Painting the Corners Again Read online

  “I told Preston I thought I saw it, but that I wasn’t sure,” Daisy said, looking directly at Gloria, as if needing to find a way out of being included in her husband’s certainty.

  “The second time,” Hollander continued, “we’d only been sitting here about half an hour on a beautiful day for baseball when two buses showed up, full of kids with their own bats and balls who took over the whole field. We waited a while, but they looked like they weren’t going anywhere soon, so we left. I knew the players wouldn’t come out if they couldn’t have the field for themselves. So I’m hoping we picked the right day today. If not, that’s it, and no regrets. Tomorrow we’ll be on our way to see our kids in Kansas City.”

  By four o’clock the two men had already discussed, and lightly argued at times about the pennant race in the American League and the sad status of Albie’s Orioles. Both agreed that Toronto would maintain its lead over the Yankees, but disagreed as to whether the Blue Jays or the Western Division leading White Sox would advance to the World Series. Albie acknowledged that the Orioles were going nowhere, but refused to point out faults of any of his teammates.

  “I’m telling you, Preston,” he said, “we’ve got a good nucleus on the club with Ripken, Buford, Brady Anderson, and Mike Mussina. We can do a lot better next year if we pick up a couple of good free agents. Look at what Molitor has done for Toronto.”

  As they spoke, they seemed to take turns glancing out at the outfield to check on whether any players were emerging from the cornfield onto the baseball diamond.

  “It’s cooled off a little,” Hollander said, “more comfortable for playing out there. It was too humid before.”

  “You’re right,” Albie answered. “I wouldn’t mind being out there myself right now.”

  Daisy and Gloria had moved away from their husbands to the other end of the row. In anticipation of what she was sure lay ahead that afternoon, Daisy brought her knitting with her and worked easily on lengthening a scarf she was making while talking to Gloria. From time to time there were other visitors to the Field of Dreams who walked over to view the site for a short time and then departed. Some stopped at the souvenir shop on their way out while others were more anxious to get on their way.

  “The girls are coming back,” Albie said, as Gloria and Daisy moved down the row toward them.

  “Preston, how long do you intend to sit and wait for something to happen?” Daisy asked. “Gloria and I are thinking of going into town for some iced tea.”

  Hollander was slow to reply, and looked at Albie.

  “I’m staying until six,” Albie said. “I’ll keep Preston company at least until then. They’re not going to want to start a game after that. So you gals go on and enjoy yourselves. Here’s the car keys, honey. You do the driving.”

  The two men got up to stretch and walked up and down the row several times until they saw Albie’s rental car leave the parking lot and drive off. They were the only tourists remaining. When they sat down again, Hollander told Albie that the longest home run he’d ever personally seen was hit by Frank Thomas.

  “Daisy and I were in Boston for a weekend last year at a family thing and I got tickets to a Red Sox game on Saturday afternoon. Well, when Thomas hit that ball out over left field, it looked like it could have cleared two Fenway Parks if one was right behind the other. I saw it from the first base stands and I couldn’t believe how high up in the air it was when it went out of there. It was almost like a rocket.”

  Albie shook his head in agreement without saying anything, and Hollander continued. “There seems to be a lot of home runs being hit these days, and plenty of them a long ways. I guess it’s the baseballs. I’ve read where the company turning them out can do something with the rubber or whatever it is inside the balls to make them more lively. Even sewing the stitches tighter helps it go further, they say.”

  “That’s right, I guess,” Albie said. He looked down at his feet as he spoke. “I’ve heard players say the same thing.”

  “Some folks believe the commissioner ordered them to do it because that’s what the fans want to see. It pushes up the attendance and that makes the owners happy.” Hollander waited for Albie to answer or to dispute what he had said, but when he didn’t, Hollander continued. “Me personally, I can’t say I go for all those home runs and the high scoring games. I’d much rather see two pitchers going at it, with a lot more suspense. I like it best when every pitch could decide who wins.” Albie’s continued silence and the fact that he still had his head bowed, as if eyeing something on the ground below the bleachers, irritated the older man. He felt strongly about the opinion he had offered and thought he was being ignored. “Well, you play the game,” he said, indicating he expected an answer. “Do you agree with me, or how do you feel?”

