He spoke with your accent, an American accent, with a twinkle in his eyes and a little hopefulness. No doubt it was a class day, yet he was standing far from the classroom.He wanted to be here, in the shadow of this old, rusty behemoth.He shouldn't be blamed. In this metropolis, there are steel and concrete buildings everywhere, with mottled walls and mowed lawns.The billboards showed Chesterfield packs, huge boxes tilted with two cigarettes on each side. People once pursued bulky things, and this practice is history.He is just a child, with no desire for the outside world, yet he is part of a huge crowd: thousands of strangers get off the bus, get off the train, plod along the The flow of people walks on the swing bridge across the river.They were not on the move, not in the midst of a revolution—some great shock of the soul—but with the warmth of a great city, with its little reveries and its great longings.During the day something unseen haunts people, men in fedoras, sailors ashore on leave.Their minds are confused and they are busy having fun.

The sky was overcast and gray, as if it had been disturbed by the waves. He was the youngest, only fourteen years old, standing on the steps with the others, his body crooked, giving the impression of being penniless.He had never done anything like this before, and he didn't know anyone around him at all.Of them, only two or three seemed to know each other.They can't do this kind of thing alone, and they can't do it together.They came together, and the method they adopted was to observe whether the other party was the kind of person who was prone to take risks.There were fifteen children in this group, including blacks and whites, some came by subway, and some were from Harlem.They are thin and very similar, a bunch of punks.According to people who have done it before, four out of five people will succeed and one will be caught.

They waited anxiously for ticketed spectators to pass through the turnstiles—fans in twos and threes, spectators who got separated from their partners, loafers.A few taxis came from the business district, bringing in some latecomers: the men walked briskly to the window, all smooth and smooth.They ranged from people in finance to smartly dressed diners at supper clubs to Broadway bigwigs, pompous and imposing, rearranging the sleeves of their mohair suits.They stood on the edge of the road and observed coldly, keeping their expressions calm, assuming the shabby appearance of idlers on the street.Just now, muffled voices could be heard everywhere before the start of the game. Vendors were selling items on the crowded sidewalk, waving scorecards and small flags in their hands, yelling in a monotonous rhythmic voice, skinny Men were busy selling badges and hats.Later, the surging crowd calmed down and gradually dispersed, returning to their familiar and simple residences on the street.

They waited on the curb, their eyes dim and forbidding.Someone pulled his hand out of his pocket, waited a moment, and then started to move.A man named Mick yelled, "Do it." Outside the two ticket booths, there are four turnstiles.The youngest — named Cottle Martin — was the thinnest, trying to look nonchalant in a polo shirt and dungaree overalls.He was at the end of the line, shouting as he ran.Sometimes yelling can embolden a person, and sometimes one wants to show others that one is fearless.They wore scream masks with bulging eyes and dilating mouths.They ran as fast as they could, stumbling and shouting through the aisles between the ticket booths.The conductor stared dumbfounded from behind the window like an onion tied with string.

Cottle saw that the people who ran in the front jumped over the railing, and two of them collided in the air and fell to the ground suddenly, with painful expressions on their faces.A ticket inspector swooped in, pinned one of them's head under his armpit, and the hat dropped and flew down his back.He reached out to grab it, but missed; at the same time he saw another hurdle runner struggling desperately to escape.They run and jump.This is an act of fare evasion without wisdom. Many people squeezed past and collided with each other, and staged a veritable break-in show.Some takeoffs are timed poorly, crashing into pillars, others into the radiating iron bars of the turnstiles, and jumping on the backs of others, like cartoon characters.Those who stood by the hot dog stands on either side of the turnstiles must have felt that what was unfolding before them was a scene of horrific chaos.The line of men began to look in this direction, chewing delicious sausages in their mouths, with oily bubbles on their tongues.The man at the booth was stunned, motionless, holding a brush in one hand, mechanically applying mustard.

The group of teenagers wandering the streets and alleys shouted loudly, and the loud voice echoed in the concrete building. Cotter saw a path leading to the turnstile on the right.He discarded all useless things on his body and prepared to jump over the railing.Some of my companions are jumping over the railing, some are still hesitating, some have long hair, some are thinking about their girlfriends in sweatshirts, some have fallen and are struggling to get up.They spread out.Two policemen in charge of site security rushed over along the ramp.Cotter rushed to get rid of all these influences, get rid of his inner tension before they showed up.He fixed his eyes on the protruding railing of the post, and increased his speed, his body seemed to become lighter.Teenage laziness, strong body odor, idiosyncratic behavior, all the youthful things that mark the characteristics of teenagers are all gone.He's just a teenager on the run, a character with no maturity.What is impressive, however, is that the figure reveals a certain way of being, the way the runner confronts himself with consciousness.This is the way this dark-skinned boy faces the world. A dozen big strides make his blood surge and make him stand out.

Then he jumped, feeling good and light, like a businessman flying in from Kansas City with a box of bank drafts.He buried his head and stepped over the railing with his left leg.He knew that after jumping, those people would chase him immediately, and he would be in danger for the next few hours, watching from side to side.However, he seemed to feel that the time was prolonged, and he floated up, and at the moment of freezing, he saw the landing position and the way to continue running.Now, the sense of fear in his heart has been reduced a little. He landed lightly on both feet, and with brisk steps, he rushed past the ticket inspector who was looking for his hat all over the floor.He knew very well that it was impossible for him to be caught.He has always felt this way, as if it was an intuition from the bottom of his heart.He felt the thought pounding in his heart.

At this time, a fat policeman ran over, fully armed, with a lot of pistols, handcuffs, flashlights, and batons, jingling on his belt, with a stack of unfilled summons stuffed in his pocket.Cottle kicked him, nearly knocking him to his knees.Several people who were munching hot dogs bent over to watch. The teenager turned around, accelerated slowly, and waved his finger to the police to say goodbye. He often does fancy tricks on a whim in a way that surprises even himself. He walked down a dimly lit ramp, into the shadows of girders, pillars, and streamers.He heard the crescendoing chords at the end of the national anthem, saw the horseshoe-shaped grandstands, saw the wide lawn.See the lights spilling over the field, from the infield, through the leveled dirt, to the surrounding green fence.This often means that he has withdrawn from his daily life, and he can't help but feel a surge of excitement.He galloped forward, eager to see the rows of seats, looking for an unobtrusive vacancy behind the pillars.He entered a tunnel in the thirty-fifth arrondissement, among the fans exuding passion and smell, and into the smoke suspended under the second-tier stands.He heard the muffled murmur of the fans, the clatter of gloves as catchers warmed up, like the tail of a comet streaking across the sky.

