No Trade

I have went through some changes in life. Vietnam put me in the hospital, but the American League pennant race almost park me six foot under. My road roomy, Kid, say, "Roland, why you don't just forget the man, play out your option and sell your ass first week of November?"

Kid, he remind me of my own self when I come up: quick and brash and dumb as a box of rocks. Where I would go, anyway? Thirty-eight-year-old with a bad attitude. Troublemaker, too. "Cleveland," Kid say. Bum-fuck Egypt be more like it.

See, I didn't have no idea what I was in for when I show up in St. Pete last spring. I be coming off a year anybody be glad to have: .279 with 24 home run and 90 R.B.I.s, 108 run score. Lead the league in walk. Not bad. Sport Magazine Comeback of the Year! Off season, I work like a motherfucker, run five mile every day, pump Nautilus, eat like a damn parakeet. My ex, Rayette, she say I look like one of them Nubian in the gladiator flick. Thirty-eight-year-old. Hot stuff. Not bad. I show up at camp, ain't even hardly unpack at the Ramada Inn when I hear I be D.H. against (continued on page 124)No Trade(continued from page 113) left-handers. What this shit is all about?

I go right out to the ball park, Cappy's office. "Well?" I ax him up front.

"Roland," he say, "every man got to bend with the seasons, and it's the autumn of your years, my boy."

"What the fuck you talking about, Cappy? I hit two-seventy-nine last year playing in one hundred and fifty-two game. Look at me. I be in better shape than half your prospect out there. You want to win ball games? Put me back in right field."

"Uh-uh, Roland." He shake his head. "You be D.H.ing for now."

First three week of camp all be drills and condition. We play a squad game. I be motherfucking D.H. "Why that is?" I ax Hobie, third-base coach. Everybody trust him, 'cause he tell it like it is.

"The man upstairs," all he say.

The man upstairs. You ax any five-year veteran in the league who be the biggest asshole in baseball, they points to that same sky box between home and first. Why that is? Because Mr. Bossman live up there. The secret is out. He can take a perfectly good ball club and fuck it up. I know guys around the league, superstars, wouldn't sign with this outfit for a million five a year. They take half that, stay up in Boston, down in Baltimore, where at least you know where you are at. It be hard enough to hit for average in this game when you concentrating good. The man upstairs, he don't allow that. Got to fuck you up. That's how it all start.

We open against Texas at home. Worst team in both divisions. We be 12 and two against them last year and they ain't improve one bit. It be great weather for the winter Olympic. First game snowed out. Second game, it be so cold, every foul ball you hit feel like them bats is electrocuted. Sting like a motherfucker. They be night games, you understand, because Mr. Bossman, he don't believe peoples come out to the ball park on a weekday. "Who would come here for a day game on Thursday?" he say. "Winos? Junkies? People with no jobs? Our fans work, damn it!"

I ax Kid, "Who come to the ball park in a motherfucking snowstorm at night?"

He say, "Maybe Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and my momma."

We get beat four straight, score seven runs all toll. I go one for 11, get the collar in three game. Bobby Duncan, our best starter, give up three walk, two base hit and a gopher ball in the top of the first inning. We look bad. Mr. Bossman tell all the reporter, "There going to be some changes made." If you play for this outfit, that is how you find out what's happening. Other teams, they got the bulletin board, hold a team meeting. This outfit, you got to keep up with the press. Otherwise, you be the last person in the world to find out you be put on waivers.

Chi Sox come in and whip our ass. We win one out of four and only 'cause of a wild pitch in the 12th inning. Dumb luck. K.C. come to town. They be tough. Mr. Bossman tell the newspaper, "We got to sweep K.C. and get back into this thing."

What the fuck he is talking about? Get back into this thing. The season ain't but two week old. We split two and two. I get the game-winner R.B.I. in one. Next day, newspaper say I be bench indefinitely on my own request for the sake of the team. The story quote Bossman: "Roland came to me and said, 'Sir, my slump is hurting this team, blah, blah, blah.'"

