The Twilight Zone: Complete Stories Read Online Free Page B

George Herman Ruth came to him from the Boston Red Sox. And McGarry’s palpitations were surely not unlike those of Marse Joseph McCarthy when a skinny Italian kid named DiMaggio ambled out into center field for the first time. Such was the bonfire of hope that was kindled in Mouth McGarry’s chest as he looked at the blank-faced, giant left-hander walking toward him, carrying on his massive shoulders, albeit invisibly, the fortunes of the Brooklyn Dodgers and Mrs. McGarry’s son, Mouth!

    It was a night game against St. Louis forty-eight hours later. The dressing room of the Brooklyn Dodgers was full of noise, clattering cleats, slammed locker doors, the plaintive protests of Bertram Beasley who was accusing the trainer of using too much liniment (at seventy-nine cents a bottle), and the deep, bullfrog profanity of Mouth McGarry who was all over the room, on every bench, in every corner, and in every head of hair.
    “You sure he’s got the signals down, Monk?” he asked his catcher for the fourteenth time.
    Monk’s eyes went up toward the ceiling and he said tiredly, “Yeah, boss. He knows them.”
    Mouth walked over to the pitcher who was just tying up his shoes. “Casey,” he said urgently, wiping the sweat from his forehead, “if you forget them signals—you call time and bring Monk out to you, you understand? I don’t want no cross-ups.” He took out a large handkerchief and mopped his brow, then he pulled out a pill from his side pocket and plopped it into his mouth. “And above all,” he cautioned his young pitcher “—don’t be nervous!”
    Casey looked up at him puzzled. “Nervous?” he asked.
    Stillman, who had just entered the room, walked over to them smiling. “Nervous, Casey,” he explained, “ill at ease. As if one of your electrodes were—”
    Mouth drowned him out loudly, “You know ‘nervous,’ Casey! Like as if there’s two outs in the ninth, you’re one up, and you’re pitchin’ against DiMaggio and he comes up to the plate lookin’ intent!”
    Casey stared at him deadpan. “That wouldn’t make me nervous. I don’t know anyone named DiMaggio.”
    “He don’t know anyone named DiMaggio,” Monk explained seriously to Mouth McGarry.
    “I heard ‘im,” Mouth screamed at him. “I heard ‘im!” He turned to the rest of the players, looked at his watch then bellowed out, “All right, you guys, let’s get going!”
    Monk took Casey’s arm and pulled him off the bench and then out the door. The room resounded with the clattering cleats on concrete floor as the players left the room for the dugout above. Mouth McGarry stood alone in the middle of the room and felt a dampness settle all over him. He pulled out a sopping wet handkerchief and wiped his head again.
    “This humidity,” he said plaintively to Dr. Stillman who sat on the bench surveying him, “is killing me. I’ve never felt such dampness—I swear to God!”
    Stillman looked down at Mouth’s feet. McGarry was standing with one foot in a bucket of water.
    “Mr. McGarry,” he pointed to the bucket.
    Mouth lifted up his foot sheepishly and shook it. Then he took out his bottle of pills again, popped two of them in his mouth, gulped them down and pointed apologetically to his stomach. “Nerves,” he said. “Terrible nerves. I don’t sleep at night. I keep seeing pennants before my eyes. Great big, red, white and blue pennants. All I can think about is knocking off the Giants and then taking four straight from the Yanks in the World Series.” He sighed deeply. “But for that matter,” he continued, “I’d like to knock off the Phillies and the Cards, too. Or the Braves or Cincinnati.” A forlorn note crept into his voice now. “Or anybody when you come down to it!”
    Dr. Stillman smiled at him. “I think Casey will come through for you, Mr. McGarry.”
    Mouth looked at the small white-haired man. “What have you got riding on this?” he asked. “What’s your percentage?”
    “You mean with