The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [329]
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Look at Jack. He thought he’d make a go of it in pro athletics, and he did have one good season in the Three I League but then he threw his arm out. He’s up the creek, and he doesn’t make any too much peddling insurance. If I could get a decent job, I’d throw the idea up, too, and stick to my job, maybe just picking up a few pennies on Sunday playing semi-pro and having some fun playing basketball in the Christopher League in winter.”
A Christy. Studs looked at him, a light-haired, husky, square-faced fellow in his early twenties, the kind of a mugg and build a ball player would have.
“Let’s get going with the game,” Spunk called, walking in.
Studs watched them choosing up, hoping, because there were only seventeen.
“Hey, lad, want to play?”
“Sure, all right,” he said, slowly taking off his coat.
“You’re on my side,” the fellow named Artie said.
“Say, I just heard you talking. You’re a Christy, aren’t you? I just went through Kempis Council. My name’s Lonigan.”
“Mine’s Pfeiffer, Timothy Murphy Council. Say, a young kid named Lonigan went to Mary Our Mother when I was there.”
“Yeah, that was my kid brother.”
“What ever happened to him? I know he left M. O. M. to go to Tower Tech.”
“He’s working a little with my old man in the painting business.”
Studs put his left hand in the fielder’s glove offered him and walked nonchalantly out to right field. He stood with hands on hips, waiting. Easy pitching and he’d get by, even if he hadn’t played in years. And it would keep him in the sun. He bent forward with his hands on his knees, while the pitcher lobbed the ball up to the right-handed batter, a short fellow in a gray shirt. A high fly soared toward right center and Studs, seeing the ball come somewhere near him, ran forward to his right, confused, afraid of muffing the catch. Seeing that he was misjudging it, he ran backward, still to his right, with his eye on the lowering ball.
“I got it,” the center fielder called.
Studs stopped in his tracks, and watched the center fielder gracefully nab the ball on the run. Breathing quickly, but glad that his misjudgment hadn’t been serious, he returned to his position. He waited, over-anxious. A line single was driven to left, the pitcher picked a pop out of the air, and a dumpy texas-leaguer over third base placed runners on first and second.
“You better go back and play in a grammar-school league,” Spunk said, stepping to bat after Pfeiffer had dropped an easy toss at first base.
Spunk waited, swinging left-handed, and Pfeiffer motioned Studs backward. Spunk connected, and the ball travelled high out to Studs, who wavered around in circles, the ball landing three feet away from him.
“Jesus Christ, what a Babe Hermann that was,” the center-fielder exclaimed more loudly than he had intended, while Studs clumsily retrieved the ball. A pain cut paralyzingly into his shoulder when he threw wildly to the infield.
“Take it easy, Lonigan. It’s only a scrub game,” Pfeiffer said when Studs came in abashed at the end of the inning.
“Hell, I haven’t played in years. I used to be pretty good but I’m out of the practice.”
“Everybody muffs a few.”
“Hey, Artie, bushel baskets are cheap these days,” Spunk called from third base.
“I’m going to knock your hands off when I get up,” Artie called.
Studs stood several feet away from the players on his side, who grouped themselves on the grass edge. When he came to bat he’d redeem himself.
Pfeiffer, a left-handed batter, stood at the plate after the first two batters had flied out and, swinging late, stung a line drive just beyond Spunk’s gloved hand.
“What’s that you say about bushel baskets?” he megaphoned through his hands, standing on second base.
“Save us a lick, Pete.”
“I’m getting fed up with nothing to do but lay around this damn park.”
“Write a letter to Hoover. Maybe he’ll put you on some commission and you’ll get a job to help keep other people out of jobs.”
“No, Jack, I’m serious. I ask myself how long is this thing going to keep on.”
“Well, do what I say. Write