It must be obvious I didn't do no such thing. In the first place, I ain't even been in the man's office since I sign my last contract. Second place, I ain't in no slump. I be a slow start for 14 year, including my triple crown and two league-leading R.B.I. year. Anybody in the league know that I gets hot when it get hot. But that beside the point. The whole motherfucking team ain't hitting but .204 all toll. Pierce be leading the team at .242. Kid hitting .190! And finally, I don't call that man sir. Who the fuck he think I am? Bat boy? Shoeshine? I be hitting cleanup on the American League All-Star team when he be getting his first pussy in college, and I ain't 100 percent sure he even got that far. Fact, that could be it right there: He be starve for pussy. Kid think so. You seen his wife? Ugh....

Well, I don't take this shit lying down. We fly out to the Coast, first road trip of the season. A lot of guys don't know it, but you can use them press. Visitor clubhouse be swarming with them. This outfit be a big deal everywhere it go. Best road attendance in both league. L.A. Examiner ax me, did I really take myself out the line-up?

"Most certainly I did not," I say.

"Then how come the man say you did?"

"I don't know. Why you don't ax him?"

I ride the bench that night. We lose five to four, leave 11 on base. Saturday, we blow it in the ninth. Later that night, back at the Hilton, a knock come on my door.

"Who it is? Well, I'll be damn!"

"Mind if we talk, Roland?" the boss ax.

"Man to man, like?" I rib him, but he don't get it.

"Where's Gerald?" he ax, meaning Kid.

"He out on pussy patrol."

Bossman nod his head and do this thing where he suck on his lip to show how he understand, which he don't, of course.

"That kid can't get enough," I keeps it up. "We got it all figured out. He get on base twice for every piece of ass he get. Remember last season divisional play-off? Second game? He went four for five. Night before, he brung these two foxes--uh, what it was you wanted to talk about?"

"Roland," he say, "I think I can make a trade with Texas for Rivers and Sundberg."

"Oh, yeah? Who for?"

"For you, Roland."

"You dreaming, Bossman."

"No, I'm not. They want you. They want the deal. I spoke to their G.M. an hour ago."

"No, you dreaming, 'cause I got a no-trade clause."

"You want to play this season or ride the lumber, Roland? You're thirty-eight years old."

"I don't want to play at no motherfucking Texas."

"They need you. We don't."

"No trade."

"OK, Roland, if that's the way you want it."

Two nights later, in Oakland, Ricky Holland, my replacement, step into a drain screen in right field on a routine fly ball. His spike catches and rip the fuck out his knee. I mean, you can hear them ligaments snap and pop all the way in the visitor dugout. It be pitiful. Holland have to be carried off on a stretcher straight to the hospital. I know right then and there the season be over for that poor boy.

"Put me in, Cappy," I say, half-joshing. Only half. Cappy just frown and shake his head. He put in Haines, just up from Topeka, Triple-A. Adequate field. No bat.

"You do what you told, right, Cappy?" I say.

"I run this team on the field, buster."

Sure you do, sure you do. We split four in Oakland, lose three out of four in the Kingdome. That ball park have got it in for us. Rojack pop one into one of them hanging speaker. Would have been a dinger. Umpire give him two base. Seattle hit 12 home run in four game. You think we be playing the 1927 American League All-Star, Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig. Goddamn. Haines, he go one for 18. I feel sorry for him. He already been up with this outfit twice last year and sent back to Topeka. I give you three guess who behind that.

Speaking of the Devil, who come over to (continued on page 164)No Trade(continued from page 124) my table at the Hilton in Minneapolis after we blow the opener with the Twins?

"Have a onion ring," I say. "I be watching my waistline."

"Cleveland says they'll give me Spillner and Rick Manning for you, Roland."

"Have a French fry."

"You could play in Cleveland, Roland. Every day. Why don't you do the intelligent thing?"

"Here, have the whole motherfucking steak!"

"Be realistic!"

"No trade."

Poor Haines. Bossman, he be getting desperate. Haines get a one-way ticket back to Topeka. Up come Bobo Johnson, terror of the Central League. Bobo be in for a shock. Up in the bigs, them pitcher have what they calls breaking stuff. I don't know if he ever even seen a good slider or a fork ball down in Chattanooga, but it don't take long for the Twins staff to get his number. After that, word get around. He don't see a fast ball from Minnesota to Maryland. Kid say Bobo be Triple-A, all the way. Kid the bright spot on the team now, hitting .331 when we come back off the road. Bobo be hitting .068 after six game.

