original fic: soft hands, soft hands
Probably final draft of my original late-1940s baseball story. Ten points to you if you can guess what team they're supposed to be on, and extra bonus points on two of the named guys--they're both Hall of Famers. The narrator and main character are, of course, entirely fictional.
Soft Hands, Soft Hands
1900 words, PG?
"Ain't no good reason," Rube muttered beside me, blowing on his clasped hands and looking around the platform. I could tell he was casting around for confirmation, maybe assurance, but I was the only one who would talk to him, and even that was only because I was the rookie and nobody would talk to me, either. He was one of those guys who's real hard to feel neutral about, and even the coaches pretty obviously hated him. Rube would have been the first one to tell you that if he weren't so good at striking guys out, the team would sell him off to the Browns or the Senators like the rest of the American League's rejects.
At least half of his problem was that he was crazy; he went to war and came back body-whole but brain- or maybe soul-broken. That was his defining feature, along with that electric left arm and his different colored eyes. He was always a fraction of a second from a hit-the-deck, you're-comin'-down-with-me meltdown, stoked and banked and still waiting for incoming mortars. He was twitchy in a way that always made me wonder how he kept any kind of poise out on the mound, how he tuned out hecklers spewing abuse in the grandstand, the crack of the bat coming machine gun violent-but then again, Rube was good in a way that meant batters didn't get lumber on the ball too often, and that had a way of keeping even the most dedicated baiters quiet.
I looked around the platform, hunched down with my coat lapels popped up to cover my ears, wondering if I should take a step closer to the railing so the people boarding the train didn't trip.
"It's just the train being on time," I said to Rube.
He gave me that look he had sometimes, you don't get it, can't even begin to get it. Usually it came up when somebody would start in about the Nazis or that dotted line between Germany and France where Rube gained some medals and lost his mind, or if I start talking about pitching-he would just shake his head, spit to the side, say, "you got no earthly idea what you're talking about, college boy, rook, little shortstop, you just got no clue." Then he'd toss something my way, a rolled up newspaper or a ball or an unopened bottle of Pepsi, and add, "soft hands, kid. Soft hands."
"And trains ain't ever on time," he said decisively. He pointed at our train, waiting patiently for us with a greasy sheen on its metal sides, green stripes down its flanks. "Let me tell you 'bout trains. Trains are big and dirty, and you get your food in the dining car from a Negro who's a more worthy man than any one of the useless bastards on your team, and you know it and they know it, and he knows it, too. And regardless of what Jackie's doing out there in Brooklyn, our friend in the dining car can't get no breaks in this country 'cause of the great accident of his bein' born with black skin.
"And then, 'cause it's a train, you get to sleep on a godawful bunk that's got nothing on the bunk you had to make do with in the Marine Corps-which is saying something, lemme tell you-and you played like shit in your last game, or maybe not. But probably, and because of that, you find your comfort in knowing trains, like you always done since you were a little kid sitting up at night listening for whistles. And that comfort comes from knowing how trains are always goddamn late."
Rube could get away with talking like that because he grew up in the dusty corridor between the waste of Oklahoma and Mr. Steinbeck's vision of California promised land, plus he was a lefty, and everybody knows it's a loose bolt in a guy's brain that makes him left-handed anyway.
We were standing by the railing, overlooking the tracks on the other side of the platform from the train that would take us on to our next stop, some other city out there in the American sprawl. The wind came caroming through the tunnel so fast it stung my cheeks, but Rube didn't even blink, shoving his chin up into the stream, his eyes sparking with whatever story he was going to treat me to next.
He turned to me and sort of smiled, and even though he wasn't so much older than me, he had an old face that crumpled up around his eyes and mouth. He had one hazel-brown eye and one that was sort of blue in some light and sort of gray in others, pale enough to be unsettling when the sun hit it. Even the guys who didn't completely hate him still tried not to look at him from the right side. Boddy, the left fielder, said to me once that it just wasn't right having eyes that didn't match, unless you were a blue merle dog or a cat that was deaf in the one ear. "And Rube, he's not a dog or cat, is he?" Boddy said, triumphant like you can only be when you don't like somebody and you think you're getting something over on him.
