The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [187]
The Harpooners, having won the coin toss, would be the home team and bat last. The PA announcer boomingly introduced the Harpooner starters, who jogged to their positions as the crowd cheered amiably. Amherst fans far outnumbered Westish ones, but the bulk of the crowd was unattached—locals, or fans of one of the six already eliminated teams.
Henry, having hopped down into foul territory, froze. Coach Cox had spotted him too, was waving him over, but to reach the Westish dugout he would have to go right past Schwartz, who crouched behind home plate catching Starblind’s last warm-up throws. Henry stalled there, feeling more exposed and roachlike than he ever had in Pella’s kitchen, an ESPN cameraman two steps away and what felt like ten thousand eyes upon him. Finally Schwartz, without turning around, lifted his right hand and gestured toward the Westish dugout. Come on, come on.
Henry scuttled by. Obviously he hadn’t thought this through. If the Harpooners lost they would blame him, rightly blame him, blame him forever, for dragging himself halfway across the country to jinx them. What had he been thinking, coming here? What had President Affenlight been thinking? He couldn’t blame President Affenlight, it was his own bad decision, but President Affenlight had proposed it and when the president of your school proposed something it was awfully easy to comply. Albatross, he thought. Crap, crap, crap.
Coach Cox greeted him at the mouth of the dugout with a happy, bone-crushing handshake. “Go get dressed,” he growled.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Henry said. “That wouldn’t be—”
“I need you to coach first base. Get your damn uniform on.”
Henry headed into the dark corridor that led to the locker room to change. His gear was dirty and a little gamy, unwashed since the Coshwale game, but he dressed with his usual slow solemnity, or at least in imitation of it, in an effort to appease the gods of fate. Coaching first wouldn’t be bad—it would give him a way to contribute, however minimally, and it meant that when the Harpooners were batting and Schwartz was in the dugout, Henry’d be out on the field.
Starblind had already gotten two quick outs when Henry entered the dugout. The reserves were perched on the narrow upright back of the bench, glaring out at the field. No one had shaved since regionals began, though with Loondorf and Sooty Kim you could barely tell. They all wore the same expression, as fierce as if they were pitching. Henry made his way down to the distant end, where anyone who didn’t want to see him wouldn’t have to, and took a seat on the far side of Meat.
“Adam better throw a doggone shutout.” Arsch flipped sunflower seeds toward his mouth. “We’ve got no pitchers.”
“Who’s left?” Henry asked.
“Sal went eight yesterday, so he’s finished. Quisp’s been throwing a ton too. Even Rick had to pitch a few innings—can’t believe we survived that shitstorm. So for relievers it’s Loonie…” Arsch scanned the dugout. “… and Loonie, basically.”
“My wing’s pretty sore,” Loondorf reminded him. “I’ve got nothing.”
“Loonie’s got nothing,” Arsch repeated, shaking his head sadly.
Starblind struck out Amherst’s number-three hitter and stalked toward the dugout with a steely fist pump. Henry stepped onto the field beneath the high-banked lights and made his way toward the first-base coaching box. His knees wobbled; he had to concentrate. Coaching first