THE COMEBACK
By
Russ Durbin
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 by Russ Durbin
Cover Design: Charlene Lavinia
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The pitching career of Jim Roberts, the once great right-hander for the Comets, was nearly finished when he stepped out of the scorching August sun into the cool, dark dugout. He couldn’t last much longer. Jim knew it; his teammates knew it; the 26,000 paying customers in the stadium knew it.
“Vultures,” he thought as he mechanically took his jacket from the batboy and sank down on the far end of the bench. No one came near him. “They’re just a bunch of vultures, waiting for me to drop. Then, they’ll feast on the carcass. ‘Here lies elbow-bender Jim. He was never the same since his accident’.”
He smiled wryly at his thoughts. It was true. He hadn’t been the same since that line drive hit him in the left eye, breaking nearly every bone on that side of his face. That was June 1, 1958, three years ago.
Jim thought of the months in the hospital, wondering whether he would lose his eye. Whether he would ever pitch again. Then came the seemingly endless surgeries to rebuild his face followed by the therapy sessions to restore his confidence. Yes, and the bars, too. He remembered vaguely the bars, one after another. All pretty much alike, he guessed. Same stale smells, same dirty sawdust on the floor, same tired women soliciting.
He trembled as he remembered where it all had ended—in the mental ward of a hospital in Louisville.
The cheering, jeering crowd outside seemed far away as Jim remembered vividly—too vividly perhaps—the feel of the smooth leather belts biting into his arms and chest as he screamed and raged and struggled to get out of the hospital bed.
“Had enough, Jim?”
Jim started, then realized he was gripping the bench with white, cold fingers like a drowning man clinging to the last piece of wreckage.
“What about it, Jim? Had enough?” Ham Stevens repeated the question as he stood, with the hands on his hips, looking down at the pale, perspiring pitcher in front of him.
Jim looked up at the grizzled manager.
“No.” He almost whispered the word.
Stevens continued to stare at him, his jaw moving rhythmically as he chewed his inevitable plug of tobacco. His head swiveled in a one-quarter turn as he spat a brown stream into the dust outside the dugout.
“Okay,” Stevens nodded emphatically. “But if you get into trouble out there next inning, you’re out!” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder umpire-fashion and walked away.
Jim heard the jeers of the crowd as Robbie Collum, their young first-baseman, struck out to retire the side. He picked up his glove and started toward the mound slowly to start the seventh inning. But his mind wasn’t on the game; it was on a stubborn chin, a pert nose, a pair of smoky blue eyes and a wisp of blond hair that had escaped the trim coiffure that belonged to Ann, his wife.
No, not his wife. Not anymore. He remembered the divorce had become final about the same time he was discharged from the hospital—the Louisville hospital.
His eyes wandered over the crowd as he rubbed the rosin bag. She was here today, he knew. He had heard one of the fellows in the locker room say so. He wondered why? Surely, she couldn’t love him still. He had put her through enough hell to last several lifetimes. No, she was probably here along with the rest, waiting to see the seams come apart and the sawdust pour out.
As he rubbed the new ball, he spotted her, bright in a yellow suit and pillbox hat. Her fiancé was with her. Jim scowled. Now he knew why he had been named today’s starter. Her fiancé was no other than John H. Herrington Jr., the owner and general manager of the Comets. Jim slammed the ball into his glove and thought, “I’ll bet he’s deliberately sacrificing this game to get me out of the way.”
Suddenly Jim grinned, the old boyish grin of other days. “I’ve got to win! I’ve got to last!”
The rhythmic clapping of the fans bothered him some as he went into his windup. He fed the ball inside to the batter and caught the inside corner of the plate for a strike. The clapping died out.
On the next pitch, the hitter lined it to the shortstop and there was one away. Wilson, the Mets’ heavy hitter, poled Jim’s first pitch into center field but Foxy Anderson made a stabbing over-the-shoulder catch to make Wilson’s effort nothing but a long out.
The next man up topped the ball back to the mound. Jim stabbed quickly and fed the ball to first base for the final out. “Thank God,” Jim thought as he headed for the dugout. “I needed those quick outs.”
