Studs Lonigan (102 page)

Studs watched the infield practice, the grounders slapped hard, cutting over the dirt, the ball snapped around from player to player. They were pretty good, and they worked fast. Even though he had never cared a hell of a lot for baseball, it was something to watch, neat, quick work. The shortstop ran low to his left, smeared a fast grounder with one hand, bobbed the ball, off balance, to the second base who caught it, wheeled around in the same motion and whipped the ball to first base.

“Spunk, how do you like that?” one of those on the grass called while the ball was pegged around.

“This is the million-dollar infield.”

“Yes, if it had a third baseman.”

Studs edged a bit closer to the group on the grass. Looked like a nice bunch of lads, and they had enough for a game. He'd like to play.

“That boy Spunk is good.”

“He ought to get a try-out in the big shows.”

“He's good around here, but he wouldn't make the grade. Can't hit a sharp-breaking curve ball. A pitcher like Jack Casey who was with me at the Braves training camp last year could make him eat out of his hand. And Jack never made the grade.”

“How about you, Artie?”

“Couldn't get myself lined up, so I'm playing semi-pro. Hell, this country is full of guys trying to get into the game, and plenty of them are good. With minor leagues folding up like tents, and with old-timers coming down from the big leagues and the Class A. A. outfits, and then with chain-store systems like the one the Cardinals run, it's damn hard getting lined up even in a dinky little X. Y. Z. league.”

“Maybe you're right.”

“Look at Jack. He thought he'd make a go of it in pro athletics, and he did have one good season in the Three I League but then he threw his arm out. He's up the creek, and he doesn't make any too much peddling insurance. If I could get a decent job, I'd throw the idea up, too, and stick to my job, maybe just picking up a few pennies on Sunday playing semi-pro and having some fun playing basketball in the Christopher League in winter.”

A Christy. Studs looked at him, a light-haired, husky, square-faced fellow in his early twenties, the kind of a mugg and build a ball player would have.

“Let's get going with the game,” Spunk called, walking in.

Studs watched them choosing up, hoping, because there were only seventeen.

“Hey, lad, want to play?”

“Sure, all right,” he said, slowly taking off his coat.

“You're on my side,” the fellow named Artie said.

“Say, I just heard you talking. You're a Christy, aren't you? I just went through Kempis Council. My name's Lonigan.”

“Mine's Pfeiffer, Timothy Murphy Council. Say, a young kid named Lonigan went to Mary Our Mother when I was there.”

“Yeah, that was my kid brother.”

“What ever happened to him? I know he left M. O. M. to go to Tower Tech.”

“He's working a little with my old man in the painting business.”

Studs put his left hand in the fielder's glove offered him and walked nonchalantly out to right field. He stood with hands on hips, waiting. Easy pitching and he'd get by, even if he hadn't played in years. And it would keep him in the sun. He bent forward with his hands on his knees, while the pitcher lobbed the ball up to the right-handed batter, a short fellow in a gray shirt. A high fly soared toward right center and Studs, seeing the ball come somewhere near him, ran forward to his right, confused, afraid of muffing the catch. Seeing that he was misjudging it, he ran backward, still to his right, with his eye on the lowering ball.

“I got it,” the center fielder called.

Studs stopped in his tracks, and watched the center fielder gracefully nab the ball on the run. Breathing quickly, but glad that his misjudgment hadn't been serious, he returned to his position. He waited, overanxious. A line single was driven to left, the pitcher picked a pop out of the air, and a dumpy texas-leaguer over third base placed runners on first and second.

“You better go back and play in a grammar-school league,” Spunk said, stepping to bat after Pfeiffer had dropped an easy toss at first base.

Spunk waited, swinging left-handed, and Pfeiffer motioned Studs backward. Spunk connected, and the ball travelled high out to Studs, who wavered around in circles, the ball landing three feet away from him.

