The Stories of Richard Bausch (95 page)

When things began to go bad for the Orioles in the second inning, the four young men began shouting. Andre looked around at the others nearby, and they were all yelling, too. The whole crowd was angry. But these young men were giving forth a stream of filth and it went on for some time. Finally Andre’s father asked the nearest one, a tall burly man with a ponytail, if they couldn’t please curb it a little, for the sake of the other fathers and sons.

The man looked at Andre and then at Andre’s father. “Stuff it, okay?”

“There are family men here with their sons,” Mr. Bledsoe said.

“Hey, eat me.”

It was true that none of the other fathers and sons seemed to be paying much attention. Everyone was fixed on the game being played so disastrously out on the field. The four young men drank their beer and punched at one another, and shouted the words. Andre’s father grew agitated.

“Try not to listen to that, son,” he said.

Andre, who had heard all of it before, and had believed for some time that he was keeping the knowledge of it from his parents, was simply thinking that he hated the smell of beer. He said, “I don’t care about it, Dad. Really. It’s nothing.”

“But there are little boys in this crowd.”

The game slowed, with a lot of walks and strategy, a lot of waiting around while the manager talked to the pitcher, who kept walking batters and allowing hits. It took an hour for the first three innings and Detroit was already ahead by nine runs. The four men kept up, shouting at the players on the field, now. But they were a part of the general roar.

Finally Warren moved to the end of the row and flagged down an usher. The usher was a big man with a bad look about him, a scarred face and narrow deep-set eyes, who looked at him with impatience, and then walked down and across the knees of several other men to where the young men were sitting, and said, “Hey, you guys. Tone it down for the families, okay?” Warren remained where he was, and the usher went back to him. They exchanged a few more words. The usher seemed annoyed, and gestured for him to leave it alone, take his seat. Warren came back along the row just as something happened in the game: a cheer went up, confusion and celebration, everyone standing. Someone on the Orioles had hit a double and driven in a run. There were a lot of derisive shouts, as if one run would make any difference now.

For a time, things seemed to have been smoothed out. The young men talked among themselves, and drank the beer, but they were less raucous. Andre watched them, and lost track of the game. The smell of the beer came from them. They had run out of their stash and were buying it now from the vendors who roamed the aisles, calling “Cold beer.”

Andre saw that his father was watching them, too, so he tried to pay attention to the game, and to draw his father into it. But things had slowed again, the Detroit pitcher trying to pick off a man who had got to first base, and failing to throw strikes when he did come to the plate. He walked two more men, and the bases were loaded. The manager walked out to the mound. The catcher joined them, and then the third baseman walked over.

“Hey, pal,” the man with the ponytail said to Andre’s father. “Why don’t you go see what’s going on—report back to us.”

“Yeah,” said another. “Let’s get him in on the meeting.”

“Just calm it down, guys,” Warren said.

The one with the ponytail said, “He wants us to calm it down.” He turned and smiled crookedly. “Why don’t you go get the usher, man.”

Andre’s father kept watching the field.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.”

“You’ve had too much to drink,” Warren said.

“You mean, like, I’m past some limit you’ve set? Is that it? I’ve had too much to
drink.”

Again, Warren was silent.

The one with the ponytail stood up, and Andre felt himself draw back. “I’ve had too much to drink, is that right? Is that what you said?”

“I’m not going to dignify this,” Warren said.

“Dignify.”

“You’re missing the game,” said Andre.

The other looked at him. “Oh, I’m not missing the game. This is the game, right now. This is the funny part right now. How old are you? Are you too young?”

“Look,” Warren said. “That’s enough. If you have something to say, say it to me.”

“And you’ll either dignify it or not, is that right?”

Warren said nothing.

One of the other young men said, “He’s talking to you, man.”

“Look, let’s all just watch the game, okay? Nobody wants any trouble.”

“He doesn’t want any trouble,” said the one with the ponytail.

Warren put his hand on Andre’s shoulder. “It’s all right, son. They’re just having a little fun.”

The young men had turned back to the field and seemed momentarily to have forgotten them. On the field, a new pitcher was warming up. Andre tried to concentrate on the swift brief flight of the ball. But then the man with the ponytail turned and said, “Are you all religious?”

“Come on, Greg,” one of the others said. “Let’s watch the freaking game.”

“I don’t think somebody in a ballpark should be setting limits on other people. What am I, in church?” Greg looked at Andre’s father and smirked. “So you’re religious.”

“Why don’t you sit down,” said Warren. “And watch the game.”

“Hey, you know, maybe I’ll stand here. You want to make me sit down?”

Andre’s father tried to ignore him.

Greg took his seat but kept facing back. “Maybe I’ll just watch you, pal. How would that be?”

There was another big swell of noise and celebration: someone had hit a
home run. Now everyone was celebrating, except the three: Andre, his father, and Greg. One of the other young men, who wore an Orioles baseball cap, took it off and waved it, shouting. Andre saw that he was shaved to the skin from his neck to the level of the top of his ears, and that his hair, which looked placed on top of his head, was purple. Bright, cartoonish strands of straight, synthetic-looking purple. He put the cap back on and turned to the one with the ponytail. “A grand slam, Greg. And you missed it.”

Greg tottered, and looked back at the field, then seemed to decide something. He stood and came over the seat and was now in the row with the boy and his father. He was perhaps a head taller than Warren. “You know what you did, man? You made me miss a grand slam. How many grand slams does a person get to see in life?” He looked at Andre. “You ever see one?”

Andre didn’t answer him.

“I’m talking to you, man. What’s the matter with you guys, anyway?”

“Just please, sit back down,” said Warren. “And leave us alone. I’m asking you nicely.”

