The Clincher
By Paul Teodo & Tom Myers
“YOU’RE READY.” Big Sal sat on a splintered step leading to their run-down two-flat, blowing hot stale smoke from his old stogy into the sweltering heat.
“I ain’t.” His son, the subject of his assessment, pulled at his sweat stained collar as if it were a noose. He was jumpy, his engine running fast and his mind even faster. He winced as he stood.
“The Irish kid from St. Patrick’s?” His father pointed to the oozing scab bulging from Sal’s swollen shin.
“Spiked me good.”
“Have your mother take a look at that.”
“I’m fine.”
“We need you. The tourney’s startin’ next week.” His father didn’t look at him when he talked. Sal could tell something was up.
“You needin’ me don’t mean I’m ready.”
“Nobody’s ready, Son…,” he paused and spit into the grass, “’til they step up.”
Sal picked at his leg until it bled. “Those guys been playin’ forever. I got just two years under my belt. And it’s a church league.”
“Sally, you’re ready.”
He hated when the old man called him that. His father was Big Sal. Momma called him Little Sal. Angie, his sister-Jr. The nuns-Salvatore. And his buddies called him Sal or Chooch. His head spun on a swivel, answering to all the names that seemed to be blowing around in the wind.
“What’s the other guys got to say?”
“Fuck the other guys. It’s my team.” His father still didn’t look at him. He took another pull on his cigar.
“What’s up, Pops?”
“Nothin.’”
“C’mon.”
“Nothin’s up except we need you.”
Big Sal started the Guidos in ’57. Nobody thought he could play after the punch press took three fingers off his right hand. Left him with just a thumb and a pointer. He got a few grand settlement and used it to start up the team. He swung a mean one-handed bat; a singles and doubles man, never hitting below .400. He was the Guidos’ founder, manager, coach, and frontline pitcher. And his hurky-jerky motion annoyed the hell out of hitters.
At first the team was just a bunch of burnt-out baseball guys looking for a reason to get out of the house. Then it got serious. The trophies, the fights, the bets. Sixteen-inch no-mitt softball became an obsession. Nothing got in the way. That’s how it went when guys had too much of what they didn’t want in life.
It’d now been fifteen years. Same deal every year. Start up in early April, end with the last tourney in September.
They played all over the city, but home for the league was Grand Crossing. 77th and Dobson. A nice big park with five fields. Lush green grass in May and June, yellowing in July, and by August, crispy brown blades; bees buzzing throughout the outfield, hovering, like miniature helicopters, above the white flower-topped clover. Dry, make-you wanna-cough-your-ass-off dust-devils whipping through the infield; twisted wire back-stops, razor sharp metal edges, daring you to ignore where you were running, just waiting to slice open your sun-burnt skin. A permanent piece of stiff white rubber screwed into the rock-hard earth: The Mound. Big Sal’s stomping ground.
The teams were from around 63rd south to 87th, and from Stony Island west to Cottage Grove. All vying for bragging rights, trophies, and the money. It got bigger every year, and so did the fights. No trouble with the cops, each team had one. The Guido’s? Frankie Pissani, a 30-something bruiser, with a buzz cut and an ugly scar, the only thing defining his bulbous head from his thick neck.
The Guidos, The Irishmen, The Bombers, The Polskis, The Panchos, The Dwarfs, The Dandys, and The Dukes were the regulars. And a few stray clubs filled in the last four slots each year. They’d all throw their thousand bucks into the pot and fight it out ‘til the champs, at the end of the year, stood drunk, proud, and a few grand richer.
“If you put me on the team because you run it, the other guys’ll be pissed. They’ll crucify me.”
“It’s rough out there, Sally. You made your mark. It’s time to step up.”
“I’m 19. Those are grown-ass men, Pops.”
“You’re hittin’ .600.”
“It’s a church league.”
“You spray to all fields. You got some power. And you’re growin’ into more. You run like a goddamn deer, and you got a cannon for an arm!” His father’s voice rising. “It’s your chance, Sally. You’re a natural!”
“C’mon pops, it’s a different league! At Franny’s, guys aren’t out for blood. Priests and nuns are watchin’ the games.” Sal nodded toward the park directly across the street. “I seen how you guys play. You take it serious.”
“It is serious.” His father’s eyes narrowed and peered onto the field. He pointed toward the diamond that young Sal gazed at nightly from his bedroom window. “It’s where you go to prove yourself.”
“You guys play with the Clincher. We use the Wilson.”
