IT IS now 3 A.M. in the morning, and I am disgusted. It is a very cold winter night out, and I have got a fire in the fireplace.
I begun this book last October, and it is now January, and I doubt that I am halfway through. I will give 1 word of advice to any sap with the itch to write a book—do not begin it in the first place.
I got 12 chapters wrote on this blasted thing and it was not easy. My hand does not grip a pencil so good, for it is rather large, and I went and bought a couple big fat pencils called an Eagle number 4 from Fred Levine that does not make my hand so tired. Fred is still rather cool to me.
After I got through the 12 chapters I bumped into Aaron yesterday morning, and he said, “Well, Henry, I do not see much of you any more. Ain’t you afraid of putting on weight staying indoors like that?”
“I have wrote 12 chapters,” I said, “and lost 12 pounds at the least.”
“I admire your get up and go,” he said.
“Get up and go hell,” said I. “It is the sit down and stay that gets books wrote,” and he got a great laugh out of that.
Well, like a fool I stood there gassing with him, and the next thing I knowed I promised him that if him and Pop dropped over tonight—that is, last night—I would read the works out loud. Then I went back and polished up number 12 a bit, and in the evening me and Holly slung sandwiches and coffee together, and about 7 Pop and Aaron come. I begun to read out loud, starting with Chapter 1 and following through in order, though here and there I skipped over parts that seemed too personal to mention. I did not read the pages concerning me and Thedabara that night, nor the pages concerning me and Holly. Holly knows it’s there, though, and says okay, and Thedabara will never know the difference because I doubt that she ever looked at a book since Perkinsville High and ain’t likely to take up the habit now. I left out the swear words, too, for Pop’s sake. He gets all red when you swear around him around women.
Every so often they would laugh, and then again they would sit so still it was like if it would of been a book it would of been 1 of those that you can’t lay it down. Sometimes when they laughed they would laugh in the wrong spot, though.
After number 6 Holly called the halt for food, and we all drifted in the kitchen, and afterwards I begun to read out loud again, burping most of the way through 7, and when I got through with number 12 I said that was all I done to date.
Nobody said a word. They all just sat there, and I said, “Do not be bashful. Say anything you want, pulling no punches,” for to my mind it was all very good. I damn near broke my hand doing it. Finally Holly was the first to speak, and she said, “The first 11 chapters is just about right, but number 12 is too long.”
Now, if that was not a dirty crack! Of all the chapters number 12 was the 1 I was proudest of, for it run 73 pages on both sides of the paper, and I done it in less then a week. If that is not some kind of a record I will be mighty surprised.
“Yes,” said Aaron, “I think number 12 is too long.”
“Have you ever wrote a book?” said I to him.
“No,” said he.
“Well then,” said I, “why are you so quick to run down what another writer did?”
“That is not the proper attitude on your part, Henry,” he said, “for we are gathered here for the purpose of being helpful. I agree with Holly that number 12 is too long. But we must take it apart and see why it is too long and how we might cut it down and aim it to the point.”
“Well then,” said I, “half of it is wrote on yellow paper and half on white. Leave us throw out all the yellow,” and I took all the yellow and tore it in 2. However, I tore it so as to be able to paste it up again, for I will be damned if I will write 73 pages front and back and take a week doing it and bust my hand besides and then just heave it out.
“No,” said he, “that is not the way to go about it.”
“Very well,” said I, “then we might just as well forget the whole thing and skip number 12 and start in on number 13.”
“In my opinion,” said Aaron, “all that is wrong with the chapter is that it has got too much material that does not belong. It is up to us to try to decide what is good and what is too much.”
And then it all begun, and the sum and total was this:
First off, I had wrote 9 pages front and back covering the time from when we broke camp at Aqua Clara to the time we arrived in Queen City in the Four-State Mountain League AA. I give an excellent picture of all the cities we went through, all the games, and the view that you got coming down off the slope of the mountains into Q. C., and then I told a good bit about the type of a place Q. C. is and the Blue Castle Hotel, which was the headquarters of the club when we was at home. “That is too much space to give to things of such little importance,” said Aaron.
“That is a lot of rubbage,” said I. “If you have got the sense to think back on Chapter 11 you will remember that it run 9 pages front and back between the time Sid Goldman hit the home run, about 3 o’clock, until midnight. That is 9 pages covering 9 hours, while this is 9 pages covering 3 weeks, so it seems to me that you are the slightest bit cockeyed in your calculations.”
“But the things that happened in number 11,” said he, “was important things concerning important people such as the remarks of Mr. Moors. I actually think that the whole exhibition trip could be knocked off in 1 page.” Well, I finally agreed.
