In Open Spaces (15 page)

David told me he was going to get himself a beer, and offered to buy me one. I declined, thinking of my tryout.

Just as David predicted, the game was no contest. Paige had such control that the Monarchs only managed three base runners the whole game. I watched the catcher closely, and it seemed that no matter what kind of hitch Paige put into his windup, or whether or not he was looking at the plate when he threw, the catcher rarely had to move his glove. At one point, Paige turned his torso completely around, toward center field, in the middle of his windup. His head seemed to still be facing the fence when he spun and threw. And just as he reached his release point, his left foot tapped the ground quickly, then continued forward. But the pitch split the plate with the precision of a rifle shot. The batter swung so far ahead of the ball that he fell over. When he stood up, he was laughing. Even he couldn’t believe what he’d just seen.

To my horror, David swore at Paige a few times, loud enough that people stared at us. But Paige didn’t seem to hear him, or if he did, it had no effect. He pitched a two-hitter, walking only one, and striking out fourteen batters. And earned at least one fan for life.

David sat shaking his head, and drained the last of his fourth beer. “If the Cardinals had Paige, I do believe we could beat the Yankees,” he said.

I smiled, declining a chance to point out the contradiction to his
earlier comment. “I’m going to go talk to him,” I said. “You want to come along?”

David looked up at me, and the smug little grin crept back into his expression. “You are?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Yeah. Why?”

David looked around him, and bent closer to me, lowering his voice. “You sure you want to be seen doing that? Maybe you could write him a letter or something.”

When it occurred to me what he meant, I frowned. I looked around at the crowd. Although there were several white faces among us, they were separate from the rest. A few fans lingered on the field, but none of them were white. I just shook my head, starting toward the field.

“You go on ahead,” David said. I could see that he was anxious to put some distance between us before I went down on the field. “I want to get cleaned up for a night on the town.” He rubbed his palms against his heavy thighs and stood. “You’re welcome to join me, you know, or should I say ‘us.’” He winked. “Got a couple of real sweethearts lined up. But I think they could handle the both of us.”

I reddened, nodding, unaccustomed to this kind of brash outspokenness about such matters. But I hadn’t forgotten the women I’d seen the night before. “We’ll see,” I said. “I have to catch an early train tomorrow. And I want to do a little shopping, pick up a few gifts for the family.”

“All right,” he said. “But you still got my number, right?”

I nodded, patting my breast pocket. Then I started climbing down the bleachers. But I stopped, and called out, “Hey, David.”

He turned.

“Do you know where this place is?” I dug in my jacket for the sheet of paper I had written Mr. Murphy’s directions on.

David squinted, holding the paper at an arm’s length. “Yeah. I know where that is. Why? You need a ride?”

“No, no. I just wondered whether it’s close by.”

“It’s not very close, actually. But it’s not far out of my way. Why
don’t I give you a ride? Why are you going there, anyway? It’s just a little park—nothing special.” He winked, with a hint of a smile. “You meeting someone?”

I shook my head. “Never mind,” I said. “No, I don’t want to put you out.”

“No, really. It’s no trouble,” David insisted. “I got nothing going on this afternoon, and it’s almost directly on my way to the hotel.”

I thought, then decided I might as well take him up on the offer. “All right,” I agreed. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Wait a second here. You’ve got to tell me what this is all about.” He pointed at me. “That’s the only catch.”

I sighed. “I have a tryout,” I said.

“A tryout?” David’s eyes narrowed. “For what? A tryout?”

I nodded, looking toward the field, where Paige was starting to leave. “Yeah, listen. I’ll tell you when I get back. I don’t want to miss him.” I started toward the field.

“You been holding out on me, Blake. Who’s it with?” David called.

“The Cardinals,” I shouted over my shoulder.

David stood. “The Cardinals? You definitely been holding out on me here. We been talking about practically nothing but baseball for the past two days and you haven’t said a word about this.” He was shouting, and I gestured to him to be quiet. “The Cardinals?” he shouted. “I can’t believe it.” And then, as if he suddenly remembered what I was up to: “I’ll meet you in the parking lot,” he shouted.

I waved.

Down on the field, my joints felt unhinged. Mr. Paige was not as old as I expected, younger than I was. I found out later that he was a rookie, barely eighteen years old. And so skinny he looked even younger.

