The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [189]
“Maybe he’s a choker.”
“A choker?” asked A, feigning surprise. “Henry’s a choker?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Why does Henry choke?” A demanded.
“Maybe he can’t take the presha,” someone suggested, in a strong Boston accent.
“The pressure?! Henry can’t take the pressure?” A sounded utterly flummoxed, as if she’d known Henry a long time and had never in her wildest dreams believed it would come to this.
Henry stared intently at the vivid white square of first base, pretending to ignore them while straining to hear every word. Schwartzy walked to lead off the inning. He tossed his bat aside, removed his forearm guard, and ran hard to first. Henry clapped once, kept his eyes on the bag.
A had found Henry’s four-line bio—the longest on the team—in the glossy tournament program. “Henry Skrimshander,” she announced. “Junior. Lankton, South Dakota. Five-foot-ten. One hundred and fifty-five pounds. As a sophomore, was named Conference Player of the Year. Batted .448 this year, with nine home runs and nineteen stolen bases. Shares the NCAA shortstop record for consecutive errorless games with Hall of Famer Aparicio Rodriguez.”
Henry was painfully impressed by the flawless, fiber-optic clarity with which she delivered this information to a significant portion of the ballpark. The first-base stands had fallen quiet; they were listening to her.
“Hey, Jen, don’t those sound like pretty good stats for a first-base coach?”
“I’d say so,” replied Jen.
“Maybe Henry’s too good to play for this sorry team. Do you agree, Jen?”
“I do.”
“Maybe Henry would rather stand there and waggle his little butt in our faces.”
“Yes!” yelped Jen, her voice fracturing into shards of laughter. Henry mentally checked his butt cheeks to make sure they were perfectly still.
“Tough crowd,” said Schwartz, not to Henry but to the first baseman.
The first baseman shrugged. “That’s Miz.”
“Miz?”
“Elizabeth Myszki. Second baseman for the softball team.”
“She’s a charmer,” Schwartz said.
The first baseman shrugged again. “She’s got a thing for middle infielders.”
Rick O’Shea laced a one-hopper to the Amherst third baseman, who set in motion an easy double play. Boddington flied out to center for the third out. Henry, not wishing to seem too eager, paused a quarter beat before sprinting back to the dugout. Once safely inside, he could finally turn around and have a long look, albeit from afar, at the very pretty, incredibly unpleasant Elizabeth Myszki.
Top of the fifth. The scoreboard read 1-3-0, runs-hits-errors, for each team. The field was a sapphire storybook dream. Starblind walked the first batter on four pitches, none of them near the strike zone.
“Uh-oh,” said Arsch. “Here we go.”
Starblind walked the next batter too. He was taking a long time between pitches, muttering to himself, laboriously wiping sweat from his golden forehead. Schwartz called time and trudged out to the mound for a heart-to-heart. Coach Cox stroked his mustache and looked up and down the dugout. “Loonie,” he said. “How’s the wing?”
“Don’t know, Coach. I can sure give it a shot.”
Coach Cox was staring at Starblind with fervid intensity, as if trying to see through his pinstripes and into his soul. “Meat,” he said. “Take Loonie down to the bullpen, play a little catch.”
“Right, Coach.” Arsch grabbed his chest protector, and he and Loondorf headed down the foul line. Starblind toed the rubber, checked the runners, and threw a fastball that the batter clobbered off the left-field wall. One run scored easily. Quisp held the other runners to second and third: 2–1 Amherst, nobody out.
“Goddamnit.” Coach Cox picked up the bullpen phone and waited for Arsch to answer. “Get Loonie ready quick.” He signaled for time and strolled out to the mound to chat with Starblind, though Henry knew that the real purpose of his visit was to give Loondorf a chance to get loose. As Coach Cox spoke, Starblind nodded forcefully and slammed the ball into his glove. Everyone on the Westish bench could read his lips. I’m fine. I’m fine.