Chapter 4 Section 3

We sat in the stadium club, sipping old sourdough whiskey and beef, and pretended to watch the game.I've been to Los Angeles many times for business, but I've never been in Dodger Stadium.Big Sims dragged me into his car and pulled me here. The place where we sat was glassed off from the field.Even sitting at a table by the window, we could only hear the muffled shouts.The voice of the radio announcer came clearly from the broadcast room, but the crowd at the scene was some distance away from us. What we heard seemed to be the spiritual moan of a defeated army. "I heard they've finally stopped dumping in East Coast waters," said Brian Glaske.

"Don't talk about it while I'm eating," I said. "Tell him," Sims said, "to describe it carefully, and let him smell the trash." "I've also heard that the more trash they dump in one place, the more marine life there is." Sims looks at the English woman, the only one who ordered fish. "Heard that?" he asked. "The sea life is blooming." "Let's finish eating, get out of here, and watch the game in the stands like real fans," Glaske said. Sims asked, "Why?" "I want to hear the voice of the audience."

"No, you don't want to." "What's the point of watching a game if you can't hear the crowd shouting?" "We're here to eat and watch the game," Sims said. "I've taken the trouble to book a table by the window, and come to the ballpark, not to hear the game, but to watch the game. You see it here." Don't you see?" In the company, Simeon Biggs — aka Big Sims — was known for his big girth.He was fat, bald, fifty-five inches around the waist, but strong, with a fat neck and thick arms like a maple tree carved out of stone.If he likes you enough, he'll touch your chest or invite you to run around the block with him.Sims, who manages the operational terminal for what we call the Los Angeles neighborhood, designed the landfill so beautifully, it's prettier than a pastel-painted mall.

Glaske took one look at me, then said, "Vision helmets and power gloves. This isn't the real thing, it's virtual reality. We don't have the equipment we need." "If we go to the seats on the field, we can't bring alcohol," Sims said. "That's important," I said. If ever I ate something wrong, or drank too much, it was when dining with Sims.By his words and deeds he refuted the notion that eating and drinking should be done in moderation. The British woman said: "Now I understand that the pitcher gets the cues from the catcher to know how to pitch this way or that way, whether to throw a fastball or a slowball, a high ball or a low ball. What kind of situation?"

"He'll shake his head." "Oh, I see." "He'll wave his glove or shake his head," Sims said, "or he'll stare at the catcher." A British woman named Jane Farish is a program producer for the BBC and hopes to make a program about Salt Dome.We're testing salt domes, which are used to store nuclear waste, under the direction of the Department of Energy.For years, she has struggled to assimilate American culture, leaving, as she puts it, the scorched marks of her interviews on the land.Her subjects include porn kings, brooding monks, and blues singers in prison.She had just finished reporting in California for a poker tournament in Lorenzo, and then went to the desert to interview Clara Sachs.

The Dodgers-Giants game is underway. Sims took one look at Farrish and said, "You know what, these two teams were rivals for many years, they were New York City teams until the late '50s." "They moved west, didn't they?" "Moved to the west, and took Nick's ghost with him." Farish glanced at me. "There's nothing to take away, I'm not a fan by then, tired. It's the first game I've seen in decades." "It turned out to be a silent game," Glaske said. Big Sims orders a round of drinks, then tells Farish about the old Brooklyn Dodgers.Sims, who grew up in Missouri, tells some things about the Dodgers right and some wrong.He wasn't there, and it's impossible to tell what's going on with the Dodgers.British women don't care about that.She takes the information she hears seriously, sometimes closing her eyes and concentrating on the process.

"Nick used to take the radio up on the roof," Glaske said. Farish turned his head in my direction. "I had a portable radio, I carried it with me, the beach, the movie theater, wherever I went. I was sixteen, listening to Dodgers games on the roof. I liked being alone. ...they're my team and I'm the only Dodgers fan on the street. They lose and I'm dying. It's important to die alone. Other people will interfere with me. I have to be alone Listening to the game live. At that time, the radio will tell me whether I should die or live on." If you didn't grow up playing baseball a lot, figuring out the rules of the game is not easy.Farish's questions, though, were passable; the hard part was answering hers.We must be like three mathematicians who don't know any solutions at all, and don't notice how weird and obscure baseball terminology is, how complicated the puns in baseball terminology are.We disagree on our understanding of baseball jargon, and try to explain it to this outsider.

