The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [128]
“Let’s go, vendejos!” shouted Izzy. “Let’s go!”
“Cut four, cut four!”
“We ain’t letting these vatos walk into our house and take our shit! No sir!”
“Here, now!” yelled Quentin Quisp from left, as he fielded a Schwartz-struck fly ball and fired it toward home plate. “Right here right now!” These were by far the loudest, most emphatic words anyone had heard from Quisp all year.
“Somebody woke up Q!” Henry yelled. “Somebody woke up the Q!”
“Q Q Q!”
“Somebody woke up the Q!”
“Somebody woke up Henry!”
“Somebody brought back the Buddha!”
“Buddha Buddha Buddha!”
“O O O!”
“Our house!”
“Nuestra casa!”
“O O O!”
It felt good to yell, to repeat, to shout nonsense at the bright spring air. Everyone was nervous and it came out as a clean high giddiness. Henry’s arm felt light like a bird, light and lively, about to take flight from his body. He fired pellets to Arsch, pellets to Rick, pellets to Ajay. Everyone fired pellets to everyone—Henry looked around for what felt like the first time and saw how good this team had become, how good a chance they had to beat Coshwale today. “Izzy,” he yelled, though Izzy was standing beside him, “how come the good guys are vendejos and the bad guys are vatos?”
“That’s how it goes, vendejo! That’s how it goes!”
The outfielders finished their portion of the drill and sprinted toward the dugout, whooping like madmen as they ran. As each infielder left the diamond he fielded a faux bunt rolled out by Coach Cox. Henry nudged Izzy before his turn. “Watch this.” He charged at full speed, barehanded the ball, and whipped it behind his back to Rick, never looking or breaking stride as he ran off the field and down the dugout stairs. Perfect.
Owen was already folded into his favorite corner of the dugout, reading light clipped to the brim of his cap, book in hand. He looked up at Henry and smiled. “How’s the wing, as the natives say?”
Henry nodded. “Wing’s A-OK.”
“Shall we do our elaborate handshake?”
“Let’s.”
Owen stood, tenting his book on the bench—The Art of Fielding. Their handshake involved both hands and both elbows, a kiss on the cheek, mock punches to the stomach, something resembling patty-cake, and a lot of kung fu–style bowing. Henry took his eye black from his bag and drew a line beneath each eye. He removed his cap, gave the sweat-softened brim a single squeeze, and placed it back on his head. He spit a few drops of saliva into Zero’s well-worn pocket and kneaded them in with his fist. Ready. The home-plate umpire strapped on his chest protector. “Two minutes, coaches.”
Coach Cox wasn’t much for pregame speeches. “Here’s the lineup, men. Starblind Phlox Skrimmer. Schwartz O’Shea Boddington. Quisp Guladni Kim. No reason we can’t handle these guys. Schwartzy, you got anything to add?”
Schwartz reached down and plucked an index card out of his shin-guard knee-flap. “Schiller,” he said. “ ‘Man only plays when in the full meaning of the word he is a man. And he is only completely a man when he plays.’ ” Schwartz paused and passed his eyes around the huddle slowly, allowing them to settle on each of his teammates’ faces, intense but benevolent. Whatever remained of the Harpooners’ nervousness burned away like gas when the pilot’s lit. “We’ve done the work. We ran and lifted and puked our guts out. We built this program out of nothing. We made ourselves proud to put on this uniform. We don’t have a single goddamn thing left to prove to anyone. We’re proven. Today we play.” He extended a hand into the center of the huddle. He looked at Henry and smiled. “Play on three. Onetwothree—”
“PLAY!”
“Kill the douchetards,” Owen said.
47
Pella swam six laps, rested on the edge of the pool, swam six more. Chlorine sluiced neatly through her sinuses. Her head felt clear. She used to swim miles at a time, used to have a sleek stomach and slender, powerful arms—but oh well. She hoisted herself from the pool, triceps quivering, and stretched on the deck while she dripped dry. She could feel the lifeguard watching her half surreptitiously from his high perch, ignoring the