“A ball’s a ball.”
“A Clincher, Pops. The way those guys crush that ball, it’ll break my fuckin’ hand.”
“Church league’s over, kid. Time to step up.”
“I don’t…,” Sal started down the steps.
His father grabbed his arm between his thumb and pointer. His grip was like a vice. “You gonna do this or not? Freddy’s out, you know that, the Polack stomped his knee, and Rico had another one of them episodes.” His father tossed the stogy stub into the street, “and the cops hauled off Johnny D. So we’re short. We need you.”
He’d never heard the old man beg like this.
“You got money on the game, don’t you?”
The old man couldn’t avoid his son. His eyes flashed. He drew closer. “None a your fuckin’ business, Sally.”
Sal backed away. “Ma told me you quit!” A quiver in his voice.
Their house was a shit-show. Everything busted, leaking, or falling apart. In hock up to their ass. Collection notices stuffing the mailbox. And Ma threatening the old man everyday- quit or get out.
“The last time, Sally. It’s my last bet.”
It was always the last time.
The two stood, on the heated sidewalk, glaring at each other, rigid. Sal held back tears.
The echoed thump of a wooden bat slamming into a puffy Clincher, from the diamond across the street, broke the stark silence between the two.
His father leaned into his son’s face. The stench from the stogy hung between them. “It’s what we do.”
“You promised Ma.”
His father’s eyes narrowed. “You in or you out?”
The Guidos, The Irishmen, The Bombers, The Polskis, The Panchos, The Dwarfs, The Dandys, and The Dukes were the regulars.
“THE OLD MAN WANTS ME TO PLAY FOR THE GUIDOS.”
“Shit, Chooch. That’s the real deal. What you gonna do?”
“I ain’t ready.”
“You’re good,” Vinny said, taking a monster bite off an olive-oil-dripping pepper and egg sandwich. “Better than a lotta them old guys. You got some wheels. They got fuckin’ bow-legged waddles.”
“Jesus.” Sal nodded at the mess caked in the corner of Vinny’s mouth.
Vinny wiped some off his cheeks. “Best eggs ever.”
“Yeah, I know, you raise the goddamn chickens in your backyard.”
“And with some garlic and a little provolone,” he raised the sandwich, “heaven in your mouth.” Vinny nudged the mess Sal’s way. “Wanna bite?”
Sal shook his head. “But they been playin’…”
“You been playin’,” Vinny interrupted, mouth still stuffed.
“Church league, Vin.”
“You scared?” He popped a pepper into his mouth.
Sal’s head snapped towards Vinny. “Nope.” He spit onto the cracked infield dirt and turned away.
“I’d be.” Vinny spread dust around home plate, scraping his spike on its hard rubber. He kicked the plate a few more times and spoke again like he was searching for what to say. “How’s the leg?”
“Fine.”
He finished off the sandwich, pulled a snot rag from his pocket, and wiped his mouth. “Seamus got you good.”
“Seamus is an asshole.”
“We all got our assholes, Chooch.”
Sal didn’t respond. He was somewhere else. Thinking about the old man. The bets. The bills. Ma.
Last time.
Or he had to leave.
He wasn’t ready. It was a church league, for Christ’s sake.
Vinny slammed into Sal’s daydream, his urgent high-pitched voice like a banshee. “Man, you gotta do what you gotta do.” He stood closer, his breath reeking of garlic, eggs, and peppers, poking Sal in the chest. “And I’m not one to push. But Sal,” his voice lowered, “it ain’t about talent.” Vinny was good for Sal. “Chooch.” He moved even closer. He slid his hands between Sal’s legs, squeezing his testicles. “It’s about these.”
✶
“YOU’RE IN LEFT.” His father pointed and handed him a green, white, and red jersey: Guidos emblazed on its front, 13 sewn on its back. “Play shallow. Most a these guys spray. They only got two bombers. We’ll let you know when they come up.”
Sal stripped off his shirt and lifted the jersey. He paused, eyeing it. “Pops, that’s your number.”
“Not anymore.” His father pointed his finger to the outfield. “Now get out there.”
“Left?”
“Yeah.”
“Put Dominic out there. It’s my first game.”
“Nicki runs like he’s pullin’ a fuckin’ truck.”
“He knows…”
“Left for Christ’s sake! Get your ass out there.”
Sal slipped the jersey over his lean body. The body of a scared kid, on his way up, a kid who was being ripped apart. He jogged slowly to his position, his knees weak, and his hands trembling.
