The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [209]
Now he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a wad of paper, handed the wad to Schwartz. “I guess you’ve heard about this,” he said.
Schwartz unfolded the contract and flipped through the pages. There it was in black and white: $100,000.00. He handed it back. “You’d better get this in the mail,” he said. “August is almost over.”
“I don’t want to mail it,” Henry said. “I want to come back.”
“So come back. You’re a student here.”
“I want to play ball.”
Schwartz found something of interest under his left thumbnail, studied it intently.
“Starblind’s in the minors,” Henry said. “Owen’s headed to Japan. Rick’s the only senior, and Rick’s a goof. You need somebody to run the team. A captain.”
Schwartz kept fiddling with his thumbnail. He wasn’t going to make it easy.
“You’re a paid employee now,” Henry went on. “It’s against the rules for you to lead off-season workouts. Who’s going to be on the guys every day from now until practice starts? Who’s going to make them puke?”
Schwartz raised his gaze, fixed it on Henry. “So Coach Cox and I name you captain, and everything’s fine for a while, and then you start having problems. What then?”
Henry tried to answer, but Schwartz cut him off. “If you mail that contract, you can think about yourself, your game, twenty-four-seven. If you’re here, different story.”
“I know.”
“Whatever happens with your wing, whatever happens with your head, it doesn’t matter. Whatever’s best for the team is best for you.”
Schwartz looked Henry in the eye, cranked up The Stare.
“And there’s no guarantee you’ll get your job back. We won a national championship with Izzy at shortstop. It’s his spot as far as I’m concerned.”
Henry had been nodding along with everything Schwartz said. Now his eyes dropped to the asphalt. This was the ultimate sacrifice, or indignity, or something—to not think of himself as the shortstop.
“If we need you at second, you’ll play second. If we need you in right field, you’ll play right field. Agreed?”
To consent to this, to submit once again to Schwartz’s conditions and discipline, was maybe not what Dr. Rachels had in mind. But Henry knew that Schwartz was right.
Fog lazed at the water’s edge, waiting for the sun to burn it away. He nodded. “Agreed.”
Schwartz unlocked the VAC, slipped inside, and emerged moments later, carrying a bat, a five-gallon bucket, and his fielder’s glove. He tossed Henry the glove, and they crossed the khaki practice fields, Contango lumbering gamely alongside. On the Large Quad, small and busy in the distance, the juniors and seniors of the Welcoming Committee were setting up rows of folding chairs, in preparation for President Valerie Molina’s first convocation address.
Schwartz tied Contango’s leash to the fence. Henry yanked up first base, which was anchored to the ground by a metal post, and tossed it aside. He jammed the wooden handle of the square-headed spade into the posthole. It fit snugly, and the spade head sat at sternum height, just where Rick’s outstretched glove would be.
He walked out to shortstop, slid Schwartz’s glove onto his hand. Not since he was nine had he worn a glove other than Zero. It felt clumsy and huge, and Schwartz, who only ever used his catcher’s mitt, had never really broken it in. Henry mustered whatever saliva was left in his mouth after a night of whiskey and beer and no water, spat into the pocket, and rubbed in the spit with his fist.
It had been a summer of record heat, and last night’s rain had done little to soften the infield dirt. He pawed at it with the toe of a sneaker, bounced on the balls of his feet, jangled his achy limbs.
Schwartz held up a ball. “Ready?”
Henry nodded. A lone seagull coasted by overhead.