Meanwhile, the hometown press be full of speculations. "Why Roland is out of the line-up?" "Trade: Roland for Hal mc rae?" The Post be the worst, as usual: "Roland stiles victim of mystery disease!"

This be our first really big home stand of the season, all Eastern Division club: Milwaukee, Boston, Baltimore. Great hometown crowd, foxes galore. Stadium be packed. I glance at the line-up card tape to the dugout wall. Say what? It have me in right field.

"What happen to the terror of the Central League?" I ax Cappy.

"Gone South," all Cappy say.

Hot damn! It be a beautiful night for baseball, outfield grass so pretty and green under them light. I sure don't feel no 38. Home uniform so crisp and white against the green. During the anthem, I realize how great it have been. Fourteen year in the bigs. I love this game, missed it riding that lumber, missed it bad, going to miss it real bad when it over. Except it ain't over.

Caldwell on the mound that night for Milwaukee, and I hit the living shit out of his change of speed. Don't fool me once. Two double and a three-run dinger in the sixth--game-winning ribbie. I come back up bottom of the eighth, that whole crowd be on its feet, chanting, "Roland, Roland, Roland!" Sound like a big oh. I look up at that sky box between home and first. He up there, all right. Tip my cap. Bounce back to the box. Oh, well.

Next day, I be back in the line-up still. But Bossman already been shooting off his mouth to them press. Headline in the morning rag: "Two weeks on bench inspires Roland." The way Bossman tell it, he stuck me on the lumber to fire up my competitive spirit. I never read such bullshit in my life. That man is too much. He have to take credit for everything. Saturday game, I go two for four, two R.B.I., walk, score three time. Afterward, home clubhouse be crawling with reporter. One thing lead to another and I tell them this: "The man who own this outfit is a damn liar. He want to trade my ass twice so far this season, and it ain't even June."

Sunday, there be a note in my box at the clubhouse from You-Know-Who. Won't I please go up to the front office before B.P.? I suit up and go. I know the uniform make Bossman nervous 'cause he ain't allowed to wear one. Sometime, I picture him home in some plushy bedroom, nobody else around, he put on a home uniform and just stare at himself for hours in the mirror. Sometime, I even feel sorry for him, the way you feel sorry for a retarded kid in one of them hospital we always going around to off season. Anyway, I go on up.

He be leaning way back in a big leather chair behind a desk the size of a Buick 88.

"Why, come on in, Roland." He all smiles. This big act last about ten second. Soon as I shut the door, he say, "You dare call me a liar, you washed-up has been son of a bitch."

"If we wasn't who we was and where we is," I tell him, "I would unscrew your pointy little head like a forty-watt light bulb, motherfucker. You are a liar through and through."

"And you're through playing for this outfit."

"No trade."

"I don't have to trade you, Roland. I can just sit you down."

"Fans be wondering, Why that is? Who you're going to put in right field, anyway?"

"I'll put Newsome out there."

"Newsome utility infield."

"He's a professional ballplayer. If he can't catch a fly ball, then he doesn't deserve to wear a major-league uniform. I just thought you would like to know how it all stands."

"Thanks a lot."

So he send Newsome out in right field. That poor boy fuck up real bad. He misjudge a routine fly ball that drop in and cost us a run in the fifth. Top of the eighth, he misplay the carom on a two-base off the wall by Molitor, turn it into a inside-the-park home run. It be a sad spectacle to watch. We lose five to three.

Ain't no shortage of press in the clubhouse.

"Why aren't you out in right field, Roland?"

"Bossman personally bench me," I say, "'cause I be a washed-up have-been."

"He took you out of the line-up himself?"

"I guess he did. He say I'm through. If he can't trade me, he going to sit my poor old have-been ass down."

Well, don't you know, Monday the shit be hitting the fan. Commissioner be calling me up at my penthouse. Marvin Miller of the players' union call me, say we be filing a grievance at once. Owner can't be interfering with the on-field operation.

"Go ahead, file," I tell him. "All I want is right field back and the number-five spot in the batting order." What do you know: Monday night, that exactly where I be at.

ABC Television showing us on the game of the week against our old rival, Boston. During B.P., Cosell interview me on tape.

