“Satisfied?” Joe asked Pinky. “Or would you like to check his ears for potato-dirt while you’re at it?”
“Fuck you,” Pinky says. He got up, stamped over to the door, spat his cud into the wastepaper basket there-splut!-and then he turns back. “My boy says your boy cut him. Says he felt it. And my boy don’t lie.”
“Your boy tried to be a hero with the game on the line instead of stopping at third and giving Piersall a chance. He’d tell you the moon was made of his father’s come-stained skivvies if it’d get him off the hook for that. You know what happened and so do I. Anderson got tangled in his own spikes and did it to himself when he went whoopsy-daisy. Now get out of here.”
“There’ll be a payback for this, DiPunno.”
“Yeah? Well it’s the same gametime tomorrow. Get here early.”
Pinky left, already tearing off a fresh piece of chew. Joe drummed his fingers beside his ashtray, then asked the kid: “Now that it’s just us chickens, did you do anything to Anderson? Tell me the truth.”
“No.” Not a bit of hesitation. “I didn’t do anything to Anderson. That’s the truth.”
“Okay,” Joe said, and stood up. “Always nice to shoot the shit after a game, but I think I’ll go on home and have a drink. Then I might fuck my wife on the sofa. Winning on Opening Day always makes my pecker stand up.” Then he said, “Kid, you played the game the way it’s supposed to be played. Good for you.”
He left. The kid cinched his towel around his waist and started back to the locker room. I said, “I see that shaving cut’s all better.”
He stopped dead in the doorway, and although his back was to me, I knew he’d done something out there. The truth was in the way he was standing. I don’t know how to explain it better, but…I knew.
“What?” Like he didn’t get me, you know.
“The shaving cut on your finger.”
“Oh, that shaving cut. Yuh, all better.”
And out he sails…although, rube that he was, he probably didn’t have a clue where he was going. Luckily for him, Kerwin McCaslin had got him a place to stay in the better part of Newark. Hard to believe as it might be, Newark had a better part back then.
Okay, second game of the season. Dandy Dave Sisler on the mound for Boston, and our new catcher is hardly settled into the batter’s box before Sisler chucks a fastball at his head. Would have knocked his fucking eyes out if it had connected, but he snaps his head back-didn’t duck or nothing-and then just cocks his bat again, looking at Sisler as if to say, Go on, mac, do it again if you want.
The crowd’s screaming like mad and chanting RUN IM! RUN IM! RUN IM! The ump didn’t run Sisler, but he got warned and a cheer went up. I looked over and saw Pinky in the Boston dugout, walking back and forth with his arms folded so tight he looked like he was trying to keep from exploding.
Sisler walks twice around the mound, soaking up the fan-love-boy oh boy, they wanted him drawn and quartered-and then he went to the rosin bag, and then he shook off two or three signs. Taking his time, you know, letting it sink in. The kid all the time just standing there with his bat cocked, comfortable as old Tillie. So Dandy Dave throws a get-me-over fastball right down Broadway and the kid loses it in the left field bleachers. Tidings was on base and we’re up two to nothing. I bet the people over in New York heard the noise from Swampy when the kid hit that home run.
I thought he’d be grinning when he came around third, but he looked just as serious as a judge. Under his breath he’s muttering, “Got it done, Billy, showed that busher and got it done.”
The Doo was the first one to grab him in the dugout and danced him right into the bat-rack. Helped him pick up the spilled lumber, too, which was nothing like Danny Dusen, who usually thought he was above such things.