Then, he disappeared into the crowd. In the radio booth, they're talking about the number of people there, about 35,000 people, how many do you think?The two teams have a distinctive history, the fans are full of confidence and passion, and the force they form has affected the entire city.This game is the third of three playoff games, and it is a battle of life and death.The names of the Giants and Dodgers were on the lips, relishing the openly expressed rivalries of the players, looking back on this year, on the title race that had enthralled the city.In this excitement, the thrill, fear and suspense are intertwined, and the German loanwords are needed to fully express it. The fans of both teams have fully demonstrated their hard-core loyalty to their teams.That's what they talked about in the studio.Love for the team spreads across the city's boroughs, to the suburbs, to nearby counties and to the fanless northern part of the state.How do you explain the fact that there are still 20,000 empty seats under the circumstances?

The engineer in charge of operating the broadcast equipment said: "It looks like it's going to rain all day today, which greatly affects the emotions of the audience. Some people say, fuck it, don't watch it." The showrunners hung a blanket in the broadcast room to separate this group from the bunch of KMOX guys who had just arrived from St. Louis.With nowhere else to house them, the two groups had to be squeezed together. "Don't forget. There are no advance tickets," he told the engineer. The engineer added: "Also, the Giants had a big loss yesterday, and that was a big deal, and the big loss upset people in the neighborhood. Believe me, I live in the neighborhood and know how everyone feels. Yesterday's Losing the battle has brought down the spirits of the people, and tens of thousands of people seem to be on the verge of death."

Russ Hodges broadcasts games for the WMCA and commentates for the Giants.Russ, with a tired throat and a bad cold that meant he wasn't supposed to be smoking, lit the fire and said, "There's some truth to that, but I'm not sure if there's any logical explanation. Anything that involves With lots of people, nothing is predictable." Russ' voice was magnetic when he spoke, but there was still a boy's innocence in his eyes, in his smile.His hair looked as if he had clipped a bowl on his head, and his suit was wrinkled and almost featureless.How is it possible for someone to broadcast games day in and day out throughout the summer without retaining something dated? He glanced at the scene: the four corners of the stand were crowded with people, but the seats in the distance were sparse, and there was almost no one in the middle.On the top of the clubhouse, the square Longines clock stands out.The stadium is colorful and forms a mural: hats and faces, green grandstands, tawny running lanes.Russ feels lucky to be able to work here.He televises games day in and day out, right here at Paul Stadium.He liked the name, it brought to mind those precious days before the world wars.He felt that there was something unusual about this place, that something was forming, and that everyone who was there should feel lucky.However, he found that he remembered the unforgettable time in the past.His father once took him to Toledo to watch the fight between Dempsey and Willard.That game was brilliant and awe-inspiring.It was National Day and the temperature was 110 degrees Fahrenheit, and the men wore short-sleeved shirts and straw hats, many with handkerchiefs tucked under the hats over their shoulders, looking like they were playing Arabs.Standing in the steaming white circle, Jesse, who was exceptionally skilled, faced Dempsey's attacks round after round. His sweat mixed with blood evaporated on his face and turned into mist. Shots like this have become the stuff of news documentaries.When people see such a scene, they will feel in their hearts that they carry some kind of sacred fragments of history. In the second inning, Thomson hit a low-arcing curveball that landed on a line over third base. Rockman ran an easy arc with his eyes set on left field as he charged to second base. Pavko moves toward the perimeter for a bounced ball. On the two platforms to the left, spectators in the front row leaned out, some throwing papers off the edge of the platform.Torn scorecards, fragments of matchboxes, crumpled paper cups, waxed napkins wrapped around hot dogs, bacteria-infected tissues left in pockets for days, and the like were thrown at Pavko. Thomson jumped and ran, started to run, got near first base, and leaned over to run. Pavko took the opportunity to throw the ball to Cox. Thomson headed down to second base, advancing