CHAPTER 16
SAY HEY WILLIE
The boys were excited. They had never been to the Astrodome and had never seen a major-league game. Today that was changing. The four of the were making the drive to Houston--Scott, Greg, their father, and the newest addition to their family: Mr. Slick. And this Sunday-afternoon game would not be just any game. It was the San Francisco Giants with Juan Marichal pitching and Willie McCovey on first. Most importantly, Scott's hero would be in centerfield...the great Willie Mays.
Of course, the home team would still have a chance. With Larry Dierker on the mound, there was always a chance. Plus, there were Rusty Staub and Jim Wynn in the outfield. The boys would definitely be rooting for the Astros, but what a thrill it would be to see Willie Mays play!
Scott had recently begun to come out of his self-imposed exile, had begun tearing down that wall he had put up between himself and the rest of the world. Until the past year, he had gone to school and done what he had to do to thrive there. His grades were always exceptional, and even his scores for conduct were excellent, which was unusual for a boy with his background. But during the past year, he had actually started to experience the world outside his home. The key was baseball. He had joined Little League and taken to it instantly. There was something about the order, about having defined rules and sticking to them, that appealed to him. The physical part was also important. Unlike most of the boys, he didn't mind running laps at practice. It felt good, and he ran them faster than anyone, wanted to run more when they were done. He would run all the way home when practice was over.
At first he had been put off by the yelling that the coaches did. It had made him nervous and uncomfortable. But he had stuck with it, and eventually, he had realized that there was not threat behind the yelling. They were just there to teach the boys the game,and they yelled to be heard above the din of all those boisterous boys, to keep order and focus. It was exciting to realize that they liked him and saw potential in him. He had never known that he had athletic ability, and had not even thought about it. But now, as his body was going through the process of becoming a man, as his muscles grew and hardened, he had found something for those muscles to do. They could swing a bat.
And that was the real joy in baseball for him. Just to swing the bat, to hear the crack of wood on horsehide, and to watch that ball go sailing. It was unlike anything else in his life. It was primal and controlled at the same time. It was the perfect distillation of a few seconds in time; the pitch is thrown, the bat is swung, and then, just at the exact moment the bat connects with the ball, it is as if everything is in slow motion. It didn't work like that when he swung and missed. No, that was over so quickly that he barely knew it had happened. But when he connected...thwack! Time stopped. He could see it coming, see that it was going to be good. Thwack! He saw the bat make contact, saw the ball stop and then turn the other way, and then the clock started again and the ball was gone, flying through the air. He could hit the ball farther than anyone his age. And the coaches loved him for it.
His father also liked the fact that he played baseball. He had even made it to one game, although that had not gone well, and Scott hoped he would not make another. There seemed to be a minimal chance of that, since he had only bothered coming to the one all season. Still, Scott never told him when game day was. The coaches had not enjoyed being told what they were doing wrong by Mr. Coulter. Welton was a small town, and everyone knew him by reputation, if not personally. He was intimidating, quick to challenge and quick to fight. And because he was always convinced that he was right, no matter how little he knew about a subject, there was going to be trouble if he kept showing up. Luckily, there was no alcohol allowed, and that would ensure a minimal presence at Scott's games.
Still, he liked that Scott played. It fit with his image of what a macho boy with a healthy family life, which he was sure they had, should be doing. So this was in some way a reward. They were off to the game. Houston was a good hour's drive from Welton. They were abut halfway there, and their father had kept up a lively chatter so far. He was talking about baseball as if he knew it well. Then he pulled out the bottle.
He took a long pull off the bottle, a fifth of Old Crow he had stashed under the seat. 'Here you go, Slick. Wet your whistle."
"My gracious thanks, Duane. I could use a drink." Slick's hands shook as he took the bottle, drank once, then twice. "How about you boys? A little drink for you?" he offered.
