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By Root 1478 0

athletic career, especially at football halftimes, but this was the first time he’d ever felt like one of his teammates—any of his teammates—might haul off and punch him in the throat. The Skrimmer had been their transcendent talent, but now that he was gone the other eighteen Harpooners had found something new inside themselves. A paradox better left unconsidered: they might never have made it here with their best player. Schwartz cast his gaze around the circle one more time. What came back was something beyond confidence, a sense that the game might as well already have happened. He didn’t know if he was ready to play—his mind was everywhere, sleepless and scattered and sentimental—but they sure were. If he was the Ahab of this operation, this tournament the target of his mania, then they were Fedallah’s secret crew.

“You guys,” he said softly, the respect in his voice legit, “are some scary motherfuckers.”

Nobody even smiled at this, much less laughed; they just nodded and took the field.

75

Henry wasn’t wearing his uniform, and despite the absurdly large Westish bag slung over his shoulder, the usher wouldn’t let him into the stadium without a ticket. “Game starts in five minutes,” said the usher, who was old and wiry with long white sideburns, as he stepped in front of Henry to block the gate. “The players have been here for hours.”

“Look at this huge bag.” Henry wearily slapped the Westish logo. The bag really did feel huge, a burden, today. “Would I carry this around if I wasn’t on the team?”

“Don’t know.”

“Look at it. It’s a baseball player’s bag. This part’s extra long so you can fit your bat.”

“I don’t see any bat.”

“I don’t have a bat,” Henry said.

“Don’t see why not.” The usher waved Henry aside so that he could rip the tickets and pat the heads of two young girls in flower-dotted dresses. Then he pulled a program out of his back pocket and unrolled it. “Which team do you play for?”

“Westish. Look, there’s my n—”

The usher jerked the program away. “Who’s first on the roster?” he demanded. “And how much does he weigh? I’ll give you five pounds leeway. Either side.”

Henry scrolled alphabetically through the squad in his mind. “Israel Avila. Shortstop, number one. Chicago, Illinois. Weighs… I don’t know what he weighs. One-fifty.”

“Sorry, kid. It’s Demetrius Arsch. Two-sixty.” The usher rolled up the program and waved it toward the parking lot. “Go find another sucker.”

Not until Henry unshouldered and unzipped his bag, dug around inside, and produced his rumpled jersey top did the old man wave him through, grumbling as if the whole exchange had been Henry’s fault. Henry stepped uncertainly through the pavilion’s milling crowds, bag flopping against his back. This was a brand-new, top-of-the-line minor-league ballpark—the kind of park he’d seemed, just a few weeks ago, to be destined to be playing in soon. His uniform still in hand, he waved it at a second usher and emerged into the first-base stands.

The teams had finished infield practice and were gathered in front of their respective dugouts while the head coaches conferred with the umpires. The wide number 44 on Schwartz’s back faced Henry. He had one arm around Arsch and the other around Izzy, his head turning slowly from side to side as he delivered the speech he’d been waiting all his life to deliver.

Henry sat down in an empty aisle seat. There was no way he was getting any closer to the team than this. He was already wondering why he’d come this close. He didn’t want to be the bad-luck charm, the albatross that doomed the Harpooners’ streak. They’d lost the last two games he played in and won the last twelve he didn’t. Those kinds of numbers spoke for themselves.

“Pardon me, young man.” A rotund man in a coat and tie tapped Henry importantly on the arm. “I believe you’re in our seats.”

A woman with dyed-blond hair and a gauzy shawl thrown over her shoulders was standing behind the man, her hands wrapped helplessly in the shawl, as if the weather were cold. She towered over his balding head.

“Sorry,” Henry said, and squeezed