easily, and saw Rockman standing on the mat watching him, half-conscious, with a question on his lips. For the past week, Russ has been under stress every day, talking into a microphone, with a sore throat, coughing, fever and exhaustion.He rides the train every day, nervous and sleep-deprived, commenting on the game in a familiar and familiar voice to the audience.Today, the usual crisp, tough voice has become a little hoarse. Cox watched quietly, reached out to grab the ball, and made a side throw to Robinson. He watched Mace as he dragged his bat and walked slowly toward home plate. Robinson caught the ball, threw a spin and passed it to Thomson, who stood about five feet from second base, hesitating slightly. The audience loves to see pieces of paper flying and landing at Pavko's feet, flying over his shoulders, and clinging to his hat.The wall was nearly seventeen feet high, and the audience couldn't reach him, so they had to throw papers at him. The coach of the Giants, known as Leo the Hard Rock, looked at Durochel in the player's rest area. He looked like a professional boxer, and his expression seemed to be that of a general who had just returned from the Gallic War. Curse: "That's fucking awesome." In the giants' rest area, the four of them sat in Leo's favorite seats and watched the game.At this moment, Robinson slapped Thomson with a snap.They are three important players in this game: Frank Sinatra, Jack Gleason, Tots Shaw.The three were old friends, and with them was J. Edgar Hoover, holding a large ceramic mug and wearing a high-end suit.Why is the number one head of the FBI staying with this gang?How should I put it, Edgar sat in a seat near the aisle, looking in a good mood, smiling and watching the rough antics performer: he kept changing roles, now a soft-singing pop singer, now A comedian who loves to tell jokes, and a tavernkeeper for a while.Hoover would have liked to watch the races, but he was willing to stay with such people and was not very picky about the venue.He loved hanging out with movie stars and sports stars, and gossip-mongers like Walter Winchell — who was here today, sitting with the top Dodgers executives.Fame and secrecy are the upper and lower extremes of the same fascination, the static rupture of something instinctive in the world.Hoover deals with people who have this energy.He likes to be a close friend of these people, the condition is that their secret lives have been secretly recorded by him, all the rumors have been collected and sorted, and the hidden facts can be seen at a glance. Gleason said: "Listen to me, friends. Today's victory belongs to the Dodgers, and the Brooklyn bones in me already feel it." "What bones?" said Frank. "They've all been corroded with alcohol." Thomson's whole body appeared flabby, having lost its vigor and resilience.At this time, Robinson called a timeout, moved his pigeon-like pace, swayed from side to side, and walked slowly to the front of the pitching area. "If the Giants want to win, they're going to have to hire the dwarf. What's his name? Their only hope is for the sun to come out in the west," Gleason said. "There's either an earthquake or the dwarf. This isn't California, so They'd better beg the elves in flannels to help!" Frank said, "Interesting." This question made Edgar a little nervous.His stature is actually average, but he is very sensitive to his height.He has gained weight recently, and whenever he looks in the mirror to get dressed, he has to carefully observe his own appearance: thick shoulders and round waist, with a round head on it-a short, fat man.That's what the journalists told the truth, as if a man could turn his imagined pain into words for the public to read.The reality today is that an overweight Secret Service agent is unlikely to get a job at Headquarters.Besides, the short guy Gleeson was talking to was a three-foot-seven, athletic guy who had just played for the St. Louis Browns as a hitter six weeks earlier.That, too, Edgar thought, was a politically subversive move—the guy's name was Eddie Gaidel.If Gleason recalled the name, he would compare Eddie to Edgar.In this case, the joke about the shorty would quickly spread among the fans as a well-founded story.Gleason had already struck first, made this insulting joke, and hadn't stopped—he had done it for free, for his own amusement, and for leaving his ruined life behind. Tots Shaw said, "Don't be like that all the time, Gleason. It's just a small test. The Giants fought thirteen games to get this far, and the last day can't be done. It's been a miracle year, No one can explain what has happened." Toots looked like a veterinarian who ran an illegal bar, with his flat face, strong hands, stocky