The Stories of J.F. Powers (New York Review Books Classics) by J.F. Powers Page A

didn’t come any brainier than Jayville’s own J. G. Nickerson, even in the big time. But if there should be a foul ball, no matter how tight the game or crucial the situation, J. G. would leap up, straining like a bird dog, and try to place it, waving the bat boy on without taking his eyes off the spot where it disappeared over the fence or in the weeds. That was why they called him the Foul Ball.
    The Petersons—the old man at the wheel, a red handkerchief tied tight enough around his neck to keep his head on, and the sons, all players, Big Pete, Little Pete, Middle Pete, and Extra Pete—roared up with their legs hanging out of the doorless Model T and the brass radiator boiling over.
    The old man ran the Model T around in circles, damning it for a runaway horse, and finally got it parked by the gate.
    “Hold ’er, Knute!” he cackled.
    The boys dug him in the ribs, tickling him, and were like puppies that had been born bigger than their father, jollying him through the gate, calling him Barney Oldfield.
    Lefty came.
    “Hi, Lefty,” Jamesie said.
    “Hi, kid,” Lefty said. He put his arm around Jamesie and took him past the ticket taker.
    “It’s all right, Mac,” he said.
    “Today’s the day, Lefty,” Mac said. “You can do it, Lefty.”
    Jamesie and Lefty passed behind the grandstand. Jamesie saw Lefty’s father, a skinny, brown-faced man in a yellow straw katy.
    “There’s your dad, Lefty.”
    Lefty said, “Where?” but looked the wrong way and walked a little faster.
    At the end of the grandstand Lefty stopped Jamesie. “My old man is out of town, kid. Got that?”
    Jamesie did not see how this could be. He knew Lefty’s father. Lefty’s father had a brown face and orange gums. But Lefty ought to know his own father. “I guess it just looked like him, Lefty,” Jamesie said.
    Lefty took his hand off Jamesie’s arm and smiled. “Yeah, that’s right, kid. It just looked like him on account of he’s out of town—in Peoria.”
    Jamesie could still feel the pressure of Lefty’s fingers on his arm. They came out on the diamond at the Indees bench near first base. The talk quieted down when Lefty appeared. Everybody thought he had a big head, but nobody could say a thing against his pitching record, it was that good. The scout for the New York Yankees had invited him only last Sunday to train with them next spring. The idea haunted the others. J. G. had shut up about the beauties of teamwork.
    J. G. was counting the balls when Jamesie went to the suitcase to get one for Lefty. J. G. snapped the lid down.
    “It’s for Lefty!”
    “Huh!”
    “He wants it for warm up.”
    “Did you tell this kid to get you a ball, Left?”
    “Should I bring my own?” Lefty said.
    J. G. dug into the suitcase for a ball, grunting, “I only asked him.” He looked to Jamesie for sympathy. He considered the collection of balls and finally picked out a fairly new one.
    “Lefty, he likes ’em brand new,” Jamesie said.
    “Who’s running this club?” J. G. bawled. But he threw the ball back and broke a brand new one out of its box and tissue paper. He ignored Jamesie’s ready hand and yelled to Lefty going out to the bull pen, “Coming at you, Left,” and threw it wild.
    Lefty let the ball bounce through his legs, not trying for it. “Nice throw,” he said.
    Jamesie retrieved the ball for Lefty. They tossed it back and forth, limbering up, and Jamesie aped Lefty’s professional indolence.
    When Bugs Bidwell, Lefty’s battery mate, appeared with his big mitt, Jamesie stood aside and buttoned his glove back on his belt. Lefty shed his red blanket coat with the leathersleeves and gave it to Jamesie for safekeeping. Jamesie folded it gently over his arm, with the white chenille “J” showing out. He took his stand behind Bugs to get a good look at Lefty’s stuff.
    Lefty had all his usual stuff—the fast one with the two little hops in it, no bigger than a pea; his slow knuckler that looked like