Peter Abrahams - The Fan

“Yeah?” Bobby said.

The kid skyed one to right and stepped out of the cage. Burrows motioned at Bobby.

“Try your luck, Mr. Rayburn?” he said.

“There,” said the reporter. “All set.”

“Got to go,” Bobby told her.

“One quick question.” She spoke into her mike: “Do you feel under any special pressure because of the big contract this year, Bobby?” She thrust the mike at him.

“No,” he said, walking toward the cage with his bat on his shoulder.

She followed him. “But what about the fans?”

“What about them?”

“Won’t the money raise their expectations?”

“The fans,” said Bobby, “are what it’s all about.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Bobby, stepping into the cage, didn’t reply.

He stood in the batter’s box, touched the middle of the plate with the bat, took his stance, looked out. All at once, as though he were waking from a nap, everything was defined with exaggerated clarity, like objects in a coffee-table book: the silvery whiskers on Burrows’s face, the loping and shagging shadows of the outfielders on the deep-green grass, the glints of sunshine on the chain-link fence, the waxy leaves of the fake-looking palm trees beyond.

“Not going to hurt me now, are you, Bobby?” said Burrows. Had he been a pitcher, long ago? Bobby wasn’t sure. Burrows fed him a fat one. First pitch of the season-so clear-and Bobby was surprised by a sudden physical tingling, not unlike the feeling when you know you’re going to get laid, just a little higher up inside him. Bobby waited on that coffee table pitch, maybe a hair too long, and smashed it off the screen right in front of Burrows’s chest.

“Jesus Christ,” said Burrows.

Bobby smiled.

Burrows dipped into the ball basket, put a little more on the next one. This time Bobby didn’t wait long enough, but got a good piece, one-hopping the fence in left center. Then he found his timing, or it found him; he felt that almost imperceptible tightening along the outside of his left leg and around the left side of his torso that always meant his swing was right. Down the left-field line. Off the top of the fence in left center. Over the fence in center. Over the fence in right center. Over the fence in left. Over the phony palm trees in center. Off the screen in front of Burrows, who flinched, after the fact.

“Jesus Christ.”

Bobby stepped out. The phenom stepped in, trying not to see him. Jesus Christ. Bobby almost spoke the words aloud. Day one, and he was there already. He felt absurdly strong, as though he could do a thousand pushups, or hop the ten-foot fence himself. They got him cheap.

The phenom took his cuts. Not so good this time. Bobby saw that Burrows wasn’t throwing any harder, probably couldn’t, but that he was moving the ball around, up and in, down and out; looking for weaknesses, and finding some. The phenom bounced a few through the unmanned infield, fouled one off, and another, and another, then nubbed one that rolled weakly to the foot of Burrows’s screen.

“ ’Kay,” Burrows said.

Phenom out, Bobby in.

“Outside,” Bobby said. Burrows sent one over the outside half. Bobby drilled it down the right-field line. He drove the next one between first and second, lined the one after that over Burrows’s head, pulled the last two, one to straightaway left, one down the line.

“Inside,” Bobby said, and he worked his way back around, lining the last one, the toughest one, inside-out over first base.

“Gonna have us a little fun this year,” Burrows said.

Bobby stepped out. Contract pressure? They got him cheap.

He ran for a while in the outfield, stretched, ran some more, shagged. After an hour or so, he went into the clubhouse, showered, changed. The number twenty-eight shirt was gone from his stall, but nothing hung in its place.

Bobby went to the buffet, made himself a sandwich, took a beer. Primo, wearing a towel, came to the other side of the table, made a sandwich, took a beer, didn’t look at him. Bobby was trying to decide whether he should say something and, if so, what, when someone behind him said:

“Bobby?”

Bobby turned, saw a skinny little guy with glasses and frizzy hair.

“Hi,” he said and spoke his name, which Bobby didn’t catch. “I’m the DCR-director of community relations.”

Bobby shook hands; was doing a lot of handshaking today, now that he thought about it, and getting tired of it. He tried to remember if Wald had his clubs in the trunk.

“Wonder if you could do me a very special favor, Bobby,” the skinny guy said.

“What’s that?”

“We got a call about this kid. They’ve got a thing at the hospital here, what’s it called?” He took a notebook from his blazer pocket. “ ‘The Wish Upon a Star Benefit Program,’ ” he read. “It’s for sick kids, really sick-terminal, that type of situation.” Bobby looked over the skinny guy’s shoulder; Wald had come in, speaking on a portable phone. The DCR talked faster. “Anyway, the idea is these kids get to make a kind of last wish, and the folks in the program try to make it come true. Within reason. The thing is this kid wants to see you.”

Wald was laughing into his portable phone. “What kid?” Bobby said.

The DCR checked his notebook. “Looks like John something. Can’t read my own writing.”

Bobby started to walk away. “Sure,” he said. “Maybe. Sometime.”

The DCR followed him. “Don’t mean to be a pest, Bobby, but the problem is, if you’re going to do it, it’s going to have to be soon. Very soon. Like tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“The nurse or whoever it was said he might not be strong enough later.”

Wald clicked off his phone, stuck it in his monogrammed shirt pocket. “All set?” he said.

“I don’t know,” Bobby answered.

“You don’t know?”

“It’s about this kid,” the DCR said and explained it all over again.

Bobby and the DCR waited for Wald’s reaction. “It’s up to you, Bobby,” he said.

“Up to me?”

“If you want to do it or not.”

Bobby turned to the DCR. “What is it, exactly?”

“Just a hospital visit. It’s about fifteen minutes away. I can run you over right now, if you want.”

Did Bobby want to do it? No. But he found himself saying, “All right.” He knew why, too: because he’d been seeing the ball so well, made such a good beginning, didn’t want to screw it up. Made no sense, but that was the reason.

“Fantastic,” said the DCR, and Bobby realized he’d just earned the DCR some points with his boss, whoever that was.

Wald checked his watch. “This’ll work okay, actually. I’ve got a meeting, the bank, make a few calls-we’ll still have time to play nine.” He turned to the DCR. “You know the Three Pines C.C.? Drop him there by three.”

“Got my clubs?” Bobby said.

“I’m your man,” said Wald. He hurried out.

The DCR rubbed his hands. “Fantastic,” he said again.

“Should we take some balls?” Bobby asked. “For the kid?”

The DCR thought about it. “Maybe a bat would be nicer, for something like this.”

“One of my bats?”

“Oh, I’m sure any bat’ll be fine.”

But why not one of his own? He had an unlimited free supply. Bobby went to his stall, glanced at the bats, selected one he knew his hands wouldn’t like, just by the pattern of the grain on the handle. “We’ll give him this,” Bobby said.

“That’s awfully nice of you, Bobby.”

The DCR drove Bobby to the hospital. “Great to have you here, Bobby,” he said on the way. “It’s my first year with the organization too.”

“Where were you before?”

“Wharton.”

Bobby hadn’t played a day in the minors. He couldn’t place it.