The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [63]
“Who’s better?” Izzy asked Steve and Loondorf. “Henry or Jeter?”
“Oooh. Tough call.”
“I gotta take Jeter.”
“Henry’s better on D, at least.”
“On D, sure. But Jeter’s a better hitter.”
“Henry in five years, or Jeter?”
“You mean Jeter now, or Jeter in five years? ’Cause he’ll be washed-up by then.”
“He’s washed-up already.”
“Jeter five years ago. Henry in five years.”
“Are you guys insane?” Henry whacked Loondorf on the back of the head. “Shut up.”
“Sorry, Henry.”
Every guy on that bus, from Schwartz down to little Loondorf, had grown up dreaming of becoming a professional athlete. Even when you realized you’d never make it, you didn’t relinquish the dream, not deep down. And here was Henry, living it out. He alone was headed where they each, in the privacy of their backyard imaginations, had spent the better part of their boyhoods: a major-league diamond.
Schwartz, for his part, had vowed long ago not to become one of those pathetic ex-jocks who considered high school and college the best days of their lives. Life was long, unless you died, and he didn’t intend to spend the next sixty years talking about the last twenty-two. That was why he didn’t want to go into coaching, though everyone at Westish, especially the coaches, expected him to. He already knew he could coach. All you had to do was look at each of your players and ask yourself: What story does this guy wish someone would tell him about himself? And then you told the guy that story. You told it with a hint of doom. You included his flaws. You emphasized the obstacles that could prevent him from succeeding. That was what made the story epic: the player, the hero, had to suffer mightily en route to his final triumph. Schwartz knew that people loved to suffer, as long as the suffering made sense. Everybody suffered. The key was to choose the form of your suffering. Most people couldn’t do this alone; they needed a coach. A good coach made you suffer in a way that suited you. A bad coach made everyone suffer in the same way, and so was more like a torturer.
For the last four years Schwartz had devoted himself to Westish College; for the last three he’d devoted himself to Henry. Now both would go on without him. Thanks for everything, Mikey. See ya around. After draft day, Henry would have plenty of people telling him what to do. An agent, a manager, a battery of coaches and instructors and teammates. He wouldn’t need Schwartz anymore. Schwartz didn’t know if he was ready for that—ready to not be needed.
Izzy, who was sitting a row ahead of Henry, draped himself over the back of the seat to command Henry’s full attention. “If you went to the majors next year,” he mused, “then I’d be the starting shortstop. That’d be crisp. But you wouldn’t be here.”
“It wouldn’t be the majors,” Henry reminded him. “Not even close. I’d be in rookie ball out in Montana or somewhere. I’d be riding a bus like this every day.”
Schwartz nodded to himself, pleased at this levelheadedness.
“Even in the minors you get mad pussy,” Izzy said. “I’m talking mad pussy, yo.”
“Sounds great.” Henry gazed absently out the window, spun a baseball in his right hand.
“Guys want to fight you too. You walk into a bar and some guy clocks you with a bottle. I read it in Baseball America.”
“Why would anyone want to fight Henry?” Loondorf looked hurt.
“Because he’s a ballplayer.”
“So?”
“So he’s a baller. He’s got cash, chains, crisp clothes. He’s got a hat that says Yankees and it’s the real deal, yo. He didn’t buy it at no yard sale. He walks into a bar and girls are like damn. Dudes get jealous. They want to get in his face, prove they’re somebody.”
“They want to take down the man,” Steve said helpfully.
“That’s right. Take down the man.”
Loondorf shook his head. “Henry doesn’t even go to bars.”
Henry slid into the seat across from Schwartz. “Weird without Owen here.”
Schwartz nodded. It wasn’t all that weird: the Buddha just read