Recessional: A Novel (51 page)

The two men had reached an impasse, each having established the fact that he was not going to be bullied by the other. Andy broke the silence: “All right, Mr. Hasslebrook, let’s get down to procedures. You are, I take it, an important member of your group?”

“Not an officer. But a trusted member. And we’re determined to police nursing homes and places like them to ensure that old people are not being abused—and hastened to their deaths.”

“That’s your job here?”

“Yes, and in the other establishments in this community.”

“Your committee is spending a lot of unnecessary money to lodge you in this place. Why not some less expensive boardinghouse?”

“Our society has funds to spend on worthy purposes. They wanted an inside view of how a luxury place like this functions.”

“I can show you right now, save you a lot of money.”

“I don’t want to see your version of your behavior. I want to see our version of your misbehavior.”

“I can’t persuade you to make your headquarters elsewhere? It’ll be embarrassing to have you here, embarrassing to both of us.”

“If you even suggested throwing me out, there’d be a lawsuit, and a very ugly one indeed. And you would lose, because there’s magic in our name. Life Is Sacred. That’s not only true but it’s something the public responds to deeply. Dr. Zorn, do not, I beg you, pit yourself against me in a courtroom, because, I assure you, you’ll lose.”

Andy had heard threats like that before, and twice the lawyer making them had been right, he had lost. He felt himself being hemmed in, but since he’d been in that position before, he did not panic. Instead he asked: “So what is our relationship to be?” and Hasslebrook replied: “An amiable one. I have my job to do, surveillance. You have yours, to protect the reputation of your establishment. If your people are not engaged in evil practices, you’ll have no problems with me, but if they are, you’ll have real problems.” He stuck his hand out as if to signal that honorable warfare had begun, but the gesture was fruitless, because Andy, in a flush of anger, unwisely refused to take the hand. Hasslebrook, proving that he was more skilled in these matters than Andy, smiled, withdrew his hand and said pleasantly as he departed: “I believe you, Doctor. I’m satisfied that you did not pilfer my mail. But someone in your organization did, and that’s not a reassuring way for us to begin our association.”

In September, as World Series time approached, the men of the Palms received exciting news that gave everyone pleasure. On Long Island close to New York City a group of baseball fanatics made their living by trading in the little playing cards showing the notable big-league players dating back to the early 1900s. These cards, such as the extremely rare one of Honus Wagner, the Pittsburgh man who was the greatest third baseman of all time, brought fabulous prices, up in the hundred-thousand-dollar range, but later stars like Mickey Mantle also fetched high prices—say, in the forty-thousand-dollar class. Baseball cards were big business. This year the dealers in the Long Island district had organized what they ballyhooed as “the mother of all card conventions,” a three-day extravaganza at which
timeless heroes such as Stan Musial, Whitey Ford and Mickey Mantle would appear to autograph baseballs in person, often for as much as seven or eight dollars a signature. A lot of money changed hands at these affairs, and this one promised to be the gala of the past five years.

One of the organizing dealers had the excellent idea of inviting the only surviving hero of that 1929 World Series game in which the Philadelphia Athletics scored ten runs in one unbelievable inning. “His name,” the clever manager told the committee, “is Buzz Bixby, and they tell me he’s living somewhere down in Florida, sharp as a button and loves to talk about that historic game.” When others who had not been born when Bixby was a star player agreed that bringing him north might give a real boost to the convention, the principal organizer said: “It would cost us peanuts to fly him up here. We’d put him up in my brother’s motel, no charge, and we’d get a world of coverage in the sports section of the New York press, maybe television, too.”

So inquiry was made in Florida and the Long Island men learned that Buzz was living in the Palms. Commissioning a Florida dealer to speak for them, they authorized him to engineer a deal whereby Buzz would fly north for the three-day fiesta. When the dealer visited the Palms to extend the invitation, he also talked to Zorn and saw at once the reasonableness of the doctor’s request for taking precautions and faxed his Long Island colleagues:

Buzz Bixby in good health, has all his marbles. Loves to talk about the game. But at his age his people will not allow him to fly alone. Sensible and I agree. So you must provide two round-trips to La Guardia. If so, it’s a deal.