Rube nodded to the train. "It's just not right, is all," he said. "One of my comforts is trains. I like trains. I'm gonna have a steak for dinner on this train tonight. I'm gonna be eating steak while we run past Illinois and Missouri and whatever else is between here and St. Louis." He pronounced the places strangely, exaggerating the "eeee" sounds and the silent letters, dropping the "s" from St. Louis.
"So have your dinner late," I suggested, irritated and cold. "So it's like the train was late after all."
He shakes his head. "Once I'm on the train I don't care what time it came. 'Cause then I'm on the train, ain't I?"
I shrugged and scratched my cheek, which was going numb from the wind. I had to start remembering that Rube wasn't like anybody else in the world, how he was governed by rules that would never even occur to normal people.
"It's good we're going to St. Louis," he continued, like he had given up on being paranoid about the train schedule. "We're fightin' for this pennant, and in St. Louis we'll probably win. You gotta have teams like the Browns so teams like us can win, even if the wins against bad teams don't really mean as much when you're beating teams that are actually good at the whole baseball deal. But they're still wins in the end, aren't they? Show up the same in the newspaper, still up the standings." He grinned. I was standing to his right, and I could tell his blue eye was a little squintier than the brown one. "And it's good we'll win, and the Indians hopefully won't 'cause they're playing Detroit, and the Yankees already lost."
He nodded, mostly to himself, and turned his back to the platform, leaning over the rail a little with his eyes thinned with pleasure as the wind tried to steal his hat. A train arrived in a screechy rush somewhere else in the station, and it was late, I knew that without even knowing where the train was. Rube looked pleased.
Our own train was waiting for us to board, one of the coaches standing by the steps with his arms crossed over his chest, obviously annoyed that Rube and I were still fooling around by the railing. Rube didn't seem concerned, so I decided I wasn't either, even though I knew it would probably mean more time riding the pine for me once we got to St. Louis. There's a world of difference between your best left-handed started acting like a flake, and your rookie shortstop who's taking at-bats away from a vet.
"Wait a second," I said, blinking and turning to him, "how do you know the Yankees lost?" The evening editions weren't out yet, and the game out in New York was just underway when we left the ballpark, according to the League scoreboard.
"I just know," he said, smiling like he does sometimes, the smile that makes me think his whole schtick was just an act he pulled so he didn’t have to bother being nice to people who didn’t deserve it. He patted the railing, running his fingers over the glossy black metal almost lovingly, like he was counting stitches, laying his fingers down so he could throw his curve right past Joltin' Joe.
"Come on, rook," he said. "I want my steak."
I grabbed both of our suitcases and hurried after him, because he had half a foot on me and probably forty pounds, and the kind of big stride that ate up distance quick. The coach ignored Rube completely and gave me a dirty look, even though I wasn't the last one on. Some of the other guys were still smoking by the newsstand, hands cupped over the cherries of their cigarettes, talking about the game we just played or their wives, or maybe just what they're going to do when we get into St. Louis. They never included me in those conversations, so I had to make up the words in my head. I let Rube get on ahead of me once we're in the team car, stopping to take off my hat and straighten the band when I caught my reflection in the window and noticed the band was going crooked. You never saw Bogart with a crooked hatband, after all.
I passed Boddy the left fielder, who was sitting with another starter and Campetti, my double-play partner, and they all three mimed taking their hats off to me, look at our little martyred rookie putting up with crazy. Campetti was a slick second baseman who'd been around forever, except for the one year he lost to the war. The pitcher, Wallace, was a real wise guy, a middling-to-poor right-hander who probably had one more season in him before he went down to the Minors and never came topside again, and he hated Rube more than anybody.
"Hold up a second," Campetti said to me. "Wanted to ask you something."
I watched Rube taking a seat at the back of the car, settling in where no one was sitting and taking off his overcoat. He took off his hat and set it very carefully on the seat next to him. "Can it wait?" I asked. "These bags weigh ten tons." I gave him a sheepish look, playing up the I'm-just-a-kid card like I do sometimes, all doe eyes and shining innocent cheeks. Usually they ignored me.
Wallace made a face, his lips and eyes narrow like he was about to say something you couldn't say in polite company. I gave them another apologetic, half panicked look and high-tailed it out of there, tripping over somebody's feet in the aisle and not even pausing to apologize.
