The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [193]
Maybe I should volunteer, Henry thought. I can throw as hard as Starblind. Harder, even. Get in there, fire a few fastballs over the plate, stop the bleeding. We come back and win it in the bottom of the inning. Storybook ending. So what if I haven’t eaten in a while?
Before he could indulge the fantasy any further, Starblind threw another wobbly pitch. The hitter lined a head-high shot up the middle. The Amherst players surged toward the field again, ready to celebrate another score. Izzy came flying in from nowhere, stretched full-out in midair. The ball vanished into his glove. He landed on his stomach and reached out with his right hand to touch second base, doubling off the stunned runner. Two outs. Starblind, somehow, induced a fly ball to end the inning. The Harpooners sprinted off the field, shouting nonsense. Down by one, one last chance.
“Arsch,” barked Coach Cox. “Get a bat. You’re hitting for Ajay.”
Arsch nodded resolutely, bat already in hand. “Filthy?” he muttered to himself, staring out toward the mound. “I’ll show him filthy.”
The bullpen phone rang. Coach Cox reached down into the dugout and grabbed the receiver. “Mike?” he said. “Mike’s pretty goddamn busy right now.” He moved to hang up the phone, then brought it back to his ear. “Hey. Whoa. Just calm down a sec.” Pause. “Hang on. Hang on. I’ll get him.”
Henry kept one eye on Arsch as the big man stepped in against meek-looking Dougal, and one on Schwartz, who pressed the phone to one ear and a grimy hand to the other to muffle his teammates’ chatter. Schwartz was watching the field too, initially—Arsch took a called strike—but his eyes quickly fell to the concrete floor. “Are you sure?” he said quietly.
Ball one. Schwartz sank down on the bench, ten feet away from Henry.
“Baby. Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.”
His grimy hand made a slow pass over his widow’s peak, fell helplessly into his lap. He was wearing all of his gear except for his mask. He spoke a few more words into the phone, too softly for Henry to hear, and handed the receiver to Jensen to hang up.
Meat struck out swinging. Two outs left in the season. Owen shut his book and stood, stretched his arms over his head, fingers woven together, and hummed a little ditty; he would bat if Starblind or Izzy reached base. Henry looked at Schwartz, who stared down at the squashed paper cones that littered the floor.
Owen pulled his batting gloves from his back pockets, slapped them decisively against his thighs, and headed for the bat rack. “Buddha,” Schwartz said softly. Owen turned around.
Schwartz was wearing a look of indecision that Henry had never seen on him before. “Buddha,” he repeated, even more softly. “That was Pella. It’s about her dad. Mrs. McCallister found him this morning. He’s…” Schwartz’s voice caught. Deep furrows ran through the dirt on his forehead. Henry already knew—felt like he’d known all day—what he was going to say. “He’s dead.”
Owen froze. “You’re joking.”
“No.”
They stared at each other, Owen’s smoke-gray eyes against Schwartz’s big amber ones, for what felt like forever. Starblind’s bat made a loud promising ping. Henry glanced up to see the Amherst third baseman wrap his glove around a hard line drive. Two outs. Starblind yelped in anguish and pounded his bat into home plate. Owen, his face expressionless, lowered his eyes and nodded, as if to say, Okay. I believe you.
“I’m sorry,” Schwartz said.
“Why? Did you kill him?” Owen swam blankly past Schwartz and sank down on the bench. Schwartz sat down beside him. Henry slid nearer, so that the three of them were in a row, Owen bent forward in the center. “You’re on deck,” Henry said.
“So?”
“So…” Henry looked to Schwartz for help, but Schwartz either didn’t notice or wouldn’t meet his eye. Henry wanted to tell Owen to go get a hit for President Affenlight, that that was all he could do right now, that they would work through the rest later, but the words were absurd and they dried on his lips. He patted Owen weakly on the back. “I’ll