For Love of the Game by Michael Shaara Read Free Book Online Page A

said, from deep in the throat: “One more time.”
    Gus nodded. He put out his hand, Chapel took it. Gus left.
    Chapel put his hand to the right arm, held it round the muscle, talked to it for a long second: Old buddy, give ’em all we’ve got. The season’s over. So. Are you ready?
    He flexed the arm. Felt fine. He started to dress.
    The team had already gone out when he finished; he was the last. He went slowly out into the sunlight and it was all fresh and clear, rain clouds were gone, a great day for the airplane, and he remembered that day he took Carol up and flew through the New Zealand mountains, flew in a Cessna 182 with ice skis, put down on a glacier, the Franz Josef, and walked on hard, cold ice … won’t go this year … so … wind today? Very light. Good. Give them no help with that. Everything on your side. But they’ll want to win today. And my team.… My team? … won’t give a damn. So … no matter. Does it matter?
    Oh, yes.
    Win the last one. Why does it matter so much? Don’t know. But it does. But all you can do is your best.
    I’ll do that.
    Only a game.
    But today … today I’ll throw it all, I’ll throw all that’s left because there’s nothing to save anymore, no more rest to take anymore, today.…
    He went to the warm-up circle where Dewey Bell was waiting for him. Bell was the reserve catcher, behind Gus. He could sometimes hit, he was a streak man, but he was not consistent and he did not have the arm yet … he had the brain. No doubt of that. Strange how so often … a great arm, an empty brain. He was standing with the glove, waiting to warm Billy up. A quiet man, waiting, biding his time, for Gus’s job, because Gus did not hit. It was normal and natural and caused no pain. Most of them lived with that light in their eyes. Billy nodded hello, stared at Dewey Bell. Billy thought: I never had to live that way. I never went through that. Boy, the luck you’ve had. Well. Pop would say: “Play your heart out, Billy. Give it all back, Billy, everything you’ve been given. Give it all back … out of the golden arm.” Pop’s words. Give back the golden arm. And when it’s all gone, you’ll know, and look at it that way, Billy, there’s no more to give … and you gave your best … always your best. From the golden arm God gave you.
    Chapel shook his head. Cool it. Too bloody emotional. Cool it. Throw. Calmly. Think no more … of the heat of the sun, nor the furious winter’srages.… No. Little music. Copland. He began to hum, aloud, a tune from
Rodeo
. Took the clean baseball in his right hand, rolled the ball over, rubbed and cuddled and got the feel of it, touched it in that way he sometimes touched the wheel of the airplane, set the foot on the mound, took a good long slow look, set the distance, took a good long deep breath, then leaned back the first time slowly easily calmly, lay the ball back there behind him at the end of his arm, drawing the aim with his eyes, timing the body, focusing all things together, and he threw the first one.
    It was faster than Bell expected. He jumped, but caught it, looked back quizzically.
    “Hey, for Chrissake. Take it easy, you mind?” He threw the ball back. “You knock my hand off. Besides. You’re too old to throw that fast. When you gonna learn that?” He looked over toward the Yankee bench, cocked his head to one side. “Oh. I get you. You scarin’ the crap out of
them
. Okay. But gimme time to set myself.”
    First pitch too fast. Chapel: relax. Warm up. Better timing. He set himself and almost lobbed the next one, confusing Bell, but that didn’t matter. Chapel was hearing the music in his head and conditioning himself, timing himself, sending messages all through the body, sensing the step, the push, the pull, the weight. All fine today. All good today. End of the season, hard slow cold season, they never scored behind you, but, nomatter, you aren’t weary today. That’s a fact.