Rube tossed something my way when I got to the back of the car, and I had to drop both suitcases to catch it. It was a baseball, scuffed all to hell. "Soft hands, rook," he said. "Soft hands."
Soft Hands, Soft Hands
1900 words, PG?
"Ain't no good reason," Rube muttered beside me, blowing on his clasped hands and looking around the platform. I could tell he was casting around for confirmation, maybe assurance, but I was the only one who would talk to him, and even that was only because I was the rookie and nobody would talk to me, either. He was one of those guys who's real hard to feel neutral about, and even the coaches pretty obviously hated him. Rube would have been the first one to tell you that if he weren't so good at striking guys out, the team would sell him off to the Browns or the Senators like the rest of the American League's rejects.
At least half of his problem was that he was crazy; he went to war and came back body-whole but brain- or maybe soul-broken. That was his defining feature, along with that electric left arm and his different colored eyes. He was always a fraction of a second from a hit-the-deck, you're-comin'-down-with-me meltdown, stoked and banked and still waiting for incoming mortars. He was twitchy in a way that always made me wonder how he kept any kind of poise out on the mound, how he tuned out hecklers spewing abuse in the grandstand, the crack of the bat coming machine gun violent-but then again, Rube was good in a way that meant batters didn't get lumber on the ball too often, and that had a way of keeping even the most dedicated baiters quiet.
I looked around the platform, hunched down with my coat lapels popped up to cover my ears, wondering if I should take a step closer to the railing so the people boarding the train didn't trip.
"It's just the train being on time," I said to Rube.
He gave me that look he had sometimes, you don't get it, can't even begin to get it. Usually it came up when somebody would start in about the Nazis or that dotted line between Germany and France where Rube gained some medals and lost his mind, or if I start talking about pitching-he would just shake his head, spit to the side, say, "you got no earthly idea what you're talking about, college boy, rook, little shortstop, you just got no clue." Then he'd toss something my way, a rolled up newspaper or a ball or an unopened bottle of Pepsi, and add, "soft hands, kid. Soft hands."
"And trains ain't ever on time," he said decisively. He pointed at our train, waiting patiently for us with a greasy sheen on its metal sides, green stripes down its flanks. "Let me tell you 'bout trains. Trains are big and dirty, and you get your food in the dining car from a Negro who's a more worthy man than any one of the useless bastards on your team, and you know it and they know it, and he knows it, too. And regardless of what Jackie's doing out there in Brooklyn, our friend in the dining car can't get no breaks in this country 'cause of the great accident of his bein' born with black skin.
"And then, 'cause it's a train, you get to sleep on a godawful bunk that's got nothing on the bunk you had to make do with in the Marine Corps-which is saying something, lemme tell you-and you played like shit in your last game, or maybe not. But probably, and because of that, you find your comfort in knowing trains, like you always done since you were a little kid sitting up at night listening for whistles. And that comfort comes from knowing how trains are always goddamn late."
Rube could get away with talking like that because he grew up in the dusty corridor between the waste of Oklahoma and Mr. Steinbeck's vision of California promised land, plus he was a lefty, and everybody knows it's a loose bolt in a guy's brain that makes him left-handed anyway.
We were standing by the railing, overlooking the tracks on the other side of the platform from the train that would take us on to our next stop, some other city out there in the American sprawl. The wind came caroming through the tunnel so fast it stung my cheeks, but Rube didn't even blink, shoving his chin up into the stream, his eyes sparking with whatever story he was going to treat me to next.
He turned to me and sort of smiled, and even though he wasn't so much older than me, he had an old face that crumpled up around his eyes and mouth. He had one hazel-brown eye and one that was sort of blue in some light and sort of gray in others, pale enough to be unsettling when the sun hit it. Even the guys who didn't completely hate him still tried not to look at him from the right side. Boddy, the left fielder, said to me once that it just wasn't right having eyes that didn't match, unless you were a blue merle dog or a cat that was deaf in the one ear. "And Rube, he's not a dog or cat, is he?" Boddy said, triumphant like you can only be when you don't like somebody and you think you're getting something over on him.
Rube nodded to the train. "It's just not right, is all," he said. "One of my comforts is trains. I like trains. I'm gonna have a steak for dinner on this train tonight. I'm gonna be eating steak while we run past Illinois and Missouri and whatever else is between here and St. Louis." He pronounced the places strangely, exaggerating the "eeee" sounds and the silent letters, dropping the "s" from St. Louis.