Then I done 9 pages front and back about Mike Mulrooney, telling about his family which I met in Q. C. and his whole life history. Part of it I copied out of a book called “Forty-One Diamond Immortals,” but mostly it was my own writing. I give him a great build-up, for he is 1 of the grandest men that ever lived. That is just what nobody liked. Holly said, “About 1 dozen times you said Mike Mulrooney is 1 of the grandest men that ever lived. That is not saying anything.”
“The hell it ain’t,” said I, “for if you knowed Mike you would say the same.”
“I do not say that Mike is not all you say,” said she, “but you must tell us why.”
“Because he is,” said I. “Because he does not wish to run the whole show but just live an easy going life and not worry you ragged about setting the whole world on fire. Because if you make a mistake he will not eat you out in front of all the rest nor give you the icy glare every time he runs into you in the hotel. He will stand by you and not go about talking behind your back. He will treat you all the same, no matter if you are on the way up or the way down, for he takes the attitude that if you are not the greatest ballplayer in the world still and all you are a human being. He is not a frog,” said I, “that goes about kissing the ass of every writer and every club official and everybody else that he thinks can do him any good. Mike says if they do not like the way he runs his club in Q. C. he will go back to his ranch in Last Chance, Colorado, but he will never stoop down to where his head is lower then his shoulders for the purpose of getting a brown nose.”
“Excellent, excellent,” said Holly, and up she jumped. “You have told us more about Mr. Mulrooney right there then you done in the 9 pages of Chapter 12 concerned with him.”
“Rats,” I said.
Then Pop throwed in. “Here is what they mean,” said he. “It is like a baseball game. If you was to pitch a ball game and win it by a score of 1–0 would you tell me how it went inning by inning, every foul ball and every little detail along the way? No, the main thing is how was the run scored and what particular scrapes you was in.”
“Very well,” said I, “out goes the 9 pages on Mike.”
“Then there is the description of all the cities of the league,” said Aaron.
I done 16 pages front and back on the different towns of the Four-State Mountain League, and I thought I done a fine job, and Aaron said, “Yes, you done a fine job. Yet it is like your pa says. It is not to the point. You do not need to tell us about the cities, for we know all about them. I have never seen a 1 of them, yet I know what they are like. They are like Perkinsville. They are all the same.”
“They are all different,” said I. “In some you have got the mountains, and in others you have not, and in 1 place you will have a fine and modern ball park while elsewhere it will be an old park.”
“But they are talking about building a new 1,” said he.
“Why yes,” said I. “Naturally.”
“And in every town you was in you walked about on the main street,” said he, “and then you got tired and went back and laid in the hotel. You and Coker and Canada and Perry.”
“Yes,” said I. “You guessed it.”
“You said to 1 another, “This is a dull town and there is nothing to do until game time,” and you laid on your bed in your shorts, and you talked about everything, baseball mostly, and you told each other over and over again your whole life history.”
“Why, yes,” said I.
“In Salt Lake you went and seen the big tabernacle, for that was where everyone told you to go. In Denver you went and seen the capitol with the big gold dome on top, and you also took a trip through the mint, for that was where everybody told you you must go in Denver. In all the cities you admired such places as these, though as a matter of fact you thought they was rather a bore. So after awhile you went over and laid in the park, and you fed the squirrels and birds and looked at the girls, and after awhile even that become a bore. There was the railroad station and the hotel, and each was the same as the next and it got so you could not hardly tell them 1 from the other.”
“Yes,” said I, “that is about the way it was. Yet they was all different.”
“No,” said he. “No, they were not. For they was all about like Perkinsville. There was a Legion club in Wichita, and you hung at the Legion club, and they made a big fuss over you. Maybe they even give you a dinner.”
“They did not,” said I. “It was the Chamber of Commerce of Queen City that give me the dinner.”
“They sung songs to you,” said he. “They sung For He Is a Jolly Good Fellow, For He Is a Jolly Good Fellow, and they give you a wrist watch.”
“They give me a traveling bag,” I said.
“With your name in silver,” said he.
“With my name in silver,” I said.
“They are all the same,” said he. “There is no need to have so many pages concerning the cities.”
I give in. Out they went.
There was a long letter waiting at the hotel when I hit Q. C. the second summer from Thedabara Brown, broke in Sacramento and wishing she could see me in Q. C. I copied it down, 5 pages front and back, and nobody could see the sense in putting it in. “There will be nothing left,” I said. “You are blasting away my chapter until there is nothing left but air. It was 2 whole summers. You cannot skip over 2 whole summers in a couple pages.”
“I am after the high spot,” said Aaron. “Never mind the mail of little Miss Brown. What was the very biggest thing about the 2 summers at Q. C.?”
