yard was enclosed within a privacy fence. Flower beds ran along the sides, the garden to the rear was bordered with stepping stones and a latticework archway. In the quiet of late afternoons Doris indulged herself by relaxing on the patio chaise and gazing contentedly at her creation. She alone had turned every shovelful of earth, laid out the borders, rid her paradise of every weed.
With Elton becoming more and more of an irritant in her orderly life, the garden was a panacea. Doris never discussed her private life with anyone. From outward appearances, the Pringles were a comfortable middle-aged couple — Elton a bit henpecked, Doris a bit too fastidious, but a compatible twosome.
One late afternoon in the spring, Doris paced the house nervously. She was impeccably attired in white slacks, sandals, and a stylish blouse. Elton was late. They were due for the annual dinner cruise down the river with the Hestons. The hors d’oeuvres were wrapped, a bottle of vodka packed, and their jackets were on the hall chair ready to go.
She heard him drive up and opened the door. “Where have you been?” she said, peevishly. “You have ten minutes to change. And wear your navy pants. They make you look thinner.”
He’d been drinking. Carelessly, he tossed his briefcase in the hall closet and swung around belligerently. “Listen, today I—”
“Later,” Doris said. “Hurry! You won’t even have time to shower!”
“Sure, sure.” He lumbered up the stairs. “Gotta be on time. Can’t keep Doris’s friends waiting.”
The Hestons had a natty little sixteen-footer and liked to play host to their friends by boating down the river for shore cookouts or putting in at the marina for dinner. Normally Elton enjoyed these excursions, but this night he sat, his drink in his hand, and stared out at the water.
“Ol’ Muddy,” he muttered glumly. “Keeps moving on. Wonder where it goes?”
Nervously, Doris tried to cover his rude detachment with small talk and frequent offerings of her hors d’oeuvres. By the end of the evening her jaw was clamped into a fixed smile.
“It was lovely, as usual,” she assured the Hestons as they parted and then whispered, “Elton’s allergy has been bothering him all day. I’m sorry he’s such a stick.”