Battle Fatigue Read Online Free Page B

Stevenson—tells me not to worry about game five. Sal Maglie, who destroyed Whitey Ford in game one, is pitching. He is the toughest man in baseball, mean-looking and never clean shaven. He looks a bit like Rocco Pizzutti and smiles about that much too. The best the Yankees can do is put in Don Larsen, who had been taken out in the second inning of game two. Even Yankees fans call Larsen “Gooney Bird.”
    â€œAre you ready for Gooney Bird?” I tease Donnie. He doesn’t answer.

    Maglie is pitching beautifully, as I knew he would. But so is Gooney Bird. No one is hitting. Then in the fourth inning Mickey Mantle hits a home run. But I am not worried because the Brooklyn Dodgers have Jackie Robinson, Roy Campanella, Gil Hodges, and Duke Snider, and they are only one run behind.
    But now the radio announcer is saying unbelievable things. They have all struck out. Come on! Over and over again. No hits, no walks, no errors—the perfect game. And that cements my hatred of the New York Yankees—and my love of baseball.

    The Dodgers have their revenge. The next game has no score and is in extra innings. All of a sudden Jackie Robinson drives in a run and wins the game for Brooklyn! I don’t have to say anything to Donnie LePine—I just smile and enjoy it.

    It is the last game and the Yankees win 9–0, taking the World Series. Eisenhower has won by a similar score. These things go together—the Yankees, the Republican Party, Donnie LePine.
    I understand that we live in Massachusetts and so people root for the Red Sox. But why would anyone root for the Yankees? Or vote for Eisenhower? Those people are just like that and there isn’t much that can be done about it.
    I learn a lot from baseball.

Chapter Four
    When Grown-Ups Start Crying
    Now that I am eleven years old, practically a teenager, we don’t play war anymore. Instead we play baseball. I am a center fielder with a good throwing arm, though not as good a range for fielding as I should have. I hit pretty well, which makes up for what a bad base runner I am. Unfortunately my competition for center field is Tony Scaratini, the bad German, who gets not only larger every year but also meaner. No one really likes him but no one is going to tell him. Donnie LePine still does the best Scaratini imitation, and that is as close as anyone comes to telling him off. Tony runs bases as badly as me and he can’t field at all. When a fly ball goes to center field he just stands there. If the ball comes right at him he will raise his glove. Otherwise, his feeling is that it is someone else’s problem. He is the kind of player coaches don’t like. Except that he can hit a ball clean out of the park. “There!” he barks, forgetting to run in case the ball doesn’t leave the park. But it is usually gone.
    â€œThere!” Donnie barks just like him, and we all laugh, all trying to say it like Tony too, but only Donnie has it right. Tony is going to kill him someday. Except that Tony seems almost afraid of Donnie. If you look closely at Tony, you can see a lot of fear. But he is large.
    Stanley Wiszcinski is no longer surrendering. He is managing the team and he is great at it. He always has the batter’s box and the baselines perfectly limed, the bats and balls lined up, and even gum for us to chew—striped gum, each color a different flavor. It is one of those special things you get for being a baseball player.
    Rocco Pizzutti is our left-handed third baseman. When he catches the ball, everyone runs for cover. He fires it so hard out of his left hand that it hurts to catch it. Sometimes it goes to first base where the play is, but often he misses and hits the pitcher in the back or gets closer to second base.
    One afternoon we are playing a good hitting team. The first batter hits a grounder to third base and Rocco fires it to first. The first baseman gets it in his glove but then drops it, shaking his hand in