Nebraska’s right ankle was taped and bandaged; a heavy cane rested between his knees. George asked him what had happened.
“I pulled a tendon,” Nebraska said, “an’ got laid off. So I thought I might as well run down an’ see the folks. Myrtle, she couldn’t come—the kid’s got to git ready fer school.”
“How are they?” George asked.
“Oh, fine, fine. All wool an’ a yard wide, both of ‘em!” He was silent for a moment, then he looked at his friend with a tolerant Cherokee grin and said: “But I’m crackin’ up, Monkus. Guess I cain’t stan’ the gaff much more.”
Nebraska was only thirty-one now, and George was incredulous. Nebraska smiled good-naturedly again:
“That’s an ole man in baseball, Monk. I went up when I was twenty-one. I been aroun’ a long time.”
The quiet resignation of the player touched his friend with sadness. It was hard and painful for him to face the fact that this strong and fearless creature, who had stood in his life always for courage and for victory, should now be speaking with such ready acceptance of defeat.
“But, Bras,” he protested, “you’ve been hitting just as well this season as you ever did! I’ve read about you in the papers, and the reporters have all said the same thing.”
“Oh, I can still hit ‘em,” Nebraska quietly agreed. “It ain’t the hittin’ that bothers me. That’s the last thing you lose, anyway. Leastways, it’s goin’ to be that way with me, an’ I talked to other fellahs who said it was that way with them.” After a pause he went on in a low tone: “If this ole leg heals up in time, I’ll go on back an’ git in the game again an’ finish out the season. An’ if I’m lucky, maybe they’ll keep me on a couple more years, because they know I can still hit. But, hell,” he added quietly, “they know I’m through. They already got me all tied up with string.”
As Nebraska talked, George saw that the Cherokee in him was the same now as it had been when he was a boy. His cheerful fatalism had always been the source of his great strength and courage. That was why he had never been afraid of anything, not even death. But, seeing the look of regret on George’s face, Nebraska smiled again and went on lightly:
“That’s the way it is, Monk. You’re good up there as long as you’re good. After that they sell you down the river. Hell, I ain’t kickin’. I been lucky. I had ten years of it already, an’ that’s more than most. An’ I been in three World’s Serious. If I can hold on fer another year or two—if they don’t let me go or trade me—I think maybe we’ll be in again. Me an’ Myrtle has figgered it all out. I had to help her people some, an’ I bought a farm fer Mama an’ the Ole Man—that’s where they always wanted to be. An’ I got three hundred acres of my own in Zebulon—all paid fer, too!—an’ if I git a good price this year fer my tobacco, I Stan’ to clear two thousand dollars. So if I can git two years more in the League an’ one more good World’s Serious, why”—he turned his square face towards his friend and grinned his brown and freckled grin, just as he used to as a boy—“we’ll be all set.”
“And—you mean you’ll be satisfied?”
“Huh? Satisfied?” Nebraska turned to him with a puzzled look. “How do you mean?”
“I mean after all you’ve seen and done, Bras—the big cities and the crowds, and all the people shouting—and the newspapers, and the headlines, and the World’s Series—and—and—the first of March, and St. Petersburg, and meeting all the fellows again, and spring training----”
Nebraska groaned.
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“Spring trainin’.”
“You mean you don’t like it?”
“Like it! Them first three weeks is just plain hell. It ain’t bad when you’re a kid. You don’t put on much weight durin’ the winter, an’ when you come down in the spring it only takes a few days to loosen up an’ git the kinks out. In two weeks’ time you’re loose as ashes. But wait till you been aroun’ as long as I have!” He laughed loudly and shook his head. “Boy! The first time you go after a grounder you can hear your joints creak. After a while you begin to limber up—you work into it an’ git the soreness out of your muscles. By the time the season starts, along in April, you feel pretty good. By May you’re goin’ like a house a-fire, an’ you tell yourself you’re good as you ever was. You’re still goin’ strong along in June. An’ then you hit July, an’ you git them double-headers in St. Looie! Boy, oh boy!” Again he shook his head and laughed, baring big square teeth. “Monkus,” he said quietly, turning to his companion, and now his face was serious and he had his black Indian look—“you ever been in St. Looie in July?”