ecclesiastical mixture, a memory of limestone, rosewater, and incense.
In nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti, amen. Je n’ai pas ta plume, je suis dans mon lit.
His entire family sat before the black-and-white TV eating meatloaf and watched the Giants clobber LA eight to nothing in the first game. His brother Angie taunted the Dodgers’ hitters between pitches: Hey batta, hey batta, hey batta, SWING batta!
The next evening started out the same, to the point of boring his sisters and parents, and Paulie couldn’t believe how those poor bastard Dodgers were crumbling. He’d seen them beat San Francisco more often than lose to them, and usually by the craft of Sandy Koufax or Don Drysdale, who would shut them out, or little Maury Wills, who would bunt or walk or beg his way to first base, steal second, and score on either a hit-and-run, sacrifice fly, or weakly slapped base hit. None of the Dodgers seemed to know how toswing a bat, in Paulie’s estimation, but they could make contact and move runners home. He heard Russ Hodges say that they were now scoreless in the last thirty-five innings! Poor luckless bastards. He went to the kitchen and fixed a salami sandwich.
The briefest tremor of pity for Los Angeles, for its millions of hapless fans, swept through him as he sliced the greasy meat. When he came back his little sisters were watching a cartoon. Paulie almost turned the channel back, but his mother told him it was their turn. It only took two games to win that rarest of baseball events, a pennant playoff, and the Giants were ahead 5-0 in the sixth inning of the second game. He finished his sandwich, got out his transistor radio, and opened his French text to an assignment due the next day.
The Dodgers had just scored seven runs.
Paulie told his father, and they commandeered the TV. He got the mitt and cap and began his rituals, but LA won it, 8–7.
One more game.
The next day American spy planes obtained photos from above the island of Cuba. The handsome young Catholic president met in secret with his military advisers, grim men with black eyebrows and silver crew cuts. A bald, gap-toothed Russian peasant and a tall Caribbean ballplayer with a bushy beard were the subject of their secret meeting. As they met, the Giants waited in a motel for evening to come to Chavez Ravine.
The shades were drawn, and the men stationed themselves before the TV. Some smoked cigars, and at least one sipped whiskey. The women and children stayed out of the living room except to make brief forays into the smoke to learn the score. Joe Verbicaropassed chips to his brother, who dropped them in front of Pete Rinaldi, the Realtor. Joe’s nephew Gino picked them up and passed them to Paulie, who balanced the bowl on his mitt. Pete cleared his throat: What’s the score?
Get your head out of your ass, Ludovico told him. Don’t know the score.
The others laughed, including Pete. It’s two-zip, Joe said. Don’t listen to him, Pete.
Who’s ahead?
Christ sake, he don’t even know who’s ahead? This is historical,
baboso.
Pay attention.
We’re ahead, Paulie said. In the distorted, smoky black-and-white picture the Dodgers looked inadequate beside the Giants, they looked soft and oafish. As if the smog and heat of Los Angeles, the false dreams and sexual warmth of Disneyland and Hollywood, sapped a man’s strength and left him unfocused, uncoordinated. Their fans were the same, they always had some guy with a bugle and a casual bunch of sleeveless, suntanned people yelling
Charge
and laughing right afterward, even as they were losing. Weak. Paulie tapped his glove.
Who’s that? The guy warming up?
Don’t tell him, Lu said. Joe. He’s gotta learn to open his eyes and ears.
Hey, my wife’s on it. Don’t blame me, my wife won’t let me watch. He winked at Joe.
No excuse, Lu said.
Tommy Davis hit a two-run homer, and the men cursed andtossed pillows on the floor. For the next half hour the living room was quiet,
In nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti, amen. Je n’ai pas ta plume, je suis dans mon lit.
His entire family sat before the black-and-white TV eating meatloaf and watched the Giants clobber LA eight to nothing in the first game. His brother Angie taunted the Dodgers’ hitters between pitches: Hey batta, hey batta, hey batta, SWING batta!
The next evening started out the same, to the point of boring his sisters and parents, and Paulie couldn’t believe how those poor bastard Dodgers were crumbling. He’d seen them beat San Francisco more often than lose to them, and usually by the craft of Sandy Koufax or Don Drysdale, who would shut them out, or little Maury Wills, who would bunt or walk or beg his way to first base, steal second, and score on either a hit-and-run, sacrifice fly, or weakly slapped base hit. None of the Dodgers seemed to know how toswing a bat, in Paulie’s estimation, but they could make contact and move runners home. He heard Russ Hodges say that they were now scoreless in the last thirty-five innings! Poor luckless bastards. He went to the kitchen and fixed a salami sandwich.
The briefest tremor of pity for Los Angeles, for its millions of hapless fans, swept through him as he sliced the greasy meat. When he came back his little sisters were watching a cartoon. Paulie almost turned the channel back, but his mother told him it was their turn. It only took two games to win that rarest of baseball events, a pennant playoff, and the Giants were ahead 5-0 in the sixth inning of the second game. He finished his sandwich, got out his transistor radio, and opened his French text to an assignment due the next day.
The Dodgers had just scored seven runs.
Paulie told his father, and they commandeered the TV. He got the mitt and cap and began his rituals, but LA won it, 8–7.
One more game.
The next day American spy planes obtained photos from above the island of Cuba. The handsome young Catholic president met in secret with his military advisers, grim men with black eyebrows and silver crew cuts. A bald, gap-toothed Russian peasant and a tall Caribbean ballplayer with a bushy beard were the subject of their secret meeting. As they met, the Giants waited in a motel for evening to come to Chavez Ravine.
The shades were drawn, and the men stationed themselves before the TV. Some smoked cigars, and at least one sipped whiskey. The women and children stayed out of the living room except to make brief forays into the smoke to learn the score. Joe Verbicaropassed chips to his brother, who dropped them in front of Pete Rinaldi, the Realtor. Joe’s nephew Gino picked them up and passed them to Paulie, who balanced the bowl on his mitt. Pete cleared his throat: What’s the score?
Get your head out of your ass, Ludovico told him. Don’t know the score.
The others laughed, including Pete. It’s two-zip, Joe said. Don’t listen to him, Pete.
Who’s ahead?
Christ sake, he don’t even know who’s ahead? This is historical,
baboso.
Pay attention.
We’re ahead, Paulie said. In the distorted, smoky black-and-white picture the Dodgers looked inadequate beside the Giants, they looked soft and oafish. As if the smog and heat of Los Angeles, the false dreams and sexual warmth of Disneyland and Hollywood, sapped a man’s strength and left him unfocused, uncoordinated. Their fans were the same, they always had some guy with a bugle and a casual bunch of sleeveless, suntanned people yelling
Charge
and laughing right afterward, even as they were losing. Weak. Paulie tapped his glove.
Who’s that? The guy warming up?
Don’t tell him, Lu said. Joe. He’s gotta learn to open his eyes and ears.
Hey, my wife’s on it. Don’t blame me, my wife won’t let me watch. He winked at Joe.
No excuse, Lu said.
Tommy Davis hit a two-run homer, and the men cursed andtossed pillows on the floor. For the next half hour the living room was quiet,
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