“Jesus Christ, what a Babe Hermann that was,” the center-fielder ex claimed more loudly than he had intended, while Studs clumsily retrieved the ball. A pain cut paralyzingly into his shoulder when he threw wildly to the infield.

“Take it easy, Lonigan. It's only a scrub game,” Pfeiffer said when Studs came in abashed at the end of the inning.

“Hell, I haven't played in years. I used to be pretty good but I'm out of the practice.”

“Everybody muffs a few.”

“Hey, Artie, bushel baskets are cheap these days,” Spunk called from third base.

“I'm going to knock your hands off when I get up,” Artie called.

Studs stood several feet away from the players on his side, who grouped themselves on the grass edge. When he came to bat he'd redeem himself.

Pfeiffer, a left-handed batter, stood at the plate after the first two batters had flied out and, swinging late, stung a line drive just beyond Spunk's gloved hand.

“What's that you say about bushel baskets?” he megaphoned through his hands, standing on second base.

“Save us a lick, Pete.”

“I'm getting fed up with nothing to do but lay around this damn park.”

“Write a letter to Hoover. Maybe he'll put you on some commission and you'll get a job to help keep other people out of jobs.”

“No, Jack, I'm serious. I ask myself how long is this thing going to keep on.”

“Well, do what I say. Write a letter to Hoover.”

“The bathing beach is going to open soon and maybe we can all get on as life guards.”

“I can't swim well enough”

“Hang around until 1933 and you can get a job at the World's Fair.”

“Swell hit, Pete. Come on, Al, lean on it.”

“All I can say is some damn thing has got to happen.”

“Hire a hall, you ain't got no kick. Laying around in the sun, playing ball, looking at nursemaids, and hearing the birds sing.”

“Swell catch, Spunk, you lucky bastard.”

Studs waited anxiously in right field, but batter after batter came up without hitting to him. He walked in at the end of the inning more confident. He'd get a rap this time and sock one.

“Save us a bat, lad,” a fellow in a dirty gray sweatshirt called while Studs stepped up with two out. The bat seemed too heavy and, facing the pitcher, he lost confidence.

“Hey, which side am I on?”

“Wait till the inning's up.”

He decided that this fellow could take his place. He swung late, fizzling a grounder to the pitcher, and didn't even run.

“Hey, Pfeiffer, he can take my place.”

“No, it's only a scrub game, Lonigan.”

“Well, I'm kind of tired anyway.”

“Come around again and tell the kid brother I was askin' about him.”

He crossed the driveway and walked along the gravel path flanking the lagoon, which lay below in shimmering sunlight. He should have gone on playing. He would have gotten into his stride, hit some solid ones, and nabbed fly balls, too. It would have been nice passing the time, and they seemed like a decent bunch. He imagined himself driving a home-run over the center-fielder's head and then making onehanded and shoe-string catches in the outfield. He shrugged his shoulders, laughed at his sudden interest in baseball.

His watch pointed at eleven-thirty. What would he do? He could walk home to dinner and that would cut a hole in the long day ahead of him. He ambled on in a careless, unenergetic stride. Was the stock market going up, he asked himself, dropping down on a bench and lighting a cigarette.

His vague awareness of chirping birds and of automobiles rushing behind him was distracted by a strolling couple. Lucky lad with such a cute and neat trick, and maybe he was taking her to a secluded spot on the wooded island, and he would sink his head in her lap, and she would stroke his face and hair, and maybe she was nuts about him and wanted it from the guy so much that she'd even risk being caught in daylight. Wished he had a girl nuts about him like that. Of course, there was Catherine, but she was decent, and this was a different matter. It made a guy proud, let him sort of feel his oats, gave him something to brag about. After he and Catherine got married and she got used to it, would she feel that way about him? If she didn't, what would be the use of marriage? He watched the couple disappear around a bend in the park. Lucky bastard.