"Roland," he say, "it's no secret that you have been having your differences with the gentleman upstairs"--he nod his wig hat up at the sky box of You-Know-Who. You got to understand, of course, Cosell never ax you no simple question where you can speak your own mind. He act like he be your defense lawyer in a manslaughter rap. A lot of us vets, we know how to use that.

Anyway, Cosell put his arm around my shoulder. "Roland, he tried to trade you, didn't he? Not once but twice. He threatened to bench you when you said no trade. And yet, here you are, your team six games in back of the league-leading Boston Red Sox, virtually carrying the team on your shoulders in the tradition of a Reggie Jackson or a George Brett, batting .322 going into tonight's game and playing like you did almost fifteen years ago, when you came up out of Memphis and set this league on fire, Roland. And tonight, after defying the wishes of the man who signs your pay check, you are starting in right field, where you belong."

Cosell, he shut up for a moment.

Whew!

"Is that a question, Howard?" I ax.

"Tell me and the fans out there what's happened in the past twenty-four hours, Roland," he say.

"Well, Howard," I say, "the boss come to me at my penthouse at three o'clock in the morning and he say, 'Roland, you got to save this team. I done made my mistakes,' he told me. 'I shouldn't never tried to trade you. I should have never brung up Haines. Please, Roland, go back into right field and carry this team.'

"'Well,' I says to the boss, 'I don't know. It's nice riding that lumber. I gets to watch the whole game from a good seat, don't have to muss up my uniform or break a sweat, pick up the same pay check. I got me a sweet deal.'

"So, Howard, he get down on his knees. 'I beg you, Roland,' he say."

"He got down on his knees," Cosell say in that tone of voice like the idea of it make his head hurt. "He got down on his knees and begged you?"

"That's right, Howard. It was pitiful."

That bullshit go out to 42,000,000 peoples coast to coast. I go out to right field and whip them motherfucking Boston 11 to two. I go four for five, double, three R.B.I. Next day, papers be full of it. "Bossman Begs Roland!"

Meanwhile, Bossman done flown the coop--to a undisclose hideaway in Florida, paper say, where he be unavailable for comment. He don't even stay in town for the home stand, which we gets red-hot in. Kid, he start hitting like his bat have eyes and running them base path like the repo man be after his ass. I don't look too shabby, neither: three taters against Boston; 22 total base in the series, which we sweep. Suddenly, we only two game back. Baltimore come in. Slam, bam! We take first two, lose third game on a sac fly in extra innings, kick the living shit out of them Oriole in the Sunday game. Boston drop a double-header in Cleveland. We be one out. Detroit come in Monday night. ABC-TV be back. Cosell, too. This time, he interview Kid on the pregame.

"You're very close to Roland Stiles, aren't you, Gerald?" Cosell ax Kid in his Uncle Howard voice and then don't let him answer, naturally. "The two of you are tearing up this league like another famous May-December twosome"-- Howard keep flapping them lips--"of course, I mean none other than Joe DiMaggio and the immortal Lou Gehrig on those great 1936 and 1937 teams."

"Uh-huh," Kid say.

"And after an abysmal start, an April rife with controversy and recrimination, here you are, suddenly a hair's breadth from the top your division. He looms pretty large in your eyes, doesn't he, Gerald?"

"Uh-huh."

"You're learning more or less at his knee, aren't you?"

(Yeah, I be thinking. Kid learning how to get pussy on a road trip.)

"This team has been a veritable pressure cooker all spring, hasn't it, Gerald?" Howard ax, and I know a baited hook when I see one. Sad to say, Kid fall for it:

"We be doing fine ever since the big boss of this outfit took himself to Florida and quit trying to run this team," Kid say, right oncamera, and my blood run cold. He be chewing bubble gum, grinning like a possum. I be thinking, Uh-oh....

Well, we pull out a squeaker against Detroit that Monday night, three to two. All our run score on Kid's bases-loaded triple. We climb into a tie for first place, fly out to Cleveland. Boston be idle on Monday. Tuesday, Tudor get shelled in Milwaukee. Them murderers' row they got up there hit seven dingers off Red Sox pitching. We take over first place undisputed and stay there 'most all summer long.

Of course, Bossman finally do come back. Press ax him about Kid's statement on TV. He only say, "I'm very happy the team is playing up to first-division standards, like I knew it could all along." Uh-huh.

