Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

“Lissen, boys!” Scheepers stood up on a bench and addressed the whole room. “I got a matter to discuss, a slight matter of money.”

The locker room was silent.

“Call the pickpocket squad,” Peppe said after a moment. “Scheepers is discussing money.”

“I know you boys are joking.” Scheepers smiled. “So I don’t get sore.”

“Get sore, Scheepers,” Peppe said. “Get good and sore.”

Scheepers hesitated and then spoke in a confidential voice. “Boys,” he said, “it is not a warm day. This is not a pleasant Sunday afternoon, to be perfectly frank with you.”

“Secrets,” Holstein said. “Keep it to yourself, boys.”

“It’s cold. It’s near the end of the season. It snowed this morning. The Dodgers are playing Pittsburgh at Ebbets Field. You fellers ain’t put on such a good show for the last two weeks. In a word, there is not a large crowd today.” He looked around him significantly. “I have made a deal with Krakow’s All-Stars. I have reduced their guarantee fifty per cent because there is hardly anybody in the stands.”

“That’s nice,” Holstein said. “That’s a nice piece of business. You ought to be proud of yourself.”

“What I am driving at—” Scheepers said.

“Don’t tell us,” Peppe said. “Let us guess. Ullman, you guess first.”

“What I am driving at,” Scheepers continued, “is that I expect you boys to take a small fifty-per-cent reduction for yourself.”

“You know what you can do,” Holstein said. “With my compliments.”

“Scheepers!” Peppe said. “The Season’s Leading Louse.”

“It ain’t hardly worth the risk,” Klonsky said, feeling his teeth. “I borrowed that fifty bucks to pay the dentist. I gave a lien on my radio. If they take that radio, my wife is going to raise hell. Go ask somebody else, Scheepers.”

“I am being fair,” Scheepers said. “Absolutely fair. It is an impartial proposition. Everybody takes a small fifty-per—”

“‘The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker,’” sang Peppe, “‘were all in love with Marie.’”

“I am talking serious,” Scheepers said. “And I want a serious answer.”

“He wants a serious answer,” Peppe said.

“I am trying to conduct business!” Scheepers screamed. “I got bills to pay, dammit!”

“Nuts,” Peppe said mildly. “Nuts, Mr. Scheepers. That serious enough?”

“I am hereby telling you that I will go outside and pay back every admission ticket unless you boys do business,” Scheepers said. “The game will be off. I got to protect myself.”

The men looked at each other. Holstein scraped his cleats on the plank floor.

“I was thinking of buying a pair of shoes tomorrow,” Ullman said. “I’m walking around in my bare feet.”

“It’s up to you, boys.” Scheepers put his gloves on again.

“I got a date tonight,” Peppe said bitterly. “A very fine girl. A girl from Greenwich Village. It will cost me six bucks sure. Scheepers, you’re taking advantage.”

“Profit and loss,” Scheepers insisted. “I am merely trying to balance the books. Take it or leave it, boys.”

“O.K.,” Holstein said.

“It is strictly not a personal thing,” Scheepers said. “I am in the red all season.”

“Kindly leave the room, Scheepers,” Peppe said, “while we feel sorry for you. The tears are blinding us.”

“Wise guys,” Scheepers said, sneering. “A collection of very wise guys. Remember, next season there will be games played too.” He glanced at Peppe. “Football players are a drug on the market, remember. Every year five thousand boys come out of college who can block and tackle. I don’t have to take insults from nobody.”

“You stink,” Peppe said. “That is my honest opinion. Oh, my God, it’s cold!” He went to the first-aid kit and poured liniment over his hands to warm them.

“I got one or two more things to say.” Scheepers spoke loudly to hold their attention. “I want you boys to open up today. A little zip. Some fancy stuff. Passes.”

“Nobody can hold onto passes today,” Holstein said. “It’s cold. Your hands get stiff. Also, there’s snow all over the field. The ball’ll be sliding as though it had butter on it.”

“What do you care?” Scheepers said. “They like passes—give them passes. And please, boys, play like you meant it. After all, we’re in business, you know.”

“On a day like this I got to play games.” Peppe shivered. “I could be in Greenwich Village now, drinking beer in my girl’s house. I hope Krakow falls and breaks his neck.”

“I got a premonition,” Klonsky said. “Something is definitely going to happen to my teeth.”

“Also,” Scheepers said, “there has been some slipup in the helmets. The amateur team that was supposed to play here this morning and leave the helmets didn’t play on account of the snow, so you will have to play without helmets.”

“Good old Scheepers,” Holstein said, “He thinks of everything.”

“It was an error,” Scheepers said. “An unavoidable error. Lots of guys play without helmets.”

“Lots of guys jump off bridges, too,” Holstein said.

“What the hell good is a helmet anyway?” Scheepers demanded. “Every time you need it, it falls off.”

“Any other little thing on your mind?” Holstein asked. “You’re sure you didn’t want us to play with only eight men because it’s a small crowd?”

The men laughed, and then, one by one, they filed out onto the field, swinging their arms to keep warm in the freezing wind that swept down on them from the north. Scheepers watched them a moment and then he went into the field house and switched on the public-address system. “‘March, march on down the field,’” sang the public-address system as Scheepers’ Red Devils lined up to receive the kick, without helmets.

“ T o Chamberlain!” one of the women at the bar was saying, her glass held high, as Margaret Clay and her father came into the small, pleasant room, lit by candles, with a big oak fire burning steadily in the fireplace and the glassware and cutlery on the tables winking softly in the firelight. “He saved my son for me,” the woman said loudly. She was a woman of nearly fifty who had obviously been pretty once. “To my good friend Neville Chamberlain!”

The other two women and the three men at the bar drank soberly as Margaret and her father sat down at a table.

“That Dorothy Thompson!” said the friend of Neville Chamberlain. “She makes me so mad! Did you see what she wrote about him? If I had her here!” She waved her fist and the wrinkles in her face suddenly bit deeper. “I won’t read her any more. Not once more. You know what she is? She’s a Red. She’s rabid!”

“This is a nice place,” Margaret’s father said, looking around him with a happy expression. “It has a pleasant atmosphere. Do you come here often?”

“Boys take me here,” Margaret said. “It’s only about ten miles from school, and they like the candlelight and the open fire, even though it costs three bucks a dinner. Boys always think candlelight and an open fire act like heavy artillery on a girl’s resistance. Two hours of that, they figure, and they can just walk in and mop up.”

“Margaret,” Mr. Clay said, like a father, “I don’t like to hear you talk like that.”

Margaret laughed, and leaned over and patted her father’s hand. “What’s the matter, Pop?” she asked. “Your long years at the Stork Club turn you tender?”