“I guess,” said I, “the big thing is that I shook off my greenness and got myself ready for the big-time.”
“Ah,” said Aaron, “now we are getting somewheres.”
“If so,” said I, “we are getting there in reverse gear. It took up 4 days of my time to write the 39 pages that you have just throwed out like it was so much wrapping off a load of fish. It took me 1 whole afternoon alone to put my hands on the letter from Thedabara Brown and then copy it down, plus a whole morning copying out the material on Mike Mulrooney from “Forty-One Diamond Immortals,” holding the book in 1 hand and writing it all down with the other. That is how you do everything—backwards and in reverse.” I would not of stood for it, but we had another break for coffee and sandwiches, and Pop said he thought they was right in connection with Chapter 12.
“You take that business with Lindon Burke,” said he. “That is too much on that.”
I had give 12 pages to Lindon. He is a fine fellow. In July of the first summer Mike got a telegram from New York, asking for Lindon right away. The Mammoths was flagging at the time, and Dutch was of the opinion that they needed a righthander for relief, maybe for a starter, though it was my opinion then and still is that the Mammoths have always had too goddam many righthanders. Nonetheless we was all glad for Lindon. We had a big celebration before he went. We was in Denver, and we beat Denver that night, and Lindon’s train was not until morning, and we stood him a dinner at Boggio’s. We all made speeches. I wrote down what I could remember of each 1, for each and every 1 was a dandy. Then I copied down the menu, for I swiped 1. It was signed by everybody who was there that night. The last speech of all was that of Mike Mulrooney, and after he finished he give Lindon the present we bought, consisting of a silver bracelet with his name. Then we all started in to sing, “Stand up, stand up, stand up and show us your ugly face,” and he stood up and begun to speak. But he could not speak, for he was bawling, and the tears was racing down his cheek. Then Mike got back up, and he was laughing, and he said, “Lindon need not make no speech. Instead of that, he must win the first game he gets to pitch up there in the big-time, for after all he is a pitcher and not an after-dinner speaker.” Lindon shook his head, meaning he would do it, and sure enough he done it, beating Washington the first full game he pitched, and that night we got a wire saying “I done it, and I am thinking of all you boys,” signed Lindon Burke.
“Very well,” said I to Pop, “I will trim that down.”
“You could also chop out the amusement park,” said he.
I done 8 pages concerning 1 afternoon me and Perry and Coker and Canada went to Mountaineer Park in Q. C. For a dime you could throw 3 baseballs at wooden bottles stood up on a barrel, and if you knocked them all off you got a prize. “If I cannot knock them bottles off,” said I to the boys, “I will turn in my suit and go home and pump gas,” and I got up close, and I throwed, and I will be damned but I could not knock them off.
Then Perry give the man a dime. He did not get up close but went off to the side a bit, and he bent down like he was fielding a ground ball, and then, still in the bending position, he flipped in with that little snap throw a good second baseman knows how to make, and he clubbed the bottle dead center, and off they all went. The man give him a prize, consisting of a raggedy doll.
Then I said to the man, “Give me 3 more, and here is your dime,” and I took the balls, and I said, “How far is it from that barrel to this here counter?” meaning the place you was to throw from.
“About 6 feet,” said the man.
“Well then,” said I, “I will pace off 54 more and make it an even 60,” and back I went. There was people passing back and forth up and down the midway, and I said, “Out of the way, folks, unless you wish to be beaned,” and the people lined up to see what was going on. I throwed from the 60 feet, which is the regular pitching distance, and I tagged the center bottle on the nose, and off they all went, and Canada collected my raggedy doll and I come down and flipped the man a dozen dimes or more and went back to the 60 feet. About 2 throws in 3 I turned the trick. There was quite a big crowd gathered around, and the bigger the crowd the hotter I am, and Perry and Canada and Coker gathered up my prizes. I must of spent 4 dollars in dimes, and we had about 50 dolls and wind-up toys and candy canes and balloons and circus masks and glass jugs and a little red fire engine and a bowl of goldfish, and I give it all away to the kids except a couple candy canes that I ate myself. It warmed me good. That night I shut out Omaha.
“Why,” said I to Pop, “it was a good time and ought to be in.”
“Son,” said he, “as long as you are doing it you might as well do it in a straight line. Aaron and Holly have read many books and know how they ought to be wrote.”
“They do not know center field from the water fountain,” I said. “They make me dizzy. What is the sense of writing a chapter for them to tell me chuck it out the door?”
“Now,” said Aaron, “we was saying that the big thing about the 2 summers in Q. C. was that you shook off your greenness and was getting ready to go up to the big-time.” He never forgets what he was saying. He will meet you and pick up the conversation he was snarled up in 3 weeks before, after you had forgot all about it.
