Percival Everett - Suder

So, Im up at the plate in the top of the ninth and the first pitch is, I grant you, an honest-to-God textbook strike and the fat umpires backwards dance and that turn to the right he manages dont offend me at all. And then the second pitch comes whistling in way inside and I hear that fat man in blue yell, Steee-rike! and I turn to catch the tail end of his routine and I just cant believe it. So, I flip the bat in my hand like a baton, as is my custom, and step up to him, face to face, and give him the questioning eye.

There he is right in front of me, behind that foam-filled apron, and he yells, Strike!

That was way inside, I tell him, I could feel it on my pants.

Strike, he repeats and lets out this little shit-eating grin and I really want to hit him and I tell myself not to and turn away.

Blind bastard, I says under my breath.

And he says to me, If you cant

I cut him off: Why dont you go read up on the strike zone.

He looks at me and yells, Play ball! Then when Im stepping into the box he says, Thats two, Suder.

And I ignore him. The next pitch is so inside that the catcher leaves his perch to get it and I know because I follow the ball all the way, dont even move my bat, but as sure as anything that fat umpire does his Fred Astaire and calls another strike. So, Im out and when Im walking away I mutter, Why dont you just put on one of their uniforms! And Im still holding the bat clenched in my fists when David Nicks flies to center for the third out.

The pitcher finishes his warm-ups and the ball gets passed all around and fast Eddie Ramos is walking up to the plate swinging a bat with a lead doughnut on it. Lou Tyler, our manager, is yelling that were up one run and that we should hold them. Three up, three down, he says. Three up, three down. Then he yells to me, Suder! Suder! and I turn to see him make like hes bunting with an invisible bat. Watch the bunt! he yells. Watch the bunt! It strikes me that he sometimes says things twice and I imagine its a fancy way of stuttering and, heeding his words, I step on down the third-base line toward the batter.

The first pitch is outside, but I see his left hand sneak up along the wood and I know he wants to bunt and I get ready. On the next pitch he does bunt and I run for it and the catcher runs for it and the pitcher runs for it and we all stop dead cold like its something nasty we want somebody else to pick up. Finally, I pick it up, pump once the asshole pitcher is in the way and throw it to first, but Im too late. So, the tying run is on first and I look up at the board and see Im being charged with an error. The next guy up doesnt bunt, he just tags that first pitch and sends it airmail special delivery over the left-field fence, the old Green Monster, and the game is over and we lose and aint nothing left but the crying and accusing. I close my eyes for a second and then I take to the showers.

So, I come out of the shower and slide into my Jockey shorts and sit down in front of my locker with my face in my hands. I think to myself that all I want to do is get stinking drunk, when I see Lou Tyler turning the corner and heading down the aisle toward me. He comes and sits beside me, straddles the wooden chair, and pushes the brim of his cap up.

We all have slumps, he says and Im pulling on my socks, half listening to him, and he goes on, but you got to break out of this one soon.

I look over at him and I ask, Did you see what they was calling strikes out there?

So you had a bad call.

A bad call? I suppose I really made that error out there, too. I look away from him and shake my head.

Okay, a couple of bad calls.

Jesus, I says.

Truth of the matter is, Craig, that you have to straighten up and fly right. And he slaps me on the back and tells me to get dressed.

I watch him walk away and then I slam the locker. Yeah, straighten up and fly right, I says to myself, fly right.

We get to the airport and were boarding the plane when Tuck McShane, the trainer, comes up to me. Hows the leg? he wants to know.

Aint nothing wrong with my leg, I says, sitting down.

He sits beside me. I thought I saw you favoring your left leg last night.

Nope.

Im glad youre sitting by the window. He looks past me out over the wing. Its common knowledge that old Tuck gets dizzy when he stands tippy-toed.

What you studying on so hard? he asks me and then, before I can answer, Dont worry, youll pick up. Youll play a lot better once you relax. You oughta try some breathing exercises. He inhales deeply and lets it out.

I look back out the window and watch the flaps as we take off and I see a bird and I begin to wish I could fly up high and all without the aid of a machine.

As were climbing out of the plane in Baltimore, old Tuck turns to me. Its your right leg, aint it? Want me to take a look?

Aint nothing wrong with my leg, I says.

We check into the hotel and David Nicks and I go to our room. While David is in the bathroom I call my wife and shes sounding a little down, so I ask her whats wrong.

Peter came home the other day and hed been fighting, she tells me.

Hes a seven-year-old boy, honey, I says, they fight sometimes.

You dont understand. This is the third time this week.

Maybe somebodys picking on him. Hes gotta stand up for himself.

He says the boys at day camp tease him about you, the way youve been playing.

I hear this and I dont know what to say.

Craig?

Whats he doing in that school yard, anyway? Its summer, he should be out playing in the grass. Listen, Ive got to go. David wants the phone.

Okay, I love you.

Me, too.

I go out and get drunk enough to embarrass a few dead relatives. Im still drinking and Im feeling pretty bad seeing as we just dropped three straight to Boston and this fella recognizes me. Aint you Craig Suder?

I nod. I dont even look at him, just keep my eyes on the bar and nod.

He starts to laugh and talk about how we got our butts whipped and I just keep looking at the bar, nodding. Then he says, If you was outta the lineup, Seattle might win a few.

He still aint got to me and Im still nodding.

He sorta calls one of his buddies over and theyre standing on either side of me and the first fella says, Black boys aint got no business in baseball no way.

Well, at this I turn and look at him and the next thing I know Im coming to in an alley with my face in some garbage. I get up and make my way to the hotel.

I sure as hell hope that craziness aint passed from parents to children by way of the blood. I say this because my mother was out-and-out raving insane. When I was ten and my brother, Martin, was twelve, my folks called the two of us into the kitchen. It was one of those hot North Carolina summer days when even the flies are moving slow. Daddy was sitting at the table in his underwear and Ma was wearing her cloth coat with the dog fur around the collar. Sweat was dripping off Mas face and Martin and I moved slowly to our chairs at the table. There was a great big glass of iced tea in Daddys left hand and a handkerchief in his right.

Sit down, boys, Daddy said.

We were already sitting and we looked at him, puzzled-like.

Oh, he said and gulped down some tea. Boys He stopped.

Ma cleared her throat and sat up. A bead of sweat was hanging off the tip of her nose. Your father has something he wants to tell you.

We looked back at Daddy.

Daddys eyes were locked on Ma and then sorta snapped to and said, Boys, your mother is crazy.