For Love of the Game by Michael Shaara Page B

smile and never answer. And they knew why, and the Old Man liked that part of him very much. Billy was young and clean, fresh out of the old days. He had all the money heneeded, and land and a hotel out in Colorado, and even money out of commercials, and the rest of it was all headaches and taxes, and mathematical complexity, and he had begun with the Old Man, played his first game in the major leagues because the Old Man came to see him and shook his hand, and the team he played for belonged to the Old Man, and the Old Man, Big John, was Head Coach. To Billy Chapel, all was in order and he did not argue. He was a very good pitcher. He was becoming a great one. But toward the end there were many gathering complications, and the Old Man, who saw it all coming, began to warn him.
    “Billy, Roberto … one of these days I ain’t goan be here no mo … to settle with. You got me? You and me, we have this here now ‘verbal’ agreement that’s good as Gibraltar right now, but Jesus and Christ, but … 
but
 … the times they are a-changing. Billy, go get yourself a legal representative from t’other side and get all the fine points written down. Listen. You do that, sonny.”
    “Okay. But I don’t need it yet.”
    “Roberto, someday.…” But he did not say: “I’m dying.” Could not say that. Though he knew, he knew.…
    A hit. Chapel knew from the roar next to him on the bench. Opened an eye: somebody had singled, a bouncer through the hole at short. On first base. Who? Ernie … Italian fella. Right fielder. Well. Go ahead, folks. Blast away. Chapel closed his eyes.
    “Earth receive an honored guest.” Carol quoted that when the Old Man died. In the spring … when the season, two years back … Rise and Fall. She talked of civilizations. History buff. Good to listen to. But made him think of the Old Man and the team, and the game itself: teams rise and fall: the great days of the old Giants, the Yankees, the Dodgers, the Reds, they all come they all go. Odd. But in the beginning … those early days … so young, and the big guns forming around him; the Hawks were on the rise, and glad to see him come, and many friends then, many close friends behind you and with you afterward in the bar or in the restaurant or out with the girls that came in flocks: days to look forward to a possible World Series, to hope and plan and wonder, and then you did it: victory. And then again. The Old Man with the champagne. Hugged Billy: “Kid, God bless you. At times like this … oh, God, there’s nothin’ to say.” Joy in the locker. Golden Age. Did it again. Billy won three games in the World Series. Came on as a reliever in the eighth inning of the last one and blew ’em away. The Old Man boomed: “Talk about contract this year, Billy. We give you half the team.”
    Then the big boys slowly began to depart and Billy was past thirty and more and more alone, because the younger players did not feel comfortable with him—the Old Man explained that one night: “Billy, you been up ten years. You are as close tothe heart of this team as any man can be, and they all know it. Always remember, Billy, that the better you get the more lonely you’ll be.”
    True.
    Why. Never understood. Carol: jealousy. Talk like a woman? She said: “Billy, you’re too lucky in this life. You have so much … they’ll never have. You know that. You love it.”
    So. There will be an answer: let it be.
    The last few years, the team went steadily down. Decline and Fall. The Old Man was tired. Did not really try anymore. Let it be. But it did get a bit lonely. Except for Carol. Made a hell of a difference … another roar. Good God, another hit. Ernie going to third. Make it? Christ. He did. Well. Interesting.
    But Chapel had learned not to waste energy rooting. Backed away. Think of something else. Harder now. Saw the Old Man. At his home in the mountains. Went fishing there all those years, together in the boat.… Old