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 toget 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
“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 toget 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
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