An elderly woman with a neat black suit and a haughty societywoman manner about her looked at him with disdain as if he were something like a piece of garbage. She thought he was a bum. He sat up erect, straightened his tie, dusted off his shoes with his handkerchief. He wasn't a bum. But what the hell, these people would probably never see him again, and what difference did it make? But still, he wasn't a bum.

Yawning, he examined his watch; a quarter to twelve. What to do? He wished someone he knew would happen along.

But even if it was dull, it was good having sun on him. And if he did this regularly, he would get a good, healthy coat of tan. He removed his coat, carefully folded it and laid it over the bench beside him. He rolled up his sleeves and looked at his thin white arms. Good, too, getting them tanned. He sat realizing that it had suddenly become quiet with just a faint stirring of leaves and sounds of birds. Then, from Stony Island, came the rumbling of a street car. Automobiles passed, an engine dying, chugging, starting again, its hum dying away. Human voices echoing from a distance made him want people to talk to. Maybe he could take a walk to the old neighborhood later in the day, see the old streets, the old buildings.

It was just nice, though, to sit here, and through the bushes to see the water, the sunlight dancing on it, like it was alive. The same way the sunlight had danced on the lagoon in Washington Park when he and Lucy had sat in the tree. Oars splashed and a boat rode by. Might be a good idea to go rowing, but he changed his mind, because that was too strenuous a form of exercise.

He let a burning cigarette hang from his mouth until he coughed from a throatful of smoke. He leaned back and with shaded eyes looked up at a sky whose shimmering and pervasive brightness brought water to his eyes. He blinked at a squirrel moving swiftly across the walk and into the bushes. He was humble and soft, and felt that there was something behind all this that he saw, sun, and sky, and new grass, and trees, and birds, and the bushes, and the squirrel, and the lagoon, and people moving by him, and street cars and automobiles, and it was God. God made all this, moved it, made it live, himself, that Red he'd met who was against Him, the fellows playing ball. And God was the spirit behind it all and behind everything. Gee, if Catherine was only here now! He shook his head, as if to drive all these thoughts away because if he told them to anybody, it would just sound goofy. He wasn't a poet.

But Christ, this was the life!

From far off he heard twelve-o'clock whistles. They made him want to do something, and they made him feel the same as train whistles did.

A woman of about thirty, neat, good figure, hopped along holding to the leash of a straining airedale. The dog forced her onto the grass, switched directions, tugged and pulled across to the grass on the other side of the walk. She did not return his glance. Maybe she, too, thought he was a park bum. He wished a neat trick, like his sister Fran, would come by, speak to him, he'd show her he wasn't a bum. He watched the dog drag her forward, and didn't give a damn what she thought of him, and silently exclaimed, Up your brown Lizzie.

He sat back, feeling that warm sun on his arms and face, contented again. Nice.

The Greek restaurant at Sixty-third and Stony Island Avenue with the imitation marble counter and the modernistic gray and dull red furnishings was crowded with high-school kids, and as Studs entered he heard an uproar of talk, giggling girls at the booths and tables, a clatter of dishes, and, above it, a male chorus on a radio singing snappily:

The stout Greek behind the counter, hearing the song, wobbled to the radio and twisted the dial, bringing forth a saccharine torch-singing love-song.

Studs, smiling at the incident and thinking that it was a good song for Catherine to hear, took a seat at the counter. On his left, he noticed a young khaki-shirted workingman, soaking up the gravy on his plate with a slice of bread, and on his other side, a tall marcelled blonde lad, with a long face, who wore a blue sweater with a large white P on the front. Park High athlete, he thought. He watched a dumpy waitress pass and hoped his order would be taken soon because he didn't like it with all these crazy high-school kids around.

“Have you ever dated Irene Knisley, Jack?” the athlete asked the black-haired, baby-faced lad beside him.

“No, but she can be my big moment any time she wants.”

“She's a big moment who will heat you plenty. I dropped up to the Park Community Center dance last Friday, and she was there. You ought to dance with her.”

“Tompkins took her out and he says she's plenty strong on the lovin'. He's certain he can make her.”