September roll along. Everything be too quiet, too slick. We still playing respectable, nine game over. 500, but we ain't setting no league on fire anymore after the All-Star, like we done in June. I be hitting .304 with 72 ribbies and 22 home run. Kid, he slumping a little. Go down from .334 on August first to .296 on September 15. But he also have 26 home run and rack up 70 stolen base. Not too damn shabby. He just overanxious at the plate. Pulling his head. Boston be keeping pace on us all season long, never more than four game back, more usually one and a half, two. Them motherfucking Oriole be right behind. Can't never count Baltimore out.

This what it come down to: four-game series against the Red Sox at Fenway, three in Baltimore, wrap the whole motherfucker up at home against them Sox.

First game, Thursday night in Bean Town. They kick the shit out of Bobby Duncan in the first. Eckersley be dealing some smoke. We can't touch him. Twelve strike-out. Rice hit three double and a dinger for Sox. Evans two dinger. We get six measly hit all night. Final score nine to one, Boston.

After the game, me, Ernie Lowe, Martinez, Rojack and Butch Dees be having a cocktail at the Copley Plaza bar. Hobie come over to our table looking like he just seen the Boston Strangler in the elevator.

"Bossman traded Kid."

"Say what?"

"Traded Kid," Hobie say.

"You bullshitting. He bullshitting."

"No bullshit."

"Who to?"

"Who for?"

"Chicago. For Bill Denny and Doc Raymond."

"What the fuck?" Ernie say. "We got a perfectly good four-man rotation already."

"Yeah, looks like we got a six-man rotation now," Martinez say.

"This can't be true."

"It's true, all right," Hobie say. "Hey, where you going? Roland?"

Drexel answer the door when I knock on Bossman's suite upstairs. Drexel, v.p. of operations and world-champion kiss-ass. He look like a white rat, little pink nose always twitching, little rat tooths.

"I want to see Mr. Bossman."

"Uh, sorry, Roland, he's--"

"Out my way."

"Uh, Roland. Uppgghh--"

I lift him up by the front of his official club blazer, put him out in the hall, go inside and lock the door.

"What's going on out there, Ned?" Bossman ax from the bedroom. I step in. Bossman be sitting in bed, all dress up in his cute little red pajamas with the team insignia on the pocket, reading glasses on, attaché case open and paper all over the bed--contracts, schedules, checks.

"Why, hello, Roland."

I sit down on the edge of the bed. You can see it just about drive him batshit. His upper lip get all glisteny. He be diddling a pen between his finger, real nervous-like.

"You looks comfy and cozy."

"What can I do for you, Roland?"

"You can kiss my ass, but we save that for later, OK?"

Bossman mouth get all grim; them thin snake lips go pale. Real suddenly, he reach for the phone on his night table. I reach for his reach.

"Uh-uh," I say and rip the motherfucker right out its jack. Next, he try to get up, but I push him back. You can tell, after that, he give up.

"We hears you traded Kid."

"That's right. We needed more pitching, Roland."

"You must be out your mind."

"My advisors are among the best-paid executives in major-league baseball. This wasn't a decision taken lightly."

"Your advisors! Shit. You mean Drexel? How do he even get his lips off your pink pecker long enough to say five word? Cappy? He don't have the balls to make out a line-up card on his own. Your advisors tell you to dump a twenty-two-year-old future superstar in a neck-to-neck pennant race for a sore-arm lefty and a gopher-ball artist. You goddamn dickhead, who going to play center field? Newsome? You done tried him, remember? You do anything you can to fuck up this outfit, don't you? You trade Kid just to fuck us up. Don't you? Goddamn it, don't you?"

"My advisors--"

"Your advisors fuck you up your ass! I ought to hoist you out that motherfucking window by your ankle, you goddamn dickhead!"

And all of a sudden, I be so inflame that I grab him out the goddamn bed and almost do it. But that fat piece of shit go limp on me and collapse on the carpet. Then I got half a mind to bust his ribs with my boot heel, but I don't even do that. There be all this knocking on the door. I straighten my shirt.

"Bossman," I say, "you got the mind of a little baby pig. I hope you squeal yourself to death."

I leave that suite. Drexel be out in the hall with Cappy and half the team. They acting like maybe I killed the motherfucker.

"He all right," I tell them. "In fact, he ready for sloppy seconds."