They thought they had better try, and took the bottle. Scott put the bottle to his mouth and looked in the rear view mirror to see if his father might be watching them. He wasn't. He faked a drink and passed it over to Greg, who actually took a drink.
"That Scott is going to be one hell of a ballplayer, Slick.You should see him knock the shit out of that baseball. if I can ever teach him to hit another boy with that much enthusiasm, I'll have something there."
"They are fine boys, indeed, Duane. You have a beautiful family. And you've done a good job with them. You should be very proud of that," Slick offered obiesantly.
Mr. Slick, as the kids were told to call him, had been brought home after a three day drunk. So far, he had been with them for over a month. He wasn't the first "salt of the earth" loser to live with them, and would not be the last. Mr. Slick was older than their father, around sixty. He could have passed for eighty. A small man, short and thin, he had a cadaverous look, as if he might have just dropped dead and no one had noticed yet. Their mother had managed to trim his gray hair yesterday, and she had cropped it close. Now it matched his pencil thin gray mustache. All in all, he was the perfect foil for Duane Coulter.
"Yes sir, a man's family is a reflection on him. And you have a fine one. An exceptional one. Indeed."
A smile spread across his father's lips, hearing someone verify what he knew to be true. he took another drink and passed the bottle, then lit a cigarette. "Here you go, Slick. Have a smoke."
"Your generosity is much appreciated, Duane. There is a special place in heaven for the generous soul."
"Scott back there wants to see Willie Mays play. I have to admit there has never been a finer baseball player than the Say Hey Kid. He has all the skills. Scott's hero. Isn't that right, Scott?"
"Yes, sir. He's the best ever. He hits for power and for average, lots of doubles, too. He's a great base runner; he knows how to score from first on a single when no one else could. And he's a great outfielder. He's just the best." Scott's enthusiasm was growing now. The thought of seeing his idol, and of seeing this incredible feat of engineering know as the Astrodome, was mind-boggling to him. They had never had a day like this. The closest thing before had been a trip to the county fair.
"How about you, Spike? You want to see Willie Mays play?"
Greg answered quickly, but without much enthusiasm. "Yes, sir." He was looking a little green.
"Your boys have exquisite manners, Duane. Perhaps they would like another drink." This was just an attempt to get the bottle out of their father's hands and making the rounds again. Scott faked another drink and noticed Mr. Slick looking at him. He passed the bottle to Greg and watched as the man's eyes followed the bottle. He realized that Mr. Slick hadn't been looking at him after all. Greg took another drink, and the front seat passenger reached quickly for the bottle.
"Here's to America's pastime," Slick offered as he turned the bottle up.
"I want another drink," Greg chimed in unexpectedly.
"Well certainly, Spike my boy." Their father was feeling a little surge of pride.
Slick was growing more attached to the bottle, but knew he had to hand it to the back seat again.
Greg took is biggest drink yet, and then began to cough.
Their father laughed. "That's okay, boy. First thing you know, it will go down smooth as honey."
Now they were pulling into the parking lot of what was then billed as the "eighth wonder of the world." The parking attendant asked for three dollars.
"Three dollars! Why don't you just stick a gun to my head. I'm not paying you three dollars."
"Everyone pays three dollars to park, sir."
Their father was his usual bullying self, and the parking lot attendant was obviously intimidated.
"Everyone pays three dollars to park, huh? Did you pay three dollars to park here today, huh?"
"No, sir. I don't have to pay to park. I work here."
"So you think just because you work here, you're better than me. Is that it? Because I don't think you are any better than me. Do you think you're better than my friend here? Do you think you're better than my boys in the backseat? Because I really don't like it when people think they're better than me."
"No sir, I don't think I'm better'n you. I just need three dollars for you to park here."
"Well, I ain't payin' three dollars. I tell you what. I'll give you a quarter and not whip your ass. How's that?"
Before the attendant could answer, they were interrupted by the sound of gagging coming from the backs seat.
"Get your head out that window, boy! Now!"
...story continued on page 70 of Missing Ingredients
