"What's the matter, Henry?" asked Lou, starting up, suddenly concerned.
"He struck out."
"Oh. I thought you were, that something. . well." He settled back with his beer.
Come on, Ramsey, damn it! A little pepper, boys, we gotta get a — Ramsey, waiting Casey out, watched a third strike go by. "You're up."
"Are you mad about something, Henry?"
Henry sighed. "No, go ahead and throw."
"Listen, let's go out and get another one of those pizzas."
"Ate too much already. Throw."
"Henry—"
"Throw, Lou, for crying out loud!"
Lou looked blearily disturbed, but he threw the dice just the same. Wait a minute. Get a new pitcher in. Who. .? Shadwell. No, he pitched yesterday. That's okay, the Knicks — no, it isn't okay. McDermott. He'd made mistakes like that before, pinch-hit for a pitcher then forgot he was out of the game and gone on using him, and it had been hell each time to get everything straightened out after.
They played in silence, except for Henry's reading of the significance of each throw, as he pointed the place for Lou. Batkin and Weeks walked, putting McDermott in trouble right off. Garrison flied out to left and Baldwin to right, Batkin advancing to third and then on home after the catches, Baldwin getting the RBI. McCamish walked and then Maverly singled, loading the bases and getting an "I told you so" peep out of Lou, but O'Shea struck out. Four to two. Casey'd be up at bat next inning and Lou would no doubt use another pinch hitter: it was now or never. Unless Lou was too sleepy and forgot. Couldn't take that chance. Barney sent Rusty Palmers in to bat for Locke. Locke had one for two in the ball game. .? That's all right. Play percentages. Bancroft's style, wasn't it? Didn't work. Palmers grounded out, second to first. The boys clapped him in, though. Don't lose the spirit. Remember who this guy is out there. They all knew. Barney didn't have to spell it out. Damon's killer. And then it happened! Hatrack Hines leaned into one and sent it clean out of the park: 6-6-6! Boy, were they pretty! "Now, we're going, men! we got him on the run! whoop it up! on your feet! chin music! It's the Mad Jock out there, boys, old Poppycock! And it's York up there now, come on, Witness baby — hey, Lou! where are you going?"
Lou already had his coat on. "I kept trying to tell you, Henry, but you weren't listening." Lou was a little unsteady; you couldn't really tell it with Lou, except that he planted his feet a little wider apart than usual. "It's after midnight. Tomorrow's a working day. We gotta be there—you gotta be there, Henry. It's your last chance—"
"Lou, wait a minute! I just rolled a home run—"
"We can finish it next week, Henry."
"Next week! I'll be into the next season by next week!" he cried.
"Henry, remember what Mr. Zifferblatt—"
"Oh, to hell with Zifferblatt, Lou! Listen, I just rolled a triple six. That moves the game to the special Stress Chart!"
"Well, that's nice, Henry, but—"
"That only happens twice in every three games, Lou! Don't you see? Anything can happen now! Come on, play out this inning anyway."
"Aw, Henry. ." he whined, but he came over.
Henry flung the dice: "Hah!" he bawled at them. But all they gave him was a 2-6-6, a lot less than he'd hoped for.
Lou yawned: "Hee-oooff!" and slapped his hat to the table — bop! the beer can somersaulted and rolled, bubbling out over charts and scoresheets and open logbooks and rosters and records—
"Lou!" screamed Henry. He leaped for the towel, but Lou,
in shock and drunkenness, stood up suddenly, and they collided. "You clumsy goddamn idiot!" Henry cried, and shoved around him. He snapped up the towel, turned back to the table to find Lou there, dabbing pathetically at the inundation with a corner of his handkerchief.
"I'm sorry, Henry," he mumbled tearily.
"Just get outa the way!" Henry shouted. He toweled up the beer as fast as he could, but everywhere he looked ink was swimming on soaked paper. Oh my God! He separated sheets, carried them into his room and spread them out on the bed. At some point, he heard the door close, Lou's heavy footfalls descending the stairs. When he'd got up the worst of it, he sank into his chair, stared at the mess that was his Association. The Pioneer-Knickerbocker game lay before him, damp but still legible. It's all over, he realized miserably, finished. The Universal Baseball Association, proprietor left for parts unknown. A shudder raked through him as he sighed, and he felt ill. He propped his elbows on the table, folded his hands, and leaned his head against them. Great moments from the past came floating to mind, mighty old-timers took their swings and fabulous aces reared back and sizzled them in; he saw Marsh Williams belting them out of the park and flashy Verne Mackenzie and Fancy Dan the Keystones' Man, watched Jumpin' Joe Gallagher go hurling himself up against the ivied wall in center and shy Sycamore Flynn making impossible leaping snags of line drives, saw the great Pioneers drive for flag after flag and watched the wind-ups of Sandy Shaw and Tim Shadwell and old Brock and Edgar Bath, and there was the great Cash Bailey cracking the.400 barrier and Hellborn Melbourne Trench socking them out of sight, Uncle Joe Shannon, and Wally Wickersham, and Tuck Wilson, and Winslow Beaver, and Hamilton Craft. . and Damon Rutherford. Finally came down to that, didn't it? All week, he'd been pushing it back any way he could, but it just couldn't be done. Damon Rutherford. He wiped his eyes with the beery towel, stared down at the game on the table. That was what did it, it was just a little too much, one idea too many, and it wrecked the whole league. He stood, turned his back on it, feeling old and wasted. Should he keep it around, or…? No, better to burn it, once and for all, records, rules, Books, everything. If that stuff was lying around, he'd never really feel free of it. He found a paper shopping bag under the sink, gathered up a stack of scoresheets and dumped them in, reached for that of the night's game. He saw the dice, still reading 2-6-6, and — almost instinctively — reached forward and tipped the two over to a third six. Gave York and Wilson back-to-back homers and moved the game over to the Extraordinary Occurrences Chart. Easy as that.
He smiled wryly, savoring the irony of it. Might save the game at that. How would they see it? Pretty peculiar. He trembled. Chill. Felt his forehead. Didn't seem hot. Clammy, if anything. No, it's too crazy. He reached again for the night's scoresheet, but again hesitated. The three sixes stared up at him like thick little towns. Who was up next? The catcher Royce Ingram. Damon's battery mate. Poetic. Indeed. He snorted, amused by it in spite of himself. He sat down. Of course, he could throw triple ones again, and Casey'd have two notches on his throwing arm. He wasn't really thinking about the bean ball though. Now, his eye was on the bottom line of that chart:
6-6-6: Pitcher struck fatally by line drive through
box; batter safe on first; runners advance one.
He penned in York's and Wilson's home runs on the score-sheet, watched Royce Ingram pick out a bat and stride menacingly to the plate. Now, stop and think, he cautioned himself. Do you really want to save it? Wouldn't it be better just to drop it now, bum it, go on to something else, get working regularly again, back into the swing of things, see movies, maybe copyright that Intermonop game and try to market it, or do some traveling, read books…