body, slicked-back hair, and suspiciously squinted eyes.He used to work as a security guard at a club, driving innocent customers out after a few drinks. "Maes was the best," he said. Frank objected, "Willie was the best today. He's going to be super, Leo told me on the phone." Gleason said with a still crisp British accent, "Aren't you trying to tell me this guy is going to do something great?" Edgar hated the British, and laughed when he heard it.Jack took a big bite of the hot dog, choked on it, and started coughing, spraying bread crumbs, minced meat, and other particles from his mouth. Edgar hated this kind of invisible creatures the most, and immediately turned his head away, trying to hold his breath.He wanted to go to the toilet quickly, to a clean toilet, grab a bar of soap that no one had used, turn on the hot water for a while, and find a soft new towel to dry off.However, there are of course no such facilities nearby.The things that come out of people's mouths contain many germs, pathogens, microorganisms, and spirochetes.They are immature, loaded with deadly toxins, constantly mixing, separating, lengthening, spinning, and devouring everything around them. There were crowds on the court, shouts, bad breath and buzzing, high and low.People shared the process of the game, saw how a person sighed, and heard how a series of curse words came out of a person's mouth.The applause sometimes fades away quickly, and sometimes it re-emerges.The people waited, waiting for deafening shouts, rhythmic applause, fixed slogans and repeated sentences.This is the power they reserve, ready to be used at the best moment.Something like that can affect the atmosphere of a game, change the structure of the game, get the crowd jumping up and down, thundering and boiling the field. Sinatra said, "Jack, I thought I told you that you shouldn't get out of the car until you've eaten." Mayes was practiced but hit the lower part of the incoming ball and hit a regular fly that arced across the overcast October sky.The sound of the gray bat hitting the ball reached Cottle Martin in the left field bleachers.He sat there, bent over, his thin shoulders protruding high.He didn't watch the ball, his eyes fell on Willie.Willie shrugged, ran to first base, snatched the glove from the ground first, and jogged to his spot. Suddenly the arc lights came on, and Cotter felt himself shudder—he had just run through the ticket gate at such a speed that no one caught him.At this time, the sky is different from just now, becoming gloomy and depressing, and it may soon rain.He saw Mays standing in the middle field, looking thin and small in the wide field, as tall as a child.Cottle couldn't help but wonder: how could this little guy throw the ball so far?How is it possible to be so powerful and spin a baseball?He had to worry about the rain; moreover, it was only afternoon, and the whole visual effect was completely different from the game at night.At night, the field and players seem completely cut off from the surrounding night.However, he likes the court under the lights.In his life, he had only attended an evening game once, when he and his older brother swaggered into the illuminated stands.At that time, he felt that from the lighthouse on the site, there was an unknown energy emitting.It was the great effect of the earth, separating the players, the turf and the line on the field, from anything he had ever seen or imagined.They were the first things he had seen, with their own vivid colors. That's what it feels like when a runner makes a hard stop. The first thing that struck Cotter before the arc lights came on was how many unoccupied seats there were in the stands.During his search, he found that there were many empty seats, more than the total number of spectators who got up to buy beer or go to the toilet.He found an open seat between two guys in suits, decided he was lucky, and sat down immediately.It's so easy to find the actual vacant seats, so don't care about why there are so many empty seats left. The man on his left asked, "Would you like some peanuts?" The peanut dealer came along again, a guy who was good at making small money, about eighteen years old, black, tall and thin.Everyone who had watched the game before knew him, and they all took out their change, shouting: "Hey, here, here is a bag." They tossed the coins briskly, and the peddlers took them one by one with quick hands.His skin seemed to be magnetic, picking up the flying coins, before tossing bags of peanuts into people's arms.It was a short provocative act, but Cotter sensed a looming danger.This guy might expose himself and make him humiliate in public.Isn't it a strange thing that the common skin color