Read Online Butterfly Winter by W.P. Kinsella - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: W.P. Kinsella
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A-Ball,” said the general manager.
“Double-A,” said Al Tiller.
“Triple-A,” said the owner, who had been sitting in a director’s chair along the third base line. He was a slight, athletic-looking man with a soft, brown mustache, who was astronomically rich.
“I want them at spring training,” said Al Tiller. “That pitcher, I’ve never seen such a curve ball, such movement on a fast ball. How old did you say he is?”
“Sixteen,” said the owner. “The catcher’s not good though, get rid of him.”
“There’s a problem,” said the general manager. “They’re twins, the pitcher will only throw to his brother.”
“Offer the pitcher more money,” said the owner. “Everyone has a price.”
“Not these boys,” said the general manager. When I asked them about a signing bonus, Julio said, “I would like a Meccano set, if you please.”
“And a puppy,” said Esteban, the catcher.
“Perhaps a bicycle with a banana seat,” said Julio. “Candy-apple red would be nice.”
“Are they really sixteen?” demanded the owner. “Have you checked their documentation?”
“Our scout says they’re sixteen. That’s good enough for me. Besides, we have their birth certificates.”
“They’re sixteen,” the general manager assured Tiller. He produced birth certificates, 8½-by-11-inch parchments, bordered with blood-red bougainvillea, sporting the Courteguayan flag and the national emblem of Courteguay, the clinched fist holding aloft a glittering machete.
Tiller squinted at the certificates, counted on his fingers to substantiate that the twins were indeed sixteen.
“Joe Nuxall played his first game in the majors at fifteen, so I guess it’s okay.”
He did not notice the tiny blemish in the bottom right-hand corner of each certificate where PRINTED IN USA had been removed by some terrible chemical known only to the CIA .
“They play cowboys and Indians in the locker room,” said Al Tiller.
“Learn to live with it,” said the owner, who amassed TV networks as a hobby, and was married to an aging movie star.
SIXTEEN
ESTEBAN PIMENTAL
E ven my mother refers to me as Esteban the turnip, though she does it in a loving way, shaking her head at a son she cannot now, nor will ever, understand. I am, indeed, a turnip. I stare dreamily into the distance, conveniently not hearing the racket of my brothers and sisters, of my contemporaries. Julio will come and tug at my ear when it is time to play baseball. I would just as soon not, but for Julio the game is everything. We appear to be extraordinarily talented, at least Julio is, and Julio cannot pitch unless I am his catcher. Many people do not understand this, and since I alone am only an average catcher and a dismal hitter, they try to substitute for me at every opportunity. A foolish ploy. If I am not catching him, Julio throws balls halfway up the backstop, or sometimes behind the batter, or he will deliver a sweet batting-practice pitch across the plate for the batter to wallop wherever he chooses.
We play in the highest ranked league in Courteguay. We are the battery for the San Cristobel Flamethrowers, and Julio is 13-0 with a 1.28 ERA . Scouts from the United States sit in the stands behind home plate, utilize their speed guns, scribble notes, and marvel at the talent of Julio as a pitcher. In Courteguay no one cares that we are childrenplaying with adults. However, for the benefit of the scouts, the Wizard has arranged false birth certificates for us, to show that we are sixteen years old, although in reality we are barely nine. The scouts have not yet come to realize that I am a part of the bargain.
On one of the happiest days of my life I remember watching as the Wizard tossed blueberries into the stream behind our home. As each berry submerged it became a dazzling blue fish.
“How do you do that?” I asked the Wizard.
“I will teach you,” he said, handing me several fat blueberries.
I tossed one into the stream. It
“Double-A,” said Al Tiller.
“Triple-A,” said the owner, who had been sitting in a director’s chair along the third base line. He was a slight, athletic-looking man with a soft, brown mustache, who was astronomically rich.
“I want them at spring training,” said Al Tiller. “That pitcher, I’ve never seen such a curve ball, such movement on a fast ball. How old did you say he is?”
“Sixteen,” said the owner. “The catcher’s not good though, get rid of him.”
“There’s a problem,” said the general manager. “They’re twins, the pitcher will only throw to his brother.”
“Offer the pitcher more money,” said the owner. “Everyone has a price.”
“Not these boys,” said the general manager. When I asked them about a signing bonus, Julio said, “I would like a Meccano set, if you please.”
“And a puppy,” said Esteban, the catcher.
“Perhaps a bicycle with a banana seat,” said Julio. “Candy-apple red would be nice.”
“Are they really sixteen?” demanded the owner. “Have you checked their documentation?”
“Our scout says they’re sixteen. That’s good enough for me. Besides, we have their birth certificates.”
“They’re sixteen,” the general manager assured Tiller. He produced birth certificates, 8½-by-11-inch parchments, bordered with blood-red bougainvillea, sporting the Courteguayan flag and the national emblem of Courteguay, the clinched fist holding aloft a glittering machete.
Tiller squinted at the certificates, counted on his fingers to substantiate that the twins were indeed sixteen.
“Joe Nuxall played his first game in the majors at fifteen, so I guess it’s okay.”
He did not notice the tiny blemish in the bottom right-hand corner of each certificate where PRINTED IN USA had been removed by some terrible chemical known only to the CIA .
“They play cowboys and Indians in the locker room,” said Al Tiller.
“Learn to live with it,” said the owner, who amassed TV networks as a hobby, and was married to an aging movie star.
SIXTEEN
ESTEBAN PIMENTAL
E ven my mother refers to me as Esteban the turnip, though she does it in a loving way, shaking her head at a son she cannot now, nor will ever, understand. I am, indeed, a turnip. I stare dreamily into the distance, conveniently not hearing the racket of my brothers and sisters, of my contemporaries. Julio will come and tug at my ear when it is time to play baseball. I would just as soon not, but for Julio the game is everything. We appear to be extraordinarily talented, at least Julio is, and Julio cannot pitch unless I am his catcher. Many people do not understand this, and since I alone am only an average catcher and a dismal hitter, they try to substitute for me at every opportunity. A foolish ploy. If I am not catching him, Julio throws balls halfway up the backstop, or sometimes behind the batter, or he will deliver a sweet batting-practice pitch across the plate for the batter to wallop wherever he chooses.
We play in the highest ranked league in Courteguay. We are the battery for the San Cristobel Flamethrowers, and Julio is 13-0 with a 1.28 ERA . Scouts from the United States sit in the stands behind home plate, utilize their speed guns, scribble notes, and marvel at the talent of Julio as a pitcher. In Courteguay no one cares that we are childrenplaying with adults. However, for the benefit of the scouts, the Wizard has arranged false birth certificates for us, to show that we are sixteen years old, although in reality we are barely nine. The scouts have not yet come to realize that I am a part of the bargain.
On one of the happiest days of my life I remember watching as the Wizard tossed blueberries into the stream behind our home. As each berry submerged it became a dazzling blue fish.
“How do you do that?” I asked the Wizard.
“I will teach you,” he said, handing me several fat blueberries.
I tossed one into the stream. It
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