Edo van Belkom is an award-winning author and editor. He has published eight novels and more than two hundred short stories. He has edited several anthologies, including the influential Baseball Fantastic, which he co-edited with W. P. Kinsella. This story was his first short-story sale and was reprinted in Year’s Best Horror Stories in 1991. The story asks, is there a limit to how much arcane baseball knowledge one person can retain? Dr. Doubleday doesn’t think so.
THERE WAS NOTHING WRONG with Sam Goldman’s memory. Not really.
He forgot the odd birthday or anniversary but no one ever thought him more than slightly absent-minded.
Sam remembered what he wanted to remember. His wife Bea could tell him a hundred times to take out the garbage but he never took notice of her, especially when he was doing something important—like watching a baseball game on television.
Sam liked baseball, not just watching it, but everything about the game. He was a fan in the truest sense of the word—he was a fanatic. He was also a student of the game and as a student he studied it with a peculiar passion that made everything else in his life sometimes seem secondary. Sam was never absentminded when it came to baseball. Where baseball was concerned, Sam’s memory was an informational steel-trap, a vault containing all sorts of trivial information. Inside Sam’s head were the numbers for hitting averages, home runs, stolen bases, RBIs, and ERAs for just about anybody who was or had been anything in the sport.
Sam’s head for figures made him a great conversationalist at parties; as long as the talk centered around his favorite subject he was fine. Once he got his hands on somebody who was willing to quiz him or be quizzed on baseball trivia, he never let them out of his sight. The only way to get rid of Sam at a party was to ask him how much he knew about hockey—which was nothing at all.
Some of Sam’s friends began calling him “Psychlo” because he was a walking, talking encyclopedia of baseball to which they could refer to at any time to clear up some finer point of the game. His friends would be sitting in a circle on the deck in Sam’s back yard talking baseball over a few beers when some statistic would come under question and the discussion’s decibel level would get turned up a few notches. It was up to Sam to turn the volume back down and restore order with the right answer.
“Sammy, what did George Bell hit on the road in 1986?”
“.293,” Sam would say without hesitation.
“And how many homers?”
“Sixteen of his thirty-one were hit on the road.”
“See I told you…” one friend would say to another, proved correct by the circle’s supreme authority.
Sam considered himself gifted. He thought that what he had was a natural talent for numbers, something that might, at the very least, get him on the cover of a magazine or onto some local talk show.
It had begun as a hobby, something he liked to do with a cup of coffee and a book late at night after the rest of the family had gone to bed. Lately, however, it had become something more, something abnormal, if you asked Bea.
But even though Bea wasn’t crazy about baseball or her husband’s love affair with the game, she put up with it as most wives do with their husband’s vices. She thought it was better for their marriage if Sam spent his nights at home with his nose buried in a baseball fact book instead of in a bar flirting with some woman with an “x” in her first name.
“As long as he sticks to baseball it’s pretty harmless,” she always said.
And then one day she began to wonder.
The two were sitting at the breakfast table one Saturday morning when Sam said something that put a doubt in her mind about her husband’s mental well-being.
“Why don’t we take a drive up north today and visit your cousin Ralph?” he said.
Bea was shocked. She looked at Sam for several seconds as if trying to find some visible proof that he was losing his mind.
“Ralph died last winter, don’t you remember? We went to the funeral, there was six inches of snow on the ground and you bumped into my mother’s car in the church parking lot. She still hasn’t forgiven you for it.”
Sam was shocked too. He could remember how many triples Dave Winfield hit the last three seasons but the death of his wife’s cousin had somehow slipped his mind.
“Oh yeah, that’s right. What the hell am I thinking about?” he said and then added after a brief silence. “I better go out and wash the car.”
* * *
Things were fairly normal the next few weeks. Sam was still able to wow his friends with his lightning-fast answers and astounding memory. As long as baseball was in season Sam was one of the most popular guys around.
A co-worker of Sam’s even figured out a way to make money with his head for figures. Armed with The Sports Encyclopedia of Baseball, they’d go out to some bar where nobody knew about Sam and bet some sucker he couldn’t stump Sam with a question.
“Who led the Cleveland Indians in on-base percentage in 1952?” the sucker would ask, placing a ten-dollar bill on top of the bar.
“Larry Doby, .541, good enough to lead the American League that year,” Sam would answer. After a quick check in the encyclopedia, the two had some pocket change for the week.
Sam was astonished at the financial rewards his talent had brought him. He had always thought himself something of an oddball, but if he could make some money at it—tax free to boot—then why the hell not. The prospect of riches made him study the stats even harder, always looking to increasingly older baseball publications to make sure he knew even the most trivial statistic.