jumps between the two of them?No one paid attention to Cottle until the peddler appeared, until the peddler's hands showed a black light.One was a popular Negro who brought pleasure; the other was a child who tried to be inconspicuous and fidgeted. The man then asked, "Are you talking?" Cottle held up a hand, signaling not to eat. "Not a pack? You're welcome." Cotter leaned forward, one hand stretched to his chest, either to indicate that he had eaten, or that peanuts would give him a stomachache, or that his mother had said not to eat snacks lest he lose his appetite for dinner. The man asked, "So, which team do you support?" "giant." "They haven't played well this year, have they?" "It's because of the weather. I can't tell. It's really unlucky. The points have been falling behind." The man raised his head and looked up at the sky.He was about forty, clean-shaven and pomaded, but with an overall casual look.His easy-going demeanor led Cottle to relate him to the characters who saw small-town life in the film. "Just one point behind, they will catch up. The weather was bad this year, and it looks the same today. Do you want to drink soda?" Men were going in and out of the toilet, some zipping as they left the urinal, some moving towards the urinal, wondering where they were going to stand, picking their neighbors.Here, the old-fashioned baseball field exudes a strong smell and mold gathers, with foam like old beer floating, and feces, cigarette butts, peanut shells, disinfectant paper, and urine are everywhere on the ground.Some people think about how to get through their day smoothly, and some people think about things that have nothing to do with the game.Men moved and hummed in the crowded toilet.During the game, there was an endless stream of people coming and going, bustling, peeing intently. The person sitting on Kotter's left moved his buttocks, fidgeted, approached his shoulder, and asked in a deliberately low voice: "Didn't go to school? Give yourself a day off?" After he finished speaking, he smiled brightly. Cottle replied: "It's about the same as you." Then he sneered. "I escaped from prison just to watch this game. Actually, they broadcast the game to the prisoners. In the municipal prison, they installed wireless broadcasting in the cell area." "I came in early today," Cottle said. "I could have gone to school and ran out. But, I wanted to see the whole thing." "True fan. I'm happy to hear you say that." "Watch the audience put on a show, watch the players enter the field." "Oh, my name is Bill Watson. I could have missed work to watch the game, but there's no need to. Started my own little business, a construction company." Cottle racked his brains for something to talk about. "We build residential buildings, and a lot of people like the houses we build." The peanut peddler walked up the aisle and was about to turn to another section of the stands when he saw Cottle and gave him a knowing smile.This, Cottle thought, was in trouble.That man's big mouth would give away his identity in some embarrassing way.The two looked at each other briefly, and the peddler walked up the stairs.He strode forward quickly, with an expression of indifference on his face, reached out and pulled out a bag of peanuts, whoosh to Cottle.Cottle quickly reached out and caught Peanut.This scene is full of warmth, and the good wishes conveyed spread out in the small auditorium, making Cotter's face bloom with a rare smile this week. "Look, you've got a bag at the end," Bill Watson said. Cotter tore off the crinkle seal of the gray bag and handed it to Bill.The two sat there, shelling peanuts, removing the brown skin with their thumb and forefinger, putting oily salt-fried peanut kernels into their mouths, and throwing the peanut shells on the ground, keeping their eyes on the game on the field. Bill said: "If you hear someone say that they are on the seventh floor of heaven next time, you can think of what we are now." "What we need is to score." He handed the bag of peanuts to Bill again. "They'll score, come on, don't worry. Will make you happy, you hooky guy." At this moment, Robinson was standing on the edge of the outfield grass, watching the batter walk in with an absent-minded look.Another German boy from the countryside under Leo. "There's a manly code," Bill said, "that says, you buy me your peanuts, and I have to buy us both some Cokes." "That sounds fair." "Okay. That's good." Bill turned and held up a hand. "The two athletes lived in peace." In the rest area of ​​the players, Stankey, known as the boxer, sat. Mace was trying to get rid of the jingle in his head, his face slightly swollen with melancholy, his ears always buzzing with some funky music