A Good Man in the Clutch

Bobby Sullivan found reality during the bottom of the ninth. At the end of a hard American day of time-clocked construction drudgery. Bobby went out, bought a six-pack and some beer nuts, and propped his smelly feet up on the milk crate in his living room and watched the ball game. It was his way of relaxing, though certainly not his exclusively (this fact bothered him); tonight, as was the case with most of his terminal summer nights, the ball game was all he had to look forward to.

And he was certainly looking forward to it. Bobby always loved baseball, had played Little League when he was young and later on he pitched for his high school team. But college--well, he couldn't understand what was happening in college so he dropped out, having decided to make some money in construction instead. No money in Kant or Hegel, he reasoned. There were plenty of philosophy students mopping floors until midnight for minimum wage, and Bobby had grander aspirations: he wanted a fast, sleazy car, a pool, a color TV, an air conditioner, a wife who looked like Cheryl Tiegs, and plenty of beer.

He already had most of those pure American joys, including a new Trans Am with stripes of fire painted down the side (ultimate sleaze), but the milk crate under his feet was a nagging paen to what seemed like an eternal and fruitless search for happiness in wealth. He often wondered what he had to look for to find happiness; Bobby Sullivan'd been working construction now for five years, and his aging muscles tugged and strained on him, painful but, fastidious friends of his own mortality.

Aside from the dull, in candescent glow of his Woolworth's lamp, Bobby's color T.V. was the only light in his living room. It sent a stupifying green-purple din into his soul, increasing his sense of urban isolation and loneliness. He couldn't find any women who would go out with him that evening, and his buddies were probably whooping it up in the backs of their pickups (or so he thought). But Bobby had his color T.V. and Ken Harrelson and Dick Stockton, and with Rick Burleson up against Ron Guidry, the count was 0-and-2. It was better than drinking alone.

Strike three. Christ-a tie ball game. It really got Bobby's bile up when the high-paid hitters couln't hit homeruns during clutch situations. They're pulling in hundreds of thousands of dollars to play a game and he had to leave home and sweat away eight hours a day at meaningless work. By the time he would get home he'd be too tired to do anything but drink beer and watch a ball game, a captive audience. There were so many useless people in America -- he was grinding his teeth now -- ball players who can't win, philosophy students who don't know the meaning of reality...

Huh. Another swill of beer brought some more bile up. Just that evening he was waiting for the Watertown Square bus after work, sitting on an ancient bench in the urine-soaked subway when some freak hauling a queer knap-sack pushed his waist-length hair back behind his shoulders and began arguing with his chum about "perceptions of reality."

"C'mon, man, what kind of crap is this about 'the real world.' What do you mean when you say you want to get away from school and experience the real world -- this is the real world. What you see in the here and now. Reality is constantly changing and it's different for every person who perceives it."

What kind of bullshit was this, Bobby thought, the kid doesn't know what's real and what ain't.

A dumpy, buck-toothed idiot poked Bobby in the arm.

"You got a dime for two nickels?" he asked.

"Sure," Bobby said, pulling a dime from his pocket.

"Naah, I mean a dime for two nickels," the idiot replied, inadvertantly spitting pieces of ice cream cone and spittle all over Bobby's green work-pants as he spoke. Bobby grimaced, looked at him with a twisted faceful of disgust, "You mean two nickels for a dime."

"Na, I mean a dime for two nickels."

"Yeah, well I don't have it." Bobby turned abruptly away from the bore and fastened his eyes on the confusing "Heaven Can Wait" billboard advertisement across the way. The idiot turned on his Panasonic portable high-powered supersonic radio/tape machine with big sound holes and switches, blaring intolerable music. He poked Bobby in the arm again.

"I always carry my tunes wit me, huh-huh..." Bobby kept his eyes trained on the Warren Beatty ad, his shoulders hunched away from the bestial slob.

"Ya know, these people ain't goin' nowhere," the idiot laughed. "I work for the 'T' ya know, huh. Ya know they tried to take somethin' from our contract, huh. But we striked. We said, 'No money, no work.' Huh. One guy chickened out -- he drove a bus in Brighton. If we ever find out his name, tousands of workers a gonna get a piece of his body. Huh. My old man, he's one of the big guys in the 'T,' ONE OF THE BIG GUYS..."

Another irritating poke in the arm. More life story.

"He-he-he fixed for me to get this job drivin' the bus -- you know, he's one of the big guys, whadda you call 'em..."

The bile was rising in Bobby Sullivan, his neck was turning red. This idiot couldn't speak in anything but a shout, and people were starting to notice. Private nightmare turning into public spectacle. The heat of the day was mounting, eye pressure was pressing, and as the idiot drooled on, Bobby got up and headed back up to the street. He bought a six-pack and hitch-hiked home to watch the ball game.

Bullshit about reality, drooling obnoxious idiots -- reality's bottomless-pit Nirvana was in his living room, the truth in a six-pack and a color television.

But he was so tired and frustrated at his hopeless America as he watched Rick Burleson strike out. The bottom of the ninth was coming up after another beer commercial, and the commercial was so boring (another "Schlitz Light" jobber -- only this time they decided to change the Coburn character a little, mellow him out; they took all of the "tough" out of him) that Bobby just nodded out in front of the tube, his hand falling limp, spilling beer all over the synthetic carpet.

The piping screams and whistles of the Fenway fans brought Bobby's consciousness back, but he couldn't figure out what the hell he was doing with a rosin bag in his hand. Don Zimmer was walking out of the dugout towards him, and Carlton Fisk trotted up to the mound.