  Albie raised his head, and almost in the same motion jumped to his feet, pointing to the field. “They’re coming,” he said. “Look out there, Preston. The players are coming out of the cornfield.”

  “Yes, they are,” Hollander shouted. “Holy cripes, they really do come here to play. There’s about thirty of them out there. Look at those different uniforms they’ve got on. Must be the ones they wore for their last minor-league clubs.”

  As they watched, the players split into two teams. Half of them gathered on the third base side of the field, in foul territory, about twenty feet off the base line. Nine of the others took up the defensive positions on the field, leaving a handful to sit between the first base foul line and the bleachers. The pitcher on the mound began warming up, using a flick of his wrist to signal the catcher what the next pitch would be.

  “Albie, I thought you said this was all minor leaguers. That’s Lefty Grove out there. I saw that big Philadelphia “A” on his shirt and then recognized his delivery. Watch him kick that left leg up in the air. You’re looking at a guy who won 300 games in his career and 31 in one season. They used to say all he had was a fast ball and everyone knew it was coming, but no one could hit it. I know for a fact he pitched over 250 innings in 11 seasons out of 12. Back then they weren’t counting on having eighth inning set-up guys and ninth inning closers.” Hollander turned to look at his new friend. “Did you find your father out there yet? I want to see him as soon as you spot him.”

  Grove struck out two hitters and retired the side on eight pitches in six minutes. When the other side took the field, Hollander had another surprise thrown at him. He wasn’t certain at first as he watched the pitcher get loose. “Do you know who I think is out there now, Albie? If it’s him, you’re looking at maybe the greatest pitcher of his time, white or black. I know he was over forty years old before they let him play in the majors. And he wouldn’t have gotten in if the Dodgers didn’t sign Jackie Robinson first.” Hollander turned to look back at the field. Several seconds later his excitement burst forth again. “It is, Albie, it’s Satchel Paige. The two pitchers I wanted to see, and they’re both here today. It’s like someone knew what I wanted and my wish was granted. If anyone else told me this happened to them, I never would’ve believed it.” Still watching the field, he said, “These minor-league guys will be lucky to get a hit off either pitcher.”

  Hollander suddenly remembered why Albie was there and saw that he looked distressed. “What’s the matter, can’t you find him?” he asked.

  “No, he’s not out there. If he was, he’d be playing third. And he’s not one of the guys waiting to hit.”

  While they spoke, Paige matched Grove’s efficiency, disposing of the three batters he faced in six minutes also.

  “Well, if he was as good as you say, he’d be playing. So chances are it’s the same as with some of the major-league all-stars. He probably got picked for the team and then got hurt or sick and had to pull out. That’s what I think, Albie, and maybe you can find out for sure when the game’s over.”

  There was no scoring by either team in the first six innings, and luck had allowed each one hit off the opposing pitcher. In the seventh, the last inning they would pla
y, Grove’s thirteenth strikeout victim reached first base on a passed ball by the catcher. A sacrifice bunt moved him to second and he advanced to third on a ground ball out. Grove seemingly got out of the inning with yet another strikeout, but his catcher mishandled the ball again, allowing it to roll far enough away for the speedy runner on third to cross the plate safely. His team now needed a run in the last half of the inning to avoid defeat. Although Hollander was secretly hoping that Paige would repeat his legendary feat of intentionally walking the first three batters to load the bases and then striking out the three that followed, Paige shortcut that route and fanned the first three men he faced.

  As soon as the last out was recorded, the players all began a slow walk back toward the cornfield, signaling to their two spectators in the first base bleachers that the game was over.

  “Go on, Albie,” Hollander said. “You can catch up with one or two of those guys.”

  Albie quickly made his way down from the bleachers and jogged out past the infield until he crossed paths with one of the players heading toward the cornfield from the third base side.

  “Hey,” the player said, waving an arm in Albie’s direction.