“Well, would you look at that,” he would say as his eyes bore down on the page and his brain went through the almost computer-like process of defining, processing and filing another little-known fact. It took less than ten seconds for him to remember forever that a guy by the name of Noodles Hahn led the Cincinnati Reds pitching staff in 1901 with a 22–19 record. Hahn pitched 41 complete games that year and had two-hundred and thirty-nine strikeouts to lead the league in both categories. No mean feat considering the Reds finished last that season with a 52–87 record.
The information was stored in a little cubbyhole deep within Sam’s brain and could be recalled anytime, like a book shelved in a library picked up for the first time in fifty years. The book, a little dusty perhaps, would always tell the same story.
* * *
Bea went to see Manny Doubleday, their family physician, the morning after Sam did another all-nighter with his books.
While it was true Sam had bought her some fine things since he’d been making money in bars, Bea felt the items were bought with tainted money. The fur coat had been hanging in the hall closet since the day Sam had bought it for her, not because it was the middle of summer, but because she was ashamed of it. She never showed it to guests, even those who might have thought Bea the luckiest girl in the world—and Sam the greatest husband.
Bea sat quietly in Doctor Doubleday’s private office, waiting. The office was decorated like a tiny corner of Cooperstown. On the walls hung various team photos and framed press clippings about Manny Doubleday in his heyday. On the desk were baseballs signed by Mickey Mantle and Hank Aaron, even one signed by Babe Ruth, although the authenticity of it came under suspicion since the “Bambino” signed his name in crayon.
From down the hall the doctor’s melodic whistling of “Take Me Out To The Ball Game” pierced through the space made by the slightly ajar door. Moments later the door burst open and in strode the portly doctor. Doctor Doubleday had been the Goldmans’ family physician for what seemed like forever. He had delivered both Sam and Bea into the world and always looked upon the couple’s marriage as a match made by his own hands. He was also a former minor league pitcher and big baseball fan, something that had cemented a friendship between the doctor and Sam since Sam was a teenager. The doctor knew of Sam’s ability to remember statistics and thought it was simply wonderful.
“What seems to be the problem, Bea?” he asked, picking up a dormant baseball from his desk and wrapping his fingers around it as if to throw a split-fingered fastball right over the plate.
“It’s Sam, I think he’s—”
“How is the old dodger?” the doctor interrupted as he took a batter’s stance and pretended to swing through on a tape-measure home run. “You know I’ve never seen anyone with a memory like his. It’s uncanny the way he can tell you anything you want to know at the drop of a hat.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. I think he’s overdoing it a bit,” Bea said, sitting up on the edge of her chair anxious to hear some words of support.
“Nonsense,” replied the doctor.
Bea slumped back in her chair.
“What your husband has is a gift. He has a photographic memory that he’s chosen to use for recording baseball statistics. It’s harmless.”
“It used to be harmless. He used to do it in his spare time but now he’s obsessed with it. He lets other things slide just so he can cram his head with more numbers. He’s beginning to forget things.”
“Bea,” the doctor said, putting down his invisible bat. “Forget for a minute that I’m your doctor and consider this a discussion between two friends.
“Most people are able to use about ten percent of the brain’s full capacity. Your husband has somehow been able to tap in and exceed that ten percent. Maybe he’s using twelve or thirteen percent, I don’t know, but it happens. He could be making millions at the black jack tables in Atlantic City but he chose to use his gift for baseball. Just be happy it’s occupying him instead of something more dangerous. I’ll talk to him the next time he’s in. How are the kids?”
Bea was brought sharply out of her lull and answered in knee-jerk fashion. “Fine, and yours?”
* * *
She was satisfied, but marginally. It was one thing for the doctor to talk about Sam’s mind in the comfort of the office, it was another thing entirely to sit at the dinner table and watch Sam try to eat his soup with a fork.
“Honey,” she’d say. “Why don’t you try using your spoon? You’ll finish the soup before it gets cold.”
“Yeah, I guess your right-handed batters versus lefties,” Sam would reply and then sit silently for a few moments. “Did I say that? Sorry Bea, I don’t know where my head is.”
Sam knew he was spending a little too much time with his baseball books. He was weary of the numbers and after a couple hours study, some nights the inside of his skull pounded incessantly and felt as if it might explode under the growing pressure. But he loved the game too much to give it up.
Anyway, the money he earned on the bar circuit was too good to give up. It was so good in fact that he could probably put the kids through college with his winnings; something he could never do just working at his regular job.
Sam worked as an airplane mechanic in the machine shop at the local airport. He was good at his job and always took the time to make sure it was done right.
One day he was drilling holes in a piece of aluminum to cover a wing section they had been working on. The work was monotonous so Sam occupied his time thinking about the previous night’s study.
