Billiards at Half-Past Nine by Heinrich Böll, Patrick Bowles, Jessa Crispin Read Free Book Online Page A

his body’s movements at that time, nothing else, which brought back images, words and colors. All hidden behind formulas was ‘Get going, Faehmel, get going!’ He had taken the ball and was letting it lie just right in the cup of his hand, lightly held between fingers and palm, so as to have it meet the least possible resistance when tossed into the air. He had his bat ready in his other hand, longest one of all (no one bothered with the laws of leverage), fat of the bat covered with adhesive tape. Quickly he glanced at his wristwatch. Three minutes and fifteen seconds until the athletic instructor would whistle the end of the game—and still no answer to the question why the Prince Otto Gymnasium outfit had raised no objection about having the coach of Ludwig College, his side, umpirethe decisive game. His name was Bernhard Vacano, but they called him Old Wobbly. He had a melancholy air, a plumpish sort with a platonic liking for little boys. He was also very fond of cream puffs and sweetishly dreamy movies in which strong blond youths swam across rivers, then lay in meadows, blade of grass in their mouth, waiting for adventures. Most of all Old Wobbly liked his plaster reproduction of the head of Antinous, which, at home among his rubber plants and shelves of physical culture books, he fondled, on the excuse of dusting it. Old Wobbly, who called his favorites ‘junior’ and the others ‘bums.’
    ‘Okay there, bum, come out of your trance,’ he said, running sweat, belly wobbling, whistle in his mouth.
    But there were still three minutes and three seconds to the final whistle, thirteen seconds too many. If he took his cut at the ball now, the next man would come to bat, and Schrella, waiting at base, would have to run again, giving the fielders another chance to throw the ball as hard as they could, as he sped for the next base, into his face, at his legs, into the small of his back. Three times he had seen how they pulled it. Someone from the other side would hit Schrella, whereupon Nettlinger, who actually played on his and Schrella’s side, tagged the opposing player by simply throwing the ball back to him. Then again the player caught Schrella, making him double up with pain. And again Nettlinger, in retrieving the ball, simply threw it to the opposing player, who this time hit Schrella in the face with it—while Old Wobbly stood by, whistled time when Schrella was hit, whistled again when Nettlinger simply tossed the ball to the opposing fielder, whistled again when Schrella tried to limp out of the way. It all went very fast, balls flying back and forth. Had he, waiting at the plate, been the only one to see it? Not one among all the spectators, tensely waiting with their little colored pennants and caps for the end of the game? Two minutes and fifty seconds before the game was over, score 34–29, Prince Otto. Could it be this, this that he alone had seen, that was the reason they had accepted OldWobbly, his side’s athletic coach, as umpire?
    ‘Come on, bum, the game’s over in two minutes.’
    ‘Correction, please. Two minutes, fifty seconds left.’ Saying this, he tossed the ball high into the air, took a lightning grip and leaned into it as it came down. He could feel it from the weight of the blow, the elastic give of the wood—another one of his fabulous hits. He looked to see the ball take off, couldn’t find it, heard the ‘ah’ of the crowd, a great ‘ah’ spreading out like a cloud, growing louder. He saw Schrella making it slowly home, bent and hobbling, a smear of blood near his nose. The scorers counted: seven, eight, nine. With maddening slowness the rest of the opposing team came trooping in past Old Wobbly, who was fit to be tied. The game was won, clearly won, even though he had forgotten to run around the bases and score yet another, tenth point. The Ottonians were still out looking for the winning ball, out beyond the street, crawling about in the grass near the brewery wall.