I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but the game isn’t that complicated. He gets very excited on his first hit, triumphantly fist pumping, then proceeding to move the black pieces around the board while he calls the play in a hoarse, high-pitched imitation of an announcer’s voice, like a kid playing with action figures.
“It’s a deep drive into center field!” The center-field pawn slides toward second base, the bishop second baseman and the pawn shortstop drop back, and the left-field pawn runs up, then cuts toward center. That’s with one hand while the other manipulates the quarter, turning it in his fingers like a ball spinning in flight, lowering it as if in slow motion to land in center-left field. It’s so ridiculous and childish that I would have smiled if I still smiled.
“He’s safe!” Razor bellows.
No. Not childish. Childlike. Eyes fever bright, voice rising in excitement, he’s ten again. Not all things are lost, not the important things.
His next hit is a blooper that drops between first base and right field. He creates a dramatic collision between my fielder and baseman, first base sliding back, right field sliding up, then smack! Razor cackles at the impact.
“Wouldn’t that be an error?” I ask. “It’s a catchable ball.”
“Catchable ball? Ringer, it’s just a dorky game I made up in five minutes with a bunch of chess pieces and a quarter.”
Two more hits; he’s three runs up at the top of the first. I’ve always sucked at games of chance. Always hated them for that reason. Razor must sense my enthusiasm waning. He amps up the commentary while sliding the pieces around (despite my pointing out they’re my pieces, since I’m on defense). Another drive deep center-left. Another floater behind first base. Another impact of first baseman and outfielder. I don’t know if he’s repeating himself because he thinks it’s funny or because he has a serious deficit in imagination. There’s a part of me that feels as if I should be deeply affronted on behalf of chess players everywhere.
By the third inning, I’m exhausted.
“Let’s pick it up again tonight,” I suggest. “Or tomorrow. Tomorrow would be better.”
“What? You don’t like it?”
“No. It’s fun. I’m just tired. Really tired.”
He shrugs like it doesn’t matter, which it does, or he wouldn’t shrug. He slips the quarter back into his pocket and packs up the box, muttering under his breath. I catch the word chess.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.” Cutting his eyes away.
“Something about chess.”
“Chess, chess, chess. Chess on the brain. Sorry chaseball has nothing on chess in the sheer thrill category.”
He shoves the box under his arm and stomps to the door. One last parting shot before he goes: “I thought maybe I’d cheer you up a little, that’s all. Thanks. We don’t have to play anymore.”
“Are you angry at me?”
“I gave chess a chance, didn’t I? You didn’t see me bitching.”
“You didn’t. And you did. A lot.”
“Just think about it.”
“Think about what?”
He shouts across the room: “Just think about it!”
He slams out the door. I’m out of breath, shaky, and can’t figure out why.
61
I’M READY WITH an apology when the door opens that night. The more I think about it with my feverish mind, the more I feel like the bully at the beach who kicks over some little kid’s sand castle.
“Hey, Razor, I’m—”
My mouth drops open. There’s a stranger holding the tray, a kid around twelve or thirteen.
“Where’s Razor?” I ask. Well, more like demand.
“I don’t know,” the kid squeaks. “They handed me the tray and said take it.”
“Take it,” I echo stupidly.
“Yeah. Take it. Take the tray.”
They pulled Razor off Ringer duty. Maybe chaseball’s against regs. Maybe Vosch got ticked, two kids acting like kids for a couple of hours. Despair is addictive, for the one watching it and the one experiencing it.
Or maybe Razor’s the ticked party here. Maybe he asked to be reassigned, took his chaseball and went home.
I don’t sleep well that night, if you can call it night under the constant sterile glow. My fever shoots up to a hundred and three as my immune system launches its final, desperate assault on the arrays. I can see the blurry green numbers on the monitor inching upward. I slip into a semi-delirious doze.
Bitch! Leave me. You know why they call it baseball, don’t you? It’s a deep drive into center field! I’m done. Take care of yourself.
The grungy silver turning in Razor’s fingers. It’s a deep drive. A deep drive. Lowering toward the board in slow motion, where the fielders come up, second base and shortstop go back, left goes right. Blooper on the first-base line! Fielder races up, baseman back, boom. Fielders up, infield back, cut to the right. First baseman back, right fielder up, boom. Up, back, cut. Back, up. Boom.
Over and over, let’s go to the instant replay, up, back, cut. Back, up.
Boom.
Now I’m wide-awake, staring at the ceiling. No. Can’t see it as well. Better with my eyes closed.
Center and left slash down. Left cuts across:
H
Right steps up. First base runs back:
I