In the pro world, it was a bad year for baseball. A future Hall of Famer was banned from the sport for life; a retired pitcher shot his wife and then took his own life; the commissioner suffered a fatal heart attack; the first World Series game to be played at Candlestick Park in over twenty years was postponed when an earthquake shook northern California. But the majors are only a small part of what baseball is about. In other places and in other leagues — Little League, for instance, where there are no free agents, no salaries, and no gate admissions — it was a pretty fine year. The Eastern Regional Tournament winner was Trumbull, Connecticut. On August 26, 1989, Trumbull beat Taiwan to win the Little League World Series. It was the first time an American team had won the Williamsport World Series since 1983, and the first time in fourteen years that the winner had come from the region in which Bangor West plays.
In September, the Maine division of the United States Baseball Federation voted Dave Mansfield amateur coach of the year.
Brooklyn August
(For Jim Bishop)
In Ebbets Field the crabgrass grows
(where Alston managed)
row on row
as the day’s axle turns into twilight
I still see them, with the green smell
of just-mown infield grass heavy
in the darkening end of the day:
picked out by the right-field floods, just
turned on and already assaulted by
battalions of circling moths
and bugs on the night shift;
below, old men and offduty taxi drivers
are drinking big cups of Schlitz in the $0. 75 seats, this Flatbush as real as velvet Harlem streets
where jive packs the jukes in the June of ’56.
In Ebbets Field the infield’s slow
and seats are empty, row on row
Hodges is hulked over first, glove stretched
to touch the throw from Robinson at third,
the batters’ boxes float in the ghost-glow
of this sky-filled Friday evening
(Musial homered early, Flatbush is down by 2).
Newcombe trudged to an early shower through
a shower of popcorn and newspaper headlines.
Carl Erskine is in now and chucking hard
But Johnny Podres and Clem Labine are heating
in case he blows up late;
he can, you know, they all can
In Ebbets Field they come and go
and play their innings, blow by blow
time’s called in the dimness of the 5th
someone chucked a beer at Sandy Amoros in right
he spears the empty cup without a word
and hands it to a groundkeeper chewing Mail Pouch
while the faceless fans cry down juicy Brooklyn vowels,
a plague on both their houses.
Pee Wee Reese leans on his knees west of second Campanella gives the sign
with my eyes closed I see it all
smell steamed franks and 8 pm dirt
can see those heavenly shades of evening
they swim with angels above the stadium dish
as Erskine winds and wheels and throws low-inside:
Notes
Not long after I published Skeleton Crew, my previous book of short stories, I spoke to a reader who told me how much she had liked it. She had been able to ration the stories out, she said —
one a night for about three weeks. ‘I skipped the notes at the end, though,’ she said, keeping a close eye on me as she said it (I think she believed I might leap upon her in my anger at this terrible affront). ‘I’m one of those people who don’t want to know how the magician does his tricks.’
I simply nodded and told her that was her perfect right, not wanting to get into a long, involved discussion on the subject when I had errands to run, but I have no errands this morning, and I want to make two things perfectly clear, as our old pal from San Clemente used to say.
First, I don’t care if you read the notes that follow or not. It’s your book, and you can wear it on your head in a horserace for all of me. Second, I am not a magician and these are not tricks.
That’s not to say there isn’t magic involved in writing; I happen to believe that there is, and that it twines around fiction with particular luxuriance. The paradox is this: magicians don’t have anything to do with magic, as most of them will readily admit. Their undeniable wonders —
doves from handkerchiefs, coins from empty pitchers, silk scarves from empty hands — are achieved through exhaustive practice and well-tested misdirections and sleights of hand. Their talk of ‘ancient secrets of the Orient’ and ‘the forgotten lore of Atlantis’ is so much patter. I suspect that, by and large, stage-magicians would deeply identify with the old joke about the out-of-towner who asks the New York beatnik how to get to Carnegie Hall. ‘Practice, man, practice,’
the beatnik replies.
All that goes for writers, too. After twenty years of writing popular fiction and being dismissed by the more intellectual critics as a hack (the intellectual’s definition of a hack seems to be ‘an artist whose work is appreciated by too many people’), I will gladly testify that craft is terribly important, that the often tiresome process of draft, redraft, and then draft again is necessary to produce good work, and that hard work is the only acceptable practice for those of us who have some talent but little or no genius.
Still, there is magic in this job, and it comes most frequently at that instant when a story pops into a writer’s head, usually as a fragment but sometimes as a complete thing (and having that happen is a little like being hit by a tactical nuke). The writer can later relate where he was when that happened, and what the elements were that combined to give him his idea, but the idea itself is a new thing, a sum greater than its parts, something that is created from nothing. It is, to paraphrase Marianne Moore, a real toad in an imaginary garden. So you need not fear to read the notes that follow on the grounds that I will spoil the magic by telling you how the tricks work.
There are no tricks to real magic; when it comes to real magic, there is only history.
It is possible to spoil a story which hasn’t been read yet, however, and so if you’re one of those people (one of those awful people) who feel a compulsion to read the last thing in a book first, like a willful child who is determined to eat his or her chocolate pudding before touching the meatloaf, I’m going to invite you to get the hell out of here, lest you suffer what may be the worst
of all curses: disenchantment. For the rest of you, here is a whirlwind tour of how some of the stories in Nightmares and Dreamscapes happened to happen.
‘Dolan’s Cadillac’ — I’d guess the train of thought which led to this story is pretty obvious. I was idling my way through one of those seemingly endless road-repair sites where you breathe a lot of dust, tar, and exhaust and sit looking at the ass end of the same station wagon and the same I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS bumper sticker for what feels like about nine years . . . only the car in front of me that day was a big green Cadillac Sedan DeVille. As we inched our way past an excavation where huge cylinders of pipe were being laid, I remember thinking, Even a car as big as that Cadillac would fit in there. A moment later I had the idea of ‘Dolan’s Cadillac’ firmly in place, fully developed, and none of the narrative elements ever changed so much as an iota.
That is not to say the story was an easy birth; it most definitely was not. I have never been so daunted — s& nearly overwhelmed, in fact — by technical details. Now I’ll give you what the Reader’s Digest likes to call A Personal Glimpse: although I like to think of myself as a literary version of James Brown (the self-styled ‘Hardest-Working Man in Show Business’), I am an extremely lazy sod when it comes to research and technical details. I have been twigged again and again by readers and critics (most accurately and humiliatingly by Avram Davidson, who writes for the Chicago Tribune and Fantasy and Science Fiction magazine) for my lapses in these areas. When writing ‘Dolan’s Cadillac,’ I came to realize that this time I could not simply fudge my way through, because the story’s entire underpinning depended on various scientific details, mathematical formulae, and the postulates of physics.
If I had discovered this unpalatable truth sooner — before I had roughly 15,000 words already invested in the story of Dolan, Elizabeth, and Elizabeth’s Poe-esque husband, that is — I undoubtedly would have consigned ‘Dolan’s Cadillac’ to The Department of Unfinished Stories.