The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [184]
“Why’s he in the batter’s box?” Izzy muttered. “He’s messing up the chalk.”
Suitcase, who was standing beside Izzy, nodded and spit. “It’s the national championship, for Chrissake. They could’ve at least gotten a chick to sing the anthem.”
“Yeah, word. A chick in a dress. How hard is that?”
“Ssssshhh,” hissed Loondorf. “That’s Eric Strell.”
“He’s what?”
“Eric Strell. ‘Don’t Fence Me Out’? Remember?” Loondorf, who sang tenor in the Westish Wails, began to croon in a quiet voice: “Don’t… fence me out / In my heart there is no doubt…”
“Country’s gay,” said Izzy.
“It’s a good song,” protested Loondorf. “I might solo on it.”
“Gay.”
“It’s about Mexican immigrants. Like your dad.”
“Ga-a-ay.”
Owen cleared his throat.
Izzy covered his mouth with his cap. “Sorry, Buddha.”
“Can it, all of you.” Schwartz’s voice was sharp, but inwardly he felt pleased that the younger guys were loose enough to goof around. He himself had already puked twice out of nervousness—once discreetly in a locker room sink, once less discreetly by the left-field foul pole during warm-ups. If any balls got hit down into the corner, Quisp or the Amherst left fielder would be in for a messy surprise.
Eric Strell was really belting it out. He wasn’t a small guy—only one notch smaller than Schwartz, and he was crammed into that tux with the boots, the bolo tie, the whole bit, his cheeks the alcoholic color of steak tartare, especially when he reached for the sky with his hat’s crown in his right hand and brought down the HOME… OF THE… BRAAYYYYYVE in a tumid drawl that lasted so long it left him doubled over, crumpled and spent like Arsch after a jog to the lighthouse. The crowd exploded. Eric Strell straightened, waved his ten-gallon hat at the stands. He brought the mike close to his now-crimson face, beefy hand cupped tight around the windscreen, and gazed into the camera lens, making sweet love to each and every American who’d tuned into ESPN2 hoping to see bowling or billiards reruns and instead got the D-III college baseball championship game. “Puh-lay baawwwl!” he purred.
Schwartz put his hat on, blinked back a renegade drop of salt water. He’d always been a sucker for the anthem, and then there was the almost unfair beauty of a professional ballfield, the expensive riotous green of the grass, the scalloped cutouts around the bases, the whole place groomed like living art. As he turned back toward the dugout and glanced into the stands, it seemed as if the little contingent of navy-clad fans were composed entirely of mothers—Rick’s mom flanked by the gawky ten-year-old O’Shea twins; Sal Phlox’s mom ancient and white-haired and leaning into Papa Phlox’s elbow; Meat’s mom seated because of her gout while everyone else stood, spilling out over her chair, a ripe blueberry of a woman in her triple-XL Westish T-shirt. Owen’s and Izzy’s waving their Westish pennants like cheerleaders. Loondorf’s mom, who’d brought them so many kringles over the course of the season; Ajay’s tiny Indian mom with her many bracelets; and on down the line. An endless supply of mothers, though of course the one you wanted was never there.
He plunked down on the bench to don his chest protector. A cell phone buzzed nearby. He glanced around, ready to cuss at someone—no phones in the dugout—then recognized the ring as his own. He unzipped the side pocket of his bag, peeked at the display: Pella’s new number. There were several missed calls too, all from her. What a great time to get in touch. He powered