Double Play

the bat and immediately identify how the ball was hit, where on the bat it was struck. It's a grounder, and, since Red's a right handed hitter, Clay guesses that it's going to the shortstop. He takes a few steps forward until he can see the field. The shortstop has already scooped up the grounder and sent it to first. Clay looks out at the field, and, even though it's only been a couple hours since he was there that morning, he still marvels at the sight of the place. When the sun is shining on the ball field, that sweet piece of manicured grass really sings. Even the dirt around the diamond is so meticulously cared for that you hardly want it to be touched, but, when the position players decorate the field, it's like watching skilled actors on a stage. You just trust that they respect the theater as much as you do, and that they are good stewards of the place they work.

  Clay watches the second baseman backhand a hard grounder from Red. He underhands it to the shortstop that's covering second, and then the shortstop zips the ball over to the first baseman. You can clearly hear the ball hit the leather of each player's glove. Bang. Bang. Double play.

  "Nice grab, kid," Red yells out to the second baseman.

  The double play was always Clay's favorite play to make. Sure, diving for a ball, feeling that unmistakable knock into the sweet spot of the glove, then hopping up and nailing a guy out who only seconds before was sure he'd had a single, is unquestionably great. And jumping to snag a high line drive, catching it at your apex in the tip of your mitt, though rare, is a magnificent feeling. But the 4-6-3 double play was when Clay felt the most in tune with the game's machine. Of course, he's not successfully initiated a double play since his short stint with the Indians in '41.

  After the war, as a first baseman, he caught his fair share of double play completions, but it was never the same as starting one. And doing it in the big leagues, which he was able to do a total of nine times before he enlisted, were the sweetest, most clear memories he has of his pre-war baseball days.

  "You're late," Maggie says, approaching Clay from the home dugout.

  "You been waiting for me?"

  "Feels like I'm always waiting for you to do something or other."

  "I had something to do."

  "Right," she says. "Listen, these guys have been through a lot the past few weeks. I don't care if you ask them a few questions, but you might want to say something to Red first."

  "Sure, Maggie. But I'm not planning on grilling anybody. I'm just going to ask a few guys a question or two. Nothing too serious."

  "I know. I'm just looking out for them. Like I said earlier, the mood in the clubhouse is only now starting to get back to where it was before the accident."

  He looks at her, smiles his crooked half-smile, and just nods.

  "You sure are cute when you're trying to charm me," she says. "I shouldn't be letting you talk to anybody, but I can't say no to that damn face of yours."

  "I didn't know I was trying to charm you," he says. "Has it worked?"

  "You're here aren't you?"

  "Guess I am."

  "I've got work to do," she says, smiling at him. "Could you come see me before you leave?"

  "Why? You need something?"

  "No, I just don't like it when you leave without saying goodbye," she says, and walks back into the dugout.

  He's watched Maggie grow into quite a woman over the past seven years. When he first got here, she was a young, damaged girl, widowed by the war. She was always hanging around the ballpark, looking busy, trying hard to appear as if she wasn't always thinking about how much of her life, or what she thought her life was going to be, had been lost in the war. It was a look a lot of people carried in those days.

  Her dad, Henry, had convinced her to come to work with him at the ballpark, to force her out of the house, to keep her social. She spent her time doing odd jobs around the park: helping Gus tend the field, selling tickets, working concessions. She did whatever was asked of her, but she mostly just seemed to be going through the motions. She always looked demoralized, like she would never meet anyone again. Henry told Clay once that she thought no man would ever want a used woman.

  Of course, this was ridiculous. She was young, not yet in her mid-twenties, and, despite her gloomy demeanor, she radiated sex appeal. No one in San Jose wore a dress that fit her body quite like Maggie did. Her figure—those hips have always been the metronome of many a man's heart—looked as if her skin were built right around an hourglass.

  And she caught Clay's attention right away.

  After only a few days in town, he coaxed her to have a catch with him one morning. And one morning quickly turned into every morning. He had successfully convinced her that having a catch helped to focus his mind, reminded him of the simple things he loved about the game. And it just so happened to be true. For her part, she just seemed happy to have something, anything, to do.

