Someone had unfurled a bed-sheet over the left-field upper deck facade that had a crudely painted bull’s-eye painted on it and the words “ 47 WOULD BE BASEBALL HEAVEN .”
Aided by the names on the backs of their unies, Harvey introduced himself to some of the players lingering in the dugout. Serious-faced second baseman Arturio Ferreiras. Twitchy third baseman Craig Venora, pacing and picking at his uniform, as if removing cat hairs. Catcher Ray Costa, built like a six-slice toaster. First baseman Jeff Barney, built like an SUV. Coffee-colored shortstop Amos Owens, pounding his glove as gleefully as a Little Leaguer in anticipation of the game. With each of them, Harvey struggled—vainly, he thought—to produce the sort of ebullience he imagined was expected of a motivational coach. The players regarded him with varying mixtures of suspicion and confusion, as they might a friend of a friend who had been allowed into the dugout for no apparent reason. Harvey found the charade depressing.
He was rescued from his discomfort by Moss, who bounced down the dugout steps after taking fungoes in the outfield. He slapped Harvey on the butt with his glove and dropped it on the dugout’s top step. Overhead, young fans were pleading for him. Several of them lowered autograph books on the end of strings for him to sign. They dangled in midair like bait.
Harvey was going to whisper something reassuring to Cooley—say again how safe the ballpark was—but he could see that death threats were the last thing on Moss’s mind. He was already deep inside the game.
“Campy had some nice words to say about you,” Harvey said.
“Man’s like Yoda,” Moss said, sliding a couple of his bats out of the rack.
Small bats, Harvey thought, for such a big man. “I’ll tell you how good he is. He added a good twenty points to my average. And that wasn’t an easy thing to do. What size bat is that, Moss? Looks like a thirty-three.”
“Thirty-three inches, thirty-three ounces. Campy wanted me to go lighter, and it’s worked. This one”—he handed Harvey one of the bats, its upper shaft black with pine tar residue—“this one here’s my baby.”
Harvey held it for a minute cocked in a batting stance, taking its measure. For an instant he felt the old electricity of the game flow through the bat into his body. “You got a special name for your bat?”
Moss took the bat back and raised the head of it in front of his own face. “Yeah. I call it Bat.” He laughed an easy, wheezy laugh, and pretended to be talking to it. “Bat, get me a goddamn hit today, Bat.”
With that he bounded up the dugout steps toward the batting cage. As soon as he emerged onto the field, the fifteen thousand fans already in their seats started a rolling tide of cheers, which Cooley ignored as if it had nothing at all to do with him.
A moment later Harvey climbed the steps as well into the dusky golden air and made his way toward home plate through little clouds of mosquitoes, stepping over television cable and ball bags. He could see manager Terry Cavanaugh standing just in front of second base, hand on jaw, watching his players take batting practice, quietly studying their swings, seeing who was ready to play that night. Not every manager did that, and Harvey, standing near the on-deck circle, was wondering whether he should revise his low opinion of him when he heard a burnished baritone voice over his shoulder.
“God love this game.” It was Snoot Coffman, the Jewels’ radio play-by-play man. He was carrying a loose sheaf of papers in one hand—stat sheets, rosters, scrawled notes.
“Mr. Coffman.”
“Oh, hell, call me Snoot.”
“Snoot,” Harvey said.
“Millions of radio listeners know me by that name.”
“Where’d it come from?”
“I got it when I was ten or eleven. I had a buddy who thought I was a little uppity. Always had a lot of opinions. Guess that’s why I had to become a broadcaster.”
Cooley overswung on the
Aided by the names on the backs of their unies, Harvey introduced himself to some of the players lingering in the dugout. Serious-faced second baseman Arturio Ferreiras. Twitchy third baseman Craig Venora, pacing and picking at his uniform, as if removing cat hairs. Catcher Ray Costa, built like a six-slice toaster. First baseman Jeff Barney, built like an SUV. Coffee-colored shortstop Amos Owens, pounding his glove as gleefully as a Little Leaguer in anticipation of the game. With each of them, Harvey struggled—vainly, he thought—to produce the sort of ebullience he imagined was expected of a motivational coach. The players regarded him with varying mixtures of suspicion and confusion, as they might a friend of a friend who had been allowed into the dugout for no apparent reason. Harvey found the charade depressing.
He was rescued from his discomfort by Moss, who bounced down the dugout steps after taking fungoes in the outfield. He slapped Harvey on the butt with his glove and dropped it on the dugout’s top step. Overhead, young fans were pleading for him. Several of them lowered autograph books on the end of strings for him to sign. They dangled in midair like bait.
Harvey was going to whisper something reassuring to Cooley—say again how safe the ballpark was—but he could see that death threats were the last thing on Moss’s mind. He was already deep inside the game.
“Campy had some nice words to say about you,” Harvey said.
“Man’s like Yoda,” Moss said, sliding a couple of his bats out of the rack.
Small bats, Harvey thought, for such a big man. “I’ll tell you how good he is. He added a good twenty points to my average. And that wasn’t an easy thing to do. What size bat is that, Moss? Looks like a thirty-three.”
“Thirty-three inches, thirty-three ounces. Campy wanted me to go lighter, and it’s worked. This one”—he handed Harvey one of the bats, its upper shaft black with pine tar residue—“this one here’s my baby.”
Harvey held it for a minute cocked in a batting stance, taking its measure. For an instant he felt the old electricity of the game flow through the bat into his body. “You got a special name for your bat?”
Moss took the bat back and raised the head of it in front of his own face. “Yeah. I call it Bat.” He laughed an easy, wheezy laugh, and pretended to be talking to it. “Bat, get me a goddamn hit today, Bat.”
With that he bounded up the dugout steps toward the batting cage. As soon as he emerged onto the field, the fifteen thousand fans already in their seats started a rolling tide of cheers, which Cooley ignored as if it had nothing at all to do with him.
A moment later Harvey climbed the steps as well into the dusky golden air and made his way toward home plate through little clouds of mosquitoes, stepping over television cable and ball bags. He could see manager Terry Cavanaugh standing just in front of second base, hand on jaw, watching his players take batting practice, quietly studying their swings, seeing who was ready to play that night. Not every manager did that, and Harvey, standing near the on-deck circle, was wondering whether he should revise his low opinion of him when he heard a burnished baritone voice over his shoulder.
“God love this game.” It was Snoot Coffman, the Jewels’ radio play-by-play man. He was carrying a loose sheaf of papers in one hand—stat sheets, rosters, scrawled notes.
“Mr. Coffman.”
“Oh, hell, call me Snoot.”
“Snoot,” Harvey said.
“Millions of radio listeners know me by that name.”
“Where’d it come from?”
“I got it when I was ten or eleven. I had a buddy who thought I was a little uppity. Always had a lot of opinions. Guess that’s why I had to become a broadcaster.”
Cooley overswung on the
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