he'd recently heard on the radio. The hitter walked down the steps, giving the impression he was sleepwalking, and tossed the black bat into the rack. The game entered the middle game.They go into waiting, into some inexplicable state of anxiety, feel their shoulder muscles go stiff, go to the chiller to drink and spit. At the other end of the field, Branca was standing in the reserve pitcher's practice area.He was a tall man with pointed ears, thick arms, easy throwing, and a relaxed demeanor. Mace thought in utter helplessness, the clicking sound echoing in his ears. In the stands, Agent Rafferty walked down the steps to the grandstand behind the home team's dugout.He has compact features and a thick mass of reddish hair, which people like to call shaggy red hair.He held his head forward, giving the impression that he did not want to be disturbed.He walked briskly, but not in a hurry, and walked towards the box where the director was. With two fizzy drinks at his feet, two hot dogs he had forgotten about in each hand, Gleason was talking to six people at the same time.They laughed and asked questions. Some of them used season tickets, and some were old fans who watched the game with their slender wives.They found Gleason half-drunk and admired his wit and the sharpness with which he insulted and mocked.They liked to be offended, and Jack was happy to do so, masking his drunkenness by imitating drunks to perfection.Drunk-eyed, he laughed at one man's shaggy wig and another at the two elbow patches on his tweed jacket.The ladies enjoyed seeing Gleason drunk and wanted him to keep acting.They watched Gleason and watched Sinatra respond to Gleason; they watched the game and listened to Jack's witty commentary for the TV station; . Lafferty walked to the seat near the aisle where Mr. Hoover was. Instead of standing over the director, he leaned over to talk to him.He purposely leaned down in the aisle to speak, keeping his hand near his mouth so casually that no one could read his lips to understand what he was saying.Hoover paused for a moment, then said something to the entourage.Then he and Lafferty walked up the stairs, stopping at an empty spot in the middle of the slope, and the agent gave him a detailed report on the situation. According to intelligence, the Soviet Union conducted a nuclear test at a secret site in its country.They detonated a kind of bomb, but the disclosure was understated.Our detection equipment shows that this is clearly a bomb, a weapon, a tool for creating conflict, which can generate high temperature, shock wave and strike force.It's not some kind of peaceful use of nuclear energy, or something like home heating.It was a bloody bomb that formed a huge white cloud, like some god of thunder and lightning mentioned in the mythology of ancient Eurasian peoples. Edgar silently recorded this day in his heart: October 3, 1951.He documented the day and made a special mark. He knew that this was not a completely unexpected event, that it was the second nuclear explosion carried out by the Soviet Union.However, this news pierced his heart like a sharp sword, making him think of the spies who delivered this information.There is a possibility that they will ship nuclear warheads to North Korea and hand them over to the communists in the north.He felt that the footsteps of the Soviets catching up in technology were getting closer and closer, and they might catch up with or even surpass the Americans.He was shocked when he heard the news. He stood there trembling, with a serious expression on his face and serious eyes. On the slope, Lafferty stood below Hoover. Yes, Edgar remembered the date.He thought of Pearl Harbor, almost ten years ago, when he was in New York.Today's news seemed to be shining in the air, and pictures and things seemed to float in his mind, and everything at that time was vividly remembered. Above them, spectators in the stands let out deafening shouts.The sound echoed wave after wave in the empty structure at the bottom of the gymnasium. At this moment, he thought of this, of the heat wave engulfing the city. Gleason shouldn't be here.In the studio in Midtown, a rehearsal was going on, and that was where he was supposed to show up.There they were preparing a skit called "The Honeymoon Period," which was to be performed for the first time in two days.Jack was very familiar with the subject matter of the sketch: a bus driver named Ralph Crampton who lived with his wife Alice in a seedy Brooklyn apartment.Gleason felt there was nothing strange about missing rehearsals and entertaining the fans in the stands.But Sinatra was deeply disturbed by the fact that everyone who saw the performance was rocking in their seats laughing.