When he finished, Roger looked about and realized that everyone was staring at him in absolute silence, and that now he had to do something big. Praying internally nonstop, he stepped into the position in which he had seen Mantle, and tapped the plate with the bat.
“What do you call the object that is thrown toward you?” he asked of anyone. At a distance, he had not seen that it was a ball.
“Ball,” said Berra, leaving out the article, dropping his mask, and crouching into position.
Roger looked at Berra’s segmented armor and said, “You must be trayf.” Then he turned to the pitcher and said, “Throw ball!”
“Hit it above the clock,” Mantle said matter-of-factly. After all, they had discussed this already.
Roger nodded, but Wylie, one of the coaches, who was mean and small of soul, mockingly said, “No, first knock off the hand.”
“Which one?” Roger asked.
“The minute hand,” Wylie answered, delighted. The clock read 10:20.
“Okay,” said Roger, choking up naturally on Mickey Mantle’s heavy bat.
Martin began to wind up for an easy pitch—he didn’t want to hit a small Hasidic boy—but Roger stopped him, and turned to Mantle. “Mickey,” he said, “when I knock off the minute hand it will fall to the seats below. It’s pointed and it must weigh many shvoigles. The sign on the left,” he said, meaning the sign to the left of the scoreboard, “says ‘Anyone interfering with play subject to arrest.’ Does that mean me?”
“No,” half a dozen people said in unison. This broke the spell. Now they realized that he wasn’t even going to connect with the ball, and they began to think of ways—such as biting their lips—not to laugh at him so as not to devastate his pride, although they knew Wylie would.
“Hey Mickey,” someone said, “after the kid finishes, let him keep the bat.”
“Okay,” Mickey said. It was a good idea. The kid wouldn’t feel so bad.
Roger pointed at the minute hand. This was so much what like Babe Ruth used to do, uncannily so, that even though they thought he was imitating (which, never having heard of Babe Ruth, he was not), they were troubled. They assumed that the strikeout would take quite a few pitches, with Martin kindly throwing a ball or two, and they shifted from foot to foot.
Martin wound up relaxedly. He was hardly going to throw fast or fancy. He leaned back and threw.
If you had seen it in slow motion, you would have seen a baseball traveling like a planet in orbit, precisely and languorously, though behind its sharpness the rest of the world would have been a blur. Then you would have seen the bat moving back ever-so-slightly, like the hammer-cock of a Colt .45. And you would have seen Roger’s left foot elevate minutely above the ground. Then you would have seen the bat itself making an arc as certain and as powerful as a comet’s, and you would have seen the flow of his muscle and the light in his eyes, and the astronomical powers fed from the billowing fringes and folds of black cloth into the almost-glowing staff. You would have seen, in Roger’s face and eyes, a battlefield look, an expression that comes only when impossible outcomes are guaranteed. And then you would have seen the impact—so tremendous that the ball shattered into a hundred thousand minute particles filling the air with a cloud of dust that disappeared on the wind.
The Yankees had never seen anything like it. No one had.
“What happened?” someone asked.
Berra flipped up the mask. “The ball was pulverized. I saw it. I’ve seen the skin come off a ball, but I never saw a. …”
“Was that a trick ball?” Coach Wylie yelled to Martin.
“It was the ball that Mickey hit into center,” Martin answered.
No one spoke.
“I’m sorry,” said Roger. “I guess I hit it too hard. Next time, I’ll hit it more gently.”
“He hit it too hard,” Mickey said to himself, dazed.
The coach got a ball, inspected it, bounced it against the plate, and threw it out to Martin. “Try this one.”
Now no one breathed except Roger. The pitch was thrown. The same astronomical conjunctions occurred. The bat connected explosively with the ball but, this time, just under the limit beyond which the ball would have been destroyed. Leather was stretched as far as it would stretch, thread too. It traveled in a straight line, leaving behind it a brief trail of orange flame and then a hardly perceptible line of white smoke.
Mouths dropped open and bodies froze as the ball slammed into the minute hand of the clock that said World’s Most Honored Watch and blew it from its axle so that it windmilled through the air, corkscrewing, eventually, into the ground in front of the wall that had written on it the challenging notation, 407 Ft. The field of Yankee Stadium, with the Yankees standing upon it, was still.
Even Roger stared at the javelin- or propellerlike minute hand stuck perpendicularly in the ground. A seagull dipped down to examine the broken clock, and then, taken by a gust of wind, rose like a rocket and disappeared into the clouds.
“THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN,” Wylie said. “It was a trick. I’ve seen it a million times.”
“Seen what a million times, Wylie?”
“They put an explosive charge in the clock, and somebody watching with a telescope pushes a button, which sends a radio signal to the detonator, which explodes the hands off the clock. It’s the oldest trick in the world.”
“And you’ve seen it?” Mantle asked.
“I saw it in the minors in North Carolina. I saw it in Florida. I saw it all over. You know, they do it.”
“I hit the object, truthfully,” Roger stated.
“I’ll bet you did, kid. Let’s see you do it again.”
“He can’t, the hand’s down already.”
“Now that the charge is gone,” said Wylie, “let’s see you knock off the other one.” He had to believe his own theory.
