The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [72]
Schwartz pointed to the brim of his cap. Henry looked at him dumbly. Schwartz did it again, and this time Henry understood. He lifted one hand and tipped his cap. The cheering swelled and peaked and ended. Schwartz trudged back to the bus. Arsch hurriedly put on pads and a chest protector and lumbered out to take his place behind the plate.
Two innings later, Henry made another error. It resembled the first one: he fielded a routine grounder, double-pumped, and pulled Rick off the bag with a low wide throw. He pounded his fist in his glove, pulled his hat down as low as it would go. What the heck was happening? Was there something wrong with his arm? No, his arm felt strong, his arm felt fine. Don’t overthink it. Just let it fly.
After the game ended—the Harpooners won 8 to 1—he headed toward the bus to talk to Schwartz, but he was intercepted by a broad-shouldered blond guy in a dress shirt with a Cardinals logo. His nostrils were rimmed by a rheumy pink glow. “Henry,” he said as they shook hands, “Dwight Rogner. We spoke on the phone. Nice game out there.”
“Wish I could’ve played a little better.”
“Don’t sweat those errors,” Dwight said. “Gosh, you’ve made two mistakes in two and a half years? We all should be so lucky. I played in the minors for nine years, batted twice in the majors. And I’ll tell you something—pretty much every guy I ever shared a locker room with wound up becoming either an alcoholic or a born-again Christian. Booze or God. That’s what this game does to you. The name of the game is failure, and if you can’t handle failure you won’t last long. Nobody’s perfect.”
Henry nodded. Dwight, his rheumy eyes twinkling merrily in the cloud-strafed sunlight, shook his hand again. “So we’ll talk again soon,” he said. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Henry said.
A few other scouts—Orioles, Phillies, Cubs—stopped over to say hello, and then Henry joined his teammates, who were arranged on the grass in a rough circle, relaxed and cheerful after the win, eating turkey sandwiches. Rick O’Shea lifted his valve-topped sports drink above his head. “To the Skrimmer,” he said, “whose name shall be listed alongside that of the great Aparicio, for as long as we all shall live.”
“Hear! Hear!”
“Go Henry.”
“Attaboy, Skrim.”
Instead of occupying the center of the circle, as he usually did, Schwartz lay a little ways off, doing stretches for his back—either he didn’t want to be bothered or he only wanted to be bothered by Henry. Henry, not sure which was the case, approached with hunterly care.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Schwartz said.
“Sorry you got tossed.”
“Bastard spit on me.” Schwartz swung his knees to the other side of his body. “Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner about my apps.”
“Maybe there was some mistake,” Henry suggested. “Maybe they messed up your LSAT scores or something.”
Schwartz shook his head. “I’m the only one who messed up my LSAT scores.”
“You did well, I thought.”
“I did okay.”
“And your extracurriculars, captain of two teams. Everything you’ve done for Westish. Everything you’ve done for me.”
Schwartz stretched his legs out, massaged his kneecaps. “I don’t think they give me credit for that.”
They sat there for a while, saying nothing, the day cool and blue around them.
Schwartz hauled himself up from the grass, his ligaments popping and creaking in protest. “Let’s go,” he said. “Get a new streak started.”
THE HARPOONERS WON the second game 15 to 6. Only two balls were hit to Henry. Both times he double-clutched and made a soft, hesitant throw. Instead of rifle shots fired at a target, they felt like doves released from a box. He didn’t know which way they’d go, and he watched in suspense as each, somehow, found its