Then someone says the game is beginning, and everyone exits the room through a glass door into the outdoor area, where there are 20 seats that look like the business seats in an airplane, and I know I have to stay.
It isn’t truly outside, however, since we have a small roof over us and lamps that produce heat. There is even a television here, although I don’t know why someone would watch the game on television when we have the chief seats in the stadium, but some of the people near me utilize it.
No one scores for the first two innings, and the game is more boring than it is on television, because on television the analysts explain the mathematical variations of the game and you have access to numerous statistics, which is the only part of the game I truly enjoy. So occasionally I do look over at the television for the displayed statistics.
Then everyone turns around because Mr. Schrub finally arrives. He’s dressed in his business clothing but he also wears a Yankees hat. He talks with another man approximately his age and they quickly bypass me in the last row and I don’t think he even sees me. Mr. Schrub then shakes the hands of the other men and kisses the females on the cheek before he sits in the front row with two other men.
There’s one voided seat in the front row, but I don’t want to interrupt Mr. Schrub and his friends and it would be boastful of me to believe that I merit a seat next to them. So I remain where I am and try to watch the game, but truly I’m watching Mr. Schrub, who records something on a piece of paper after each batter.
After Atlanta terminates, Mr. Schrub turns around. “Karim!” he says. “What are you doing in the nosebleeds?”
I’m humiliated, and I put my finger under my nose, but it is bloodless. Some of the people around me laugh.
“No, it’s — never mind,” he says, and signals for me to come closer.
I walk down the steps and feel all of Mr. Schrub’s friends observing me as if they are a wall of security cameras. He pats the seat next to him like it is a dog, and I sit down. Then he quietly explains the meaning of the term “nosebleeds,” and I also laugh now, because it is a clever application of language.
Mr. Schrub asks if I know much about baseball. I tell him I am trying to learn.
The Yankees hit efficiently and soon have players on second and third base with one out. One of Mr. Schrub’s friends, who must blend something into his gray hair because it looks like silver, says, “Cox has to have Smoltz walk Williams here to pitch to Martinez and set up the double play.”
Mr. Schrub says, “It’s a given, with one out.”
I access the statistics of the players they are discussing and note that:
1. The Yankees player Bernie Williams does not perform well against right-handed pitchers;
2. but Tino Martinez does, and the Braves pitcher John Smoltz is right-handed.
3. In addition, I previously memorized a sabermetrics table of how many runs are expected to score in 24 different game situations dependent on the number of outs and how many players are on base;
A. and in the current situation a team is expected to score 1.371 runs;
B. but if the Braves walk Williams and load the bases with one out, the Yankees are expected to score 1.546 runs.
4. Therefore, even though it appears to be the safe move, Mr. Schrub and his friend are advising a statistically unsound maneuver. Their strategy is understandable, however, as my line of thinking is unconventional, because it employs tangential statistics most observers ignore.
Mr. Schrub explains the situation, even though I already understand it. “See how it makes sense, even though in the short term it looks worse?”
“Possibly it is an error,” I say, although I intended to remain mute, but when I see an error in logic I find it difficult not to correct it.
“What do you mean?” Mr. Schrub asks.
“He’s confusing fielding errors,” his friend says. “See, they’re walking Williams. Cowards!” Then he makes a sound like a cow to express his frustration.
Now that I’ve already said a little, I decide I should express the complete idea, so I explain it to Mr. Schrub.
“Hmm” is all he says.
Tino Martinez hits a ball to the first baseman. It angles off his foot and two runs score for the Yankees. Then another Yankees player singles and Williams scores, which was possible only because the Braves walked him.
When the inning is over, Mr. Schrub introduces me to his friend and adds, “Karim’s one of our brightest young minds downtown. And I don’t count a single error in that statement.”
Those words will go in my archive of important recordings.
Mr. Schrub also teaches me how to “score” the game, which is why he was recording notes on a specialized paper. It is similar to tracking the stock market with various indices, and I learn quickly.
In the fourth inning Mr. Schrub says to me, “I could use some real ball-game food — none of this sushi crap. What do you say to a couple of dogs?”
I know “dogs” are not real canines, but I’m uncertain what they are, so I nod. He turns and waves from his seat to the black man in the tuxedo inside.
“Can you scrounge up two hot dogs?” Mr. Schrub asks as he pays the man $20, and now I recognize the term from street vendors.
The man leaves, and later he returns with two sausages in elongated bread inside a paper box. “Keep the change,” Mr. Schrub says as he transfers one of the sausages to me.
I look at the red cylinder of meat in my hands. Of course I can’t eat it, but I also don’t want to offend Mr. Schrub and his gift.
I bring the hot dog closer to inspect it. The scent is like something burning flavorfully, and my stomach wants me to consume it, and my tongue wants me to taste it, and even my eyes find it delicious, and maybe Allah will be careless of a solitary offense.
But I can’t do it.
Then Mr. Schrub says, “My God, what was I thinking?” He takes the hot dog from me. “I’m sorry, Karim. I can’t believe I forgot.”
He gives me a napkin so I can clean my hands. “I’ve got an idea,” he says, and he waves to the black man again. He hands him another $20 bill. “A bag of Cracker Jack,” he says. “Actually, make it two.”
He puts his own hot dog in the box and sets it on the concrete. “This probably isn’t the healthiest option anyway,” he says. “Who knows where this meat came from.”
The Cracker Jack is like sweet rocks that divide easily when I bite and I’m pleased I’m not offending anyone, although at the end I wish I didn’t eat it so rapidly.
For the rest of the game Mr. Schrub introduces me to some of his other friends, who are all more friendly to me than the man with mirroring hair. When we are alone again, Mr. Schrub whispers to me, “Nice people, but most of them could give a damn about who’s out on the field.”
The Yankees win, as I predicted, as they have the best and most expensive team. The players crash into each other and all the fans dance and Mr. Schrub and some of his male friends hug and clap and cheer. Then the friend with the silver hair says, “We have to sign a bigger bat in left field next year.” He and Mr. Schrub consult about other ways to enhance the team. In some ways they’re not enjoying their team’s success right now, but that’s also why Mr. Schrub is so successfuclass="underline" He’s never satisfied with mere achievement and is always thinking outside the box.
The Yankees player Paul O’Neill, who did not perform well in the game, covers his face as he walks off the field because he is crying.