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

a basketball, all the stitches standing still and staring you in the face; his sinker that started out high like a wild pitch, then dipped a good eight inches and straightened out for a called strike. But something was wrong—Lefty with nothing to say, no jokes, no sudden whoops, was not himself. Only once did he smile at a girl in the bleachers and say she was plenty . . . and sent a fast one smacking into Bugs’s mitt for what he meant.
    That, for a moment, was the Lefty that Jamesie’s older cousins knew about. They said a nice kid like Jamesie ought to be kept away from him, even at the ball park. Jamesie was always afraid it would get back to Lefty that the cousins thought he was poor white trash, or that he would know it in some other way, as when the cousins passed him on the street and looked the other way. He was worried, too, about what Lefty might think of his Sunday clothes, the snow-white blouse, the floppy sailor tie, the soft linen pants, the sissy clothes. His tennis shoes—sneakers, he ought to say—were all right, but not the golf stockings that left his knees bare, like a rich kid’s. The tough guys, because they were tough or poor—he didn’t know which—wore socks, not stockings, and they wore them rolled down slick to their ankles.
    Bugs stuck his mitt with the ball in it under his arm and got out his Beechnut. He winked at Jamesie and said, “Chew?”
    Jamesie giggled. He liked Bugs. Bugs, on loan from the crack State Hospital team, was all right—nothing crazy about him; he just liked it at the asylum, he said, the big grounds and lots of cool shade, and he was not required to work or take walks like the regular patients. He was the only Indee on speaking terms with Lefty.
    Turning to Lefty, Bugs said, “Ever seen this Cuban work?”
    “Naw.”
    “I guess he’s got it when he’s right.”
    “That so?” Lefty caught the ball with his bare hand and spun it back to Bugs. “Well, all I can promise you is a no-hit game. It’s up to you clowns to get the runs.”
    “And me hitting a lousy .211.”
    “All you got to do is hold me. Anyhow what’s the Foul Ball want for his five bucks—Mickey Cochrane?”
    “Yeah, Left.”
    “I ought to quit him.”
    “Ain’t you getting your regular fifteen?”
    “Yeah, but I ought to quit. The Yankees want me. Is my curve breaking too soon?”
    “It’s right in there, Left.”
    It was a pitchers’ battle until the seventh inning. Then the Indees pushed a run across.
    The Barons got to Lefty for their first hit in the seventh, and when the next man bunted, Lefty tried to field it instead of letting Middle Pete at third have it, which put two on with none out. Little Pete threw the next man out at first, the only play possible, and the runners advanced to second and third. The next hitter hammered a line drive to Big Pete at first, and Big Pete tried to make it two by throwing to second, where the runner was off, but it was too late and the runner on third scored on the play. J. G. from the bench condemned Big Pete for a dumb Swede. The next man popped to short center.
    Jamesie ran out with Lefty’s jacket. “Don’t let your arm get cold, Lefty.”
    “Some support I got,” Lefty said.
    “Whyn’t you leave me have that bunt, Lefty?” Middle Pete said, and everybody knew he was right.
    “Two of them pitches was hit solid,” Big Pete said. “Good anywhere.”
    “Now, boys,” J. G. said.
    “Aw, dry up,” Lefty said, grabbing a blade of grass to chew. “I ought to quit you bums.”
    Pid Kirby struck out for the Indees, but Little Pete walked, and Middle Pete advanced him to second on a long fly to left. Then Big Pete tripled to the weed patch in center, clear up against the Chevrolet sign, driving in Little Pete. Guez whiffed Kelly Larkin, retiring the side, and the Indees were leading the Barons 2 to 1.
    The first Baron to bat in the eighth had J. G. frantic with fouls. The umpire was down to his last ball and calling for more.