He had scarcely sat down, it seemed to him, until he was climbing out of the dugout for the eighth inning. His weariness seemed bone-deep.
He squinted and glanced at the scoreboard. One-to-nothing in his favor. Just six more outs and he would have his first victory in three years. He would be a big league pitcher again.
He was tired and his legs felt wobbly as he delivered his first pitch. The batter banged the ball into right field for a two-base hit. Jim blinked and wiped the sweat from his eyes.
“Settle down,” he told himself. “Don’t blow it now.”
He worked slowly and carefully to the next man and finally got him to pop up to the third baseman. He felt better. The pitcher was up next. Jim tried too hard and lost the corners. He walked the pitcher, bringing up the top of the Mets’ batting order. His catcher called time and walked toward the mound. Jim saw Ham get out of the dugout and walk toward him. Jim’s lips tightened.
“I guess that does it,” Ham said, holding out his hand for the ball. Jim shook his head. “No, Ham. You and Harrington aren’t going to get rid of me this way. Dammit, I’ve come this far and, by God I’m going to finish this game, win or lose!”
Ham was startled by the intensity of Jim’s words. “Who’s running this team?” he asked.
“You are, and the first loud foul they get off me again, out I go.”
“It’s not the fouls I worry about. It’s the loud hits,” Ham shot back sarcastically. “Boom! And the game’s over.”
“Listen, you put me out here today to crucify me; now let me tough it out!”
“You got anything left?”
“Sure!”
There was a surprised roar from the crowd as Ham wheeled and walked away.
Jim toed in and shook off a curve. He got the signal for the fast ball and reared back. Jim fogged it, putting everything behind the pitch. It was a rocketing blur, and the bat swished inches under it. Jim’s mind was as blurred as the ball as he rocked and threw. It was the clutch effort of a great athlete, the second wind of a great miler. He struck out the man with three pitches.
The Mets’ long ball hitter, Jeff King, faced him. The first pitch sailed over the catcher’s head. Ball one. “Concentrate,” thought Jim. Two blinding fast balls and Jim was ahead of King. He realized he couldn’t afford to waste another pitch. He pulled the string on the ball, but something went wrong. King’s bat whipped around and there was a solid “thwack.”
Jim didn’t even look as the ball sailed over the right field fence. He knew the game and his comeback were over. That was his last pitch. He stuffed the glove into his hip pocket and trudged toward the locker room. Before his stepped inside, he looked up into the stands to the seats where Ann and Harrington were sitting. They were gone. Everything was gone now.
It didn’t take long after his shower for Ham to tell him he was through. He cleaned out his locker and walked out of the locker room wondering, “What’s next?”
As he left the stadium, he glanced at the tavern sign flashing on and off across the street and licked his lips. A cold beer would taste good now.
“Oh, Mr. Roberts.”
Jim looked around and saw it was Hank Cavert, the old janitor, waving a piece of paper.
“Here’s a telegram for you.”
Jim had to read the message twice before he realized what it meant.
“Dear Jim (stop). Great comeback try (stop). Interested in a job as pitching coach (stop) If so, please wire (stop). (Signed) Al Nevo, manager, Denver Rockets.”
His baseball playing days were over, but here was a whole new career for him. He couldn’t believe it! Then Jim noticed Hank standing patiently nearby. He fished in his pocket and came up with a buck. He gave it to the old man.
“Here, Hank. Go get yourself a beer. Oh, and Hank, where’s the nearest telegraph office?”
* * *
Other short stories by Russ Durbin
A Quiet Man
Henry Willeford III was a quiet man. He was tidy and neat. He never varied his daily routine…until today!
The Old Woman from Catspaw
Felicity Furr was a cranky old crone nobody liked. Known as “the cat lady” in Catspaw, Indiana, she lived high up Devil’s Elbow with her black cat, Lucifer. The night before Halloween, young Tommy Wilson and his buddies set out to do mischief at the old woman’s cabin. Surprise and mystery await.