  He still remembers the first time he made her laugh. It was infectious. Her laugh made him want to laugh. And since neither of them had had a lot to laugh about since the war, they became quite easygoing with one another, and started to grow close. And it wasn't long before he started to realize how easy it would be to spend the rest of his life trying to make her laugh.

  But Maggie's dad knew how ballplayers could be, and, though he loved the game, he didn't trust the men who played it. He didn't want Maggie to fall for a jock. Clay never quite understood his reasoning, especially considering how close he and Henry became over time. Henry genuinely seemed to like Clay. Still, without exception, he made all of his ballplayers stay clear of Maggie romantically, and Maggie knew the rules as well as the players did. And, like the other players, Clay made Henry a promise, and it was a promise Clay intended on keeping.

  But, as Maggie is always very fond of pointing out, Clay isn't a ballplayer anymore. This is something that seems obvious to every one other than Clay. It's easier for her to say his playing days are over than it is for him to accept it. And, somehow, committing himself to Maggie would be as good as admitting his playing days are over. But it's the only way he could commit to her and still honor the promise he made to her dad. But Clay is fully aware that he's honored Henry's wishes in name only. The only way that he hasn't committed himself to Maggie is in a social way, meaning they've never made things official. Otherwise, they've been together for nearly five years. But, at thirty-two, it's still too hard to say goodbye to a game he was once so great at playing.

  "You look like you're ready to put on a uniform," Red says, approaching Clay.

  "Put me in the lineup."

  "Already have a first baseman."

  "Just my luck, I guess."

  "What are you doing down here?"

  "Maggie didn't tell you I was coming?"

  "Nope."

  "I was hoping I could talk to a couple of the guys."

  "If they're sitting in the dugout, you can talk to 'em all you want. If they're out in the field, they're mine."

  "Got ya," Clay says, and starts toward the dugout.

  "You here to talk about Brett?" Red asks, stopping Clay in his tracks.

  "What gave you that idea?"

  "I know what line of work you're in now. Besides, I figured it was coming. I just expected it would be the sheriff that would be asking the questions."

  "No one from the sheriff's department came to talk to the team?"

  "Not here they didn't, but you'd have to ask the guys to find out if anyone was asked any questions elsewhere."

  "That's what I'll do," Clay says. "I won't be badgering anybody though."

  "Badger away. You know how these boys are. They aren't going to tell you nothing they don't want you to know."

  "But you think they're okay to talk about Brett? They're not too broken up about it?"

  "Hell, Clay, this ain't the Ladies Auxiliary. These boys can handle a couple of questions," Red says, turning his head toward the field, and pulling out a cigarette. "Get in front of that ball, Sal!"

  "What'd you think of Brett?"

  "You want
one?" Red says, holding the pack of cigarettes out to Clay.

  "No thanks. Just gave 'em up," Clay says, resisting the urge.

  "Suit yourself," Red says, lighting the cigarette. "He was a great player. But you know that already."

  "I did."

  "You want to know what I thought of him as a man."

  "That's right."

  "I don't fraternize much with the players, as you know, but I hear what's going on," Red says, surveying the field. "I could see that boy was trouble the moment he got here."

  "How do you mean?"

  "He knew he wasn't going to be here long, and he acted like it. He was ready to burn any bridge that got in his way. I suspect he would've been called up by now if he hadn't… Well, you know." Red looks away from Clay, takes a long drag from his cigarette. "I was already getting a weekly call from double-A asking if I thought he was ready."

  "What'd you tell them?"

  "Always the same thing. He was ready to play ball, but he lacked the maturity to be a pro."

  "What'd he do to make you think that?"

  "He drank like a fish, for one. But he was also a gambling man. And baseball don't want any gamblers in the game."

  "Did you ever talk to him about that?"

  "Sure I did. He would tell me that he was just a poker man. He didn't bet sports. 'Not even the horses,' he would say."

  "Maybe he was telling the truth."

  "I think he was, but it wasn't the cards I was worried about. It was the crowd that came with the cards that worried me."

  "Anybody in particular?"

  "You know the type."

  "Yeah, I know the type, but I was