jg.paintedhouse-第48部分

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　Pappy　thought　it　was　a　lie；　and　after　watching　him　get　shelled　the　year　before；　I　had　serious　doubts；　too。　He　walked　the　first　three　batters　while　throwing　only　one　strike；　and　I　thought　Pappy　might　charge　the　mound　and　maim　him。　Their　cleanup　batter　popped　up　to　the　catcher。　The　next　guy　flied　out　to　shallow　left。　We　got　lucky　when　their　number…six　batter；　Mr。　Lester　Hurdle；　at　age　fifty…two　the　oldest　player　on　either　roster；　hit　a　long　fly　ball　to　right；　where　our　fielder；　Bennie　Jenkins；　gloveless　and　shoeless；　caught　it　with　his　bare　hands。
　　　The　game　settled　into　a　pitcher's　duel；　not　necessarily　because　the　pitching　was　sharp；　but　more　because　neither　team　could　hit。　We　drifted　back　to　the　ice　cream；　where　the　last　melting　remnants　were　being　dished　out。　By　the　third　inning　the　ladies　of　both　denominations　had　grouped　into　small　clusters　of　conversation　and；　for　them；　the　game　was　of　lesser　importance。　Somewhere　not　far　away；　a　car　radio　was　on；　and　I　could　hear　Harry　Caray。　The　Cardinals　were　playing　the　Cubs　in　the　final　game　of　the　season。
　　　As　Dewayne　and　I　retreated　from　the　dessert　table　with　our　last　cups　of　ice　cream；　we　walked　behind　a　quilt　where　half　a　dozen　young　women　were　resting　and　talking。　〃Well；　how　old　is　Libby？〃　I　heard　one　of　them　say。
　　　I　stopped；　took　a　bite；　and　looked　beyond　them　at　the　game　as　if　I　weren't　the　least　bit　interested　in　what　they　were　saying。
　　　〃She's　just　fifteen；〃　another　said。
　　　〃She's　a　Latcher。　She'll　have　another　one　soon。〃
　　　〃Is　it　a　boy　or　a　girl？〃
　　　〃Boy's　what　I　heard。〃
　　　〃And　the　daddy？〃
　　　〃Not　a　clue。　She　won't　tell　anybody。〃
　　　〃e　on；〃　Dewayne　said；　hitting　me　with　his　elbow。　We　moved　away　and　walked　to　the　first…base　dugout。　I　wasn't　sure　if　I　was　relieved　or　scared。　Word　was　out　that　the　Latcher　baby　had　arrived；　but　its　father　had　not　been　identified。
　　　It　wouldn't　be　long；　I　thought。　And　we'd　be　ruined。　I'd　have　a　cousin　who　was　a　Latcher；　and　everybody　would　know　it。
　　　The　tight　pitching　duel　ended　in　the　fifth　inning　when　both　teams　erupted　for　six　runs。　For　thirty　minutes　baseballs　were　flying　everywhere…line　drives；　wild　throws；　balls　in　the　outfield　gaps。　We　changed　pitchers　twice；　and　I　knew　we　were　in　trouble　when　Pappy　went　to　the　mound　and　pointed　at　my　father。　He　was　not　a　pitcher；　but　at　that　point　there　was　no　one　left。　He　kept　his　pitches　low；　though；　and　we　were　soon　out　of　the　inning。
　　　〃Musial's　pitching！〃　someone　yelled。　It　was　either　a　joke　or　a　mistake。　Stan　Musial　was　a　lot　of　things；　but　he'd　never　pitched　before。　We　ran　behind　the　bleachers　to　where　the　cars　were　parked。　A　small　crowd　was　closing　in　on　a　'48　Dodge　owned　by　Mr。　Rafe　Henry。　Its　radio　was　at　full　volume；　and　Harry　Caray　was　wild…Stan　the　Man　was　indeed　on　the　mound；　pitching　against　the　Cubs；　against　Frankie　Baumholtz；　the　man　he'd　battled　all　year　for　the　hitting　title。　The　crowd　at　Sportsman's　Park　was　delirious。　Harry　was　yelling　into　the　microphone。　We　were　shocked　at　the　thought　of　Musial　on　the　mound。