The Long Island men had already received ample publicity on the rumor that Buzz Bixby
might
attend. Realizing that if his visit fell apart over an extra airfare from Florida, their big venture might turn sour, they promptly authorized their Florida contact to provide the two round-trip tickets.

The problem then became who should take Buzz to Long Island and bring him safely back. Both Ken Krenek and Bedford Yancey pointed out that they had long been baseball addicts and would be pleased to spend the required five days in the New York area, and it proved difficult to make a choice between them. The impasse was resolved by Dr. Zorn, who said that Buzz ought to be attended not by
someone who would merely carry his suitcase but by someone with medical experience. Krenek and Yancey bowed to authority and agreed that Andy should accompany the old man north to ensure he did not overextend himself at the three-day bash.

In the meantime Bixby was packing his bag, reviewing his set speech and chafing in his eagerness to get started on a trip that would again bring him into contact with fans and many of the great players who had come along in the years since 1929. Andy saw that the only thing that might cause Buzz trouble would be his enthusiastic desire to do too much, a fear that proved well founded in the days prior to departure when one organization after another, upon learning that Bixby would be attending the show, wanted to sign him up for an appearance at some function, or an interview, or a short trip into New York City for one of the morning talk shows. Buzz wanted to do everything, and if any phone call reached him directly, rather than through Dr. Zorn’s office, he blithely said: “Sure, I’ll be with you.” It was clear that this was going to be a rather hectic affair.

On Thursday morning, four baseball enthusiasts from the Palms drove Bixby and his caretaker to the Tampa airport, where Buzz actually ran up the various ramps to reach the train that carried passengers to the planes. Settled into comfortable seats for the long flight to New York, Buzz and Andy went over the proposed schedule of obligations for Long Island, and the doctor was surprised to find that there were two schedules, one that he had approved with considerable care, after consultation with the managers of the convention, and one that Buzz had agreed to in his informal phone conversations with anyone who happened to call. Since there was little similarity between the two, Andy saw that accommodations would have to be made, giving priority to the important meetings. Buzz brushed such discussion aside: “We’ll do ’em all,” and it was a standoff.

After settling into their motel, Andy and Buzz approached the immense industrial shed, a place larger than a football field, where some eighty card dealers had erected their stands. The hall contained so much clutter that Andy could scarcely see from one end to the other, for almost anything that could reasonably be related to baseball seemed to be for sale.

Pride of place, however, went to those stands whose occupants had baseball cards for sale or trade. There must have been four dozen big stalls, and whenever Andy and Bixby passed one of them the owners, who were busy arranging their goods for the opening the
next day, guessed that the old man must be the immortal Buzz Bixby. They wanted Buzz’s assurance that he would later autograph some of the special cards they’d had printed up with his picture as he had appeared in the 1929 game. He said yes to everyone.

The managers of the affair had arranged a small dinner in Bixby’s honor on the evening before the opening, and at it he was at his best. He had acquired through the years a taste for dark German beer, although a Guinness stout would do as well, but with the self-discipline that had kept him active in the big leagues for so long, he restricted himself to one bottle a night. He did not want it served in a glass, for then the portion was apt to be smaller, and he nursed along his bottle, never gulping it down but savoring each carefully apportioned mouthful. He was, Andy thought as that first evening progressed with Bixby relating old adventures in the various ballparks of the 1920s and ’30s, as fine an example of a celebrated old-time professional athlete as one could have hoped for. Zorn realized that he now prized this old man far more than he had when he first heard him reciting his famous account of that historic game in Philadelphia.

Andy had to admit, however, that it was a strain on the three following days to sit and listen to Buzz give his speech twice a day, afternoon and evening. There would be a roll of drums and Buzz, seated in a comfortable chair with a glass of water at his side, would deliver the familiar opening sentence in a warm, husky voice: “Some who are entitled to have an opinion believe it was the greatest game in the history of baseball, but I’ve seen better on television. Bobby Thomson’s one-out homer against Ralph Branca…”

Andy thought that each of the six times Buzz gave his oration it got better, but that was improbable because the words and the delivery were always identical. These sessions were the biggest events of Buzz’s life, and he savored them. But what surprised Andy was that when his talks ended, Bixby had the energy to circulate among the dealers, signing almost anything they placed before him: “Buzz Bixby, 12 October 1929.”