  “Hey,” he answered, and began walking beside him. “Can I ask you about someone? I expected to see him in the game today, but he wasn’t there.”

  “Sure, go ahead,” the player said. “I saw you sitting there the whole game and figured you might be looking for someone. You’re an Orioles fan, huh.”

  “I play outfield for them. My name’s Albie Knox.”

  “Oh, then you’re Arthur’s son.”

  “Yes, I am. You know him?”

  “Of course I do. We all know each other.” He smiled at Albie. “How did you like the game?”

  “I loved it. The guy sitting with me couldn’t believe it. Grove and Paige were the two pitchers he wanted to see the most.”

  “Yeah, we knew that. And they didn’t mind coming out and pitching to us minor leaguers.”

  “So can you tell me why my dad wasn’t out here today?”

  “Yeah, I can, but you ought to talk to him. See that spot where the guys are walking into the cornfield? It looks like I’ll be the last one in. Just wait a few minutes after that and then call your dad. He’ll hear you.”

  “That’s great. Thanks a lot. Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t ask your name.”

  “It’s Jocko Kantor. I caught for the Durham Bulls a couple years. I saw your old man play a bunch of games. He was as slick a third baseman as they come.”

  When they reached the edge of the cornfield, Kantor stopped and turned to Albie. “Good luck,” he said. “I hope things work out for you.” He turned quickly, stepped between several stalks of corn and disappeared.

  As Albie and Kantor approached the cornfield, Gloria and Daisy returned to the bleachers.

  “Where’s Albie?” Gloria asked as they reached the top row where Preston was standing. “Looking for a bathroom?”

  “No, there he is in the outfield, walking with that ballplayer. He wants to ask about his father.”

  “I see Albie,” Gloria said, “but he’s alone. There’s no one with him.”

  “Of course there is,” Hollander answered. “The guy has on an orange shirt and a blue cap, and he’s carrying a catcher’s mask in his hand.”

  “Preston, you’ve had too much sun today,” Daisy said. “Gloria’s right. He’s out there all alone.”

  Hollander knew he was right, but now was beginning to understand what was going on. He and Albie could see the players because they wanted to see them and believed they could. The women didn’t care at all. They were just patronizing their husbands, letting them have their fun. The players and the game meant nothing to them, so they saw nothing and wouldn’t believe anything they were told. He realized there was no sense filling Daisy in about everything that took place in her absence, or she might think he was beginning to show signs of senility. When he looked out again, Albie was standing alone at the edge of the cornfield.

  It felt strange to Albie to be calling his father by his full name. “Arthur Knox, Arthur Knox, it’s Albie, your son. I want to see you and talk to you. Dad, Arthur Knox, please come out.”

  “I hear you, Albie, but I can’t come out. I’m not allowed on the playing field or even where you can see me.”

  Albie heard the familiar high pitch of his father’s voice and felt closer to him immediately. In his mind’s eye he saw images of his father talking to him from across the dinner table and coaching him on the baseball field that was located just a block from their home.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “Because of you, because of the way you’ve disgraced baseball. The players here know about it and they’re taking it out on me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know darn well what I mean. You take steroids to help you play better. You’re willing to cheat to hit home runs and pad your statistics so you can make more money. Everyone here played the game honestly, even though they knew steroids would help them get out of Triple-A and up to the big leagues. All their lives they dreamed of making it to the majors, me included, but no one here would shame themselves like you’ve done to get there. When a hitter suddenly goes from fifteen home runs a year to 45, there’s no secret what he’s up to. And the players here are taking it out on me because they figure I didn’t teach you how to respect the game.”

  “But you had nothing to do with it. You never encouraged me to cheat.” Albie realized in that moment that he was openly confessing to cheating for the first time.

  “You and I know that, but that’s not going to change their minds. The only chance we have of being together and my getting back into the all-star games is for you to stop taking the stuff. Can you do that or are those home runs and the money more important to you?”

