The Twilight Zone: Complete Stories Read Online Free PDF Page B

bag. As it turned out, this was his best pitch of the evening. Shortly thereafter he walked six men in a row and hit one man in the head. Luckily, it was a hotdog vendor in the bleachers so that no harm was done in terms of moving any of the men on base. This was taken care of by his next pitch to the number-four batter on the Philadelphia Phillies squad, who swung with leisurely grace at what the kid from Memphis referred to as his fast ball, and sent it on a seven-hundred-foot trip over the center field fence, which took care of the men on the bases. The final score was thirteen to nothing in favor of the Phillies, but Mouth McGarry didn’t even wait until the last out. With two outs in the ninth, he and Beasley ran out of the park and grabbed a cab. Beasley handed the driver a quarter and said, “Never mind the cops. Get to the hospital.”
    The hackie looked at the quarter then back toward Beasley and said, “This better be a rare mint, or I’ll see to it that you have your baby in the cab!”
    They arrived at the hospital twelve minutes later and pushed their way through a lobby full of reporters to get to an elevator and up to the floor where Casey had been taken for observation. They arrived in his room during the last stages of the examination. A nurse shushed them as they barged into the room.
    “Booby,” McGarry gushed, racing toward the bed.
    The doctor took off his stethoscope and hung it around his neck. “You the father?” he asked Mouth.
    “The father,” McGarry chortled. “I’m closer than any father.”
    He noticed now for the first time that Dr. Stillman was sitting quietly in the corner of the room looking like a kindly old owl full of wisdom hidden under his feathers.
    “Well, gentlemen, there’s no fracture that I can see,” the doctor announced, professionally. “No concussion. Reflexes seem normal—”
    Beasley exhaled sounding like a strong north wind. “I can breathe again,” he told everyone.
    “All I could think of,” Mouth said, “was there goes Casey! There goes the pennant! There goes the Series!” He shook his head forlornly, “And there goes my career.”
    The doctor picked up Casey’s wrist and began to feel for the pulse.
    “Yes, Mr. Casey,” he smiled benevolently down into the expressionless face and unblinking eyes, “I think you’re in good shape. I’ll tell you though, when I heard how the ball hit you in the temple I wondered to myself how—”
    The doctor stopped talking. His fingers compulsively moved around the wrist. His eyes went wide. After a moment he opened up Casey’s pajamas and sent now shaking fingers running over the chest area. After a moment he stood up, took out a handkerchief and wiped his face.
    “What’s the matter?” Mouth asked nervously. “What’s wrong?”
    The doctor sat down in a chair. “There’s nothing wrong, he said softly. “Not a thing wrong. Everything’s fine. It’s just that—”
    “Just that what? Beasley asked.
    The doctor pointed a finger toward the bed. “It is just that this man doesn’t have any pulse. No heart beat.” Then he looked up toward the ceiling. “This man,” he said in a strained voice, “this man isn’t alive.”
    There was absolute silence in the room marred only by the slump of Beasley’s body as he slid quietly to the floor. No one paid any attention to him. It was Dr. Stillman who finally spoke.
    “Mr. McGarry,” he said in a quiet, firm voice, “I do believe it’ll have to come out now.”
    Beasley opened his eyes. “All right, you sonofabitch, McGarry, what are you trying to pull off?”
    Mouth looked around the room as if searching for an extra bed. He looked ill. “Beasley,” he said plaintively, “you ain’t gonna like this. But it was Casey or it was nothing. God, what a pitcher! And he was the only baseball player I ever managed who didn’t eat nothing—”
    Stillman cleared his throat and spoke to the doctor. “I think you should know before you go any further