I approached with a tentative posture, from the side. “Mr. Paige, my name is Blake Arbuckle.” I stuck out my hand and he took it, looking at me with an amused expression, as if he either knew exactly what I was going to say, or as if no matter what I said, it would be amusing. I couldn’t help but smile right along with him.

“Mr. Paige, I’m from Albion, Montana, and I just wanted to tell you what a pleasure it was watching you pitch. What you do out there is unbelievable.”

He gave a little nod, still smiling. “Well, thank you very much, Mr. Buckle. It’s mighty nice of you to come all the way down here from Albion to tell me that.”

I nodded, chuckling. “Listen. I’ve just got to ask you…” I suddenly felt self-conscious about my hands, tucking them into my pockets. “I do a little pitching myself…and I’m just wondering…do you have some special grip, or a secret for doing what you do? How do you fool these batters? These guys are good hitters.”

He smiled and shook his head, looking down at his well-worn cleats. Then he lifted his eyes, chuckling, still shaking his head. “They are good hitters,” he said. “But I’m gonna tell you something, Mr. Blake R. Buckle—something I don’t tell nobody.”

I smiled, never having heard my name broken up that way before.

“I do have a secret.” Mr. Paige looked over one shoulder, then the other, then back at me, smiling with the most marvelous twinkle in his eyes, and I knew that whatever he was about to tell me was going to be good. “The secret, Mr. Buckle, is to keep everyone thinking you got a secret.” He laughed lightly, then put his hand on my shoulder. “That’s the best secret of all.” Then he shook my hand and sauntered off, still chuckling, his body following no particular rhythm but his own.

And I felt as if I had just met the wisest man in the world.

When I went out to the parking lot, David’s demeanor had completely changed. Gone was the smug slant of his smile. I felt, just from the way he looked at me, as if our stations in the world had suddenly reversed.

“What did he say?” he asked.

I just smiled.

He tilted his head. “Oh, you can’t do that to me. You just talked to
one of the greats of the game, and you’re gonna hold out on that, too? You can’t do that.”

I shrugged, knowing that I now had David Westford in the palm of my hand.

“All right. If that’s how it’s gonna be,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re the hot shot here.” He opened his car door. “So when is your tryout? We got some time for lunch?”

“Three o’clock,” I said.

David took out his pocket watch. “Okay. We got an hour and a half. So I’m gonna buy you lunch. Come on. It would be my honor to buy lunch for the next star of the St. Louis Cardinals.”

“Don’t get carried away now,” I said. “It’s just a tryout.” But it was clear he wasn’t about to take no for an answer, so I followed along without an argument.

At the restaurant, I could hardly eat. Between my nerves, which twisted my stomach into a tangle, and David’s eating habits, my appetite was shot. David ate his food in great handfuls, like some character from a children’s book. Grease coated his chin, and chunks settled into the corners of his mouth and lived there until they were crowded out by bigger chunks. I have no idea what he ordered, because I couldn’t look after the first few bites. But I barely touched my steak. I also said very little. But David did enough eating and talking for both of us. While he went on and on about the Cardinals, my mind wandered, picturing the barn wall, and visualizing myself throwing pitches to those stick figures.

“A pitcher, huh?” David said, looking me square in the eye. “They could use some pitchers right now. They got a hell of a lot of good hitters. But they could sure as hell use some good pitching. I can’t believe…boy, you really had me going with this whole farm kid routine.”

Finally, mercifully, lunch was over. Mr. Murphy was waiting when we arrived at the baseball field, which was just as David described it—more of a small park, with a baseball diamond carved into the grass. There were no bleachers, or dugouts. Not even benches. Mr. Murphy was older than I expected, probably in his fifties. He was bald, ruddy-faced, and constantly squinting. His suit was worn at the elbows, and his shoes hadn’t seen a polish brush for a couple of seasons. He had another young guy with him, a kid with a broken nose whom he introduced as Johnny Trumble. Johnny was decked out in catcher’s gear.

“Did you bring your lawyer with you?” Mr. Murphy nodded toward David, who sat on his car’s fender.

“No, he just gave me a ride. He’s not a lawyer.” I felt my face burn red.

