jg.paintedhouse-第39部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！


　　　〃Get　tough；〃　Pappy　would　say。　The　food　helped　immensely。　Dewayne　and　I　took　our　plates　and　sat　behind　the　first…base　dugout；　where　there　was　a　small　sliver　of　shade。　Quilts　were　being　placed　all　around　the　outfield；　and　families　were　sitting　together　in　the　sun。　Umbrellas　were　popping　up；　the　ladies　were　fanning　their　faces；　their　small　children；　and　their　plates。　The　Mexicans　were　squeezed　under　one　tree；　down　the　rightfield　foul　line；　away　from　the　rest　of　us。　Juan　had　confessed　to　me　the　year　before　that　they　weren't　sure　if　they　liked　fried　chicken。　I'd　never　heard　such　nonsense。　It　was　a　heck　of　a　lot　better　than　tortillas；　I'd　thought　at　the　time。
　　　My　parents　and　grandparents　ate　together　on　a　quilt　near　third　base。　After　much　haggling　and　negotiating；　I'd　been　granted　permission　to　eat　with　my　buddies；　a　huge　step　for　a　seven…year…old。
　　　The　line　never　stopped。　By　the　time　the　men　reached　the　last　table；　the　teenaged　boys　were　back　for　more。　One　plate　was　enough　for　me。　I　wanted　to　save　room　for　the　ice　cream。　Before　long　we　wandered　over　to　the　dessert　table；　where　Mrs。　Irene　Flanagan　was　standing　guard；　preventing　vandalism　from　the　likes　of　us。
　　　〃How　many　chocolates　you　got？〃　I　asked；　looking　at　the　collection　of　ice　cream　coolers　just　waiting　in　the　shade。
　　　She　smiled　and　said；　〃Oh；　I　don't　know。　Several。〃
　　　〃Did　Mrs。　Cooper　bring　her　peanut　butter　ice　cream？〃　Dewayne　asked。
　　　〃She　did；〃　Mrs。　Flanagan　said　and　pointed　to　a　cooler　in　the　middle　of　the　pack。　Mrs。　Cooper　somehow　mixed　chocolate　and　peanut　butter　in　her　ice　cream；　and　the　results　were　incredible。　Folks　clamored　for　it　all　year　round。　The　year　before；　two　teenaged　boys；　one　a　Baptist　and　one　a　Methodist；　almost　came　to　blows　over　who　would　get　the　next　serving。　While　peace　was　being　restored　by　the　Reverend　Orr；　Dewayne　managed　to　grab　two　bowls　of　the　stuff。　He　charged　down　the　street　with　them　and　hid　behind　a　shed；　where　he　devoured　every　drop。　He　talked　of　little　else　for　a　month。
　　　Mrs。　Cooper　was　a　widow。　She　lived　in　a　pretty　little　house　two　blocks　behind　Pop　and　Pearl's　store；　and　when　she　needed　yard　work　done　she'd　simply　make　a　cooler　of　peanut　butter　ice　cream。　Teenagers　would　materialize　from　nowhere；　and　she　had　the　neatest　yard　in　town。　Even　grown　men　had　been　known　to　stop　by　and　pull　a　few　weeds。
　　　〃You'll　have　to　wait；〃　Mrs。　Flanagan　said。
　　　〃Till　when？〃　I　asked。
　　　〃Till　everyone　is　finished。〃
　　　We　waited　forever。　Some　of　the　older　boys　and　the　younger　men　began　stretching　their　muscles　and　tossing　baseballs　in　the　outfield。　The　adults　talked　and　visited　and　talked　and　visited；　and　I　was　certain　the　ice　cream　was　melting。　The　two　umpires　arrived　from　Monette；　and　this　sent　a　ripple　of　excitement　through　the　crowd。　They；　of　course；　had　to　be　fed　first；　and　for　a　while　they　were　more　concerned　with　fried　chicken　than　with　baseball。　Slowly；　the　quilts　and　umbrellas　were　taken　from　the　outfield。　The　picnic　was　ending。　It　was　almost　time　for　the　game。
　　　The　ladies　gathered　around　the　dessert　table　and　began　serving　us。　Finally　Dewayne　got　his　peanut　butter　ice　cream。　I　opted　for　two　scoops　of　chocolate　over　one　of　Mrs。　Lou　Kiner's　fudge　brownies。　For　twenty　minutes　there　was　a　near…riot　around　the　dessert　table；　but　order　was　maintained。　Both　preachers　stood　in　the　midst　of　the　pack；　both　eating　as　much　ice　cream　as　anybody　else。　The　umpires　declined；　citing　the　heat　as　the　reason　that　they　should　finally　stop　eating。
