Read Online The Brothers K by David James Duncan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David James Duncan
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he’ll probably get a base hit out of it. He’s got planets for all the more famous Yankees except Mickey Mantle, who he can’t help but like, and Yogi Bear, who he says is from earth but of course isn’t human. Stengel he calls Spacey Tangle. He says that Tangle’s planet is just a big briar patch, and so is his brain, and that every time Spacey opens his mouth he proves it. Papa says Stengel’s got a great baseball mind, though, and Papa’s usually right about people. Everett’s just more fun to listen to.
Of course Irwin adores the Yankees. But whereas most Yankee fans only adore them so they can yell
I won! I won!
Irwin adores them because of Everett—because what Irwin really adores are science fiction movies, and watching the Yankees dismantle somebody on TV with Everett in the room is like watching the earth being invaded and destroyed by a gang of inhuman bozos. It’s a pretty great show.
The Kube hacks at a sinker that almost bounces off home plate. Strike two. Some Yankees start yelling at the ump about a greaseball, but Papa says it wasn’t, and he’s right apparently: the ump checks the ball and finds nothing.
I ask Papa if he ever doctored pitches. He says no. Then he says, “Well …” Then he says he may have taken advantage of a drop of sweat or a nick now and again, but that sweat and nicks are okay because they’re part of nature. “I was a nature-type pitcher,” Papa says, more than a little lamely.
“So spit’s part of nature too?” I ask.
“Just watch the game,” he says.
Mudcat is fooling with his mitt and belt and armpits and back pocket and shirt and hat now, trying to make Kubek worry about grease. Papa calls this Psychiatric Work. Kubek tries stepping out of the batter’s box and fooling with a resin bag, but compared to Mudcat’s mitt, belt, pits, pocket, shirt and hat, The Kube’s little resin bag is just pathetic. He looks doomed. Mudcat throws another sinker, and Kubek knows he can’t hit itafter getting psychiatrized like that, so he just watches it. Low. Barely. Ball two.
Pee Wee wonders aloud whether baseballs really get doctored much. Dizzy snorts and says the question is whether they ever don’t. Pee Wee acts shocked. Then Dizzy calms him down by admitting he was exaggerating. The true immortals, he says—himself for instance—don’t need nicks and grease and spit. “So you never doctored the ball?” Pee Wee asks. No sir I did not, says Dizzy. But once, he says, when he was playing for the Cards, he did pitch a game with a godawful cold, ran out of poop in the fourth inning, started getting shelled, and pretty soon got so upset by the whole experience that his nose started running like a faucet …
The Kube fouls off a curve.
Well, sir, Dizzy says, he was wearing short sleeves that day, so he had nothing to wipe the nose with but his mitt, and he had to catch the ball, didn’t he? So even though he is a man of principle and had no such intention, he started throwing snotballs by accident …
Papa rolls his eyes. Pee Wee says, “Uh-huh.” I start laughing. The Kube fouls off a fastball.
For a couple innings, Dizzy says, he just mowed ’em down. But the ump got suspicious when he threw a slow snot curve that completely reversed direction three times …
Pee Wee says,
“Uh-huh.”
Papa grins. Kubek fouls off a junk pitch. For a man who’s doomed, he’s hanging tough.
The ump finally canned him, Diz says, when he noticed the ball had turned green. Dizzy argued that it was grass stain, but the ump wouldn’t listen because his mitt was green too, and
slimy
. Okay okay, Dizzy told the ump, I’ll level with you. There’s thousands of tiny snails in the St. Louis outfield here, and they leave these gooey little trails of green slime. Ump claimed the ball hadn’t been in the outfield. They’re in the infield too, said Dizzy.
Get out!
said the ump. Hold your horses and the boys and me’ll catch you some, Dizzy said.
OUT!
screamed the ump.
Of course Irwin adores the Yankees. But whereas most Yankee fans only adore them so they can yell
I won! I won!
Irwin adores them because of Everett—because what Irwin really adores are science fiction movies, and watching the Yankees dismantle somebody on TV with Everett in the room is like watching the earth being invaded and destroyed by a gang of inhuman bozos. It’s a pretty great show.
The Kube hacks at a sinker that almost bounces off home plate. Strike two. Some Yankees start yelling at the ump about a greaseball, but Papa says it wasn’t, and he’s right apparently: the ump checks the ball and finds nothing.
I ask Papa if he ever doctored pitches. He says no. Then he says, “Well …” Then he says he may have taken advantage of a drop of sweat or a nick now and again, but that sweat and nicks are okay because they’re part of nature. “I was a nature-type pitcher,” Papa says, more than a little lamely.
“So spit’s part of nature too?” I ask.
“Just watch the game,” he says.
Mudcat is fooling with his mitt and belt and armpits and back pocket and shirt and hat now, trying to make Kubek worry about grease. Papa calls this Psychiatric Work. Kubek tries stepping out of the batter’s box and fooling with a resin bag, but compared to Mudcat’s mitt, belt, pits, pocket, shirt and hat, The Kube’s little resin bag is just pathetic. He looks doomed. Mudcat throws another sinker, and Kubek knows he can’t hit itafter getting psychiatrized like that, so he just watches it. Low. Barely. Ball two.
Pee Wee wonders aloud whether baseballs really get doctored much. Dizzy snorts and says the question is whether they ever don’t. Pee Wee acts shocked. Then Dizzy calms him down by admitting he was exaggerating. The true immortals, he says—himself for instance—don’t need nicks and grease and spit. “So you never doctored the ball?” Pee Wee asks. No sir I did not, says Dizzy. But once, he says, when he was playing for the Cards, he did pitch a game with a godawful cold, ran out of poop in the fourth inning, started getting shelled, and pretty soon got so upset by the whole experience that his nose started running like a faucet …
The Kube fouls off a curve.
Well, sir, Dizzy says, he was wearing short sleeves that day, so he had nothing to wipe the nose with but his mitt, and he had to catch the ball, didn’t he? So even though he is a man of principle and had no such intention, he started throwing snotballs by accident …
Papa rolls his eyes. Pee Wee says, “Uh-huh.” I start laughing. The Kube fouls off a fastball.
For a couple innings, Dizzy says, he just mowed ’em down. But the ump got suspicious when he threw a slow snot curve that completely reversed direction three times …
Pee Wee says,
“Uh-huh.”
Papa grins. Kubek fouls off a junk pitch. For a man who’s doomed, he’s hanging tough.
The ump finally canned him, Diz says, when he noticed the ball had turned green. Dizzy argued that it was grass stain, but the ump wouldn’t listen because his mitt was green too, and
slimy
. Okay okay, Dizzy told the ump, I’ll level with you. There’s thousands of tiny snails in the St. Louis outfield here, and they leave these gooey little trails of green slime. Ump claimed the ball hadn’t been in the outfield. They’re in the infield too, said Dizzy.
Get out!
said the ump. Hold your horses and the boys and me’ll catch you some, Dizzy said.
OUT!
screamed the ump.
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