I don't even get no chance to say goodbye to Kid. He have to fly straight out to K.C. and join up with them Chi Sox. Funny thing is, I don't hear nothing about my scrape with Bossman. No police, no Drexel, no press, no nothing. Not a damn peep. But guess who show up in the visitor clubhouse Friday night, hour before game time: terror of the Central League, Bobo Johnson. That night, we lose. I ride the lumber. Bobo go zero for four, two Ks. Newsome forget to back up Pierce on a shot off the green monster and Boggs score from first base. It be pitiful. We lose four to two. Boston one game back. Next night, we lose again, eight to five. Doc Raymond give up three-run homer to Stapleton, solo to Boggs. Bobo beat out a infield hit. That boy have got a little speed on him and that is all. The pennant race all tied up. We charter late down to Baltimore.

Baltimore like a smart thoroughbred. It lay back until the final furlong and then--poom!--she bust out of the pack, like a rocket. First game of the series, Bobby Duncan have his good cut fast ball working. Palmer be dealing for Baltimore. It be a shoot-out, but we win one to zero. Boston beat Detroit up in Fenway.

Tuesday, them Oriole whip our ass, ten to two. Cappy start Sore Arm, our new acquisition, and he don't last two inning. Ripken, Murray, Lowenstein, consecutive gopher ball. Bobo go one for five. He be racking up more Ks than the Ku Klux Klan. Wednesday, we win three to one behind Martinez. We charter home after the game. Boston sweep Detroit. Hello, second place. We be one game back of them Sox now.

Thursday night, our clubhouse be a Loony Tune. You never seen so many press. There be such a crush around my locker, I don't hardly have no room to suit up.

"You going to ride out the pennant race, Roland?"

"That's up to You-Know-Who."

"Is it true the two of you had some kind of altercation up in Boston?"

"We didn't have no altercation. I try to throw him out the seventh floor of the Copley Plaza, but I figure, Hey, why muss up a perfectly good sidewalk? Only be more work for some poor brother. Serious, though, ax yourself: If I really done pull that shit up in Boston, how come he don't fine me? You know why. Because then he have the commissioner office all over him, like a cheap suit."

"They say this team can't win the pennant without you, Roland."

"Yeah? That what they say? Well, I don't like to have no swell head, but it probably be the truth. Anyway, I got to suit up now, boys. Give me a little breathing room."

Boston wipe up the floor with us. We use six pitcher. They base-hit us to death: 12 single, three double. No dinger. (Rooty-toot-toot.) Newsome throw a ball into the motherfucking screen on a play at the plate with two men on. All three run score. Bobo go one for five. We two game back now. Lot of the guys start to give up mentally.

Commissioner call me at my penthouse the next morning. He seen them paper already.

"We're concerned about some possible irregularities in the management area of your team, Roland, and it's my duty to make sure there's nothing to these allegations. Well, is there?"

"Hell, no," I say. "Of course, the man who own this team be the biggest fucking asshole in the history of the game, but ain't nothing irregular about that. It be par for the course around here. But you already know that, so why you bugging me?"

"Roland, did you hold him out of a hotel window by his ankles in Boston?"

"Hey, look, you the commissioner or you a motherfucking police? Anybody press charges on me? Huh? I ain't heard nothing. I ain't even been fined. Maybe you heard something I ain't."

"I read the papers, Roland."

"Oh, yeah? Well, if you believe what you read in them press, then I feel sorry for you. And do me a favor, huh, commissioner?"

"What's that, Roland?"

"Don't ever call me here again at ten-fifteen in the morning after a motherfucking night game."

I hang it up.

Friday night, what do you know? Bobo down, Haines back up. Bossman done reactivated the Triple-A express elevator. We take an early lead, hang on to it all the way. Red Sox can't hit Ernie Lowe. We win five to one. We only one game back again. Saturday, Bobby Duncan be throwing flame. Roger Rojack take a Bob Stanley sinker ball that don't sink and pull it downtown in the visitor bull pen. We win. A miracle. Tie for first.

That night, I can't sleep. I keep picturing Haines out in right field. Yastrzemski hit a long fly ball out there. Haines go back, back, back...crash into the wall and collapse, like a puppet with his string cut. I hear that P.A.: "Now playing right field, Roland Stiles...." Shit, I done had that same kind of dream when I were 14-year-old in Memphis dreaming of making the bigs. Three A.M., the phone ring.