Roger tapped the bat against the plate. He had a grim, insulted look. “Throw ball,” he said to Martin, who was already on the mound.
Before the pitch, Wylie shouted, “Don’t go so easy on him this time!”
Martin shot back, “What’s the difference? It’s how he hits.”
“Anybody can hit a slow pitch. That’s just giving it to him.”
“Throw ball!” yelled a peeved Roger.
“You say, ‘play ball,’ or, ‘pitch it in,’” Mantle told him.
“Pitch it in!” Roger shouted.
Martin wound up, and the ball came in toward the plate fast but straight.
Now that the motions were familiar, Roger was unconcerned about missing, and looked forward to the sharp crack of the bat. He worried only about hitting the ball gently enough not to pulverize it. Once again, he connected. Once again, the ball smoked toward the clock and struck it, this time breaking the hour hand off at the base. It fell, bumped against the scoreboard, and landed flat on the bleachers.
The Yankees were awed, but wanted reassurance nonetheless. Knowing that there was no wind, and that the field was dead silent, Mantle almost whispered, “Kid, can you put a hole in the clock?”
“Sure,” said Roger. “Where?”
“At the two o’clock position.”
“Pitch it in!”
The ball came in, and left like a recoilless rifle shell. A crunch sounded shortly after a hole appeared near the two.
“Get Stengel,” Mantle commanded, his voice almost shaking (Mickey Mantle’s voice never shook, at least not in Yankee Stadium). “I think the kid’s just about to hit the ball out of the park.”
In no time at all, Stengel emerged from the dugout. He had already been on his way, having been told by a choking assistant manager that Babe Ruth was back, reincarnated as a kid who was fresh and could do things the Babe had never done. Stengel believed this to be an elaborate joke, and he didn’t have time for jokes. “What’s going on here?” he asked belligerently. “Why’re you guys on the field? It’s not enough that Kansas City is going to completely run over you, you want to be tired, too?”
M
antle shook his head. “Casey, this kid is going to hit the ball out of the stadium,” he said, and then laughed like a deranged person. “Really, he is!”
Stengel focused on Roger for the first time. He tried to speak, but the sight of Roger, so small and slight, in black Hasidic robes, a shtreimel, and payess, made him unable to. Then he said, “All right. You got me. Now let’s get back to work, okay?”
“I’m serious,” said Mantle, a little angry and a bit trembly.
“Have you been drinking, Mickey?”
“He destroyed the clock,” a Yankee said. “He did. Look.”
Stengel looked up at the blasted clock. “Who did that?” he asked.
“He did,” Mantle said.
“It’s a trick,” Wylie shouted. “I saw it in the minors.”
“Okay, jerks,” Stengel said, never known for being unimpulsive. He paraded back and forth for a moment or two, thinking. “If that kid can hit a ball out of this park … gimme a break, will ya … if he can do that, and he’s gotta do it more than once [the businessman in Stengel could be cautious, too], I’ll sign him for a million dollars a year and I’ll double your salaries, every single one of you.”
The Yankees were ecstatic with the prospect.
“But,” Stengel went on, “if he can’t—in fifty pitches—I won’t sign him for anything, and I’ll cut your salaries in half for a year.” Stengel loved this. Unlike his current season, it was win-win.
“All of us, Mr. Stengel?” asked an outfielder who had just risen from the farm team and had a baby to feed.
Now Stengel nearly glowed. “No, you’ve got a choice here. Everyone who thinks the kid can hit it out, get behind the third-base line. Everyone who doesn’t, get behind the first-base line. If you’re behind the first-base line, your salary stays the same, no matter what. If you’re behind the third-base line, it’s double or half. Ha!” He was sure that not one member of the team would walk north beyond the third-base line. He had brilliantly transformed their joke on him into a joke on them.
For the next few minutes, the Yankees were deep in thought, and no one moved. Then Berra stood up and, with his left hand, removed his mask in the practiced gesture that he had accomplished many thousands of times. Stengel thought he was giving in. But Berra took a breath, pulled the mask back to his right shoulder, and hurled it like a pie plate beyond the third-base line. “That stands for me!” he shouted, and squatted down, confident that he would not have to catch the next pitch.
Mantle smiled the smile of someone who, though he may be about to lose grievously, will feel a deep satisfaction even in loss—as if the things that people do, all the hundreds of millions of different things, were measured not merely in the visible and apparent accounts of the world, but in another ledger of far greater import. He crossed the third-base line, and waited. Just standing there made him feel like his ancestors who had crossed oceans, knocked down forests, and fought wars.
Then the others followed suit, until only Stengel, the new outfielder, and Wylie were left behind the first-base line. Stengel was irritated beyond measure, but delighted as well. “Wylie, you don’t even count. You’re not a player, get away from me.” He looked at his team. “Okay, nuts, you want to mutiny? Okay. You’re outa your minds. But, look, I like it! You know why I like it? I like it because it’s justice. You’re doing so badly, you deserve a cut in pay. That’s why.”
He turned to Martin, still on the mound. “What about you?”
“I’m with them,” Martin said, pointing to the team.
