The custodian of the cemetery called the police station next morning.
“Been some digging again,” he said.
“What kind of digging?” asked Claymore.
“Just digging. No vandalism or nothin’. Everything put back, like. But digging, all the same.”
“Probably just some kids,” said Claymore.
“Maybe, but why would kids dig up the same place twice?”
“What do you mean, the same place?”
“The same grave, like.”
“Whose grave?”
“Renard, R. G.”
“I’ll be right over,” said Claymore.
22
“ Coming up on the All-Star break now, Bernie.”
“Sure was fast, Norm.”
“Faster for some than for others.”
“Slow going for the old town team, is that what you’re trying to say?”
“You got it.”
“Good a time as any then, Norm-what’s your midseason assessment?”
“In two words, Bernie? De pressing. They’re dead last and going nowhere.”
“What the heck happened, Norm?”
“More what didn’t happen.”
“Like?”
“Like Rayburn, Bernie. It starts and maybe ends right there. Wasn’t Rayburn supposed to be the missing piece of the puzzle, the big bat in the middle of the lineup that was going to put them over the top?”
“Don’t look at me, Norm. Who warned everybody he wasn’t the Messiah? Taking nothing away from his great career, of course, but he’s been stuck in this woeful slump so long now, it’s maybe getting to be time we asked ourselves if slump is still the right word.”
“The implication being?”
“Just that all good things got to end. All things must pass, right? George Harrison.”
“Not my favorite Beatle.”
“Who was?”
“Ringo.”
“Me too. Where were we, Norm?”
“Bobby Rayburn.”
“Right. He’s no kid anymore, is he? Lose a little off your bat speed, it gets around the league pretty quick.”
“Trade rumors are already percolating.”
“So I hear, from reliable sources. But it may already be too late for them to get anything for him. It’s like the stock market-by the time John Q. Public gets wind of something, the insiders have already discounted it.”
“Except they don’t spit tobacco juice on Wall Street, Bernie.”
“Might be an improvement if they did. Let’s go to the phones. Who’s out there? Gil? Gil on line three. Go ahead, Gil.”
Dead air.
“Gil?”
Dead air.
“Looks like we lost Gil. Let’s go to-”
“Hello?”
“That you, Gil?”
“Am I on?”
“You’re on, Gil. What’s up?”
“Trade rumors?”
“Say what?”
“There are trade rumors about Rayburn?”
“Just speculation at this point, Gil.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“The usual kind-unconfirmed. What’s your point?”
“You said reliable sources.”
“I may have.”
“Like who?”
“Like people close to some of the principals. I can’t get more specific than that, Gil, without violating a confidence. I’m sure you understand.”
“Bernie here, Gil. I take it from your tone you don’t think trading Rayburn would be such a good idea.”
Dead air.
“Gil? You still there?”
“It would be a disaster.”
“Isn’t that putting it a little strong, Gil?”
“Not strong enough. Not nearly. Bobby Rayburn’s the best thing to happen to this team in years, and all they’ve done is screwed him up and down.”
“Who’s they?”
“Everybody. Look how they mishandled the rib thing. And they didn’t exactly welcome him to the team, make him feel at home, did they?”
“That’s a new one on me. You hear anything like that, Norm, not welcoming him to the team?”
“Never. Can you give us an example maybe, Gil?”
“I could.”
“Well?”
Dead air.
“Gil? You still there?”
“I’m still here. But what’s the use?”
“What’s the use of what? I don’t get you, Gil.”
“Just get this, Bernie. I’m sick and tired of you taking shots at him all the time. When’s it going to stop?”
“Right now. Let’s go to Chuckie in Malden. What’s shakin’?”
Jewel Stern walked into the control room, pressed the talk-back button when Norm went to commercial. “What was that guy’s name?”
Bernie, sitting opposite Norm in the studio, pressed his button. “Gil.”
“A regular, would you say?” said Norm, emptying packets of sugar into his coffee.
“Not quite,” Bernie said.
“Gil who?” said Jewel.
“No last names here,” said Norm. “You know that.”
“Just like in porn movies,” Bernie added.
Fred, at the controls, raised his hand. “Coming to you in three, two, one.” He stabbed his index finger at the glass.
“That’s a pretty thought,” said Jewel. “Think I’ll take a shower.”
And Norm and Bernie were both laughing as they came out of commercial.
“We’re back.”
“Ain’t sports a gas?”
“Wee-ooo. Let’s get right to the phones.”
Gil saw he was doing eighty-five, eased off the pedal. Assholes, Bernie and Norm, but they were right about one thing: the team was going nowhere. Driving south, remembering from time to time to ease off the pedal, Gil listened to fans from all over the region searching for the reason why, listened to Norm and Bernie, the supposed experts, searching for the reason why. None of them had a clue.
Only he knew.
Ninety. He eased off.
Only he knew. Gil had a thought, so powerful, so exciting that he broke into a sweat. It dampened his shirt, trickled down the undersides of his arms, moistened the leather-covered steering wheel beneath the palms of his hands. He was in a position, a unique position, to help the team. To actually help the team: to help them win games, to turn the season around, go all the way: almost like a real player. They needed him. Gil began to shake. He shook; it was no figure of speech. He had never before physically felt the force of an idea, felt it taking hold of his body like this. In his mind, a short and logical chain of events uncoiled into the near future.
On the South Shore, a block or two from the school where the Little League tryouts had been held, Gil found the ball field. A low chain-link fence ran parallel to the street, down the right-field line. He parked, got out, leaned on the fence rail.
An orange-shirted team was playing a green-shirted team, orange shirts at bat. Gil checked the electric scoreboard in center field: HOME 15, VISITORS 17, bottom of the fifth. Three and one on the batter, two outs. Gil looked down toward the infield, not far away. Runners on first and third, one of them with a long ponytail dangling from under an oversized batting helmet. A girl, he realized, but not immediately.
The pitcher wound up, threw. The ball arced slowly toward the plate. The batter, a fat boy with a stiff-legged stance, swung at it, even more slowly. He wasn’t even looking at the ball but hit it anyway, or it hit the bat, making a dull metallic twang: a soft fly to right.
Directly to the right fielder, standing about ten yards from Gil. He didn’t have to move a step. But for some reason he did move, in fact charged in wildly, as though the ball were going to fall in front of him and a diving catch was called for. At the last second he recognized his mistake and leaped, stabbing his gloved hand as high as he could. He missed the ball by an inch or so; it went over his head, landed behind him, bounced a few times, and rolled the rest of the way to the outfield fence.
The right fielder made a little moaning sound and chased after it. He picked it up at the base of the wall, turned, and threw. The shortstop, a tiny kid who ran well, knew enough to come out to take the cutoff, waving his sticklike arms. But the right fielder’s throw, a feeble, sidearmed effort, went nowhere near him. All the runners, even the fat boy, scored. HOME 18, VISITORS 17. The orange players jumped up and down.