"C'mon Bobby, whatsa matter?" Carlton asked. "Just keep it on the inside corners. Jam'im. Foster can't hit inside." By this time Zimmer had made it out to the mound, and he slapped a fatherly hand on Bobby's shoulder. Bobby looked at the hand distrustfully.

"S'okay Sully, it's okay. You got 'em 3-and-2, but he's gonna be goin' for it. You know it and he knows it. There's two down and they ain't gonna send Morgan home from third on a walk. One sharp pitch and they'll go home 'til next spring. Go get 'em." Another slap on the back and Zimmer and Fisk silently turned their backs and departed.

Bobby pounded the ball into his glove. "What's goin' on?" he barely uttered. As he stood frozen on the rubber like a petrified rabbit, Fisk was flashing finger codes at him, and Bobby didn't know what any of them meant. Out of fear he just nodded neurotically. And then he stood there, not knowing what to do. The crowd had worked itself into pent-up silence, awaiting the pitch of the season. The sweat was pouring down from Bobby's brow, flooding his eyes and blurring his vision. He stepped off the mound to wipe his forehead; George Foster rolled his eyes with impatience and disgust, stepping out of the batter's box and shaking his bat about like a mean club. The fans were vibrating with tension.

Fisk spat a chaw of tobacco in front of home plate and trotted up to Bobby. Al Jackson came out of the dugout, looking more than a bit distraught.

"What's goin' on, Bobby?" Fisk asked in his driest, most professional tone of voice.

That's okay, Bobby," Jackson said compassionately. "Let 'em wait until you're ready. Take your time. Just make sure you're ready." Fisk slapped him on the butt and retreated to the plate.

The scene was madness. The Cincinnati Reds. The LAST pitch. Zimmer stood fixed, staring stonily from the dugout, a Grand Teutonic field marshal in double-knits. Bill Lee was doing some yoga stretches in the bullpen, singing Hindu chants from the Bhagavad Gita. The lights from downtown Boston flickered off past right field in the glare of ballpark floodlights, the green monster stood impassive.

It was real, too. Bobby certainly hadn't ingested any LSD-25, and as far as anyone knows, beer isn't known to have any hallucinogenic properties. He wasn't dreaming, pipe or otherwise, and he knew he was too conscious as he scratched the compelling itch under his jock strap.

Now the fans were getting on his back. Taking too much time. Looking confused. Scratching himself on the mound. In a flurry of hungry impatience, the drug-addled bleacherpeople tossed paper cups and programs into centerfield, where Freddy Lynn dutifully picked them up.

The infield chatter began, Burleson, Hobson, Remy rapping their gloves and bouncing on their front cleats: "C'mon Bobby babay, lessgo, Bobby BABAY lessgo lessgo, c'mon, pepper'n in ayer c'mon babay..."

The time had come for action. Bobby had studied history long enough to know it was totally irrelevant in fact; he had played craps enough at work to know that if you roll a seven, that still doesn't make you any more likely to roll another seven on your next throw. The future was always near but also unforseen, dependent entirely on the here and now.

Now Bobby couldn't throw much of a fastball, or a slider, or a knuckler, or a sinker -- but a change-up... Foster stood out there, and poised, waiting to pop like a firecracker. If Bobby could surprise him with a blooping, off-speed, curving ephus ball, he might just catch Foster off-balance. Anyway, the result could be no worse if Bobby pumped a mediocre fast ball right down the pipe.

So Bobby gathered himself up on the mound, his flabby thighs knocking around as he worked into his stretch-looking like he knew what he was doing -- and kicked and threw his arm around across his body very fast ("remember to snap your wrist" the coach always said) and popped the ball from his hand. It arced high high high and Foster, deceived by the apparent force of Bobby's wind-up and throwing motion, started to swing too early. When he saw the pitch bloop, he checked his swing and tried to begin again. But his feet were already crossed from his first effort and he hacked away spastically, twisting his ankles and falling down...

Strike three.

Bobby, frozen in his follow-up, watched the scene get madder and madder, with believing awe. His teammates swarmed him, they banged him and they laughed insanely: Fisk, Burleson, Scott, Yastrzemski, Rice...Lee and Zimmer hugged each other in ecstasy, 14-year-old girls kissing Bobby wetly, yelping fans tried to do everything but get inside of his skin.

"We're number one!" came the traditional chorus of world champions and winners and beery fans. WORLD CHAMPIONS. The words were sinking in like the cold champagne in his shirt. Carlton Fisk was taping a Skoal commercial as Campbell popped the booze, and Ken Harrelson was modelling his most feathery and ridiculous hat for worldwide color television, and Howard Cosell stepped up to the star pitcher, pushing himself importantly through the mob, "Excuse me, let me thru, PLEASE, excuse ME...

"Thank you Don we have the major leagues' newest hero with us here tonight and tell us Sulli -- was the ephus pitch you threw to George Foster n the bottom of the ninth with two out and a man on third for real or was it just a fluke?"

"Well I figured I could throw Foster off balance Howard, Carlton told me he was waiting to slam it, and I figured by taking my time and appearing nervous I could make him impatient and anxious -- you know, make him expect a fast ball. Which he did. It's all psychological, Howard."

"Well that's a very well-reasoned analysis of the situation Bob Sullivan and Sulli, if I may call you that, you're off to a fine, fine start to your career. Do you have any plans for the future now that you're a free agent?"

Glancing away from the torrid spectre of Howard Cosell's face and the microphone extension that had been thrust into his eyes, Sully saw Bill Lee reading from a book of Zen Buddhist riddles.

"No Howard, I've always been a free agent, I guess. You know, I pitch like I drink -- one at a time, please."