Peter Abrahams - The Fan

There was a silence. Gil examined his reflection in Wald’s glasses: a big guy in a sweaty T-shirt, with a big smile on his face. The big guy moved his lips. “Nice meeting you,” he said. “But the grass is growing under my feet.” Gil cranked up the mower and pushed off toward the beach, not looking back. By the time he made the turn, Wald was gone.

The whip hand, even over an operator like Wald! He’d come into his own at last. How? It had something to do with Curly Onis, something to do with getting back his trophy, something to do with strapping the thrower on his leg. But Gil finished mowing the whole lawn without really figuring it out. All he knew was that he was finally on the move, and moving fast.

Gil was raking when Sean appeared. He was carrying a baseball and two gloves.

“Hi, Curly.”

“Hi.”

“We’re friends, so I can call you Curly.”

“Right.”

“Play catch?”

“Sure.”

Sean put on the smaller glove, handed Gil the adult-sized one. Gil examined it: a Rawlings Gold Glove, soft and oiled, with “Rayburn 11” branded on the strap. One of Bobby’s old gloves. Gil slipped it on: a perfect fit.

Gil took the ball. “Here you go,” he said, backing up a step or two and lobbing a gentle toss. Gentle, but a bit off line. Gil was all set to say, “Sorry, bad throw,” when the boy reached out and snatched the ball out of the air, as though he couldn’t wait for it to get there.

“Move back, Curly,” he said.

Gil backed up a little more. Sean wound up and threw. Gil had no time to get his glove up; the ball hit him in the chest, hard enough to hurt, especially since he wasn’t quite healed yet. The boy looked up at him, puzzled. “Daddy catches those,” he said.

“I wasn’t ready,” Gil said. He lobbed another underhand toss. Sean caught it easily.

“Overhand,” the boy said, moving farther away before he threw it back, harder than the first one. Threw it on a line, chest-high, perfect. The ball smacked into Bobby’s glove. Gil tossed it back, still gentle, but overhand.

“Harder next time,” said Sean. And he zinged Gil another. Was it his imagination, or did the ball have some movement on it? Gil threw back harder, much harder. Sean caught it as effortlessly as he had the others.

“A grounder.”

Gil threw him a grounder. The boy got his butt down, got his glove in the grass, scooped it up, whipped it back.

“Another one.”

Gil tried one on his backhand this time, but Sean got to it so quickly he didn’t have to go to the backhand. Down. Scoop. Throw, on the money.

Gil tried another to the backhand, but the ball got away from him a little, bouncing across the new-cut grass so far to Sean’s right that it was unplayable. Except that Sean took one step, so swift, and dove, fully outstretched through the air, eyes on the ball the whole time, fierce eyes, and the ball disappeared in the pocket of his toy glove just as he hit the ground. An instant later, he was up on his knees and throwing, throwing from his knees: another rope, right at Gil’s chest.

He had soft hands.

He had a gun for an arm.

He had textbook form for every move he made.

Goddamn you, Richie. It wasn’t fair.

“Another diver,” Sean said. “Throw me another diver.”

But Gil didn’t want to throw him another diver. He didn’t want to play at all anymore. “Got to get back to work,” he said.

“Just one more.”

The boy pounded his fist in the pocket of his glove. Was there a baseball gene that a few had and most did not? It wasn’t fair. Well, Gil had that gene, didn’t he? It was Ellen who had screwed things up. He thought of her and hurled the ball at Sean as hard as he could, a throw that would have killed Richie, or that fucking Jason Pellegrini, or any of the others. But Sean caught it, showing no consternation, no surprise, nothing.

“Thanks, Curly,” he said. “For playing with me.” And he ran off. He was fast too.

Gil had knocked off for the day and was lying on his bed, naked except for the thrower, when the phone rang. He answered. It was Val.

“You did a great job on the lawn.”

“Thanks.”

“And Sean had such a good time playing ball with you.” Gil said nothing.

“Would you like to go to the game tonight?”

“Game?”

“Bobby’s game. Sean’s never been to a night game and he really wants to go. The problem is the architect’s coming tonight and I’ve got to be here. I can drive you there though, and Bobby can drive you back.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Wonderful.”

At the ballpark, Val double-parked in front of an unmarked door. They got out, Val, Gil, Sean. She knocked at the door. An old man in a red blazer opened it; Gil remembered him right away-his veiny red face was the same, but his personality had changed. He was all smiles.

“Hey, big guy,” he said to Sean, “now the game’s in the bag.”

“This is Mr. Onis,” Val said.

“How do you do, sir?” said the man in the blazer, pumping Gil’s hand.

Val went off. The door closed. The man in the blazer made sure it was locked, then led them up a corridor.

“Want some popcorn or something?” the man said to Sean.

“I want to see Socko.”

Socko the mascot was a red, pear-shaped creature, with yellow clodhopper feet and a grinning yellow face. Gil hated mascots.

“Sure thing,” said the man in the blazer, knocking on the next door they came to.

“What is it?” came a voice.

“Visitors,” replied the old man. “Are you decent?”

“Decent as the next guy.”

The old man opened the door. They entered a little dressing room. Socko sat on a chair, wearing everything but his yellow head. He was in his early twenties, with long hair and several rings in each ear.

“Hi, Sean. How’s it going?”

“Can I put on the head?”

“Sure,” said Socko, giving it to him.

Sean put on the yellow head, looked in the mirror. “Oooo oooo,” he said in a scary voice.

Socko raised his enormous yellow hands; each with three fingers, like a cartoon character’s. “Don’t hurt me.”

“Oooo oooo,” said Sean.

Everyone laughed. Gil joined in.

Sean took off the head. “It’s hot in there.”

“No kidding,” said Socko. “I take water breaks every three innings.” Bottles of mineral water sat on the dressing table.

They went to their seats, in a glass-faced box high over first base. A waiter in a bow tie hurried to them. Sean ordered a hot dog, a pretzel, popcorn, and a Coke.

“Anything for you, sir?”

“Milk, if you’ve got it.”

“Whole, two percent, or skim?”

“Whole,” said Gil.

The game began. Bobby doubled down the right-field line in the first inning, driving in two runs. Socko danced on the first-base dugout. There was a lot of noise in the box. “See what your daddy did?” said a man with a highball glass.

“RBIs forty-nine and fifty,” said Sean.

Everyone laughed. Gil joined in.

In the third inning, a woman appeared, knelt in the aisle beside Sean.

“Heard you were here,” she said. “Any more trouble from the Arcturians?”

“Nope,” said Sean. “This is Mr. Curly Onis. That’s what his friends call him. He mows the lawn.”

The woman looked at Gil. She seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place her.

“Curly lives over the garage,” Sean added.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, offering her hand. “Jewel Stern.”

At that moment, the moment he learned who she was, Gil also placed her, standing by Boucicaut’s pickup in the alley behind the three-decker. A shudder went through him; her hand was still in his, but there was nothing he could do about it.

She let go, but tilted her head slightly, as though drawing a bead on something. “Enjoy the game,” she said. She tousled Sean’s hair, and then she was gone.