他习惯与人保持一定的距离，喜欢在事先安排妥当的场合与人见面。今天，弗兰克没有让自己的外国佬特情人员随行。他的一侧是杰克，另一侧是托茨，两个彪形大汉起到自然屏障的作用。尽管如此，还是有人挤了进来，表达出一种使命感。他看到，他们决定挨个和他说话。他的脸上露出刻板的笑容，他们把他当作一面挡箭牌，处理任何不测事件。有人编写好了剧本，他们要看一看，弗兰克如何表演。兜售啤酒的小贩一个踉跄，他们想要看一看，弗兰克是否注意到这一点。 他俯身说：“杰克，待在这里非常有趣。不过，你想一想，你能不能用毛巾遮住面孔，让那些人回到座位上去看比赛？” 人们希望听到格利森在节目中妙语连珠，说出他们熟悉的词句。他们嘴里叫喊着那些字眼，希望他亲口说出来。 这时，弗兰克说：“喂，胡佛究竟在什么地方？我们这里需要他，把这些女人赶走吧，别让她们弄脏我们的健美身体。” 那名捕手站起来，晒红的脖子上沾满泥土。他取下护面，吐痰。他身上穿着护具，嘴唇轮廓分明，伤痕累累，被太阳晒破了皮。在大庭广众的场合吐痰，这是他所做的最自由的动作。他的唾液落在草地上，形成一串水珠，晃动几下，变成了沙土色。 拉斯·霍奇斯为电视转播的中局结束了，按照监视器上的提示，话说得少了一些。在两局比赛的间隙，比赛数据统计员拿出自己带来的做午餐的鸡肉三明治，分了一块给他。 他问拉斯：“今天观众中的渴望模样是什么？” “我不知道，我得看一看。任何模样都行。我觉得，自己无法找到像样的东西。也许，是眼窝凹陷的。” “带着沉思的。”统计员说。 说的没错，而且他知道这一点。拉斯流露出渴望的神情，神不守舍，这真他妈的奇怪。他一整天的心绪都是如此，背影偏斜，一个步履蹒跚的苍老背影，仿佛是一个坐在摇椅上的头发斑白的男人。 “这三明治里有鸡肉，还有什么呢？” “我想，是蛋黄酱吧。” “喂，说起来有点滑稽，”拉斯说，“不过我觉得，是夏洛特在我的脸上留下了烙印。” “是夏洛特女士，还是夏洛特城？” “肯定是城市啦。我在演播室里待了几年时间，制作职业棒球联盟比赛节目。那个电报迷在背景中不停地说话，大嘴巴霍奇斯凭空想象出99的比赛现场情况。我给你说实话吧。我知道，这听起来有些牵强，但是我曾经坐在这里，梦想有一天走进纽约保罗球场的转播间，解说真正的棒球比赛。” “真正的棒球。” “实实在在的比赛。” 有人交给你一张纸片，上面写着字母和数字，而你就得根据它们表演一场棒球比赛的现场解说。你先编造天气，描述场上的选手，你让他们出大汗，发牢骚，提裤子。拉斯心里想，真是了不起，单单凭着一颗脑袋，根据写在纸上的拉丁字母，你就能讲解激烈竞争的比赛场面，播报夏天的天气，描述尘土飞扬的场地。 他的嘴巴对着话筒说：“马格里这一掷画出的曲线并不漂亮。” 当在对比赛进行幽灵解说的过程中，他喜欢把关注点转向看台，信口开河地胡编乱造：一个小孩追赶着打上看台的棒球；一个男孩的脑袋像一根胡萝卜，额前鬈发蓬乱（毫无羞耻感，我不正是这副模样吗？），找到了棒球，高高举起；这个五盎司重的圆球用软木、橡胶、纱线和马皮制作，上面针脚密密麻麻，是作为纪念品的棒球。它价格不菲，每当它被人投掷，击打，或者落在地上，它似乎都集中体现了棒球这项运动的整个历史。 他把最后一点三明治塞进嘴里，舔了舔拇指，想起自己这时所在的地方：这里并不是那间没有窗户的房间，没有报务员，没有用莫尔斯电码写成的信息。 实况转播节目制作人在电台转播间问：“你看到上周报纸上刊登的关于爱因斯坦的文章没有？” 工程师问：“哪个爱因斯坦？” “阿尔伯特，脑袋上有头发的那个。有一名记者请他弄一个计算棒球锦标赛的运算方法。你知道，一个队在余下的比赛中赢下许多场，其余队的获胜场次是这个或者那个数字。这无数的可能性是什么？哪一个队占得先机？” “他究竟知道什么呢？” “看来没有多少。上个星期五，他选的是道奇队淘汰巨人队。” 工程师利用人称地毯的隐蔽方式，与KMOX台的工程师通话。这种地毯非常新颖，让他们两个人使用监狱俚语互相交谈。当他们切换到黑人方言时，制作人会叫他们停下来。但是，过了片刻，他们又重新开始使用黑人方言，就像两个贩卖大麻的黑人，低声嘟哝，让人不知所云。这里的环境噪音就像选手休息处，发出低沉的嘈杂声音，声音随机出现——一种急口词，一种质感，比赛的一种延伸。 他们希望在场地中的格利森说：“你们是一流的。” 巨人队进入第六局的一半时，比分仍旧落后，还需要一个本垒打。这时，拉斯回到电台转播那一侧。他觉得欣慰，他没有带温度计，因为他可能忍不住会使用它。如果那样，它会使他觉得沮丧。天气温和，不错，雨还没有落下来。 制作人说：“去解说吧，拉斯。” “我觉得说不出来了，咽喉好像被老虎钳给夹住了。” “这是电台转播，朋友。不可能停下的。想一想场地上的那些人吧，他们手里正捧着便携式收音机哦。” “你可以这样说，不过我还是觉得难受。” “他们都埋头听着收音机。你就像来自伦敦的著名解说员默罗。” “谢谢你，艾尔。” “省点儿声音吧。” “我正在试。” “这场比赛牵动了许多人。除了显示股票平均指数之外，道琼斯股票行情指示器还显示了这场比赛的分数。城里的每个酒吧里的人肯定也在关注。有人把收音机偷偷带进董事室。在施拉夫特连锁店，我听说了，有人冲进有线广播系统的播音室，希望播报赛事比分。” “那些美丽的女士们穿着带有这场比赛标志的运动衫，带着制作精美的三明治。” “省点儿声音吧。”艾尔说。 “她们的菜单上，有没有蜂蜜茶？” “她们的吃喝都离不开棒球。在贝尔蒙特赛车现场，在赛车比赛间隙，广播员播报这场棒球赛的比分。在出租车里，在理发店里，在诊断室里，人们到处都在谈论比赛的消息。” 现场观众看着投手。他的脸上露出不祥之兆，上身前倾，戴着手套的那只手在膝关节附近悬荡。他仔细地观察着对方的情况。他在观察情况。击球手不安地晃动。这个家伙可能成功。 那名游击手移动脚步，以便打破似乎出神的等待状态。 这一条双方信守的竞争规则，写在每个投手看似松弛的面孔上。这两只队伍被人分别称为超霸和新郎。球员击球之后，变化随之出现，开始的状态不复存在。队员们快速移动，直起身体，一切动作都围着快速移动的棒球。它像卵石一样，在空中旋转，下旋，形成气流。这里有阻力系数，有尾部涡流，有以无法重复的方式出现的东西，譬如，肌肉记忆、奔流的血液、扬起的尘土这些存在于官方比赛详情空间之中的叙事。 此外，还有处于这种迷失空间之中的观众，在球棒与棒球接触那千分之一秒的时间里，观众发出声音。有人抱怨，有人诅咒，有人唉声叹气，有人的表情随着草坪上展开的比赛不断变化。约翰·埃德加·胡佛就是其中的一员。他站在坡道顶端宽阔的过道上，饶有兴趣地观看比赛。他给拉弗迪说过，他要留下来观看比赛，没有理由离开。一小时之内，白宫将会宣布这一消息。埃德加讨厌杜鲁门，希望看到他胸痛发作，倒在镶花地板上，痛苦地扭动身体。但是，总统把握时机的本领使他觉得无可挑剔。通过抢先宣布这一做法，我们就可以阻止苏联人利用这一时机进行有利于他们自己的宣传活动。而且，我们也可以在一定程度上减缓公众的焦虑。人们会认为，如果说美国没有控制苏联的核弹，美国至少掌控了相关情报。这个问题并非儿戏。埃德加看着周围观众的面孔，人人面带笑容，充满希望。他希望感觉到爱国者们共有的亲密无间的情绪。这些人分享许多东西，比如说，语言、气候、歌曲、早餐、笑话、汽车。但是，从程度上讲，这些东西无法与现在面临的共同命运相提并论：他们处于灭顶之灾的威胁之下。他希望自己产生一种归属感，敞开自己尘封许久的灵魂。然而，有某种他无法名状的难以接受的条件。当他面对外部威胁时，面对实质上无处不在的道德感淡化形成的威胁时，他发现一种与这种状态抗衡的力量，一种具有恢复作用的力量。他的胃溃疡发作，使他觉得一阵剧痛。但他身上有另外一面，是他遇强则强的部分。 看一看露天看台上的那个男人吧。他在过道上来回踱步，就像一个犯傻的人，不停地挥动胳膊，嘴里念念有词，个子矮小，壮实，头发蓬乱，就像长着一丛灌木。他简直可以在喜剧团队里茨兄弟中占有一席之地，简直有望进入活宝三人组，成为第四个活宝，冠以弗里波、达米、谢克或者杰克这样的名字。他影响了旁边的人看球，他们大声喊叫，要他坐下，要他走开，管他叫傻瓜。他摇着头，唉声叹气，似乎能够感知最机敏的球迷也注意不到的东西，知道已经发生了什么事情，知道将会发生什么事情。 局长神情凝重，回到自己的座位上，观看第七局比赛。当然，他一言不发。格利森冲着一个小贩大声招呼，想要几瓶啤酒。有人站起来，舒缓一下紧张和担心。一个人动作缓慢地擦拭镜片，一个男子目光严峻，另一个人活动着僵硬的手脚。 “给我一瓶苏打白兰地。”托茨说。 杰克对他说：“不要一辈子都这样死板。” “待人好一点吧，”弗兰克说，“作为一个饮酒的犹太人，他已经做得很不错了。他是世界上许多领袖的好朋友，那些人的名字你甚至没有听说过。他们迟早都会和他见面，与他一起喝苏打白兰地。也许，圣雄甘地除外，他被人打死了。” 格利森眉毛一扬，眼睛一瞪，伸出胳膊，故作傻乎乎的明白状。 “这个名字我倒没有想到，那个临时充当替补的矮子。” 周围的人听到半截话，大都对这种转弯抹角的方式和姿态做出了反应。他们看到杰克绘声绘色的样子，他的话音还未落，他们已经笑得前仰后合了。 尽管有人再次提到矮子这个字眼，埃德加也笑了起来。他喜欢这帮人表现出来的粗俗的肯定心态。它似乎从他们的毛孔中直接冒出来。他们拥有独特的方式，拥有一种自然的力量。那种力量吸引他注意他们的谈话，讽刺他在圣经学校接受的正统教育。他是一个颇有自我修养的美国人，必须尊重这个出众青年所讲的冒险故事。这样的经历来自经济公寓文化，来自充满危险的后街生活。它形成飘飘然的自我，形成心底的欲望。杰克和弗兰克这两个色迷迷的家伙与女人相处时得心应手。托茨也是如此，他认识每个值得认识的人，一起喝酒时甚至可以让格利森醉倒在地毯上。当他把同情之手搭在你的肩膀上时，你会觉得，他是某种具有先见之明的力量，引导你脱离失望境地。 弗兰克说：“这一局是我们的。” 托茨接着说：“这样最好啦。这些倒霉的道奇队员使我感到紧张。” 杰克把啤酒一一递给坐在一排的人。 弗兰克说：“我觉得，我们已经让人知道了自己的忠诚，表现了自己心里的愿望。我们已经有了两个老牌的巨人队球迷。这个留着布鲁克林发型的家伙。不过，我们那个联邦调查局的朋友怎么样呢？他支不支持巨人队？想一想吧，耶德加。你支持哪个队？” J.埃德加·弗兰克有时候叫他耶德加。尽管没有明确表示，局长喜欢这个名字——它带有中世纪的意味，带有王公贵族的气质，显得诡秘，隐晦。 胡佛脸上闪过一丝笑意。 “我没有什么一成不变的支持对象。谁是赢家，”他说，“我就支持谁。” 他心里考虑的完全是另外的事情：美国的盟友们一个接着一个获得苏联实验核弹消息时，他们会有什么反应？他想到这一点，心里反而觉得愉快。他多年以来觉得，自己有必要与若干国家的情报部门首长们携起手来，组建合资企业。他希望，他们听到这个消息时全都感到非常震惊。 看一看他们四个人吧，每人胸前的衣服口袋里都放着一张折叠规整的手帕，每人手里都有一瓶啤酒，身体前倾，以免泛起的泡沫从杯子边缘流下来。格利森的翻领上插了一朵花，那是从托茨家花瓶上摘下的一朵湿润翠菊。有人还在要求他为比赛解说。 他们希望他说：“开怀大笑，哈哈，哈哈。” 司球裁判站在那里，手里抓着面部护具，那一身行头几乎让他显得高傲，无知。他记录分数，计算投手的热身投球次数。这是棒球比赛特有的良知。