Magic Time. W. Kinsella P.

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СКАЧАТЬ me a scout from the White Sox had been in the stands for a couple of games.

      ‘Didn’t want to put any pressure on you, Son, so I didn’t tell you. You’ve got a big-league future in front of you, or I don’t know my baseball players. You’ve got all the tools. Speed, a strong arm, and a good eye will make up for your lack of power. You’re gonna be a great one.’

      Had he not told me about the scout because he knew I didn’t play well under pressure? Or hadn’t he noticed? I’d gone 0–5 in our tournament loss, and made an error.

       TWO

      I was in my second year of high school the day a Cadillac the color of thick, rich cream pulled up in front of Mrs. Grover’s Springtime Café and Ice Cream Parlor. Our main street was paved but narrow, with six feet of gravel between the edge of the pavement and the sidewalk. Dust from the gravel whooshed past the car and oozed through the screen door of the café.

      Byron and I were seated at a glass-topped table, our feet hooked on the insect-legged chairs. We were sharing a dish of vanilla ice cream, savoring each bite, trying to make it outlast the heat of high July.

      It was easy to tell the Cadillac owner was a man who cared about his car. He checked his rear view carefully before opening the driver’s door. After he got out – ‘unwound’ would be a better description, for he was six foot five if he was an inch – he closed the door gently but firmly, then wiped something off the side-view mirror with his thumb. On the way around the Caddy, he picked something off the grille and flicked it onto the road.

      He took a seat in a corner of the café where he could watch his car and everyone else in the café which was me, Byron, and Mrs. Grover.

      The stranger looked to be in his mid-thirties. He had rusty hair combed into a high pompadour that accentuated his tall front teeth and made his face look longer than it really was. Across his upper lip was a wide coppery-red mustache with the corners turned up and waxed, the kind worn by 1890s baseball players.

      Though everything about him was expensive, down to the diamond ring on his left baby finger, he looked like the type who didn’t like to conform. I guessed he had grown his hair down past his shoulders when he was a teenager. His hair was now combed back, hiding the top half of his ears and the back of his collar. He was wearing a black suit with fine gray pinstripes, a white-on-white shirt, and shoes that must have cost three hundred dollars.

      ‘I’d like something tall and cool,’ he said.

      ‘I have pink lemonade,’ Mrs. Grover said in a tiny voice that belied her 250 pounds. She had waddled halfway from the counter to his table, but stopped when the stranger spoke.

      ‘I’ll have the largest one you’ve got,’ he said.

      Mrs. Grover delivered the lemonade in a sweaty, opaque glass. He took a long drink, stretched his legs, and looked around the room.

      ‘What do you figure he does?’ whispered Byron.

      When I didn’t answer quickly enough he went on. ‘A banker, I bet – or an undertaker, maybe.’

      ‘He’s suntanned,’ I said, ‘and bankers have short hair.’ The big brother pointing out the obvious to the little brother. ‘And look at his hands.’

      The knuckles were scarred, the fingers callused.

      ‘What then?’

      ‘Howdy, boys,’ the stranger said, and raised his glass to us. His voice was deep and soft.

      ‘Hi,’ we said.

      ‘I see you’re ballplayers.’ He nodded toward our gloves, which rested on the floor by the chair legs. ‘Is there much baseball played in these parts?’

      The question was like opening a floodgate. We told him about everything from Little League to the high-school team I played for, to the commercial leagues where the little towns, subdivisions, and bedroom communities competed, to the Cubs and White Sox in nearby Chicago.

      1 ended the baseball lecture saying, ‘My brother doesn’t play much baseball, at least not the way I do. I’m gonna play pro some day.’

      ‘How did your team do this year?’ he asked me, not in the patronizing way most adults have, but speaking with a genuine interest.

      ‘Well,’ I said, a little embarrassed, ‘last year we went to the State Championships, but this season we were two and nineteen. But we’re really a lot better ball club than that,’ I rushed on before he could interrupt – or laugh, as most adults did when I announced our dismal record.

      ‘I keep statistics,’ I said. ‘We scored more runs than any team in the league. We’re good hitters and average fielders, but we didn’t have anyone who could pitch. A bad team gets beat seventeen to two. We’d get beat seventeen to fourteen, nineteen to twelve, eighteen to sixteen.’

      ‘They’re really good hitters, especially Mike here,’ Byron broke in. ‘Mike’s gonna make it to the Bigs.’

      ‘I practice three hours a day all year round,’ I said. ‘I’m a singles hitter. A second-base man. I walk a lot and steal a lot.’

      ‘If you’re good you’ll make it,’ the stranger said.

      ‘You look like you might be a player yourself,’ I said.

      ‘I’ve pitched a few innings in my day,’ he said, with what I recognized as understatement, and he made his way, in two long strides, to our table.

      ‘The thought struck me that you boys might like another dish of ice cream. Since you’re sharing I assume your budget is tight.’

      ‘You’ve had a good thought,’ said Byron.

      ‘I notice my lemonade cost seventy-five cents, as does a dish of ice cream. I might be willing to make a small wager.’

      ‘What kind?’ we both asked, staring up at him.

      ‘Well now, I’m willing to bet I can tell you the exact distance in miles between any two major American cities.’

      ‘How far is it from Algonquin to Peoria?’ Byron asked quickly.

      ‘Algonquin, at least, is not a major American city,’ said the stranger gently, ‘but I did notice as I was driving that the distance from DeKalb to Peoria was 118 miles, so you just add the distance from DeKalb to Algonquin.’ Byron looked disappointed.

      ‘What I had in mind, though, were large cities. Chicago, of course, would qualify, so would Des Moines, St. Louis, Kansas City, New Orleans, Los Angeles, Seattle, Dallas, and, if you insist,’ and he smiled in a quick and disarming manner at Byron, ‘I’ll throw in Peoria.’

      ‘How far from New York to Chicago?’ I asked.

      ‘Exactly 809 miles,’ said the stranger.

      ‘How do we know you’re not making that up?’ I said.

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