　　　Someone　shouted；　〃Play　ball！〃　and　the　crowd　moved　toward　the　backstop。　The　Methodists　were　coached　by　Mr。　Duffy　Lewis；　a　farmer　out　west　of　town　and；　according　to　Pappy；　a　man　of　limited　baseball　intelligence。　But　after　four　losses　in　a　row；　Pappy's　low　opinion　of　Mr。　Lewis　had　bee　almost　muted。　The　umpires　called　the　two　coaches　to　a　meeting　behind　home　plate；　and　for　a　long　time　they　discussed　Black　Oak's　version　of　the　rules　of　baseball。　They　pointed　to　fences　and　poles　and　limbs　overhanging　the　field…each　had　its　own　rules　and　its　own　history。　Pappy　disagreed　with　most　of　what　the　umpires　said；　and　the　haggling　went　on　and　on。
　　　The　Baptists　had　been　the　home　team　the　year　before；　so　we　hit　first。　The　Methodist　pitcher　was　Buck　Prescott；　son　of　Mr。　Sap　Prescott；　one　of　the　largest　landowners　in　Craighead　County。　Buck　was　in　his　early　twenties　and　had　attended　Arkansas　State　for　two　years；　something　that　was　quite　rare。　He　had　tried　to　pitch　in　college；　but　there　had　been　some　problems　with　the　coach。　He　was　left…handed；　threw　nothing　but　curveballs；　and　had　beaten　us　the　year　before；　nine　to　two。　When　he　walked　out　to　the　mound；　I　knew　we　were　in　for　a　long　day。　His　first　pitch　was　a　slow；　looping　curveball　that　was　high　and　outside　but　called　a　strike　anyway；　and　Pappy　was　already　yapping　at　the　umpire。　Buck　walked　the　first　two　batters；　struck　out　the　next　two；　then　retired　my　father　on　a　fly　ball　to　center　field。
　　　Our　pitcher　was　Duke　Ridley；　a　young　farmer　with　seven　kids　and　a　fastball　even　I　could　hit。　He　claimed　he　once　pitched　in　Alaska　during　the　war；　but　this　had　not　been　verified。　Pappy　thought　it　was　a　lie；　and　after　watching　him　get　shelled　the　year　before；　I　had　serious　doubts；　too。　He　walked　the　first　three　batters　while　throwing　only　one　strike；　and　I　thought　Pappy　might　charge　the　mound　and　maim　him。　Their　cleanup　batter　popped　up　to　the　catcher。　The　next　guy　flied　out　to　shallow　left。　We　got　lucky　when　their　number…six　batter；　Mr。　Lester　Hurdle；　at　age　fifty…two　the　oldest　player　on　either　roster；　hit　a　long　fly　ball　to　right；　where　our　fielder；　Bennie　Jenkins；　gloveless　and　shoeless；　caught　it　with　his　bare　hands。
　　　The　game　settled　into　a　pitcher's　duel；　not　necessarily　because　the　pitching　was　sharp；　but　more　because　neither　team　could　hit。　We　drifted　back　to　the　ice　cream；　where　the　last　melting　remnants　were　being　dished　out。　By　the　third　inning　the　ladies　of　both　denominations　had　grouped　into　small　clusters　of　conversation　and；　for　them；　the　game　was　of　lesser　importance。　Somewhere　not　far　away；　a　car　radio　was　on；　and　I　could　hear　Harry　Caray。　The　Cardinals　were　playing　the　Cubs　in　the　final　game　of　the　season。
　　　As　Dewayne　and　I　retreated　from　the　dessert　table　with　our　last　cups　of　ice　cream；　we　walked　behind　a　quilt　where　half　a　dozen　young　women　were　resting　and　talking。　〃Well；　how　old　is　Libby？〃　I　heard　one　of　them　say。
　　　I　stopped；　took　a　bite；　and　looked　beyond　them　at　the　game　as　if　I　weren't　the　least　bit　interested　in　what　they　were　saying。
　　　〃She's　just　fifteen；〃　another　said。
　　　〃She's　a　Latcher。　She'll　have　another　one　soon。〃
　　　〃Is　it　a　boy　or　a　girl？〃
　　　〃Boy's　what　I　heard。〃
　　　〃And　the　daddy？〃
　　　〃Not　a　clue。　She　won't　tell　anybody。〃
　　　〃e　on；〃　Dewayne　said；　hitting　me　with　his　elbow。　We　moved　away　and　walked　to　the　first…base　dugout。　I　wasn't　sure　if　I　was　relieved　or　scared。　Word　was　out　that　the　Latcher　baby　had　arrived；　but　its　father　had　not　been　identified。
　　　It　wouldn't　be　long；　I　thought。　And　we'd　be　ruined。　I'd　have　a　cousin　who　was　a　Latcher；　and　everybody　would　know　it。
　　　The　tight　pitching　duel　ended　in　the　fifth　inning　when　both　teams　erupted　for　six　runs。　For　thirty　minutes　baseballs　were　flying　everywhere…line　drives；　wild　throws；　balls　in　the　outfield　gaps。　We　changed　pitchers　twice；　and　I　knew　we　were　in　trouble　when　Pappy　went　to　the　mound　and　pointed　at　my　father。　He　was　not　a　pitcher；　but　at　that　point　there　was　no　one　left。　He　kept　his　pitches　low；　though；　and　we　were　soon　out　of　the　inning。