　　　Baumholtz　hit　a　ground　ball　to　third；　and　they　sent　Musial　back　to　center　field。　I　ran　to　the　first…base　dugout　and　told　Pappy　that　Stan　the　Man　had　actually　pitched；　but　he　didn't　believe　me。　I　told　my　father；　and　he　looked　suspicious；　too。　The　Methodists　were　up　eight　to　six；　in　the　bottom　of　the　seventh；　and　the　Baptist　dugout　was　tense。　A　good　flood　would　have　caused　less　concern；　at　least　at　that　moment。
　　　It　was　at　least　ninety…five　degrees。　The　players　were　soaked　with　sweat；　their　clean　overalls　and　white　Sunday　shirts　stuck　to　their　skin。　They　were　moving　slower…paying　the　price　for　all　that　fried　chicken　and　potato　salad…and　not　hustling　enough　to　suit　Pappy。
　　　Dewayne's　father　wasn't　playing；　so　they　left　after　a　couple　of　hours。　A　few　others　drifted　away。　The　Mexicans　were　still　under　their　tree　by　the　right…field　foul　pole；　but　they　were　sprawled　out　now　and　appeared　to　be　sleeping。　The　ladies　were　even　more　involved　with　their　shade…tree　gossip；　they　could　not　have　cared　less　who　won　the　game。
　　　I　sat　alone　in　the　bleachers　and　watched　the　Methodists　score　three　more　in　the　eighth。　I　dreamed　of　the　day　when　I'd　be　out　there；　hitting　home　runs　and　making　incredible　plays　in　center　field。　Those　wretched　Methodists　wouldn't　have　a　chance　when　I　got　big　enough。
　　　They　won　eleven　to　eight；　and　for　the　fifth　year　in　a　row　Pappy　had　led　the　Baptists　to　defeat。　The　players　shook　hands　and　laughed　when　the　game　was　over；　then　headed　to　the　shade；　where　iced　tea　was　waiting。　Pappy　didn't　smile　or　laugh；　nor　did　he　shake　hands　with　anybody。　He　disappeared　for　a　while；　and　I　knew　he　would　pout　for　a　week。
　　　The　Cardinals　lost；　too；　three　to　zero。　They　finished　the　season　four　games　behind　the　Giants　and　eight　games　behind　the　Brooklyn　Dodgers；　who　would　face　the　Yankees　in　an　all…New　York　World　Series。
　　　The　leftovers　were　gathered　and　hauled　back　to　the　cars　and　trucks。　The　tables　were　cleaned；　and　the　litter　was　picked　up。　I　helped　Mr。　Duffy　Lewis　rake　the　mound　and　home　plate；　and　when　we　finished；　the　field　looked　as　good　as　ever。　It　took　an　hour　to　say　goodbye　to　everyone。　There　were　the　usual　threats　from　the　losing　team　about　what　would　happen　next　year；　and　the　usual　taunts　from　the　winners。　As　far　as　I　could　tell；　no　one　was　upset　but　Pappy。
　　　As　we　left　town　I　thought　about　the　end　of　the　season。　Baseball　began　in　the　spring；　when　we　planted　and　when　hopes　were　high。　It　sustained　us　through　the　summer；　often　our　only　diversion　from　the　drudgery　of　the　fields。　We　listened　to　each　game；　then　talked　about　the　plays　and　the　players　and　the　strategies　until　we　listened　to　the　next　one。　It　was　very　much　a　part　of　our　daily　lives　for　six　months；　then　it　was　gone。　Just　like　the　cotton。
　　　I　was　sad　by　the　time　we　arrived　home。　No　games　to　listen　to　on　the　front　porch。　Six　months　without　the　voice　of　Harry　Caray。　Six　months　with　no　Stan　Musial。　I　got　my　glove　and　went　for　a　long　walk　down　a　field　road；　tossing　the　ball　in　the　air；　wondering　what　I　would　do　until　April。
　　　For　the　first　time　in　my　life；　baseball　broke　my　heart。
　
　
　Chapter　24
　　　
