Peter Abrahams - The Fan

Bobby stretched out on a chaise, sighed, feeling good.

“Got a nice place here, Bobby,” Gil said.

“Not bad.”

Gil raised his glass to his mouth, found it was empty, took a hit from the bottle.

“You’re a lucky man,” he said.

“Lucky?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve worked pretty hard, Curly.”

“Taking BP? Shagging flies? Lying in the whirlpool?” Easy, boy, Gil thought.

But Bobby laughed again. “You’ve got a sense of humor, Curly.” He opened another beer, drank, closed his eyes. Gil watched him, and drank from the bottle, feeling the cactus growing inside him, watching. For a moment, he thought Bobby had fallen asleep. Then, without opening his eyes, Bobby spoke: “What kind of a pitcher were you, Curly?”

“First pick, every goddamn time.”

Bobby’s eyes opened. “I missed that.”

“I was good,” Gil said.

Bobby nodded.

“Fucking good.”

“I’m sure you were.”

“I still am. My arm’s stronger than ever, now that the soreness is all gone.”

“Yeah?” said Bobby, and closed his eyes again.

Gil took another hit from the bottle. He remembered how hard he’d thrown to Boucicaut in the woods, too hard even for Boucicaut to catch. And he had a wonderful idea, the kind of idea he never used to have, the kind of idea that accompanied this delayed coming into his own. Simple, daring: he would show Bobby Rayburn, just show him. It was perfect.

“Tell you something,” Gil said.

“What’s that, Curly?”

He took another drink. “Open your eyes.”

Bobby opened his eyes.

Gil looked right into them. “I don’t think you can hit me,” he said.

Gil felt a thrill when he said that. It reminded him of legends he had learned, of songs he had heard, of Steve McQueen movies. It was the kind of simple, daring statement that made America great.

But Bobby didn’t get it, because he said, “Why would I want to hit you? You saved my kid’s life.”

His obtuseness maddened Gil, but he kept it inside. “I meant hit my pitching.”

Bobby laughed out loud; Gil realized he must have been witty again. Bobby quickly stifled the laugh, putting his hand over his mouth, like a girl.

Gil’s own hand was moving down his leg. He stopped it. “What’s so funny?” he said.

“Nothing. Sorry. I’m used to guys challenging me, in bars and stuff, but no one ever challenged me to hit off them.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Gil said.

Bobby shrugged. “Okay, if you really want to, someday.”

Gil rose. “Not someday. Now.”

“Now?”

“Why not?”

“It’s night, for one thing.”

“So turn on the floods.”

“And I don’t even know what equipment I’ve got out here.”

“Sounds to me like you’re looking for excuses,” Gil said.

Bobby drained his bottle, tossed it away. He rose too. “Sounds to me like you’re calling me chicken.”

They stared at each other. Yes, Gil thought: I’ve found the man inside, gotten to him, and he’s like any other guy.

“Batter up,” Gil said.

He went to the apartment over the garage to get Bobby’s old glove, which he’d put under the bed. When he returned the floodlights were shining behind the house, and Bobby was standing on the lawn below the terrace, a bat in one hand, a bucket of balls in the other. They were at the foot of the slope; from there the lawn stretched flat to the beach.

Bobby handed him the bucket, motioned him toward the beach. “Pace off sixty feet,” he said. “If any get by me, they’ll just roll up the hill.”

Gil paced off sixty feet, thinking: if any get by you. He turned, took a ball from the basket, toed an imaginary rubber. Bobby took his stance over an imaginary plate. The floods were on, but it wasn’t like playing under big-league lights. The lawn was dark and shadowy. An advantage, Gil thought, that would compensate for his rustiness.

“All set?” Gil said.

“You’ve got the ball, Slugger.”

Gil rotated the ball in his hand, got his grip, went into his windup. Smooth and strong, everything just right, the way his father had taught him. If only Boucicaut were catching. Hip turn, high leg kick, back bent, step, drive-and he whipped that four-seamer in exactly where he wanted it, high and tight.

At first, because of the way Bobby just stood there, Gil thought he was going to let it go by. Then, at the last instant, after the last instant, Bobby swung. So fast. Then came a crack like the trunk of an oak splitting, then a sizzling sound, then a long silence. And finally a distant splash, in the sea. Gil never saw the ball.

He looked at Bobby. Bobby was in his stance over the imaginary plate, silent, waiting, bat cocked. Gil picked up another ball. He remembered some of the great pitches he had thrown, fastballs over the outside corner, curves that made batters bail out before ducking over the plate, that wonderful knuckler he’d fed Pease with the game on the line. And with all that to back him up, he went into his windup, smoother and stronger now, if anything, and threw another fastball, a blazing fastball, surely the hardest he had ever thrown, this one low and outside-but too low and too outside to be a strike. And again, despite having seen what he’d just seen, Gil was sure Bobby was going to let it go by, possibly didn’t even see it. And again, when it was too late, Bobby swung. And again, that terrifying crack, that sizzle, then the long silence, even longer this time, and the splash, even fainter.

He looked in at the batter. The batter was in his stance, bat cocked, absolutely still. Gil reached into the bucket, tried his curve, pulled the shade, broke off the sharpest curve he’d ever thrown, starting it right at Bobby’s head. Crack. Sizzle. Silence. Splash.

Bobby, back in his stance, spoke. “That one had a little wiggle on it,” he said.

The remark infuriated Gil. He dipped into the bucket, went into his motion-a big strong guy made all the stronger by his fury, and the Cuervo Gold-and threw the ball with all the force in his body straight at Bobby’s head. Bobby leaned back a little, somehow swinging at the same time. Crack, and a sizzle that came much closer, an inch or two from Gil’s ear; Gil felt his ear redden just from the sound.

Bobby was back in his stance before the splash, expressionless.

Gil, breathing hard although he’d only thrown four pitches, looked in the bucket. “No balls left,” he said.

Bobby lowered his bat, came forward. “That was kind of fun,” he said, extending his hand.

Gil ignored it. “Get more.”

“There are no more. No hard feelings, huh, Curly? I’m a pro. It would be like us having a lawn-mower race or something, I wouldn’t stand a chance.” He put his hand on Gil’s shoulder.

Gil shook free. “You’re saying I don’t stand a chance?”

“C’mon, Curly. It’s over. Shake hands.”

Gil shook, but kept his hand limp. Limp, like three limp generations: his father, him, Richie; versus Rayburn’s father, Rayburn, Sean.

“What was your father like?” Gil just blurted it.

“My old man?” said Bobby in surprise. “He’s a high-school guidance counselor in San Jose.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Nothing makes much sense at this hour, Curly. Let’s get some sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

Bobby laughed. “You sound just like Sean.”

“I’m not at all like Sean. I’m like Richie.”

“Who’s Richie?”

“Nobody.”

“C’mon, Curly. It’s late, and tomorrow’s a day game.” Bobby put his arm around him. They walked up the slope toward the terrace. “Kind of fun though,” Bobby said. “Listening for the splash. Lanz’ll get a kick out of it.”