The Convict and Other Stories

“Is it possible that those girls got a low grade on their midterms or that they have oatmeal in their heads?”

“It’s the fourth complaint to go into your folder this semester.”

“You’re actually keeping those things on file?”

“They’re part of an official record. Look, let’s talk honestly a minute. It’s my feeling that you should see the school psychologist.”

“I’ll be damned if you’re going to talk to me like this.”

The dean pushed a ring of keys around on the desktop with his finger.

“It’s either that or taking leave without pay after this semester,” he said. “I’m not in the business of mental health. That’s a problem you’re going to have to deal with yourself.”

The professor stood up and put his hands in his slacks pockets and clicked his change a moment against his thigh.

“Some situational philosophers I know have a good epigram for your kind, Dean. Stuff it, Pork Butt.”

“I’ll ignore that because frankly I think you’re losing your mind.”

“Well, you just keep on playing with your keys and maybe you’ll have your own file one day.”

The dean flattened his fingers on the desktop and kept his hand motionless.

. . .

That afternoon the professor was still thinking of his conversation with the dean when he walked to the park to watch the boys play a league game. He knew that he was finished at the college, that even if he wasn’t fired the administration would only keep him on in a capacity that was suspect and shameful. And there weren’t many other teaching jobs around, particularly when one’s recommendation from his previous position stated that he was a lunatic. It was going to be tough to start over again at his age, but then what was numerical age anyway? He was forty-six and considered old by some, but maybe he had thirty years on earth ahead of him. A boy of nineteen about to step on a claymore mine set in the middle of a jungle trail had been much older in his life span than he. And that boy had never wavered or pitied himself or complained about the time that had been allotted him.

The professor bought a hot dog from the wood stand under the elm trees and sat in the bleachers behind third base. His team had its two best pitchers knocked off the mound in the first five innings, and then the manager sent the crippled boy out from the bullpen. Think Monty Stratton, pal, the professor said to himself. Give them sliders and in-shoots that make the navel shrivel up and hide.

But they cut the boy to pieces. They crashed line drives through the infield and drove home runs all the way to the street. It looked like batting practice rather than a game. The professor walked out onto the field and motioned the umpire for time.

“Who the hell are you?” the umpire said. The umpire’s face looked like a baked apple under his black cap.

“I’m their coach from the college. You new to this league or something?”

The professor put his arm over the boy’s shoulders and bent down toward his ear.

“Throw at their heads,” he said. “After you dump one or two of them in the dirt, they’ll rattle and back off from the plate.”

But it was no use. The boy didn’t have the killer instinct, the professor thought. His best delivery was waist-high and down the middle, and each batter hit it so hard that runs were crossing the plate faster than the scorekeeper could change the numbers on the board. No, this one was not a killer, the professor thought, and maybe thank heaven for that.

After the next inning the umpire called the game because the visiting team’s lead was so great that a continuation would be a humiliating travesty. As the boys wandered off the diamond toward the bicycle racks and the park house, the professor bought two hot dogs from the concession stand and gave one to the crippled boy.

“We’re going to have to put some weight on you before your next game,” he said.

“Oh, I ain’t pitching again.”

“Sure you will.”

“Nope.”

“In a couple of days you’ll see this game correctly in your mind, and you’ll know what you did wrong, and you’ll go back out there throwing gas.”

“Maybe.”

They sat down in the empty bleachers and ate the hot dogs. The mountains were so blue against the sky that they hurt the eyes.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?” the boy asked.