little like a ball team, a marriage is — smaller, but still a team. A good team sticks together, even when someone on it doesn’t do right by the team. You have to have a lot of patience and understanding. Remember a couple of days ago when we were talking about Ken Boyer with the Cardinals?”
“I remember,” said Mickey. “They almost traded him in ‘58.”
“That’s right, and now it looks like he’s going to be the same kind of heavy-handed slugger that started with Rogers Hornsby and went from there to Bottomley, to Medwick, to Mize — ”
“Right up to Musial,” said Mickey. “I suppose I get your point. I’m sorry I said it.”
“Don’t be sorry, Mickey,” Milo had said. “Just keep in mind that responsibility toward the members of a team can sometimes make that team, when nothing else can.”
Milo knew that if Gloria had been witness to his comparison of her with a third-baseman for the St. Louis Cardinals, she would have burst with that particular brand of Gloria Wealdon mocking hilarity. Yet a sense of responsibility was instinctive to Milo, no matter how poorly he had put it to Mickey Lewis. Whether or not Gloria could pay her own way now (and she could), so long as she was alive he was obliged to care for her. To care about her. The fact that some people thought him an utter ass to persist in this under the circumstances did not deter him. He felt no need to defend his philosophy of life beyond explaining it. The only thing that really annoyed him about his situation was the surreptitious pettiness sneaking up on him and showing in his own actions. The satisfaction he had gotten from hitting her with the car keys a while ago, his sarcasm as he had slammed the door of the car. (He had said, Remember your stomach pill, pet….) There was no need for that. She would have taken the pill and that would be that; there was no need for the remark. It was small, piddling. His reactions to her lately were very much like hers to him, and he was embarrassed for himself.
• • •
He very nearly decided to go home for dinner in the evening, to go home and change his clothes and play the proper husband — meet this literary agent of Gloria’s and serve as host for the dinner she had planned. Perhaps, under the circumstances, it was the least he could do. Yet if he were to change his plans, he would have to alter his course of action, and he had planned that for too long,put it off too often. He must see his plot through in every detail, or it might not work.
At the end of Mickey’s set, Milo walked over to the fence where the youngster was picking a hand towel up off the ground to rub away his perspiration. Mickey was nearly sixteen, but he was barely five feet tall and Milo had known him since he was a kid of ten, when Mickey hung around the Y courts, eager to learn about tennis. Because he was so small, Milo had taught him a two-forehand technique which would give him more power and more reach, and by the time Mickey entered high school he still did not use a backhand. Milo never tried to make him learn it. The youngster was naturally ambidextrous. He wrote left-handed, and threw a ball right-handed, and in the back court during a game he switched his racket from one hand to the other so swiftly and easily that the lack of a backhand went hardly noticed.
Mickey grinned at Milo. “How’m I doing, Mr. Wealdon?”
“You’re doing okay, Mickey. Those were good hard hits from the base line.”
“There’s still something wrong though, huh?”
“You know it as well as I do. You have to charge that net and volley, Mickey.”
“I know.”
“You can do your racket-shifting just as well close. You try it. You’ll need it for your doubles game.”
“Yessir. I know that. I like my opponents to take over the net, but it’s a bad habit. Say, want to volley with me, Mr. Wealdon? You can use Dave’s racket?”
“Right!” Milo said.
• • •
After twenty minutes of play, Milo returned
“I remember,” said Mickey. “They almost traded him in ‘58.”
“That’s right, and now it looks like he’s going to be the same kind of heavy-handed slugger that started with Rogers Hornsby and went from there to Bottomley, to Medwick, to Mize — ”
“Right up to Musial,” said Mickey. “I suppose I get your point. I’m sorry I said it.”
“Don’t be sorry, Mickey,” Milo had said. “Just keep in mind that responsibility toward the members of a team can sometimes make that team, when nothing else can.”
Milo knew that if Gloria had been witness to his comparison of her with a third-baseman for the St. Louis Cardinals, she would have burst with that particular brand of Gloria Wealdon mocking hilarity. Yet a sense of responsibility was instinctive to Milo, no matter how poorly he had put it to Mickey Lewis. Whether or not Gloria could pay her own way now (and she could), so long as she was alive he was obliged to care for her. To care about her. The fact that some people thought him an utter ass to persist in this under the circumstances did not deter him. He felt no need to defend his philosophy of life beyond explaining it. The only thing that really annoyed him about his situation was the surreptitious pettiness sneaking up on him and showing in his own actions. The satisfaction he had gotten from hitting her with the car keys a while ago, his sarcasm as he had slammed the door of the car. (He had said, Remember your stomach pill, pet….) There was no need for that. She would have taken the pill and that would be that; there was no need for the remark. It was small, piddling. His reactions to her lately were very much like hers to him, and he was embarrassed for himself.
• • •
He very nearly decided to go home for dinner in the evening, to go home and change his clothes and play the proper husband — meet this literary agent of Gloria’s and serve as host for the dinner she had planned. Perhaps, under the circumstances, it was the least he could do. Yet if he were to change his plans, he would have to alter his course of action, and he had planned that for too long,put it off too often. He must see his plot through in every detail, or it might not work.
At the end of Mickey’s set, Milo walked over to the fence where the youngster was picking a hand towel up off the ground to rub away his perspiration. Mickey was nearly sixteen, but he was barely five feet tall and Milo had known him since he was a kid of ten, when Mickey hung around the Y courts, eager to learn about tennis. Because he was so small, Milo had taught him a two-forehand technique which would give him more power and more reach, and by the time Mickey entered high school he still did not use a backhand. Milo never tried to make him learn it. The youngster was naturally ambidextrous. He wrote left-handed, and threw a ball right-handed, and in the back court during a game he switched his racket from one hand to the other so swiftly and easily that the lack of a backhand went hardly noticed.
Mickey grinned at Milo. “How’m I doing, Mr. Wealdon?”
“You’re doing okay, Mickey. Those were good hard hits from the base line.”
“There’s still something wrong though, huh?”
“You know it as well as I do. You have to charge that net and volley, Mickey.”
“I know.”
“You can do your racket-shifting just as well close. You try it. You’ll need it for your doubles game.”
“Yessir. I know that. I like my opponents to take over the net, but it’s a bad habit. Say, want to volley with me, Mr. Wealdon? You can use Dave’s racket?”
“Right!” Milo said.
• • •
After twenty minutes of play, Milo returned
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