即使在静止状态中，他也体现出，在这一赛事的历史上纠纷不断，心急火燎的男人们在烈日之下忙着计算分数。你可以在他的脸上看到这一点，他的下巴翘起，眉毛紧蹙，目光炯炯。当他数到八时，正在嚼着口香糖的嘴里喷出了一点口水，准备将他的小扫帚移到橡胶板上。 在看台上，比尔·沃特森脱下短上装，拎着衣领，让它在空中悬荡。衣服破旧，皱巴巴的，给人的感觉是，他看来就是一个活生生的对象，接受自己可能进行的严厉说教。过了片刻，他把衣服对折两次，放在自己的座位上。这时，科特尔再次坐在座位上，周围的人却都站起来了。比尔矗立在他前面，一个身材魁梧的男子，脸上的神情显示，这个人曾是运动员，如今已经发福，衬衣的腋下部分已被汗水打湿。第七局下半时。科特尔需要看到自己支持的球队得分，这样的分数不应得到，可能没有价值，无法改变大局，但是至少可以使他不会觉得绝望。也许，他准备放弃了。你知道，当你在临近比赛结束之前放弃，可能会出现什么样的情形。那时，你支持的队伍可能卷土重来，勇敢拼杀。那时，你会觉得，自己完全陷入令人局促不安的羞耻感中。 比尔坐下来，对他说：“我总是认真对待第七局。我不仅仅站着看，我他妈的还要抬起胳膊看。” “我看见你伸胳膊了。” “因为这是约定俗成的习惯，是很有讲究的东西，是我们自己具有良好传统的行为。你站起来，你伸开胳膊，在某种意义上，这是一种特权。” 比尔喜欢做出各种各样的程式化动作，有时是健美运动员，有时是宠物猫咪。他还教科特尔如何模仿在教室里昏昏欲睡的小孩。 “你告诉我你的名字没有？” “科特尔。” “科特尔，这也是看棒球的规矩。你按照前人的规矩办事，与人建立关系。那是很久以前发生的事情了。一个男的带着自己的小孩观看比赛。三十年以后，这就成为他们的话题。这样，一个可怜的老人就不会躺在医院里，一言不发地浪费光阴。” 比尔抓起座位上的短上装，坐下来，把衣服放在大腿上。过了几秒钟，他再次站起来，和科特尔一起，看着帕夫科跑了一个双杀。场地上响起一阵乱哄哄的叫喊声，球迷抛撒的纸片纷纷扬扬，飘向墙根。用过的购物单、门票存根、报纸碎片，这些东西在光线暗淡的空中飞舞，落在帕夫科周围。在左外野那边，有人把纸片抛向道奇队的候补投手练习区，抛向拉宾，抛向布兰卡，抛向正在追赶他们的那两个运动员，抛向坐在墙壁下面棚子里的那些人，抛向嘴里嚼着口香糖、默默无语的人。 布兰卡球衣上的号码13显得特别刺眼。 “我给你说过的，”比尔说，“我给你说什么来着？我给你说过，我们会追上来的。” “我们必须再来一个本垒打。”科特尔说。 他们坐下，看着击球手朝右边的杜罗切尔望了一眼，杜罗切尔当时没有理会教练席上比划的手势。这时，比尔又站起来，一边挽起袖子，一边大喊球员加油，那声音发自肺腑，充满活力。 科特尔喜欢比尔这个人——他目标不变，对自己的队伍充满信心。这是唯一可与怀疑抗衡的力量。他觉得，他可能会和比尔成为朋友。这种感觉来自比尔的亲切声音，来自他那带着汗味的强健身躯，来自他倾听科特尔说话的态度，来自他让科特尔相信这一点的方式：这是他们共同分享的可以延续的密切关系，老话常说的那种令人开心的伙伴关系。和比尔交谈让他心里有一种奇特感觉，一种他并不熟悉的感觉。但是，这里有某种具有保护性的感觉，某种安全的感觉。假如有什么麻烦，这种关系将会帮助他承受损失。 这时，洛克曼站好位置，以便打出一个触击球。 在上层看台上，一个男子正在翻阅刚刚出版的《生活》杂志。在布鲁克林，第十二街上的一个男子将一台录音机放在收音机旁边，以便录下拉斯·霍奇斯现场解说的声音。这个人并不知道他为什么要这样做。这只是一种心血来潮之举，一种富于想象之举，就像两次听到比赛实况，就像自己先是年轻人，接着是老年人。结果，这是唯一为人所知的录音带，记录了拉斯对那场比赛最后阶段的解说。那场比赛意义重大，影响深远。一个是正在炒白菜的妇女，另一个是希望戒酒的男子。他们是距离那场比赛更远的灵魂，被收音机发出的声音连接起来：解说员使用口头语，将比分传遍大街小巷，有的球迷专门将电话打进了直播间。而且，现场解说还将他们与现场观众——在电视画面上，那些人只有米粒大小——联系起来。那场比赛后来成了谣传和猜想的材料，成了人们牢记于心的历史。在布朗克斯区，一个十六岁的少年把收音机放到房顶上，以便独自听到现场转播的实况。他是一名道奇队球迷，没精打采地站在薄暮之中。他听到了对那个错误的触击球的描述，那个飞起的棒球形成了平局比分。他向远处张望，看到房顶上晾晒衣服的绳子，看到鸽子笼子，看到随处散落的男用避孕套，有一种毛骨悚然的感觉。那场比赛没有改变你睡觉、洗脸或者咀嚼食物的方式。它改变的是你的生活。 制作人说：“终于得分了，谢天谢地。” 拉斯疲惫不堪，这位老兄嗓子发炎，皱纹满面，头发蓬乱。当两队进入第八局时，他报告说，他们已经打了一百五十四场常规比赛，两场季后赛，加上第三场季后赛的前七局。现在，他们陷入平局，僵持不下。各位听众，他们处于僵持状态之中，所以，请诸位点上一支切斯特菲尔德香烟，不要离开。 剩下的半局似乎打了一个星期。科特尔看到，道奇队把球员布置在第一垒和第三垒上。他看到，马格里在土地上划出一道曲线，考克斯把球扔过了第三垒。这时，一声空洞的巨响从观众中传来，有人从下面的什么地方大声叫喊，那是声嘶力竭的绝望呼喊。 拉斯在转播间里看到，观众已经不再集中，三三两两地散开，有的坐在坚硬的阶梯上。一位神父带着许多孩子，占据了整个通道。纸片在空中旋转，飞掠而过。他听到，来自圣路易斯的那名播音员哈里·卡雷在转播区的另外一端讲话，声音还是像往常那样爽朗，活泼。拉斯想到了日语中表示剖腹谢罪的那个词语，觉得他和哈里现在应该互换名字。 灯光从上照射下来，道奇队正在得分。一个人手舞足蹈，顺着过道走来。那是一个黑人，身穿平·克劳斯贝牌衬衫，蓄着山羊胡须。赛场上的一切都在变化，变为别的东西。 科特尔几乎说不出话来。 “平局有什么用处呢？这会让你转过身体，让他们从你身上踩踏过去。” 比尔说：“他们会进入选手休息处。我敢肯定，他们是不会放弃的。在这个队伍中，没有放弃这个词。不要耷拉着脸，科特尔。我们是患难朋友，我们必须携手同心。” 科特尔觉得，心中涌起一种情绪，一种复杂的自怜感。一种力量挣脱他的两只胳膊，一个声音出现在他的脑袋里，指责他对球队关心过度。而且，糟糕的是，他沉迷在这样的情绪之中。他知道如何在这样的失败中找到扭曲的补偿方式，自己作为失败者，应该发泄出来，让情绪散开，使它变为温馨的东西，让自己成为能够担当这样角色的人。 这时，比分变为4：1。 在第三局或者第四局时，本来应该下雨的，应该是瓢泼大雨，电闪雷鸣。 比尔说：“我还是相信他们会赢得比赛，你呢？” 那个投手摘下帽子，用前臂擦拭额头。他的名字叫大个子纽克。接着，他对着帽子吹了一口气，抖了抖，戴在头上。 肖看着格利森。 “还在用嘴巴耍把戏。别惹这些人吧。他们来这里是看比赛的。” “什么比赛？这简直是在折磨人。我们应该回家去。” “我们不应回家。”托茨说。 杰克说：“我们可以取胜的，死脑筋。” 弗兰克说：“让我们投票决定吧。” 托茨说：“你满脸涨红，就像得了肺结核。坐下看比赛。我不走，谁也不能走。我是不会走的。” 杰克向一名小贩挥了一下手，给每个人买了啤酒。在第八局的下半时，比分仍旧没有起色。人们开始向出口坡道移动。这时，厄斯金和布兰卡站在候补投手练习区里，纸屑从上层看台飘落下来。道奇队进入了第九局。这时你看到，观众无可奈何地四下散开；失望的情绪可以在空气中嗅到，可以从看台上传来的孤独狼嗥中听到。你付出的一切都是无法补偿的，你不知道，自己是希望立刻离开，还是一直待下去，在风中顶着毯子苦熬。 工程师说：“不错的赛季，朋友们。我们将来再合作吧。” 转播间里空间狭窄，几个男人挤在一起，这样的氛围使拉斯上火。他又点燃一支香烟。这是一天之中首次不带自责感抽烟。他听到孤独的恸哭，听到比赛数据统计员用假冒法语读出数字。这是同一种东西的组成部分，是对某种可以分解的事实的感觉，人们将它折叠起来，放在一旁。这是在学校中持续数十年之久的沮丧气氛，暑假中最沉重的一天，嬉戏的时光慢慢走向尽头。这是他一直难以摆脱的日子，临近开学的最后一个星期天。它将内心深处的某种奇怪的阴影，带到了这个下午的西方边缘。 他想回家，看自己的女儿在铺满落叶的街道上骑自行车。 达克投掷了一个球，反弹起来，打在一垒守垒员的手套上。 一个脑袋冒了出来，那是KMOX电台的工程师。他开始讲一个关于墨西哥的笑话，题目是速配情人，笑话中那个令人吃惊的家伙名叫快手冈萨雷斯。 拉斯心里一直想着得分的事情，不过不时用目光扫视直接信息中心上的俱乐部会所符号，看一看CHESTERFIELD中的第一个E是否亮起来，显示是否出现了错误。 罗宾森在右侧接到了球。 “那时，这个伙计在阿卡普尔科度蜜月，听说快手冈萨雷斯具有令人难以置信的机灵。老实说，他很担心，他属于那种非常紧张的人。在新婚第一夜，在人生中最重要的一夜里，他与妻子同房，他把中指插入她的那个地方，以免他一不留神，快手冈萨雷斯会偷偷进去。” 穆勒进场，第一个球投低了。 在道奇队的选手休息处，一名教练抓起电话，第十八次给候补投手练习区打电话，了解谁投得好，谁投得不好。 “这时，他很想抽烟，伸手去拿香烟和火柴。” 拉斯描述达克准备投第三球的情况。他看见，汤姆森站在选手休息处，举起双手，抓住顶篷的边缘。他描述说，有人站在过道上，有人朝着场地移动。 欧文扔下沉重的球棒。 “这时，他快速点燃香烟，先把中指伸进被窝。” 马格里已经在俱乐部会所坐下，身上穿着男式内衣，进入完成比赛之后的状态，浑身汗臭。那一副模样可被看作这个人的糟糕表现，仿佛从瓶子里缓缓流出的啤酒。 欧文走进击球员区。 拉斯描述说，纽科姆做了一个深呼吸，两手高高举起，两眼仔细观察。 “这时，快手冈萨雷斯说，你把手指插进我的屁眼了。” 拉斯听到了这个笑话的大部分内容，可心里希望自己没有听见。他自己也讲了一个小笑话，弯着腰，用衣服盖住话筒，好像是为了防止听众——看台上那些正派人——听到下流谈话的任何音节。 快球在空中高高飞过，落在远处。 观众发出的声音显得不确定。他们不知道，这究竟是球员们重整旗鼓的表现，还是引起痛苦的另一个啰嗦结局。那声音非常大，它使拉斯想起在火车站候车时听到的喧闹。 欧文试图打一个远距离球，但是显得过于急迫。拉斯听到，观众心里重复棒球在空中划过的令人悲伤的弧线，仿佛发出一个沉闷的元音，悄声无息地落在地上。一垒守垒员抓住了球。 正派人。拉斯愿意相信，他们关系长久，志趣相投，现在仍然聚在一起，围在收音机旁。 洛克走进击球员区。他长着一头淡黄色头发，来自卡罗来纳州。 他的家人过去常常围着电唱机，欣赏优美的歌剧，听老派欧洲人发出的颤音。这些念头时而消退，时而重现，并不分散他的注意力。场地上的每个动作他都能敏锐地看到。 两名清洁工走到三垒附近的栏杆边。 那些唱片的一面没有内容，非常易碎。如果你斜眼看，它们立刻就会破碎。那时，人们常常这样开玩笑。 他俯身对着话筒。场地仿佛向外开放，变为名词和动词。 他说：“卡尔·厄斯金和火球拉尔夫·布兰卡依然在候补投手练习区里投球。” 投掷。 洛克曼击球失误，棒球飞入铁丝网中。 这时，场地上响起有节奏的掌声，开始时带着试探性，接着便席卷了整个看台。这就是观众参与比赛的方式。重复的三次节拍具有某种可怜的忠诚的力量，表达一种带着极度渴望的意志，期望出现魔力和偶然运气。 洛克曼再次进入击球手位置，晃了晃黄色球棒。 他回想起来，他小时候说嗓子疼痛时，母亲让他用盐水漱口。 洛克曼击中第二投，