  Albie’s emotions took over. “Of course I can stop. I want to see you. I want to sit down and talk to you about a lot of things. I can’t wait to throw a ball around with you. I’ll stop the stuff, I promise. You’re going to play in that next all-star game, Dad, you can count on it. And I’ll be here to watch.”

  “Thanks, Albie. I was sure you’d give it up as soon as I spoke to you about it. I’ll let everyone here know.”

  “Tell them I apologize for what I did. I let the pressure get to me because my contract’s up this year and I wanted to make as much as I could in the next one.”

  “Okay, Albie, I understand, but now you know it was a mistake. Listen, I’ve got to get back, but I feel terrific because I know I’ll be seeing you soon. Goodbye, son.”

  “Goodbye, Dad.”

  On the drive back to the airport Albie told Gloria everything that happened that afternoon. She listened to all of it without interrupting once to ask a question. Her feeling was that if it made him happy to invent that kind of story or to be imagining those things, there was no reason for her to dispute it and risk starting an argument over it. As they neared the airport, however, she couldn’t resist letting Albie know that during the time they waited in the bleachers while he walked to the edge of the cornfield, and even while he made his way back to them, Preston never said a word about there having been a ballgame played on the field.

  “Surely he would have said something to Daisy if what you say was so. After all, she came here with him three times because he was so sure he’d see some players on the field. If he did, I don’t think he could have kept it to himself.” After a short pause, Gloria added, “Preston did point to you in the outfield and tell us you were walking with a baseball player who wore an orange shirt, but both Daisy and I could see you were alone. Anyway, Albie, I wasn’t aware you were taking steroids. Is that dangerous?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I feel fine. The stuff’s in Baltimore and I’ll get rid of it as soon as I get back.”

  Gloria was satisfied. “I can hardly wait to shop that miracle mile tomorrow,” she said.

  On July 17th, an article in the sports section of the Baltimore
Sun indicated that Albie Knox, whose contract expired at the end of the season, had made up his mind to test the free agent market. The information was attributed to Knox’s agent who was successful each year in negotiating the most lucrative contracts for his clients. The team owner pleaded poverty to the media consistently whenever he was questioned about any player signings, but always concluded his reply with the pledge that “We’ll do everything we can to keep him an Oriole.” In this case, he knew already that Knox’s demands would be more than he’d be willing to pay.

  A week later, an hour before the start of the rubber game between the Orioles and the Mariners in Seattle, Albie was called into the manager’s office and told he’d been traded to the San Diego Padres.

  “The GM said he spoke to your agent and there’s no way the club can match what he says you’ll be looking for in free agency. The Padres think they have a decent chance to make it into the playoffs, but need a hitter like you in the middle of the lineup to drive in some runs and help win the close ones. They’re giving us a frontline pitcher in Hal Rodgers and a couple of good prospects in Double-A, so it looks like a good deal for both clubs. They want you to report right away, Albie, so you probably ought to say your farewells to the guys now and catch a flight down the coast. I’ll miss you and I’m damn glad we won’t have to pitch to you ourselves.” The two men shook hands and fell into a mutual hug.

  That night, after arriving at his hotel in San Diego, Albie phoned Gloria and told her about the trade. Later on, as he was enjoying a room service dinner, he had an unexpected visit from the Padres general manager who welcomed him to the city and the team.

  “We gave up a lot to get you, Albie, but we expect it to be well worth it. We’ve given our fans an exciting season so far—something they’re not used to—and we want to make it a memorable one by getting into the playoffs. Our pitching is as good as anyone else in the division—that’s why we could send Rodgers to the Orioles—and it’s what has carried us to this point. We’re only five games out of first with plenty of time to catch up, and we’ve still got ten games left with the Dodgers. They beat us six of the first eight we played them, but we didn’t drop a single one by more than two runs. A long ball at the right time here or there and the results would have been reversed. That’s where you come in, Albie. You’re on a pace for 45 to 50 home runs, the same as last year, and that’s what’s going to win ballgames for us. I never interfere with what the manager does, so it’s up to Glenn where you’ll hit in the order, but you’ll hit and that’s why we brought you here.”