Peter Abrahams - The Fan

In the clubhouse Burrows handed him a printout, showing his lifetime stats against Pinero, the opposing pitcher. He was hitting. 471, 24 for 51, with eight doubles, a triple, and six home runs.

“Just remember what I think of stats,” Burrows said.

“What’s that?”

“Half the time they’re bullshit.”

“And the rest of the time?”

“They’re bullshit the other way.”

Bobby smiled. He was starting to like Burrows.

At his stall, Bobby pressed PLAY, listened to a few tunes, then put on his game shirt with number forty-one, not even seeing the digits today, for the first time not bothered by it at all. Then he took the field and went 0 for 4, lowering his average to. 138. The Sox fell to last. Primo hit for the cycle.

Bobby got home after midnight, driving with a beer in his hand, and then another. So what? He wasn’t some salesman on the road late after an office party, or some other-he couldn’t think what; he was Bobby Rayburn, he was under pressure, and he had to relax, had to let go, let go, let go.

Val was in the kitchen with the ponytailed guy, drinking white wine.

“Can I see you?” Bobby said.

Val followed him into the hall.

“What the fuck’s he doing here?”

“Planning, Bobby. The kitchen. You know all about it. And I’d prefer you didn’t talk to me so rudely.”

He gave her a push, not hard. She fell against the wall, her eyes opening wide in surprise. He’d never laid a hand on her. Then she started to cry, or would have, if Philip hadn’t stuck his head around the corner.

“One little point of clarification, Valerie, if you don’t mind.”

“Some other time, Slugger,” Bobby said. “Nighty-night.”

Meaning that Philip should leave. But he just stood there and said, “Sleep well.” So Bobby went upstairs by himself: he didn’t want to do any more pushing.

He took the phone out on the balcony, called Wald. Wald answered after four or five rings, his voice grainy with sleep.

“Missed the game, Bobby. How’d it go?”

“I’ll pay what he wants,” Bobby said. A ship slid across the dark sea, far away. He could distinguish every light showing: there wasn’t anything wrong with his eyes.

“Sorry, Bobby, I don’t get you.”

“Primo. My number.”

“You’re talking about the fifty grand?”

“Right.”

“You’ll pay it?”

“That’s what I just said.” Why not? He was spending twice that or maybe more to fix a kitchen that didn’t need fixing.

“You’re the boss,” Wald said.

“I want you to do it now.”

“Now? It’s-”

“I know what time it is.”

“I’m not sure I can reach-”

“Try.”

“Whatever you say.”

Bobby stayed on the balcony watching the ship sail out of sight. The phone buzzed.

“Yes?”

“No.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I offered them fifty and they turned it down.”

“Who is they?”

“His people.”

“Did they talk to him?”

“They said they did.”

Another ship appeared, smaller than the first, but every light on it just as clear to him. “Offer them more.”

“How much more?”

“Offer them a hundred. Isn’t that what they wanted in the first place?”

“That was then.”

“So?”

“So nothing. A hundred grand’s still a lot of money, Bobby, that’s all.”

“We can always bag the goddamned kitchen.”

Wald was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know, Bobby. I kind of like Philip’s vision.”

Peter Abrahams

The Fan

“ Is Primo something else this year or what?” said Jewel Stern.

“Sure is,” said Norm. “If the pitching comes through-”

“And if Rayburn can shake this terrible, terrible-”

“Then who knows what might happen? Let’s see what’s happening in Fanworld. Gil on the car phone. What’s up, Gil?”

“Hello?”

“You’re on, Gil. Go ahead.”

“Jewel?”

“Hi, Gil. What’s on your mind?”

“And better be brief, Gil. We’re getting some breakup on the line.”

“Jewel?”

“Yes, Gil.”

“I heard what you said about Primo, that’s all.”

“And?”

“And it won’t last. He’s a hot dog. Hot dogs always fold in the end.”

“Is that right, Gil? I could name you five or six so-called hot dogs in baseball right now who are going straight to the Hall of Fame.”

“Then there’s something wrong with the Hall of Fame.”

“Tell ’em, Gilly!”

“Sounds like Gil’s got a like-minded buddy in the car with him, Jewel.”

“A like-minded buddy in a very good mood, Norm, perhaps artificially induced. Let’s go to Ruben in Malden. What’s up, Ruben?”

Way to go, Gil, thought Bobby Rayburn, parking in front of the terminal, maybe a little late. Was Primo going to fold? Was some fan, possibly drunken, onto something? Probably not: the woman was right about the Hall of Fame. Jewel. Was she the reporter who wanted to interview him? For some important magazine, Wald had said. The only important magazine Bobby knew was SI. He’d been on the cover three times.

Coach Cole was already outside the terminal, a white-haired, leather-skinned old guy blowing a big pink gum bubble. Coach Cole: played fifteen years in the minors, coached college for twenty more after that, including Bobby’s four years, now lived in a one-bedroom condo a few feet from a sand trap on a third-rate golf course near Tucson. Never made it, not even close. But he understood hitting; more important, understood the way Bobby hit.

“Fuckin’ ugly town,” said Coach Cole, getting in.

Bobby handed him a check for two grand, to cover the tickets and a few hours’ work. Coach Cole rolled it up tightly and stuck it behind his ear. In all those years he’d never made head coach, not even in junior college-maybe, Bobby now realized, because he was always doing things like that.

“How you been?” Bobby said.

“Fuckin’ slice is killing me. And I get up six times every night to piss. Other than that, no complaints.” Coach Cole cracked his gum.

They drove out to a college in the suburbs. A kid in sweats was waiting inside a batting cage enclosed with netting on all sides, behind the practice field.

“All warmed up?” Bobby said.

“Yes, sir.”

Bobby went inside with his bat, took his stance at the plate. The kid, behind a notched-out protective screen, reached into a basket of balls. Coach Cole stood outside, blowing pink bubbles.

The kid zipped one in. Bobby got a piece of it.

“Ease into it,” Coach Cole said to the kid. “I’m no scout or nothin’.” And in a lower voice, that only Bobby could hear, added: “And you’re no bonus baby.” How Coach Cole could tell after only one pitch, Bobby didn’t know.

The kid started pitching, and Bobby started whacking, buzzing drives all over the narrow cage, rippling the netting, making it bulge and quiver from the disturbance within.

“Little more,” Coach Cole told the kid.

The kid threw harder. Bobby hit harder.

“Now some cheese,” said Coach Cole.

The kid, sweating now, began to air it out. No movement on his ball, but good velocity, and the netting made a lousy background. Still, Bobby hit every pitch on the screws, the kid ducking out of the open notch to safety behind the screen the instant he let go.

“Turn ’em over,” said Coach Cole.

The kid threw his breaking stuff. Not much of a slider, but a sharp curve. Bobby hammered them both.

“Mix it up,” said Coach Cole.

The kid mixed it up.

Bobby hammered.

“Change speeds.”

The kid changed speeds.

Bobby hammered.