Mr. Murphy laughed. “I was just kidding, Blake. Listen, are you nervous? Why don’t you loosen up a little? Just play some catch with Johnny here. Don’t think about pitching for a few minutes. Just relax, loosen your arm up.”

He tossed me a ball. “Did you bring your mitt?”

My heart sank. I looked at my feet. “Actually, I don’t have one.”

He looked only slightly surprised, and it occurred to me that he probably scouted a lot of young country kids who couldn’t afford equipment. “All right. Okay. Let me think. You know, I think I might have one in my car. No. Actually, I think I loaned—”

“I got one, Mr. Murphy.” Johnny Trumble trotted off toward Murphy’s car, and returned with a mitt while I took off my jacket and tie and unbuttoned my sleeves, rolling them up past my elbows.

Once I got loosened up, Johnny Trumble took his place behind the plate, and I climbed the mound. I felt as if I was towering over the world.

“You probably never pitched off a mound before, have you?” Mr. Murphy said.

And although there was nothing condescending about Mr.
Murphy’s tone, I thought about lying. I didn’t want to give him a reason to eliminate me as an option. But I shook my head.

“That’s all right. You don’t have to use the mound.”

“No, no. It’s okay,” I told him. “I want to.”

“Good. All right.” He smiled. “That’s the spirit. Just throw a few easy ones to get a feel for it.”

For the first few pitches, the angle threw me off, and the ball bounced in front of the plate. But as I started to get more comfortable, I saw how the mound could provide an advantage with the leverage. I found a rhythm, and I began to put a little more effort into each pitch, until I was throwing as hard as I could. Mr. Murphy watched from several different angles—from behind me, from each side, then from behind Johnny. I felt pretty good, although my nerves never did settle completely. Mr. Murphy’s manner encouraged me. Not that he was smiling. But he studied me closely. He wasn’t bored, at least. But I was worried about the curveball. Timing was so much more important for that pitch, and I wasn’t sure I could adjust to the new angle.

“You have any other pitches? You throw a drop? Or a curve?” Mr. Murphy asked.

Okay, I thought. Here comes the hard part. “I throw a bit of a curve,” I said.

“Good. Okay. Let’s see how you do with it from up there. On the hill.”

I took a deep breath. Then I fixed my gaze on Johnny, who held his glove up, setting the target. He gave me a slight, encouraging nod, and a wink, which I appreciated. I let her fly. Again, the first one kicked up dust, landing just behind the plate. But it had broken off nicely, and I closed my eyes, making a mental adjustment, picturing the stick figure on the barn wall, and I imagined aiming just a little higher, at shoulder height instead of elbow. I wound up slowly and threw, and this one also broke sharply, but far outside. But the distance was better, and I used this as encouragement. Each pitch felt just a little better. I threw
curve after curve, breaking most of them off perfectly, just as they crossed the plate.

I was soaked in sweat, and I looked over at David. He was smiling.

“That’s enough, Blake.” Mr. Murphy walked toward the mound from where he’d been standing, behind Johnny. “That’s good.” He walked slowly, head down, hands behind his back. He didn’t look at me. I got more nervous, my stomach floating. I took off the mitt, and my hand was sweating.

He didn’t speak for a long time, stopping halfway between the plate and the mound, looking down, his hands still tucked behind. Finally, Mr. Murphy turned toward me and looked up.

“Well, what do you think?” he asked me.

“What do I think?” I scratched my head. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. Murphy. What do I think about what?”

He took two more steps toward me. “How did you feel there? How were you throwing today? As well as you can? Better than usual? Worse?”

“Good,” I said immediately. “I felt pretty good.”

He nodded. “Well, you looked good, too, Blake. You throw well. That curve has some bite to it. And you’ve got a good fastball, too. It has a little movement.”

“Yeah?” I suddenly couldn’t breathe. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He looked up at me. “There’s someone else I’d like you to meet. My boss, actually. He’s coming into town tomorrow. I’d like you to meet him, show him what you can do. What do you think about that?”

“Oh, no,” I answered quickly, without thinking.

Mr. Murphy’s brows rose. “No?”

“I mean, yes, I would like that. I’d like to meet him, but tomorrow isn’t good. I have to catch a train, tomorrow morning.”