Pete Rose hit .273 his rookie year, .269 his second, .312 his third. ..
The drill bit broke and Sam was brought back into the machine shop. He stopped the press, replaced the bit, tightening it with the key.
Lou Gehrig hit .423 in thirteen games for New York in 1923, .500 in ten games in 1924, .312 in his first full season in 1925…
Sam started the drill press and the key broke free of its chain, flew across the shop and hit another mechanic squarely on the back of the head.
He was once again brought into reality. He shut the drill off and rushed over to see if his co-worker was still alive. A crowd had gathered around the prone man and all eyes were on Sam as he neared the scene.
“What the hell were you thinking of?”
“You gotta be more careful.”
“That was pretty stupid.”
The other mechanics were crowing at him in unison and Sam felt like a baseball that had been used too long after its prime. His insides felt chopped up and unraveled as he looked at the man lying on the floor.
A groan escaped the downed man’s lips. “What the hell was that?” he asked. The crowd around him let out a collective sigh. Sam felt better too, but just slightly. The shop foreman walked up to him, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and told him to go home.
“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, before he gets up off the floor and these guys turn into a lynch mob.”
“Sure boss. I’ll go home run leaders for the past twenty years.”
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing. I don’t know what I was thinking of.”
* * *
On the way home, Sam stopped by The Last Resort, a local sports bar with big-screen TV and two-dollar draughts. He needed a drink.
After what happened at the shop, Sam thought he might be going crazy. Baseball trivia was fun but if it turned him into an accident waiting to happen, he might as well forget all about his baseball memory.
He sat on a stool in front of the bartender and eased his feet onto the brass foot-rail. Comfortable, he ordered the biggest draught they had. As he sipped the foam off the top of the frosted glass, he overheard a conversation going on down at the other end of the bar.
“Willie Mays was the best player ever to play the game, and believe me, I know…I know everything there is to know about the greatest game ever invented.”
Sam watched the man speak for a long time. He stared at him, trying to see right through his skull and into the folds of his brain. Sam wanted to know just how much this blow-hard really knew.
“Go ahead, ask me anything about the game of baseball, anything at all. I’ll tell you the answer. Heck, I’ll even put ten dollars on the bar here—if you stump me it’s yours.”
“How many home runs did Hank Aaron hit in his first major league season?” asked Sam as he carried his beer down the bar toward the man.
“Awe, that’s easy, thirteen, Milwaukee, 1954. I want some kind of challenge.”
“All right, then. In what year did Nolan Ryan pitch two no hitters and who did he pitch them against?”
“Another easy one. Nolan Ryan was pitching for the California Angels and beat Kansas City 3–0, May 15 and Detroit 6–0, July 15, 1973.”
Sam was startled. No hitters were something he’d studied just the night before. This guy was talking about them like they were old news.
“Okay, now it’s my turn,” the man said, massaging his cheeks between his thumb and forefinger. “But first, would you care to put a little money on the table?”
“Take your best shot,” Sam answered, slamming a fifty-dollar bill down on the bar.
“Well, fifty bucks,” the man said impressed. “That deserves a fifty-buck question!”
The man looked into Sam’s eyes. A little sweat began to bead on Sam’s fore head but he was still confident the bozo had nothing on him.
“Okay, then. Who was the Toronto Blue Jays winning pitcher in their opening game 1977, and what was the score?”
Sam smiled, he knew that one. But suddenly something about the way the other man looked into his eyes made his mind draw a blank. It was as if the man had reached inside and pulled the information out of Sam’s head before Sam had gotten to it. The beads of sweat on Sam’s forehead grew bigger.
“I’m waiting,” said the man, enjoying the tension. “Awe, c’mon, you know that one. I only asked it so you’d give me a chance to win my money back.”
Sam closed his eyes and concentrated. Inside his brain, pulses of electricity scrambled through the files searching for the information, but all pulses came back with the same answer.
“I don’t know,” said Sam finally.
“Too bad. It was Bill Singer, April 7, 1977, 9–5 over Chicago. Fifty bucks riding on it too. Better luck next time, pal.”
The man picked up the money and walked out of the bar. Sam stood in silence. He’d never missed a question like that before—never! He finished his draught in one big gulp and ordered another.
* * *
Sam said nothing about the incident to Bea over dinner. He ate in silence, helped his wife with the dishes and told her to enjoy herself bowling with the girls.
When she was safely out of the driveway, Sam dove in his books. He vowed never to be made fool of again and intensified his study. He looked up Bill Singer and put the information about him back on file in his head. He studied hundreds of pitchers and after a few hours their names became a blur.