"So have your dinner late," I suggested, irritated and cold. "So it's like the train was late after all."
He shakes his head. "Once I'm on the train I don't care what time it came. 'Cause then I'm on the train, ain't I?"
I shrugged and scratched my cheek, which was going numb from the wind. I had to start remembering that Rube wasn't like anybody else in the world, how he was governed by rules that would never even occur to normal people.
"It's good we're going to St. Louis," he continued, like he had given up on being paranoid about the train schedule. "We're fightin' for this pennant, and in St. Louis we'll probably win. You gotta have teams like the Browns so teams like us can win, even if the wins against bad teams don't really mean as much when you're beating teams that are actually good at the whole baseball deal. But they're still wins in the end, aren't they? Show up the same in the newspaper, still up the standings." He grinned. I was standing to his right, and I could tell his blue eye was a little squintier than the brown one. "And it's good we'll win, and the Indians hopefully won't 'cause they're playing Detroit, and the Yankees already lost."
He nodded, mostly to himself, and turned his back to the platform, leaning over the rail a little with his eyes thinned with pleasure as the wind tried to steal his hat. A train arrived in a screechy rush somewhere else in the station, and it was late, I knew that without even knowing where the train was. Rube looked pleased.
Our own train was waiting for us to board, one of the coaches standing by the steps with his arms crossed over his chest, obviously annoyed that Rube and I were still fooling around by the railing. Rube didn't seem concerned, so I decided I wasn't either, even though I knew it would probably mean more time riding the pine for me once we got to St. Louis. There's a world of difference between your best left-handed started acting like a flake, and your rookie shortstop who's taking at-bats away from a vet.
"Wait a second," I said, blinking and turning to him, "how do you know the Yankees lost?" The evening editions weren't out yet, and the game out in New York was just underway when we left the ballpark, according to the League scoreboard.
"I just know," he said, smiling like he does sometimes, the smile that makes me think his whole schtick was just an act he pulled so he didn’t have to bother being nice to people who didn’t deserve it. He patted the railing, running his fingers over the glossy black metal almost lovingly, like he was counting stitches, laying his fingers down so he could throw his curve right past Joltin' Joe.
"Come on, rook," he said. "I want my steak."
I grabbed both of our suitcases and hurried after him, because he had half a foot on me and probably forty pounds, and the kind of big stride that ate up distance quick. The coach ignored Rube completely and gave me a dirty look, even though I wasn't the last one on. Some of the other guys were still smoking by the newsstand, hands cupped over the cherries of their cigarettes, talking about the game we just played or their wives, or maybe just what they're going to do when we get into St. Louis. They never included me in those conversations, so I had to make up the words in my head. I let Rube get on ahead of me once we're in the team car, stopping to take off my hat and straighten the band when I caught my reflection in the window and noticed the band was going crooked. You never saw Bogart with a crooked hatband, after all.
I passed Boddy the left fielder, who was sitting with another starter and Campetti, my double-play partner, and they all three mimed taking their hats off to me, look at our little martyred rookie putting up with crazy. Campetti was a slick second baseman who'd been around forever, except for the one year he lost to the war. The pitcher, Wallace, was a real wise guy, a middling-to-poor right-hander who probably had one more season in him before he went down to the Minors and never came topside again, and he hated Rube more than anybody.
"Hold up a second," Campetti said to me. "Wanted to ask you something."
I watched Rube taking a seat at the back of the car, settling in where no one was sitting and taking off his overcoat. He took off his hat and set it very carefully on the seat next to him. "Can it wait?" I asked. "These bags weigh ten tons." I gave him a sheepish look, playing up the I'm-just-a-kid card like I do sometimes, all doe eyes and shining innocent cheeks. Usually they ignored me.
Wallace made a face, his lips and eyes narrow like he was about to say something you couldn't say in polite company. I gave them another apologetic, half panicked look and high-tailed it out of there, tripping over somebody's feet in the aisle and not even pausing to apologize.
Rube tossed something my way when I got to the back of the car, and I had to drop both suitcases to catch it. It was a baseball, scuffed all to hell. "Soft hands, rook," he said. "Soft hands."