“Right. Sure. Bill’s gonna help.”
“He’ll squeeze like a motherfucker.”
“Will he? Will he squeeze like a motherf-”
“I just said he will. So you pull everything back.”
“I’ll pull everything back.”
“You’re my good luck charm, Billy-boy.”
And the kid, grinning: “I’m your good luck charm.”
“Yeah. Now listen…”
It was funny and creepy at the same time. The Doo was intense-leaning forward, eyes flashing while he talked. Everything Wenders had said about him was true, but he left one thing out: The Doo was a competitor. He wanted to win the way Bob Gibson did. Like Gibby, he’d do anything he could get away with to make that happen. And the kid was eating it up with a spoon.
I almost said something, because I wanted to break up that connection. Talking about it to you, I think maybe my subconscious mind had already put a lot of it together. Maybe that’s bullshit, but I don’t think so.
In any case, I left them alone, just got my butts and walked away. Hell, if I’d opened my bazoo, Dusen would have told me to put a sock in it, anyway. He didn’t like to be interrupted when he was holding court, and while I might not have given much of a shit about that on any other day, you tend to leave a guy alone when it’s his turn to toe the rubber in front of the forty thousand people who are paying his salary. Expecially when he’s up for the big two-double-zero.
I went over to Joe’s office to get the lineup card, but the office door was shut and the blinds were down, an almost unheard-of thing on a game day. The slats weren’t closed, so I peeked through. Joe had the phone to his ear and one hand over his eyes. I knocked on the glass. He started so hard he almost fell out of his chair, then looked around. And I saw he was crying. I never saw him cry in my life, not before or after, but he was crying that day. His face was pale and his hair was wild-what little hair he had.
He waved me away, then went back to talking on the phone. I started across the locker room to the coaches’ office, which was really the equipment room. Halfway there I stopped. The big pitcher-catcher conference had broken up, and the kid was pulling on his uniform shirt, the one with the big blue 19. And I saw the Band-Aid was back on the second finger of his right hand.
I walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. He smiled at me. The kid had a real sweet smile when he used it. “Hi, Granny,” he says. But his smile began to fade when he saw I wasn’t smiling back.
“You all ready to play?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“Good. But I want to tell you something first. The Doo’s a hell of a pitcher, but as a human being he ain’t ever going to get past Double A. He’d walk on his grandmother’s broken back to get a win, and you matter a hell of a lot less to him than his grandmother.”
“I’m his good luck charm!” he says indignantly…but underneath the indignation, he looked ready to cry.
“Maybe so,” I said, “but that’s not what I’m talking about. There’s such a thing as getting too pumped up for a game. A little is good, but too much and a fellow’s apt to bust wide open.”
“I don’t get you.”
“If you popped and went flat like a bad tire, The Doo wouldn’t give much of a shit. He’d just find himself a brand new lucky charm.”
“You shouldn’t talk like that! Him and me’s friends!”
“I’m your friend, too. More important, I’m one of the coaches on this team. I’m responsible for your welfare, and I’ll talk any goddam way I want, especially to a rook. And you’ll listen. Are you listening?”
“I’m listening.”
I’m sure he was, but he wasn’t looking; he’d cast his eyes down and sullen red roses were blooming on those smooth little-boy cheeks of his.
“I don’t know what kind of a rig you’ve got under that Band-Aid, and I don’t want to know. All I know is I saw it in the first game you played for us, and somebody got hurt. I haven’t seen it since, and I don’t want to see it today. Because if you got caught, it’d be you caught. Not The Doo.”