The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [328]
“The same thing that’s the matter with all of them. They don’t mean any good to me. I’ve carried the banner all winter. And by God, I’m not going to carry the banner forever, sleeping in that Hooverville under Wacker Drive.”
“Things can’t always go down.”
“I know it. They can come up in war.”
“Who do you think we’ll go to war with, Japan or Russia?”
“By God, if the U. S. goes to war with Russia, I don’t shoulder a gun.”
Jesus, a Red!
“But you wouldn’t be a traitor to your country?”
“My country, what do I own here?”
“Aren’t you an American?”
“I was born here, but if I had the fare I’d go to Russia tomorrow.”
“But aren’t they Reds and anarchists there? Don’t you read the papers?”
“Sure, I read the papers. Lies. Lad, they’re filling us full of lies so they can rob us all. We got to wake up.”
“But Bolshevism means revolution.”
“How else are we going to win the means of production for ourselves?”
“But that’s anarchy.”
“What is it when guys like me all over the country carry the banner, sleep in Hoovervilles? What is it when they shoot down coal miners?”
“I’m not a Bolshevik. It’s against the country and the church.” Studs wished the fellow would go away. If he was his size and in better health, he might sock him. He got up.
“I got to be traveling. But you’ll never get anywhere with those ideas, fellow.”
“Yes, I’ll never carry a musket.”
“So long.”
Studs laughed at the crazy bastard. A Bolshevik. He supposed the guy was a nigger lover, too. Well, let the Bolsheviks get tough. They’d be taken care of, just the same as the shines were during the race riots of ‘19.
He felt tired, and the hell with that nutty guy. He had been thinking about old times, too, when the fellow had interrupted him to give that phony Bolshevik spiel.
II
Studs stood on the grass edge of the large, rectangular skin-dirt athletic field, hearing the crack of a baseball bat while a group of fellows snapped through infield practice, and clad in a khaki shirt fungoed flies to five others in the outfield. About five yards from him a group of four sat watching.
The third baseman, a lank lad in a faded blue shirt, fozzled a ground ball, and, seeking hurriedly to pick it up, kicked it around in the dirt.
“The bush leagues for you, Spunk.”
“Get off your can and come out here and do better.”
“The bushes, boy. You’re getting old.”
“All right, Cal, get the lead out of your tail,” one of the fungo hitters called, lifting a long high fly which was easily caught by a swarthy left-handed fellow in a white shirt.
Studs watched the infield practice, the grounders slapped hard, cutting over the dirt, the ball snapped around from player to player. They were pretty good, and they worked fast. Even though he had never cared a hell of a lot for baseball, it was something to watch, neat, quick work. The shortstop ran low to his left, smeared a fast grounder with one hand, bobbed the ball, off balance, to the second baseman, who caught it, wheeled around in the same motion and whipped the ball to first base.
“Spunk, how do you like that?” one of those on the grass called while the ball was pegged around.
“This is the million-dollar infield.”
“Yes, if it had a third baseman.”
Studs edged a bit closer to the group on the grass. Looked like a nice bunch of lads, and they had enough for a game. He’d like to play.
“That boy Spunk is good.”
“He ought to get a try-out in the big shows.”
“He’s good around here, but he wouldn’t make the grade. Can’t hit a sharp-breaking curve ball. A pitcher like Jack Casey, who was with me at the Braves training camp last year, could make him eat out of his hand. And Jack never made the grade.”
“How about you, Artie?”
“Couldn’t get myself lined up, so I’m playing semi-pro. Hell, this country is full of guys trying to get into the game, and plenty of them are good. With minor leagues folding up like tents, and with old-timers coming down from the big leagues and the Class A. A. outfits, and then with chain-store systems like the one the Cardinals run, it’s damn hard getting lined up even in