In the church league, he went after everything. His confidence was over the top. He’d get bored and call guys off flies all the way in center just to keep his head in the game. His teammates, were relieved most of the time, fearing they’d fuck up in front of the small crowds who’d show up for the games. Sal could go back on balls like a cheetah running down an antelope, and come in on em’ like the street racers on Cottage Grove. Not one error in two years.
Today, none of that was happening. He just wanted to stand out there and be left alone. But that was impossible. In 16-inch, more balls were hit to left than anyplace else. Sally was in the middle of a tornado, not knowing when the next blast would knock him on his ass. The church league drew family members, a drunken priest or two, and a couple nuns. These games had two-three hundred hard-core fans, sprawled on blankets, kitchen chairs, and tops of coolers, sucking suds and smoking cigarettes, many who – like the old man – had dough on the game.
Big Sal warmed up. Wrapping his two good fingers around the rock-hard Clincher. Faking, snorting, and swearing. Looping the ball, with a high arc, towards home, with a vicious backspin, or without any spin at all. Using every trick the rules would allow, and cheating whenever he could get away with it. Keeping all but the most expert batters from stepping into a pitch. This was a hitter’s game and most pitchers were guys who were a liability in the field or who had connections. And Big Sal was the connection. It was his team. His severed fingers paid for it. And even more important, he pissed off every batter he faced.
✶
SAL WAS JUMPY AS A CAT DANGLING OVER A POT OF BOILING WATER. He felt like he didn’t belong and was terrified something would come his way. He dug in the burnt grass with his spikes and waved off unseen bees buzzing around his head. He’d seen The Dandys before. A bunch of emaciated guys who looked like they’d missed way too many meals. But somehow they fielded a team that always came in over .500. Last year they’d gone to the semis in the September Tourney, never scoring more than 8 runs in any game. Their fielding was superb, guys gliding over large swaths of outfield, running like stallions, chasing down fly balls destined for glory, limiting big-thumpers to long outs, and bruised egos.
First batter: About 6’1, skinny as a rail, face peppered with pimples. His long hair greasy and tied in a ponytail. He dug in with a pair of beat up high-top Chuck Taylor’s, kicking up dust. The old man ready to wheel and deal. His motion never the same: a fake here, a juke there, and a dead pause in the middle of his underhand windup, and he never stopped jawing at whoever was at the plate. At home, he was quiet. On the mound, a foul-mouthed heckler.
He had inside information on everyone that came to bat.
The Dandys were a mixed breed. They were littered with Poles, Germans, Asians, and even an Arab. What their nationalities lacked in commonality was made up for with the abundance of their physical acumen. They all could fly. A single was always a double, a double was an opportunity for a triple, and anybody that touched 3rd upright was expected to stretch it into a homer.
The odd site of the old man’s thumb and pointer wrapped around the Clincher coupled with the back spin he got off his funky grip made the big white ball look like a gigantic snowflake dancing and darting in the middle of a winter storm.
The old man started in on the scrawny Dandy.
Sal heard his father all the way from left.
“You skinny piece of shit.”
“You got nothin.’”
“I hit better with one hand.”
“Undernourished moron.”
“Last night your mother rolled over and kissed me goodbye.”
No batter was left un-assaulted.
The Dandy ignored the old man and put his bat on a knee-high floater that rocketed towards Sal. The Clincher’s irregular trajectory quivered like a knuckler. It closed in on him like it was launched from a broken bazooka.
Sally froze.
Ma said he quit.
One more time and he’d be gone.
The crowd roared as the Clincher darted towards him, seeming to pick up speed. Sal heard nothing, as if he was alone, in an empty field. The dead silence was stark, eerie.
Sally stood, unmoving, the ball whizzing by his head. He did not turn to track it down.
One more time and he’d be gone.
The Dandy tore around the bases like a thief being run down by the cops.
He stood, statue-like, on the burnt outfield grass.
Joey Riggio, the center fielder, lumbered after ball. By the time he got to it, the Dandy was standing at home, giving the old man the finger.
But the old man’s back was to the Dandy. He was headed towards his son, bat in hand.
Sal remained motionless in left. An odd silence blanketed the field.
“What the fuck are you doin’, Sally?”
Sal’s eyes met his father’s.
Big Sal raised the bat over his head. “I said, what the fuck are you doin’?!”
“Last time, Pops.”
“What?” his father raged.
“Last time. I made sure.”