W. Kinsella - Magic Time

‘No, what I do now is arrange for a pickup team to back me up – play an exhibition game against a well-known local team … Say,’ he said, as if he had just been struck by a brilliant idea. ‘Do you suppose you men could round up the rest of your high-school team?’

‘Byron’s not in high school yet,’ I said. ‘But I probably could. Most of the players live close by, a few on farms. Some will be away on vacation, but I think I could round up a full team without too much trouble.’

‘In that case I think we might be able to arrange a business proposition.’

For the next few minutes, Roger Cash outlined his plans, while Byron and I nodded at his every suggestion. It was obvious he had done this thing many times before.

All the time he was talking, I was eyeing the mileage chart, searching for an easily reversible number.

‘Have you spotted one that will beat me?’ Roger asked suddenly. He had been talking about how many practices our team would need, and the switch in subject caught me by surprise.

‘Maybe.’

‘You want to put some money on it?’

‘A dollar.’ I gulped. I could feel the pace of my heart pick up.

‘You’re on,’ he said, turning away from where the chart lay open on the table top. ‘Name the cities.’

‘Albuquerque to New York.’

Roger laughed. ‘You picked one of the hardest. A mileage easy to reverse. Now, if I wanted to win your dollar I’d say 1,997.’ He paused for one beat. I could feel my heart bump, for the number was right.

‘But if I wanted to set you up to bet five dollars on the next combination, I’d say 1,979. I might miss the next one, too. People are greedy and like to take money from a stranger. I might even miss a third or fourth time, and I always leave the chart out where a man with a sharp eye can spot an easily reversible number. You men aren’t old enough to go to bars, or I’d show you how it really works.’

I took out my wallet, opened it up and lifted out a dollar. ‘No,’ said Roger. ‘I’ll chalk that one up to your experience. I have a mind for distances. I once read a story about a blind, retarded boy who played the piano like a master. And I heard about another man who can tell you what day of the week any date in history, or future history, was or will be. Myself, I have an idiot’s talent for distances.’

‘What’s so great about distances?’ asked Byron. ‘If I was smart I’d choose something else to be an expert on.’

‘Let me tell you about distances,’ said Roger, his golden eyes like coins with black shadows at the center. ‘Six or eight inches doesn’t make any difference, say, between Des Moines and Los Angeles, right?’

We nodded.

‘Now suppose you’re in bed with your girlfriend.’

Roger Cash moved forward, hunching over the table, lowering his voice, because over behind the counter Mrs. Grover was doing her best to hear our conversation. Nothing went on that Mrs. Grover didn’t know about. And if there was a shortage of happenings, Mrs. Grover was not above creating some rumors just to get things fermenting.

‘Suppose your peter won’t do what it’s supposed to – you men do know about such things?’

We both nodded eagerly. My experience was more limited than I was willing to admit; but Byron, who was fifteen months younger than me, had always liked girls and girls had always liked him. Though we seldom talked about our sexual adventures, I suspected Byron had more actual experience than I did.

‘If your peter won’t produce that six or eight inches,’ our faces were in a tight triangle over the table, and Roger was whispering, ‘no matter how close you are to pussy, you might as well be 1,709 miles away, which is how far it is from Des Moines to Los Angeles.’

Roger laughed, and we joined in, though more from nervousness than appreciation. At the lunch counter, one ear still tipped toward us, Mrs. Grover smiled crossly.

‘The distances in baseball are perfect,’ Roger went on, ‘ninety feet from base to base, sixty feet six inches from the mound to the plate. Not too far. Not too close. But change any one of them just six or eight inches, the length of your peter, and the whole game’s out of kilter.’

Byron and I nodded, wide-eyed.

‘Well, since you men say you can get me a team, all we have left to do is find ourselves an opponent,’ said Roger. ‘Who’s the best pitcher in these parts?’

‘That would be Silas Erb,’ I said. ‘Chucks for First National Bank in the Division One Commercial League.’

‘Is he crafty or a hardball thrower?’

‘Strictly a thrower. Ninety miles an hour straight down the middle, dares anybody to hit it.’

‘Scratch him. I want a guy who’s a curveballer, maybe tries to throw a screwball, has a wicked change.’

‘That would be McCracken,’ I said. ‘McCracken Construction have been Division One Champs two years in a row.’

‘And he owns the company?’

‘His father does.’

‘Would he be the kind to accept a challenge from an elderly pitcher with a two-and-nineteen high-school team on the field in back of him?’

‘Who wouldn’t? McCracken thinks he’s the sneakiest junkball-pitcher since Hoyt Wilhelm. He throws a knuckle curve.’

‘If we were to set up this game with McCracken, get posters printed, and talk up this challenge game, what sort of attendance do you think we could expect?’

‘People are hungry for good baseball,’ I said. ‘I think we could get five or six hundred fans out, maybe more, with people from the new subdivisions.’

‘Would they pay three dollars a head?’

‘No problem.’

Roger Cash grinned, the right side of his mouth opening up to show his dice-like teeth. I noticed then, even through the suit, that his right upper arm and shoulder were huge, many inches larger than his left.

* * *

What he proposed to McCracken that night was a winner-take-all game, my high-school team with Roger Cash pitching, against McCracken Construction, Division One Champs and one of the best commercial-league baseball teams in the state.