“Right,” said I.
“Just what is left?” said he.
I shuffled through the pages, and there was nothing left but 14 pages front and back regarding Coker and Canada and Perry. We was the closest of buddies in Q. C. If someone was to come looking for 1 all they need do is find the other 3. We was either in Perry and my room or Coker and Canada’s, or else the coffee shop, or else we was somewheres out on the town, whatever town it may be, walking along and seeing the sights.
The only other place we could be was at the park, and we always went there together, and we had our lockers 1 next to the other, and we would dress and then go out on the field together. If it was not my day to work I might take a turn at first base during the infield drill, for Squarehead Flynn would leave me do so. He is a prince of a fellow but still with Q. C. He will be there till he is old and gray.
When I worked it was a pleasure to have that infield behind me. Ground balls was sure outs. Then, too, Coker and Perry was a grease of lightning on double plays, and Canada down at third had no little hand in double plays himself. They set a record for the Mountain League in that department the first summer, and they busted their own record the summer after.
After the ball games, in the clubhouse, the 4 of us sung together in the shower. I wrote out all the songs we sung, such as “I Love You As I Never Loved Before,” “Some Enchanted Evening,” “Going to Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair,” “The Good Old Summertime,” “Sweet Adeline,” “Down by the Old Mill Stream,” “Meet Me In St. Louis,” “Goodnight, Irene,” “White Christmas,” “God Bless America,” “A Bicycle Built for 2,” “Old Black Joe,” “My Old Kentucky Home,” and some songs that Coker sung back in the coal mines of West Virginia, and it took up 7 pages front and back. That was a good deal of work.
Nonetheless Aaron said it had no place in the book. “For God’s sake,” said I, “they was the best infield the Mountain League ever seen and if it was up to you they would be slid over without hardly a mention.”
“Just exactly what is a double play?” said Holly.
I leaned forwards and put my head down on my arms.
“Go ahead and tell her, Hank,” said Pop, and I lifted up my head and begun to explain.
“The most usual type is when you have a man on first,” I said. “Then the batter hits a ground ball to the infield, and the infielder scoops it up and tosses to second. That gives you a force on 1 man. Then the second baseman or the shortstop, whichever took the throw, he rifles it down to first base. If it gets to first base ahead of the runner you have worked the play. You have got 2 men out on the 1 pitch.”
“That does not sound hard,” said Aaron.
“It is a beautiful play when done right,” said I. “It is harder then it sounds. The average ballplayer can get from home plate to first base in 3 seconds. A fast man can do it in less. So you have got 3 seconds to field the ball clean, fire it to second, make the play there, keep clear of the runner, pivot and throw to first. That is a lot of work to do in 3 seconds. The shortstop and the second baseman have got to be like a fine machine, working together to the split of a second. They have got to know each other like a book. It is like they was 1 and the same man, not 2 different men. That is how Perry and Coker works, like they was 1 and the same man. It is beautiful. Then, too, it is a great help to any pitcher. It saves wear and tear on him. A good double play combination around second base will save you many a ball game. It can win a pennant for you or lose it.”
“All this brings us to the very point of the whole discussion,” said Aaron.
“I must say it is about time,” said I, “for it is now 2 o’clock in the morning and we have jawed away at this thing for 7 hours. There is nothing left.”
“There is still the main point left,” said Aaron. “You have jammed it all in 1 sentence, but it is the main point,” and he picked up 1 half of the last page that I had tore in 2, and he read what I had wrote. He read: “Well, the outcome was that I went up to the Mammoths in September of the second summer, and I pitched 1 inning in relief against Boston.”
“You might just as well throw that out, too,” said I, “for you cannot have a chapter that has got only 1 sentence in it.”
“Yet that is the big point,” said he, “for that is what you were aiming at from the time you first took a baseball in your hand. The rest of the chapter is full of dead matter that leads you nowheres.”
“I will not write it over,” said I. “I should of never begun it. It is Chapter 12 and that is a bad number for me and always was.”
“That is up to you,” said he. “If you wish to leave number 12 out of your book it is your right to do so. However, it seems to me that whatever chapter follows 11 ought to be about when you was sent up to the Mammoths.”
“Tomorrow,” I said. “I will do it tomorrow. I thank you all for your wonderful goddam help.”
Aaron and Pop went home, and I was tired, and yet I could not calm down and sleep. I lit the fire in the fireplace and shaved a new point on an Eagle #4. I thought I would write a few minutes and then turn in. Yet when you get to writing you run on and on, and it is hard to stop, and I have wrote 14 more pages front and back and still not got into the main point, which is when I went up to the Mammoths. I will do it tomorrow—that is, tonight. It is now daylight and I must first get some sack.