Dirty Rice by Gerald Duff Page A

even though he was inside.
    â€œGemar,” Dutch Bernson said, “take a load off your feet. Is Miz Doucette feeding you and Gonzales enough?”
    â€œMost of the time,” I said. “Yes sir, she is. Lots of rice in everything she cooks.”
    â€œY’all getting along all right, you and the Cuban, living there together?”
    â€œWe get along fine,” I said. “We ain’t there in our room much except to sleep.”
    â€œCan you talk his language?” Dutch said and grinned at me. He had a full load of tobacco in his mouth. He was always a neat chewer, not like a lot of baseball players.
    â€œI can talk his talk as good as he can talk mine,” I said. “We talk fine to each other.”
    â€œThat’s good, that’s real good. I know what you saying. But to get at the business at hand, I’ve been working on the lineup for the opening game with Crowley, and I’m thinking I’m going to maybe start you in right field.”
    I nodded. Dutch looked down at the sheet of paper in front of him and touched his finger to it. “I’m figuring I’ll have Hookey Irwin on the mound the first game and then I’ll use Cliff the next night. I don’t know when I’ll start you at pitcher yet, but I want to do that when the time comes.”
    â€œAll right,” I said. “I’ll be ready.”
    â€œWhat do you think about right field?’
    â€œIt’s a good field for a left-hander to play,” I said. “On throws to second base, but you have to turn a lot so you can field balls down the right field line. It’s a good angle to throw from once you catch the ball, though.”
    â€œYou don’t have to turn like a righty, that’s what you’re saying before you throw?”
    â€œYes sir, a lefty’s already turned. A hit ball down the line comes to him where it ought to, so it’s comfortable when he makes the throw,” I said. “I don’t know how many left-handed hitters Crowley’s got, but with Hookey pitching, I ought to have a restful day in right field.”
    â€œHas Hookey talked much to you yet, Gemar?”
    Hookey hadn’t said one word to me yet, but I knew if I told Dutch Bernson that it might give him even more to worry about, so I acted like I was thinking before I answered. “Not much,” I finally said. “That I can remember.”
    â€œHe don’t ever talk much to nobody, so don’t let that bother you. What I’ve been telling you about right field I’m just thinking about, you understand. There ain’t no guarantees. You might sit on the bench that whole three games with the Millers.”
    I told him I understood and left Dutch in his office, and the next time he spoke directly to me was when we all got on the bus to take us to Crowley.
    Before we left to get on the bus that next day, all of us got together in the clubhouse to get ready to leave. It was the first time of the season we’d be doing that, and everybody was feeling tight and a little keyed-up. Nobody wanted to show that directly, though, and that way of acting among ballplayers was the same in the Evangeline League as I’d seen back in the sawmill leagues in East Texas.
    You could always tell the players having a hard time getting easy enough in their minds to get ready to go on and do their jobs. It generally wasn’t the ones who were making the most racket, hollering at each other, telling jokes, jiggling up and down as they talked, not being able to sit down for more than a minute at a time, and all the other ways a man will show his body’s got a deep need to do something right now. No, the ones having the hardest time getting ready was the ones that was the quietest.
    They would sit and look into their carrying bags like there was a precious thing inside that would run off and leave them if they didn’t keep an eye on it. A few would lean back and look