　　　〃Musial's　pitching！〃　someone　yelled。　It　was　either　a　joke　or　a　mistake。　Stan　Musial　was　a　lot　of　things；　but　he'd　never　pitched　before。　We　ran　behind　the　bleachers　to　where　the　cars　were　parked。　A　small　crowd　was　closing　in　on　a　'48　Dodge　owned　by　Mr。　Rafe　Henry。　Its　radio　was　at　full　volume；　and　Harry　Caray　was　wild…Stan　the　Man　was　indeed　on　the　mound；　pitching　against　the　Cubs；　against　Frankie　Baumholtz；　the　man　he'd　battled　all　year　for　the　hitting　title。　The　crowd　at　Sportsman's　Park　was　delirious。　Harry　was　yelling　into　the　microphone。　We　were　shocked　at　the　thought　of　Musial　on　the　mound。
　　　Baumholtz　hit　a　ground　ball　to　third；　and　they　sent　Musial　back　to　center　field。　I　ran　to　the　first…base　dugout　and　told　Pappy　that　Stan　the　Man　had　actually　pitched；　but　he　didn't　believe　me。　I　told　my　father；　and　he　looked　suspicious；　too。　The　Methodists　were　up　eight　to　six；　in　the　bottom　of　the　seventh；　and　the　Baptist　dugout　was　tense。　A　good　flood　would　have　caused　less　concern；　at　least　at　that　moment。
　　　It　was　at　least　ninety…five　degrees。　The　players　were　soaked　with　sweat；　their　clean　overalls　and　white　Sunday　shirts　stuck　to　their　skin。　They　were　moving　slower…paying　the　price　for　all　that　fried　chicken　and　potato　salad…and　not　hustling　enough　to　suit　Pappy。
　　　Dewayne's　father　wasn't　playing；　so　they　left　after　a　couple　of　hours。　A　few　others　drifted　away。　The　Mexicans　were　still　under　their　tree　by　the　right…field　foul　pole；　but　they　were　sprawled　out　now　and　appeared　to　be　sleeping。　The　ladies　were　even　more　involved　with　their　shade…tree　gossip；　they　could　not　have　cared　less　who　won　the　game。
　　　I　sat　alone　in　the　bleachers　and　watched　the　Methodists　score　three　more　in　the　eighth。　I　dreamed　of　the　day　when　I'd　be　out　there；　hitting　home　runs　and　making　incredible　plays　in　center　field。　Those　wretched　Methodists　wouldn't　have　a　chance　when　I　got　big　enough。
　　　They　won　eleven　to　eight；　and　for　the　fifth　year　in　a　row　Pappy　had　led　the　Baptists　to　defeat。　The　players　shook　hands　and　laughed　when　the　game　was　over；　then　headed　to　the　shade；　where　iced　tea　was　waiting。　Pappy　didn't　smile　or　laugh；　nor　did　he　shake　hands　with　anybody。　He　disappeared　for　a　while；　and　I　knew　he　would　pout　for　a　week。
　　　The　Cardinals　lost；　too；　three　to　zero。　They　finished　the　season　four　games　behind　the　Giants　and　eight　games　behind　the　Brooklyn　Dodgers；　who　would　face　the　Yankees　in　an　all…New　York　World　Series。
　　　The　leftovers　were　gathered　and　hauled　back　to　the　cars　and　trucks。　The　tables　were　cleaned；　and　the　litter　was　picked　up。　I　helped　Mr。　Duffy　Lewis　rake　the　mound　and　home　plate；　and　when　we　finished；　the　field　looked　as　good　as　ever。　It　took　an　hour　to　say　goodbye　to　everyone。　There　were　the　usual　threats　from　the　losing　team　about　what　would　happen　next　year；　and　the　usual　taunts　from　the　winners。　As　far　as　I　could　tell；　no　one　was　upset　but　Pappy。
　　　As　we　left　town　I　thought　about　the　end　of　the　season。　Baseball　began　in　the　spring；　when　we　planted　and　when　hopes　were　high。　It　sustained　us　through　the　summer；　often　our　only　diversion　from　the　drudgery　of　the　fields。　We　listened　to　each　game；　then　talked　about　the　plays　and　the　players　and　the　strategies　until　we　listened　to　the　next　one。　It　was　very　much　a　part　of　our　daily　lives　for　six　months；　then　it　was　gone。　Just　like　the　cotton。
　　　I　was　sad　by　the　time　we　arrived　home。　No　games　to　listen　to　on　the　front　porch。　Six　months　without　the　voice　of　Harry　Caray。　Six　months　with　no　Stan　Musial。　I　got　my　glove　and　went　for　a　long　walk　down　a　field　road；　tossing　the　ball　in　the　air；　wondering　what　I　would　do　until　April。
　　　For　the　first　time　in　my　life；　baseball　broke　my　heart。
　
　
　Chapter　24
　　　
　　　The　heat　broke　in　the　first　few　days　of　October。　The　nights　be