“And so am I, goddamit!” yelled the new outfielder, crossing over.
“You mustn’t say that,” Roger scolded as the outfielder ran by him.
“Let’s go then,” Stengel said. And then, to Roger, “Did they put you up to this, kid? Did they pay you?”
“No one ever paid me anything,” said Roger, “in my whole life.”
After assessing Roger, Stengel turned to Martin. “Billy, don’t hurt him. Gentle pitches, nice and easy, all of them.”
“You haven’t seen him,” Martin said.
“But I have seen him. He’s standing right there. Look at him. Can you believe it? Kid, if you can hit the ball out of the stadium once in fifty pitches, you can have as many more pitches as you need to hit it out again, and then I’ll sign you as a Yankee for a million dollars a year.”
“It has nothing to do with money,” Roger said, and tapped the plate with the bat. “It can’t have anything to do with money. I don’t want the money. I just want to teach you,” he said earnestly, “to hit these objects, these … balls, with perfection.”
Because there was no other sound except the dim roar of traffic on the Major Deegan, even the slight luffing of the flags in the June sky was audible. The Yankees knew that what they expected was not possible, but they believed that they were going to see it.
“What lies behind the wall, past the tall white building?” Roger asked.
“The Bronx,” Berra answered.
“And what lies beyond the Bronx?”
“Long Island Sound.”
“Are there many boats in Long Island Sound?”
“On a day like today,” said Berra, “there are.”
“Beyond Long Island Sound, then?”
“Long Island.”
“Of course,” said Roger, unhappily. “And then the ocean.”
“Then the ocean,” Berra confirmed, “like water off a duck’s back. Why?”
“I wouldn’t want to hit anybody,” said Roger. “Play ball.”
As Martin wound up, Stengel was filled with joy, because, if Roger could do this, doubling salaries would be nothing compared to the revenue that would pour in. To see a ball hit out of Yankee Stadium, people would come from Borneo. If Roger couldn’t do it, the pay cut would free up funds for hiring some new players with blood in their veins. But, most of all, Stengel, like his team, like everyone, loved being at the threshold of great events.
The ball flew in, expressly. Roger now had the look of a professional, the Mantle look, the forward-oriented, concentrated gaze, the ease, the love of action. It was the attitude of the kind of racehorse that lived above all to run. Shtreimel tilted, he stepped forward and leaned gracefully into the pitch. The bat connected with the ball, this time with a sharp up-angle that every experienced batter and all the coaches deemed impossible for propelling the ball over the wall. It was simply too steep. Even had Ruth hit a ball so steeply it would have flown gloriously high but not even reached the bleachers.
This ball, however, left a faintly white trace and seemed to accelerate as it climbed. Everyone except Roger shielded his eyes and followed the trajectory. The ball made no parabola, but kept going up. They waited for it to lose power and head down, plopping into right field, but it didn’t. Only when it disappeared from sight did they realize that it was not going to come down in the stadium. They didn’t know where it was going to come down. It was gone.
It had never happened before, and no one knew what to do. So Stengel dropped to his knees and said “Holy cow,” more softly than people usually say holy cow, and he kept repeating it, as if he were in conversation with himself, a conversation limited to those two words spoken with different emphasis and intonation. It went something like this: “Holy cow. Ho-ly cow. Ho-ly cow! Holy cow? Holy … cow! Ho-ly … ca-ow! Holy? Cow?” and so on, quietly, madly.
The Yankees gave no thought to their new wealth, for as Roger hit four more pitches, one after the other, into the distant Atlantic, and Casey Stengel made an opera out of just two words, they could think only of how lucky they were to be there at that very moment.
ROGER TURNED TO STENGEL and said, “You see?”
“I see,” said Stengel. “I see.”
“I have a suggestion,” Roger went on.
“Sure, we’ll do it.”
“I was watching Mickey hit the balls here and there.”
“Yes,” Stengel said. (Not “Yes?” but “Yes.”)
“Three people
wait out in the grass to catch them.”
Stengel nodded as if seeing the game through new eyes. “That’s right. They do.”
“They shouldn’t. The one in the middle should stay, but the others should come closer in.”
“Who would cover left and right field?” Mantle asked.
Roger pointed to both, and said, “The one in the center can go to either.”
“Uh,” said Stengel, most timidly, “we’ve found that, given the depth of the field, the most a man can cover is a third. You see, the most he’d have to run would be a sixth, which would then give him a chance to cover the field back to front.” Stengel paused. “You have another way?”
“Yeh,” said Roger. “Cover from the center. I’ll show you. Give me one of those kreplach,” by which he meant a fielder’s mitt. (They wouldn’t have known had he not held out his left hand and slapped it with his right fist, as he had seen Larsen do with his glove.)
“Get the kid a kreplach!” Stengel barked, and Mickey Mantle—Mickey Mantle—ran to the dugout as eagerly as a batboy, and emerged with his own kreplach to give to Roger.
Roger jogged to center field. He didn’t go particularly fast, but he seemed to rise as high with each step as if he were wearing kangaroo shoes. Mantle took the bat that had just made history and positioned himself to hit pop-ups.