50 
Vogelman was contemplating how close he had come to paradise. If the Mex had missed that pitch, the game would now be over. All night long he’d’ve felt eight foot tall, and when he got into bed with his wife, she’d’ve given it to him the way they do to heroes.
The sight of his nemesis crouched low in the brooding darkness around the plate filled him with fear.
Sighing, he brought himself, without conviction, to throw.
“Bo-ool one.”
The staring faces in the stands broke into a cry that stayed till the end of the game.
Vogelman was drenched in sweat. He could have thrown a spitter without half trying but didn’t know how and was afraid to monkey with them.
The next went in cap high.
“Eee bo-ool.”
Wickitt, the Pirate manager, ambled out to the mound.
“S’matter, Dutch?”
“Take me outa here,” Vogelman moaned.
“What the hell for? You got that bastard three times so far and you can do it again.”
“He gives me the shits, Walt. Look at him standing there like a goddamn gorilla. Look at his burning eyes. He ain’t human.”
Wickitt talked low as he studied Roy. “That ain’t what I see. He looks old and beat up. Last week he had a mile-high bellyache in a ladies’ hospital. They say he could drop dead any minute. Bear up and curve ‘em low. I don’t think he can bend to his knees. Get one strike on him and he will be your nookie.”
He left the mound.
Vogelman threw the next ball with his flesh screaming.
“Bo-ool three.”
He sought for Wickitt but the manager kept his face hidden.
In that case, the pitcher thought, I will walk him. They could yank him after that — he was a sick man.
Roy was also considering a walk. It would relieve him of responsibility but not make up for all the harm he had done. He discarded the idea. Vogelman made a bony steeple with his arms. Gazing at the plate, he found his eyes were misty and he couldn’t read the catcher’s sign. He looked again and saw Roy, in full armor, mounted on a black charger. Vogelman stared hard, his arms held high so as not to balk. Yes, there he was coming at him with a long lance as thick as a young tree. He rubbed his arm across his eyes and keeled over in a dead faint.
A roar ascended skywards.
The sun slid behind the clouds. It got cold again. Wickitt, leaning darkly out of the dugout, raised his arm aloft to the center field bullpen. The boy who had been pitching flipped the ball to the bullpen catcher, straightened his cap, and began the long trek in. He was twenty, a scrawny youth with light eyes.
“Herman Youngberry, number sixty-six, pitching for the Pirates.”
Few in the stands had heard of him, but before his long trek to the mound was finished his life was common knowledge. He was a six-footer but weighed a skinny one fifty-eight. One day about two years ago a Pirate scout watching him pitching for his home town team had written on a card, “This boy has a fluid delivery of a blinding fast ball and an exploding curve.” Though he offered him a contract then and there, Youngberry refused to sign because it was his lifelong ambition to be a farmer. Everybody, including the girl he was engaged to, argued him into signing. He didn’t say so but he had it in mind to earn enough money to buy a three hundred acre farm and then quit baseball forever. Sometimes when he pitched, he saw fields of golden wheat gleaming in the sun.
He had come to the Pirates on the first of September from one of their class A clubs, to help in the pennant drive. Since then he’d worked up a three won, two lost record. He’d seen what Roy had done to Vogelrnan the day he hit the four homers, and just now, and wasn’t anxious to face him. After throwing his warm-ups he stepped off the mound and looked away as Roy got back into the box.
Despite the rest he had had, Roy’s armpits were creepy with sweat. He felt a bulk of heaviness around his middle and that the individual hairs on his legs and chest were bristling.
Youngberry gazed around to see how they were playing Roy. It was straightaway and deep, with the infield pulled back too. Flores, though hopping about, was on the bag. The pitcher took a full wind-up and became aware the Knights were yelling dirty names to rattle him.
Roy had considered and decided against a surprise bunt. As things were, it was best to take three good swings.
He felt the shadow of the Judge and Memo fouling the air around him and turned to shake his fist at them but they had left the window.
The ball lit its own path.
The speed of the pitch surprised Stuffy Briggs and it was a little time before he could work his tongue free.
“Stuh-rike.”
Roy’s nose was full of the dust he had raised.
“Throw him to the pigs,” shrilled Otto Zipp.
If he bunted, the surprise could get him to first, and Flores home for the tying run. The only trouble was he had not much confidence in his ability to bunt. Roy stared at the kid, trying to hook his eye, but Youngberry wouldn’t look at him. As Roy stared a fog blew up around the young pitcher, full of old ghosts and snowy scenes. The fog shot forth a snaky finger and Roy carefully searched under it for the ball but it was already in the catcher’s mitt.
“Strike two.”
“Off with his head,” Otto shrieked.
It felt like winter. He wished for fire to warm his frozen fingers. Too late for the bunt now. He wished he had tried it. It would have caught them flatfooted.
Pop ran out with a rabbit’s foot but Roy wouldn’t take it. He would never give up, he swore. Flores had fallen to his knees on third and was imploring the sky.
Roy caught the pitcher’s eye. His own had blood in them. Youngberry shuddered. He threw — a bad ball — but the batter leaped at it.
He struck out with a roar.
Bump Baily’s form glowed red on the wall. There was a wail in the wind. He feared the mob would swarm all over him, tear him apart, and strew his polluted remains over the field, but they had vanished. Only 0. Zipp climbed down out of his seat. He waddled to the plate, picked up the bat and took a vicious cut at something. He must’ve connected, because his dumpy bow legs went like pistons around the bases. Thundering down from third he slid into the plate and called himself safe.
Otto dusted himself off, lit a cigar and went home.
10
When it was night he dragged the two halves of the bat into left field, and with his jackknife cut a long rectangular slash into the turf and dug out the earth. With his hands he deepened the grave in the dry earth and packed the sides tight. He then placed the broken bat in it. He couldn’t stand seeing it in two pieces so he removed them and tried squeezing them together in the hope they would stick but the split was smooth, as if the bat had willed its own brokenness, and the two parts would not stay together. Roy undid his shoelaces and wound one around the slender handle of the bat, and the other he tied around the hitting part of the wood, so that except for the knotted laces and the split he knew was there it looked like a whole bat. And this was the way he buried it, wishing it would take root and become a tree. He poured back the earth, carefully pressing it down, and replaced the grass. He trod on it in his stocking feet, and after a last long look around, walked off the field. At the fountain he considered whether to carry out a few handfuls of water to wet the earth above Wonderboy but they would only leak through his fingers before he got there, and since he doubted he could find the exact spot in the dark he went down the dugout steps and into the tunnel.
50 