　　　The　heat　broke　in　the　first　few　days　of　October。　The　nights　became　cool；　and　the　rides　to　the　fields　in　the　early　morning　were　chilly。　The　stifling　humidity　was　gone；　and　the　sun　lost　its　glare。　By　midday　it　was　hot　again；　but　not　August…hot；　and　by　dark　the　air　was　light。　We　waited；　but　the　heat　did　not　return。　The　seasons　were　changing；　the　days　grew　shorter。
　　　Since　the　sun　didn't　sap　our　strength　as　much；　we　worked　harder　and　picked　more。　And；　of　course；　the　change　in　weather　was　all　Pappy　needed　to　embrace　yet　another　level　of　concern。　With　winter　just　around　the　corner；　he　now　remembered　tales　of　staring　at　rows　and　rows　of　muddy；　rotting；　and　unpicked　cotton　on　Christmas　Day。
　　　After　a　month　in　the　fields；　I　missed　school。　Classes　would　resume　at　the　end　of　October；　and　I　began　thinking　of　how　nice　it　would　be　to　sit　at　a　desk　all　day；　surrounded　by　friends　instead　of　cotton　stalks；　and　with　no　Spruills　to　worry　about。　Now　that　baseball　was　over；　I　had　to　dream　about　something。　It　was　a　tribute　to　my　desperation　to　be　left　with　only　school　to　long　for。
　　　My　return　to　school　would　be　glorious　because　I　would　be　wearing　my　shiny　new　Cardinals　baseball　jacket。　Hidden　inside　my　cigar　box　in　the　top　drawer　of　my　bureau　was　the　grand　sum　of　14。50；　the　result　of　hard　work　and　frugal　spending。　I　was　reluctantly　tithing　money　to　the　church　and　investing　wisely　in　Saturday　movies　and　popcorn；　but　for　the　most　part　my　wages　were　being　tucked　safely　away　next　to　my　Stan　Musial　baseball　card　and　the　pearl…handled　pocketknife　that　Ricky　gave　me　the　day　he　left　for　Korea。
　　　I　wanted　to　order　the　jacket　from　Sears；　Roebuck；　but　my　mother　insisted　I　wait　until　the　harvest　was　over。　We　were　still　negotiating　this。　Shipping　took　two　weeks；　and　I　was　determined　to　return　to　class　decked　out　in　Cardinal　red。
　　　
　　　Stick　Powers　was　waiting　for　us　late　one　afternoon。　I　was　with　Gran　and　my　mother；　and　we　had　left　the　fields　a　few　minutes　ahead　of　the　others。　As　always；　Stick　was　sitting　under　a　tree；　the　one　next　to　Pappy's　truck；　and　his　sleepy　eyes　betrayed　the　fact　that　he'd　been　napping。
　　　He　tipped　his　hat　to　my　mother　and　Gran　and　said；　〃Afternoon；　Ruth；　Kathleen。〃
　　　〃Hello；　Stick；〃　Gran　said。　〃What　can　we　do　for　you？〃
　　　〃Lookin'　for　Eli　or　Jesse。〃
　　　〃They'll　be　along　shortly。　Somethin'　the　matter？〃
　　　Stick　chewed　on　the　blade　of　grass　protruding　from　his　lips　and　took　a　long　look　at　the　fields　as　if　he　were　burdened　with　heavy　news　that　might　or　might　not　be　suitable　for　women。
　　　〃What　is　it；　Stick？〃　Gran　asked。　With　a　boy　off　in　the　war；　every　visit　by　a　man　in　a　uniform　was　frightening。　In　1944　one　of　Stick's　predecessors　had　delivered　the　news　that　my　father　had　been　wounded　at　Anzio。
　　　Stick　looked　at　the　women　and　decided　they　could　be　trusted。　He　said；　〃That　eldest　Sisco　boy；　Grady；　the　one　in　prison　for　killin'　a　man　over　in　Jonesboro；　well；　he　escaped　last　week。　They　say　he's　back　in　these　parts。〃
　　　For　a　moment　the　women　said　nothing。　Gran　was　relieved　that　the　news　wasn't　about　Ricky。　My　mother　was　bored　with　the　whole　Sisco　mess。
　　　〃You'd　better　tell　Eli；