WALT sat on the edge of his seat for most of the next game. From his vantage point behind third base, he could see into the Giants’ dugout, and Skip was definitely there, looking forlorn. Walt had managed to get a word with John McGraw before the game; McGraw had said Skip would sit this one out unless they needed a pinch hitter late in the game. That Walt found this disappointing was an understatement; he really wanted to see Skip play. But after the dismal performance in Boston, Walt understood McGraw’s decision to bench Skip.
Walt wasn’t sure where his faith in Skip had come from, besides Skip’s own analysis of the game. Walt supposed the proof was in the pudding—the series against the Braves notwithstanding, most of Skip’s at bats were spectacular. Walt was confident that if Skip were given room to fly, he’d take off. Keeping him chained to the bench was not the best use of him. Then again, he was a rookie on a team with a lot of talent. If not this season, then next… assuming the Giants didn’t let Skip go at the end of the season because of one bad series. Stranger things had happened.
It was a good game, well played and kind of a nail-biter, but the Giants ultimately pulled off a victory over the Pirates.
Walt spent a few minutes discussing the game with the other reporters in the press box, and then he walked with Charlie Segar of the Mirror to talk to a few players. He enjoyed listening to Segar talk; the man was from England originally, though he had spent most of his life in the US, so his accent was a little muddled. Walt had thought maybe it was an affectation at first—not that he judged, he thought as he fingered the purple lily on his lapel—but it didn’t much matter now that they’d gotten to know each other. The bottom line was that Segar loved baseball, and he buzzed with enthusiasm as they walked together into the bowels of the stadium.
“Hell of a hit Roush got in the seventh,” Segar said. “He may hit enough balls to justify his salary yet.”
Walt chuckled. “I liked the way Harper looked this game. And Bill Terry and even Hornsby.”
“I could have sworn Hornsby was going to retire last year, but he’s still doing great things.”
“It’s a good team we’ve got here in Manhattan. Almost enough to make you forget the Bronx exists.”
Segar grinned. “I’m going to go talk to McGraw. You need anything?”
“Nah, I’m fine.”
Segar shook Walt’s hand and walked away. Walt lingered in the hallway outside the locker room and caught players as they left, asking each a couple of questions about the game and dutifully writing their answers in his notepad. Since this was mostly a pretense, he wasn’t sure how much he would use, but at least the Giants could discuss a victory instead of a defeat, and everyone seemed happy and enthusiastic.
He got stuck talking to Rogers Hornsby for nearly ten minutes while Hornsby talked his ear off about strategy. Walt started writing that story in his head—“It’s clear Hornsby’s interest is more in coaching than playing these days….”—but then he almost lost sight of the real reason he’d come to the locker room.
Skip walked out with a bag on his shoulder. When he caught sight of Walt, he stopped short and stared for a moment. Then, perhaps seeing that Walt was embroiled in this conversation with Hornsby, he took a deep breath and kept walking.
Walt said, “Would you excuse me?” and ducked away from the conversation before Hornsby could object. He glanced back and saw that Hornsby had already thrown an arm around one of the rookies, probably giving the poor kid advice.
Walt had to jog to catch up to Skip. He hooked a hand around Skip’s elbow and pulled him to a shadowy spot off to the side of the hallway that led out of the stadium.
Skip’s eyes went wide.
Walt’s heart pounded. He took a deep breath and said, “Did you see the article?”
“About me?” Skip shook his head.
“It ran Thursday.”
“I was in Boston.”
“I know, but I thought maybe… well, I’ve got a copy. I can show it to you.”
Skip bit his lip and nodded.
Walt almost offered to read Skip the story, but worried that would offend him. Instead, he said, “All good things, I promise. I think you’re a savant when it comes to baseball.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It’s a French word. It means genius.”
Skip shook his head. “McGraw didn’t let me play today. He said maybe I could pinch-hit, but he put Ott in instead.”
“I know.” Walt added softly, “What happened in Boston?”
Skip grunted and looked down the hall, where Hornsby was now holding court before a gaggle of other players. “I can’t talk about it here.”
“Meet me tonight. Out somewhere. Just to talk. I promise I won’t print anything.”
Skip looked around, looked at anything except Walt, and then said, “Yes, I… yes. Where?”
“Speakeasy on West Third. Is it okay if I write it down?”
Skip nodded.
It had been a spontaneous decision to invite Skip to a place so close to his apartment. So Walt wrote down the speakeasy’s address and drew a little map. “Take the Sixth Avenue El to Bleecker. It’s not far from there.”
Walt watched Skip stare at the map, apparently trying to decipher it. It occurred to him that Skip might have a learning disorder of some type. His intelligence was apparent, particularly when he talked about baseball, so it struck Walt as odd that he couldn’t read well. But there had been a fascinating article Walt had read not long before about dyslexia that had detailed a teenager of normal intelligence who nevertheless struggled with reading. The scientist who wrote about the case thought the teenager had something wrong with his brain that made it difficult to process information correctly.
It brought everything Skip had said during their night together into clearer focus. Skip thought himself stupid, but he really wasn’t.
“I think I can find it,” Skip said.
“Worst case, you can ask for directions. Oh, I have a telephone, too. You can call me anytime. I wrote the number there at the bottom.”
Skip folded the piece of paper and put it in his pocket. He looked over Walt’s shoulder, so Walt glanced back and saw that Hornsby’s party was breaking up.
“I’d better go,” Walt said, “but I will see you tonight, all right?”
“A word, Littlefield!” Hornsby bellowed.
Skip nodded. The faintest of smiles danced across his lips. “Tonight. Yes.” Then he went to talk to Hornsby.