“Oh, and what happens if asking nicely doesn’t work? Are you threatening me?”

“Come on, Greg,” said the one with the purple hair. “Leave him alone.”

But Greg ignored him. He took hold of Warren’s shirt at the front. “What do you think this is, anyway, pal? You think this is the army or something, is that what you think? And you can order people around?”

“Look,” Warren said. “I just asked you please to watch your language a little.”

“No, man, you went to the usher and tried to have us removed. You didn’t want me to see a grand slam.”

There was another cheer; there had been another hit.

“Damn, you’re making me miss the whole game.”

Andre’s father said nothing.

“The son of a bitch is making me miss the whole game.”

“No, you’re missing the game because you can’t be civilized and let someone else alone,” said Warren. His voice sounded weak, as if it might crack. Andre looked off at the perfect green expanse of the outfield, all the colors and the moving shapes in the sunlight and shade of the distant stands. He felt a pressure on his chest, and tried to take in air. But he
couldn’t find speech. He moved in the direction of Greg, head down, and something stopped him. One of the other men had reached over and taken hold of his arm. “Let’s everybody calm down, now.”

“Say you’re sorry, man,” Greg was saying to Warren.

“Greg,” said one of the others. “The guy’s with his son, for Christ’s sake. Give him a break.”

“All he has to do is apologize.”

“Shit,” said the one with the purple hair.

“That’s just what I mean,” Warren said, his voice shaking as he himself was shaken by the one grasping his shirt. “That kind of thing. Won’t anyone else say something about this?”

His appeal to the others in the crowd brought a reaction. Several voices called for them all to sit down, and now another man, more Greg’s size, edged into the row and started toward him. “Sit down,” he said. Then, to Andre’s father: “Both of you.”

“Hey,” said Greg. “Eat me, okay?” But he was turning to step back over to his own chair back, and he sat down. The other man stood for a moment, hands on his hips. Another cheer rose from the crowd, and then they were all watching the game again. Greg yelled more loudly than anyone. The Orioles had scored another run. He screeched and clapped and whistled and looked back at the man standing there, and at Warren and his son, who were also standing now. “Yes!” he yelled. “We’re gonna catch the bastards, you watch!”

“Yeah!” Andre’s father shouted, raising a fist in the air.

There was that sense of false fellow feeling that often follows upon an argument when the argument comes from too much drinking, or from too many substances that alter emotion; the fake good cheer of making up for pathological scenes. The exaggeration of bad dreams, and Andre recognized it quite well, watching Greg offer his hand, and watching his father shake it. They were all friends now. They watched as the Orioles scored two more runs. The game went on in an excess of scoring, through half a dozen pitchers on each side. The Tigers won it twelve to eleven. Greg and the one with purple hair offered to shake again when it was over.

“We’ll get ‘em next time,” Warren said.

“Right,” said Greg. “Sure. Next time.” He leaned over and said something to the purple-haired one, and they both laughed.

“Bye, pal,” Greg said. And they moved off.

In the car
on the way home, neither of them spoke for a time. Warren drove. Andre watched him turn the dial of the radio, and then they were simply waiting in the traffic. All along the street on both sides people were strolling along, carrying the same pennants, wearing the caps, and it was a loss and no one seemed much bothered by it.

“Guess it wasn’t much of a game,” Warren said, at last. And his voice broke. Andre kept his gaze on the street outside his window, thinking about everything they had been through in the past year. It wasn’t fair. It filled him with hatred for the world. He looked out at the sunny street with its throngs of people, and felt his own eyes burning.

“Hey,” his father said. “I’m talking to you.”

“It was okay,” the boy got out.

“It was terrible.”

“I liked it, though.”

“You’re glad we went.” There was a sardonic something in his father’s voice, and Andre had grown so used to gauging the notes in everything his parents said.

He nodded, gazing out. Some small kid in a floppy clown baseball cap let go a clutch of balloons that trailed in the light breeze skyward.

“I’m talking to you,” his father said. “For God’s sake.”

“I nodded, Dad. I’m sorry. Yes, I’m glad we went. You let me drive the car.”

Warren glanced over his shoulder at the traffic and then veered suddenly to the side of the road and stopped. He got out of the car, walked around it, opened the passenger door, and stood there. Andre thought he saw tears in his eyes. “Well?”

“I’m fine, Dad. I don’t have to drive.”

“You should drive. You need the experience. Get over. Come on, do as I say.”

The boy eased across the seat and took hold of the steering wheel. His father got in and slammed the door, then sat with his arms folded. “I’ve put my life in your hands,” he said.

“It’s safe,” Andre managed.

He turned the ignition, and looked out at the stream of traffic coming along the road. Someone slowed down, signaling for him to go ahead and pull out. He did so, with a feeling of having to be too careful, having too
much to think about. His father sat quietly in the passenger seat, and again they were waiting in the traffic.

“Listen,” Warren said. “We don’t have to mention anything about the game to your Mother.”

“No.”

“It’s silly. But she was hoping we’d have a perfect day.”

“It was fine, Dad.”

“It wasn’t fine and
she’s
the one you have to protect, okay? You can stop worrying about protecting me because I can take care of myself. I’ve taken care of this family and I don’t need anybody’s help. I can take care of myself just fine. The game was not fun. It was an awful, stupid, miserable, long afternoon, and I’m sorry for it. Tell
her
it was fun. Okay? Tell
her
it was the best afternoon of our lives.”

The boy nodded, through this speech, and when it was over he was careful not to look in his father’s direction. He was a beginning driver. It was necessary to concentrate on the road ahead; to watch the car ahead of you. You were in motion. Things could happen so fast, and if you took your eyes away even for a second, you might not be able to react in time if something went wrong.