Bixby, with his enormous popularity as the oldest World Series player ever to appear at such a function—“ninety years and still able to hit a curve,” the announcer said when introducing Bixby’s speeches—had long lines waiting whenever he took his scheduled place at a dealer’s table, and at seven bucks a throw for his autograph and the exchange of a few words he would make far more during this visit than he had in the entire year when he starred in the Series.

Andy was astounded at how much money was involved, and one of the Long Island men informed him: “These grand old players earn much more money each year from us than they ever did playing the game, when salaries were so modest.”

“Does something like this take place elsewhere in the country?”

“All the time. Everywhere they can draw a crowd. Most affairs feature an old-timers’ game. You see the men in action again, but they play it canny. No one wants to pull a hamstring from running too hard, and those who have to wear glasses play it very cautious at the plate.”

It was a phenomenon unmatched in any other sport. One of the managers explained, “No football player can be idolized by the fans the way a baseball player is. He plays one hundred fifty-four games a year, old style, one hundred sixty-three new style. And he stays at it year after year. And most important of all, he usually does it for the same team, ten, twenty years at a time. The hometown fans grow to love him. But you take football. The players have so much gear on them that the fans never really see them. There’s little identification and not much love, they move around so much, one town after another, loyalty doesn’t have a chance to develop.”

“What’s going on over there?” Andy asked, pointing to where a mob surrounded a player.

“That’s the real phenomenon. Pete Rose. Very stormy career, banned from baseball for betting on the game, but a great hero. The fans love him, and Pete comes here with two truckloads of stuff. He sells everything. The shirt he wore when he broke Ty Cobb’s record, the bat that got the base hit. He sells them everywhere. Or anything else you might be interested in. He earns a fortune at these affairs.”

Later, Andy was amazed when Buzz, his speech finished and his signings done, wanted most of all to visit with Pete Rose. When the two stood together for the photographers, Buzz acted out one of the memorable scenes of World Series play, instructing the cameraman as he went: “Game six of the World Series, Tuesday, October twenty-first, 1971, Kansas City at bat in the ninth, bases full. Critical moment. Frank White batting for K.C. pops a high easy foul ball, which Phillies catcher Boone ought to catch with no trouble, but the ball pops out of his mitt, giving White another chance to win the game.

“But wait! Pete Rose far away at first base anticipates that his catcher might have trouble with the ball, so what does he do? He gallops full speed to where he guessed the catcher is going to wind up,
and sure enough, when the catcher allows the foul ball to bounce out of his glove, there is Pete ready to dive for it like this!” And to Andy’s amazement the ninety-year-old man leaped forward, fell onto his knees, and with outstretched left hand pretended to catch the errant foul ball, a few inches off the floor of the hall, just as Pete Rose had done nearly a quarter of a century before: “I revere Rose for that supreme effort, mark of a true champion.”

Late Sunday night, at the close of the three-day festival, the Long Island card dealers had a small dinner to express their gratitude for Bixby’s participation in their festival. He had one bottle of dark German beer, a small steak rare and a large wedge of pecan pie. In response to the speeches the managers made in his honor, he replied with his own set speech: “And so we see that we are the toys of fate. Chance determines so much of our lives, as my case proves. I keep with me photographs of my two hits in the wild inning. They show Hornsby missing my grounder by less than an inch and my pop fly, same margin. An inch and a half in his favor, I’m a bum. An inch and a half my way, I’m in the Hall of Fame. Chance does direct all.”

At midnight, as the taxi drove them back to their motel, Buzz leaned over, patted Dr. Zorn on the hand and said: “I’m so glad you allowed me to come. And thanks for seeing me get here safe. I’d never have been able to do it alone.” He then squeezed the doctor’s hand and said with childish joy: “They remembered me. They lined up to get my autograph as if they knew who I was. I earned so much money doing what I enjoy doing.” And he trundled off to bed happily.