"Yeah?"

"Hey, Roland, guess how many fox I got here in this bed."

Sure good to hear Kid's voice. Like hearing your own self 20 year younger.

"Where you at, Kid?"

"Pennant Fever City," Kid say. "Motherfucking Texas. We had four thousand paid attendance tonight. I don't know if I can stand all this excitement. Hey, Roland, you really try to throw Fat Ass out the hotel window?"

"Naw. That be pure bullshit. You know them press."

"Hey, big one tomorrow, huh?"

"I guess so."

"Man, I wish you was in it."

"I been there before, Kid. Ain't no big thing, long as I get my winner share."

"I wish we was both in it together, like last spring. Hey, Roland...."

All of a sudden, I realize he crying.

"I feel like an orphan."

"We get together off season, Kid. Don't you worry."

"Promise?"

"Promise. Hey, how many fox you got?"

"None."

"None! Goddamn it, Kid, you go right out and get you some pussy. Hear me? I mean it. Got to keep them stats up, boy. See you when it's all over. 'Bye."

That Kid, he about to break my mother fucking heart.

Next day be the big one, all right. Look like there ain't no empty seat in the ball park. National press all jam into that little pen next to the dugout. Beautiful fall day. Everything be spanking bright. Play ball! It start out to be a fast, tense game. First three inning, no run, we each got one hit. Then, top of the fourth, Sox explode: Yaz double down the line and Rice single him home. Allenson cream a Doc Raymond curve ball into the left-field seats. We get two back in our half. They score two more in the seventh on a Boggs dinger. We come up. Bull Pierce get a hold of a Bruce Hurst fast ball and park it 20 rows back. Rojack singles. Then Newsome dribble into a double play, his specialty, to end it. And that's how it go until the bottom of the ninth, when it look like the end of the road for us.

With two out, Butch Dees loop a single just over Remy's head. Craig line a shot so hard it practically rip Hoffman glove hand off and it go through to left field for a base hit. Who up? Terror of the Triple-A, Darrell Haines.

Cappy stick his fingers in his mouth and whistle him. Haines pop the lead doughnut off his bat in the on-deck circle and point to hisself, like he can't believe it.

"Me?" His mouth form the word.

"Yeah, you, Haines. Get the hell in here!" Cappy holler.

The fans is going apeshit.

"Roland! Roland! Roland!"

"Stiles, get up there," Cappy say, not even looking at me.

I grab my bat and a hard-hat, stop on the dugout step for a moment.

"Hey, Cappy," I say. "Don't think you going to be a hero for this. You been a goddamn chickenshit all season and you still be a goddamn chickenshit in my book when it all over."

He don't say nothing.

I walk out there, put the doughnut on my bat for a few second, swing it around. P.A. announce me, like the dream. I walk up to the plate and everybody in the stands be standing up, rising like a wave on the ocean, clapping and cheering. After 14 year, it give me a chill down my spine. A minute later, they all sit down at once and that ball park grow as quiet as a midnight graveyard. I pull on my batting glove, dig my rear-foot hole in the box. It just me and Hurst now, big scowly-looking fast bailer. Over my shoulder, way up in the sky box, stand Mr. You-Know-Who, his finger all pressed against the Plexiglas. I touch the brim of my cap, stand in the box, settle in. Hurst pitching from the stretch with Dees and Craig on. That fast ball come in at the knees, slightly outside. I catch that first pitch and drive the motherfucker into the left-field mezzanine. Crowd be jumping up and down like a meadowful of grasshopper. Butch and Craig leaping all around home plate. All the guys, even that goddamn chickenshit Cappy, be pouring out of the dugout. Coming around third base, I got something for the Bossman: one finger held high and proud right up at that sky box.

Them press didn't run the picture, but the story told it. Commissioner fined me $500. We beat K.C. in the league play-off and went on to lose to St. Louis in the series, four to two. In November, I went free agent. I got to learn a whole new national anthem now, but at least it ain't no motherfucking Texas. I love this game so bad it hurts, but it have put me through some changes.

"I know guys around the league, superstars, wouldn't sign with this outfit for a million five a year."

"Fourteen year in the bigs. I love this game, going to miss it real bad when it over."