Noodles Hahn, Cy Young, Ambrose Putnam, Three Finger Brown, Brickyard Kennedy, Kaiser Wilhelm, Smokey Joe Wood, Wild Bill Donovan, Twink Twining, Mule Watson, Homer Blankenship, Chief Youngblood, Clyde Barfoot, Buckshot May, Dazzy Vance, Garland Buckeye, Bullet Joe Bush, Boom Boom Beck, Bots Nickola, Jumbo Jim Elliot, George Pipgrass, Schoolboy Rowe, Pretzels Puzzullo, General Crowder, Marshall Bridges, Van Lingle Mungo, Boots Poffenberger, Johnny Gee, Dizzy Dean, Prince Oana, Cookie Cuccurullo, Blackie Schwamb, Stubby Overmire, Webbo Clarke, Lynn Lovenguth, Hal Woodeshick, Whammy Douglas, Vinegar Bend Mizell, Riverboat Smith, Mudcat Grant, John Boozer, Tug McGraw, Blue Moon Odom, Rollie Fingers, Billy McCool, Woody Fryman, Catfish Hunter, Vida Blue, Goose Gossage, Rich Folkers, Gary Wheelock.
Sam slammed the book shut. His head was spinning.
He felt like he couldn’t remember another thing, not even if the survival of baseball itself depended on it.
But then a strange thing happened.
Sam swore he heard a clicking sound inside his head. His brain felt as if it buzzed and whirred and was suddenly lighter.
He reopened the book and looked at a few more numbers. He took them in, closed the book once more and recited what he had learned.
“We’re back in business,” Sam said out loud and returned, strangely refreshed, to the world of statistical baseball.
Bea came home around eleven o’clock and found Sam in the den asleep with his face resting on a stack of books.
“Doesn’t he ever get enough?” she muttered under her breath and poked a finger into his shoulder, trying to wake him.
“Huh, what…Phil Niekro, Atlanta Braves 1979, 21–20 at the age of 40. Gaylord Perry; San Diego Padres 1979, also 40, 12–11…”
“Sam, wake up! Isn’t it time you gave it a rest and went to bed?” Bea said, pulling on his sleeve, hoping to get him out of his chair.
“Who are you?” asked Sam, looking at Bea as if they were meeting in a long narrow alleyway somewhere late at night.
“Well, I’ll say one thing for you, Sam, you still have your sense of humor. C’mon, time for bed.”
“Which way is the bedroom?” Sam asked. He thought his surroundings familiar but wasn’t too clear about their details.
“Into the dugout with you,” Bea said, caught up in the spirit of the moment. “Eight innings is more than we can ask from a man your age!”
After the two were finally under the covers, Sam lay awake for a few minutes looking the bedroom over. The pictures on the wall looked familiar to him and he thought he might be in some of them. Comfortable and exhausted, he finally dozed off.
* * *
Sam’s brain was hard at work while the rest of his body rested in sleep.
It had started with a faint click but now his brain hummed and buzzed with activity. After being bombarded with information over the past months, every available cubbyhole in Sam’s brain had been filled. There wasn’t room for one more ERA, one more home run, not even one more measly single.
But like an animal that has adapted to its environment over the course of generations, Sam’s brain was evolving too, and decided it was time to clean house.
The torrent of information it had been receiving must be essential to the survival of the species, the brain reasoned. Why else would so many names and numbers be needed to be filed away? So the brain began a systematic search of every piece of information previously stored, from birth to present, and if it did not resemble the bits of information the brain was receiving on a daily basis, out the window it would go.
Sam’s brain decided it wasn’t essential that he remember how to use the blowtorch at work so the information was erased to open up new space for those supremely important numbers.
By the time Sam awoke, a billion cubbyholes had been swept clean.
Sam walked sleepily toward the kitchen where Bea already had breakfast on the table.
“What’s that?” Sam asked, pointing at a yellow semi-sphere sitting on a perfect white disk.
“Are you still goofing around?” Bea answered. “Hurry up and eat your grapefruit or you’ll be late for work.”
Sam watched Bea closely, copying her movements exactly. He decided he liked the yellow semi-sphere called grapefruit and every bite provided a brand new taste sensation on his tongue. Sam’s brain couldn’t be bothered to remember what grapefruit tasted like, not even for a second.
Bea helped Sam get dressed for work because he said he couldn’t remember which items on the bed were the ones called pants and which were the ones called shirts.
Bea decided she’d speak to Dr. Doubleday the moment she got Sam out of the house and insist he come by and give Sam a check-up. She nearly threw Sam out the door in her rush to call the doctor.
As the door of the house closed behind him, Sam tried to remember just exactly where he worked and what it was he did for a living.
He also wanted to go back to The Last Resort and show that joker at the bar that Sam Goldman was no fool.
If only he could remember how to get there.