The Great American Novel by Philip Roth Page A

IMMORTAL, WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT!”
    â€œPLAY BAWWWWWWWWWW!”
    Had he ever been more heroic? More gloriously contemptuous of the powers-that-be? Not to those fans of his he hadn’t. They loved him even more for that bad pitch, deliberately thrown a fraction of a fraction of an inch too low, than for the seventy-seven dazzling strikes that had preceded it. The wickedly accurate pitching machine wasn’t a machine at all—no, he was a human being, made of piss and vinegar, like other human beings. The arm of a god, but the disposition of the Common Man: petty, grudging, vengeful, gloating, selfish, narrow, and mean. How could they not adore him?
    His next pitch was smacked three hundred and sixty-five feet off the wall in left-center field for a double.
    Much as he hated to move his rheumatism to and fro like this, the Old Philosopher figured it was in the interest of the United States of America, of which he had been a lifelong citizen, for him to trek out to the mound and offer his condolences to the boy.
    â€œThose things happen, lad; settle down.”
    â€œThat robber! That thief! That pickpocket!”
    â€œMike Masterson didn’t hit it off you—you just dished up a fat pitch. It could happen to anyone.”
    â€œBut not to me! It was on account of my rhythm bein’ broke! On account of my fine edge bein’ off!”
    â€œThat wasn’t his doin’ either, boy. Throwin’ that low one was your own smart idea. See this fella comin’ up? He can strong-back that pelota right outta here. I want for you to put him on.”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œNow do like I tell you, Gil. Put him on. It’ll calm you down, for one, and set up the d.p. for two. Let’s get out of this inning the smart way.”
    But when the Old Philosopher departed the mound, and Pineapple stepped to the side of the plate to give Gamesh a target for the intentional pass, the rookie sensation growled, “Get back where you belong, you Hawaiian hick.”
    â€œBut,” warned the burly catcher, running halfway to the mound, “he say put him on, Gilly!”
    â€œDon’t you worry, Oahu, I’ll put him on all right.”
    â€œHow?”
    Gil grinned.
    The first pitch was a fastball aimed right at the batter’s mandible. In the stands, a woman screamed—“He’s a goner!” but down went the Aceldama player just in the nick of time.
    â€œThat’s one!” roared Mike.
    The second pitch was a second fastball aimed at the occipital. “My God,” screamed the woman, “it killed him!” But miracle of miracles, the batter in the dust was seen to move.
    â€œThat’s two!” roared Mike, and calling time, came around to do some tidying up around home plate. And to chat awhile. “Ball get away from you?” he asked Gamesh, while sweeping away with his broom.
    Gamesh spat high in the air back over his shoulder, a wad that landed smack in the middle of second base, right between the feet of the Aceldama runner standing up on the bag. “Nope.”
    â€œThen, if you don’t mind my asking, how do you explain nearly taking this man’s head off two times in a row?”
    â€œAin’t you never heard of the intentional pass?”
    â€œOh no. Oh no, not that way, son,” said Mike the Mouth. “Not in the Big Time, I’m afraid.”
    â€œPlay!” screeched Gamesh, mocking the umpire’s foghorn, and motioned him back behind the plate where he belonged. “Ump, Masterson, that’s what they pay you to do.”
    â€œNow listen to me, Gil,” said Mike. “If you want to put this man on intentionally, then pitch out to him, in the time-honored manner. But don’t make him go down again. We’re not barbarians in this league. We’re men, trying to get along.”
    â€œSpeak for yourself, Mouth. I’m me.”
    The crowd shrieked as at a horror movie when the third