"You're just not used to it yet. It gets simple when you play it awhile." He rolled for Hatrack Hines.
Lou drank beer. "That was a good movie today, Henry. You should've come."
"Was it? Look. Hines is a Star and he struck out. See, Lou, you never know."
Lou watched carefully as Henry penned a K on the score-sheet. "There was this guy who kept bees. He was making tape recordings of the sounds they made, see, because he wanted to see if he could communicate with them."
Witness York sent a line-drive single into left center, moving Locke around to third. "Way to go!" Henry said.
"What's that?" Lou put down his beer to take a closer look. He read the numbers on the dice, searched the chart.
"That's the one for Rookies, Lou. Here, this one." This was going to take all night.
"Let's see, 4-4-6: that's that single-advance-two again."
"Right. Puts York on first, Locke on third."
Lou stared down at the table, trying to see it. "I'm already lost, Henry."
"Oh, for God's sake, Lou," Henry cried, losing patience, "it's not that hard. Look, two out, men on first and third, forget who they are. A Star batting. Watch." Infield fly, shortstop. Rally choked off. Somehow he felt it was Lou's fault. In a way, it was. On Casey's chart, it would have been a base on balls, bases loaded. Of course, Locke wouldn't have got his — forget it. "Well, what is it?"
Lou frowned, looked on the wrong chart again. "I don't—"
'This one, Lou!"
"Don't get mad, Henry, I'm only trying — here it is: what's that?"
"Infield fly."
"He's out, hunh?" Henry nodded. "How many is that, Henry?"
"That's three."
"I'm up now?"
"Yes." Henry handed him the dice.
Lou livened up, studied the line-up, saw he had a Rookie batting, put his finger on the Ace-to-Rookie chart, and threw the dice. Strikeout. Lou's finger ran down the chart. "Aw," he said, "that's a strikeout." He threw for McAllister Weeks. Another strikeout. Anyway, Halifax was on the ball today. "Base on balls."
"You're on the wrong chart again, Lou." '
Lou winced despairingly. He found the right one. "Strikeout. Heck." He rolled again. Three in a row. "Infield.. no, wait: I remember, Henry, he's a Star. Ummm: strikeout! again! It sure seems awful easy to get a strikeout in this game," he grumped.
Henry took the dice. While Ingram and Wilder popped up and James flied out to center, Lou told about the beekeeper. "So, anyway, see, he's finally got so he can translate a few
of the things they say and talk back to them, you know, things about going back to the hive, danger, and so on, and — oh, I forgot to tell you about this woman—"
"You're up, Lou."
Lou droned on about the bees while taking his turn, Henry helping him find the result of his throws to speed things up a little. Biff Baldwin popped up to the pitcher and Walt McCamish fouled out, but Bran Maverly doubled off the right-field wall. "Now, what'd I tell you about that boy!" Lou gloated, and Henry had to grin in spit of himself: fattening Flynn and his Daffy Dillies, new image of the Knicks? Lou pumped the dice in his puffy fist. "Seven come eleven!" he piped meaninglessly, and tossed them down. Triple three: injury.
"Now you throw again," Henry explained, after Lou had found the meaning of his throw, "and use this chart. See, the injury can be on either your team or mine. Some are more serious than others, and it makes a difference how old the player is. Your man O'Shea, for example, is twenty, came up this year, Year LVI—"
"Year what—!"
Henry felt the flush come again. Hadn't meant to go that far tonight. "I'll explain all that later Lou. Just go ahead and throw."
That cold Zifferblatt-like expression of incredulity and distrust crept over Lou's wide face, but he picked up the dice and pitched them again. Henry tried to watch it happen: O'Shea's line-drive sailing out to right center, Witness York drifting over for it, Stan Patterson calling for it, Knickerbocker fans raising a howl, drowning them out — but all he could see was Lou running his stubby greasy finger down the chart, lips in a skeptical pucker: "RF Inj Collision w/ CF: D Adv 3, RFout 4 G." Lou sighed deprecatingly. "What's it mean, Henry?"
"It's a double, your other man is home, my right fielder is out of the game." He wrote Tuck Wilson's name into the lineup, replacing Patterson. Out of action for four whole games! What a mess.
"I got a run?"
"That's right. Man on second and two outs."
"What about stolen bases? Can I have that man steal third?'"
"You can try." Oh boy. Steal third with two outs. Way to go, Flynn. "If you want to."
"Okay, why not? Try everything." O'Shea made it. Caught Halifax and Ingram napping. He always thought of catchers as slow, but there were exceptions. Maybe O'Shea was one of them. "I still haven't found it."
"There. He made it. He's safe."
"Look at that! Say, I'm beginning to like this game. Who's up?"
"Your third baseman. Galen Musgraves."
"He's just a plain type, hunh? Maybe I oughta pinch-hit somebody. Is that a good idea?"
"Well, pinch hitters have a slight advantage. But it's only the second inning, Lou. And then you only have one other third baseman."
"Oh, that's enough. How about this fella Sycamore Flynn here?"
"That's your manager."
"Can't bat, hunh?"
"No. Anyway he's in his fifties."
"Oh, the poor guy. Well, how about, uh, Kirk Abalon?"
"If you want." When Lou pronounced them, they did sound like comic book names.
"Okay, write him in there." Lou rubbed the dice between both plump palms. "Come on, big Kirk!"
"Abalon's a little man," Henry said.
Lou cast a glance of total wonder Henry's way. "Okay then," he said with a bemused shake of his head, "come on, little Kirk!" He threw the dice. Incredible. Henry sank back into his chair and drank off his own beer. "Hey, how about that, Henry! That PH means pinch hitter, don't it?" Henry nodded. "So it's a single, advance one, if pinch hitter, and otherwise fly out to right field, runners advance one." Lou clapped his hands. "Way to call those plays!" he congratulated himself. "Listen, where is everybody now?"
'Two runs in, two out, man on first, your pitcher at the plate."
"Not too good a batter, hunh?"
"Odds for him are a little less than those of a Regular hitter, but—"
"Okay, that's what I wanted to know. Who can I put in there? How about that Moon fella? He missed out there at the start, so I'll run him in now. Don't want any bad feelings."
'That's okay, Lou, but there are still seven innings to go, and your Ace—"
"I got another one. Is this Archie Moon big or little?"
Six foot two, 168 pounds, thirty years old, seven years in the Association. Dazzling fielder out in center, good throwing arm. Smooth-swinging choke hitter who sprayed to all fields. One big year in LII when he punched out a.281, just missing Star status. Hair sun-bleached blond, skin tanned, cigarette-ad smile. Played pro tennis in the spring. "He's… pretty big."
"Okay, come on, pretty big Archie!" Lou piped cheerfully. He belched and threw. "What's that?"
"Extra base hit."
Lou found it. "You're right. Now what…?'*
"Throw again. Use this chart."
"Boy, this game takes forever." He threw and Moon tripled. "Hey!" Lou exclaimed when he found the place. "By golly, I think I've got this game figured out. What would've happened if I'd left the pitcher in there?"
"Samelhing."
"Oh?" Lou's enthusiasm sagged. He drank beer. "You want to bat for a while?"
Henry smiled. "You still only have two outs. Keep going." He probably ought to pull Halifax, but he didn't have the energy for it.
Lou shrugged, rolled the dice. Scat Batkin went down swinging. At last. "Maybe I should've had that fella try to steal home," Lou said.