Read Online (2005) In the Miso Soup by Ryu Murakami - Free Book Online

the home run sign. I connected well with the next one too, but it was even lower and banged against the steel mesh protecting the pitching machines. Every time I told myself to keep my eye on the ball, it conjured up a picture of Dad. I don’t remember him playing with me that much—he was out of town more often than not, and ended up spending most of his time in Malaysia, where he was helping build a big bridge. But even now I often dream that I’m playing catch with him.
    On the third pitch I lined one that would have been good for extra bases, right down the third-base line and nowhere near the home run banner. On the fourth and fifth I hit grounders. After about ten of my twenty pitches, I was so focused on the ball that I’d forgotten all about Frank, but my head was full of my father. My mother seems to have considered him something of a playboy, but that sort of thing doesn’t matter to you when you’re a kid. “I have two regrets,” Dad said when he was dying of lung disease: “Not seeing that bridge completed, and not teaching Kenji how to swim.” Apparently when I was born he told himself that though he’d probably be too busy to play with his son much, at the very least he’d teach me the fundamentals of baseball and swimming. I sometimes think my desire to go to America may have a lot to do with him. He always looked so happy, after having come home for a brief stay, to be heading back to Malaysia. My mother says it was because he had a “local floozy” there, but I don’t think that could have been the only reason. Maybe he did have a woman, and I know he loved his work, but I also think there was something about Malaysia itself that excited him. It was sad when he left, of course, but my father was never more appealing to me than when he was saying “See ya!” and walking off with a suitcase in his hand. I’ve always thought that one of these days I’d like to fly off somewhere like that, with just a casual “See ya!”
    I swung up from my heels on the fourteenth pitch, got under the ball, andsent it up at a good angle. Frank shouted “
No!
” and I shouted “
Go!
” but the ball ended up in the netting a good meter below the target. From there on it was all downhill. My anxiety over the prospect of losing my entire evening’s wages destroyed my form, making me swing for the sky, and the best I could do on the remaining pitches was some useless grounders. When, on the seventeenth pitch, I whiffed again, I heard Frank stifle a laugh, and that made me lose my cool entirely. None of the last three balls even made it into fair territory.
    “Boy, that was close! I thought I was done for, several times.”
    Frank was feigning sympathy for me. I felt I needed to do something. There was no way I could accept having to work for this clown for free, even for one night. I came out of the cage, and before putting my jacket back on I held the bat out to him and said: “Your turn, Frank.”
    Frank didn’t take the bat. He played dumb and said: “Whaddaya mean?”
    “Your turn to try. Same bet.”
    “Wait a minute, nobody said anything about that.”
    “You used to play baseball, right? I already hit. Now you’re up.”
    “Like I said before, I’m tired. Much too tired to swing a bat.”
    I braced myself.
    “You’re a liar,” I said.
    Sure enough, this summoned up the Face. Little blue and red capillaries appeared on his cheeks, the light went out of his pupils, and the corners of his eyes and nose and lips began to quiver. This was the first time I’d seen the Face head-on and close up, so close I could almost feel Frank’s breath on me. He looked like he was either very, very angry or very, very frightened.
    “What are you talking about?” he said, peering at me with those lightless eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re calling me a liar? Why? When have I ever lied to you?”
    I looked down at my shoes. I didn’t want to look at the Face. Frank seemed to be