The Palace Thief by Ethan Canin Read Free Book Online Page B

showers, and Willie Mays held out his open palm for him to slap. In doing so he had turned away from me, and I found myself in the corner of the locker room gathering my belongings, facing Willie Mays’s back yet unable to pass around him through the door. I sat down again on the bench and, conscious of the eyes of the other men upon me, unpacked my cleats and tapped out the dirt from them onto the concrete floor. For several moments I worked between the cleats with my fingernails, pretending to clean them, and when Willie Mays still had not moved noracknowledged me sitting behind him on the bench, I pretended to be occupied with straightening up the small mess I had created on the floor. I leaned down and gathered up the dirt I had knocked about.
    It was Mr. Peters who finally broke the silence. “Jeez,” he said in the easy way that made the other men turn to him, “they may sock you, Willie, but I’d give anything to be in your shoes, my friend.”
    Willie Mays laughed, and in the general agreement that followed I was able to extricate myself from the corner, finish my dressing, and go back to the rooms, where I attempted to take my bearings. I still felt a residue of embarrassment from what had happened, and sitting down at the window I noticed that my hands shook slightly. I looked over the vista and attempted to calm myself. I allowed my mind to wander over the day and my eyes to rest here and there across the fields—on the left-field alley where my drive had landed in the seventh inning, and on the newly limed foul line where I had backhanded a sharp ground ball in the fifth. The diamonds had been watered again, and in the setting sun the raked clay base paths glistened like rivers. Needless to say, I was grateful to Mr. Peters for interceding after what I could now only think of as my “gaffe,” yet I was uneasy as to what effect the incident would have on our business dealings, which were yet to take place. That evening I ate alone at a steak restaurant in town.
    The next day we played the Bashers again, and although I will not go into great detail, I will indeed say that whatever preternatural strength had been visited upon me the day before returned as miraculously the following morning. Briefly, at the plate I went three for five and in the field held my ground without error. To be fair, Eugene Peters also gathered three base hits, although he made a throwing error in the secondinning and a fielding in the third. As for Dr. Argusian, he seemed to have lost whatever grace had blessed him earlier and contributed almost nothing to the Bashers’ efforts. Again we came from behind to defeat our opponents, and in the clubhouse afterward general hilarity was the order.
    This was the end of the weekend, and that evening we ate dinner together with the comradeliness of soldiers and afterward rose at the table to make toasts. As can no doubt be imagined, I myself did not like to speak in such situations, and as one after another of the men stood to deliver good-natured barbs and heartfelt thanks, I grew increasingly uncomfortable in my seat. Finally, to my great relief, Mr. Corsetti rose, went to the podium at the head of the hall, and announced that it was time for the presentation of awards. Now, I should add that it was not until this moment that I considered the possibility I would be named Most Valuable Player for the weekend.
    The awards were given in a lighthearted tone. First, Alan Gallagher rose to present the Rookie of the Year award, which went to the oldest player in the group, a former state senator in his seventies who had merely watched the two games while sitting in the dugout in his uniform. This award consisted of Alan Gallagher’s own Giants hat, which he proceeded to autograph and present to the venerable old man, who had walked to the podium with a cane. Kent Powell then gave out an autographed Giants shirt for Most Improved Player, which went to one of the radiologists who had been coming to