The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [67]
He ambled to the bullpen to check on Starblind’s progress. The ball struck the heart of Arsch’s mitt with a loud report.
“How’s he looking, Meat?”
“He’s poppin’ it, Mike. Really poppin’ it.”
“Deuce?”
“Poppin’ it.”
“Change?”
“On a string,” Arsch declared. “He’s poppin’ them all.”
After a few more pitches Starblind wandered toward them, working his right arm in rapid, manic circles. Starblind entered a crazed, almost incommunicado state when he pitched. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear he’d done oodles of coke. “Look at ’em,” he said, jerking his head toward the scouts, who were still arriving.
Schwartz shrugged. “Rest of the season’ll be like this. Might as well get used to it.”
“Get used to what?” Starblind snorted. “Those guys see Henry and zero else. I could give up ten or strike out twenty. Doesn’t make a shit bit of difference.”
“Makes a difference to me,” Schwartz said mildly.
Coach Cox called the Harpooners together. “Here’s the batting order. Starblind Kim Skrimshander, Schwartz O’Shea Boddington, Quisp Phlox Guladni. Let’s work the count, keep our wits about us. Mike, anything to add?”
Not only had Schwartz forgotten his pills but he’d also neglected to pick out a quote. That’s what you got for going on a date the night before a game. He’d have to extemporize. He leaned into the center of the huddle and surveyed his teammates, testing each with a mild version of The Stare. “Brook,” he said, fixing his eyes on Boddington, one of the team’s few seniors, “what was our record your first year?”
“Three and twenty-nine, Mike.”
“O’Shea. What about yours?”
“Um… ten and twenty?”
“Close enough. And last year? Jensen?”
“Sixteen and sixteen, Schwartzy.”
Schwartz nodded. “Don’t forget it. Don’t anybody forget it.” He looked around, cranked The Stare to about a five on a ten-point scale. He looked at Henry, Henry looked at him, but nothing useful passed between them. Schwartz took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He felt a little off, a little odd, like he was playing himself on TV. He could hear his own voice bouncing around in his head.
But the troops were nodding, waiting, their faces pulled into expressions of grim resolution: they loved Schwartz’s fire and brimstone. They lived for it. They were going to imitate it for their grandkids. He kept going: “All those losing seasons. And not just for us. For all the guys who came before us too. A hundred and four years of baseball, and Westish College, our college, has never won conference. Never.”
“Now we’re a different ball club. We’re eleven and two. We’ve got all the talent in the world. But look at those guys in the other dugout. Go on, look at them.” He waited while they looked. “You think those guys care what our record is? Hell no. They think they’re going to walk all over us, because we’re from Westish College. They see this uniform and their eyes light up. They think this uniform’s some kind of joke.” Schwartz thumped himself on the chest, where the blue harpooner stood alone in the prow of his boat. “Is this a joke?” he snarled, throwing in some curse words. “Is that what this is?” His voice softened in preparation for the denouement; it was important to vary your volume and your cadence. “Let’s teach them something about this uniform,” he said. “Let’s teach them something about Westish College.” He scanned the huddle. His teammates’ jaws were clenched, their nostrils flared. Most of their eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but the eyes he could see looked ready to go. Even he felt a little heartened.
Henry stuck a batting-gloved hand into the center of the huddle, palm down. Everybody else followed suit. “Owen on three,” he said. “One-two-three—”
“Buddha.”
STARBLIND WALKED, Sooty Kim bunted him