"Anyone want wine?" Farish said. "I'd like some local white wine." "Wine is an escape," Sims told her. "We clean toilets for a living." Glaske explained that an inning is an inning when viewed from the standpoint of a pitcher who threw three outs.But, in a nine-inning game, it's only half an inning.That same half inning is two-thirds of an inning if a pitcher is still out. I called the waiter and asked her to bring a glass of wine for our guests.Glaske returned to contradicting himself about the term Bureau, but Big Sims stopped him with a wave of his hand.

"Let's talk about the Dodgers," he said, "and let the kid stay on the roof with his radio." "No." I said. "You have to tell Jane what ended your life as a die-hard fan." "I forgot." "That incident stuck in your mind, so you never thought about going back to your old career." "These are localized pains that don't affect other things." "Tell her," Sims said, "what happened to that home run by Bobby Thomson." Farish looked polite with expectant eyes.She wants someone to tell her things she can understand.So Sims told her about Thomson and Branca, and why, after more than forty years, people were still asking each other this question: Where were you when Thomson hit that home run? ?He told her how some people captured that moment, kept it whole in their hearts, told her how Sims ran out into the street.At the time, a black boy who didn't even support the Giants listened to the game live on KMOX radio.Then the boy rushed out the door and yelled: I'm Bobby Thomson, I'm Bobby Thomson.And, he told Farish, there were people who didn't watch the game but claimed to be there.Some people told the truth that they were not there at the time.That event had a penetrating power, making them feel like they were there that day.Otherwise, how could they have such strong feelings?

"Your account is different from the account that JFK was killed. Where were you the day JFK was shot?" "When JFK was killed, people flooded into the room," Glaske said. "We were in a dark room watching TV, talking on the phone. We were all separate, alone. But when Thomson hit that home run , People rushed outside, hoping to celebrate together. People walked out of the house spontaneously for one thing, maybe, it was the last time. Some wonders, some surprises, like footnotes left after the end of the war. What is the reason, I have no idea." "I don't know either," Sims said.

Farish glanced at me. "Don't look at me," I said. "But when that ball hit, you were on the roof, right?" "I don't have to rush out. I'm already outside. I rush into the house. I close the door and I die." "What you did foreshadowed the situation in which Kennedy was killed." Farish said with a slight smile. "I think the next day I started to feel that there were all sorts of symbols pointing to the number 13, that there was bad luck everywhere. I became a new believer in numerology. I got a pen and paper and wrote down all the signs that seemed to be going on. The mysterious connection that forms the number 13. I wish I could remember those things. I remember one, the date of the game. October 3rd or the two numbers 1 and 3. Add the month and day and you're Got 13." "And Branca's number," Sims said. "Of course, Branca's jersey is number 13." "People call it a world-shattering shot," Sims told Farish. "It's a bit of American big talk, right?" "What exactly do you mean?" Glaske looked at me with strange, almost tender eyes.Some people see that their friends are so stupid that they don't know that they are going to make a fool of themselves.In this case, it will show that look. "Tell them about the baseball thing," Glasse said. He reaches across the tabletop and grabs some food from Sims' plate. Glask should be my friend.I've known Sims and Glask a long time ago.Glasse, this freckled, free-spirited Brian Glasse, was a charismatic man, and I poured out my confidantes.I also speak to Big Sims, but prefer to communicate with Glask because Glask doesn't question what I say based on his own experience.Also, he doesn't squint and stare at me like Sims does. "Let's change the subject," I told him. "No, I want you to talk about it. You owe Sims. It's unbearable that Sims doesn't know about it. He's the only one who still loves baseball." Glaske turned to the Englishwoman . "I go to the ball and it's all about connecting with people. It's not decent to not keep in touch with people. Nick is no longer decent, only Sims is still connected with him in a pathetic way. In the past, we saw What you saw was the real Dodgers and Giants, and now you see holograms." "What kind of baseball are you talking about?" Farrish asked. Sims looks at me, already finished, and pulls out a long thin cigar.He completed this action with a complex ritual-like posture. "Nick owned that baseball, the one that Bobby Thomson hit a home run on, the real thing." Sims took his time and lit his cigar. "No one owns that baseball." "Someone must have it." "No one knows what happened to that ball," Sims said. "It was dropped decades ago. Otherwise, we should know." "Sims, listen before you assert. First," said Glaske, "I was traveling East a few years ago and I found a businessman who convinced me that he owned that baseball and said it It was the ball that Thomson hit the home run, literally." "Nobody got that ball," said Sims, "and that ball never came. Whoever had that ball, it never came. It's part of the whole—what's it?—of, Part of the mythology left by that game. No one came forward to make a verifiable claim that he owned the ball. Or, a dozen people showed up with a ball in their hands, all claiming theirs It's the real thing." "Also, the businessman told me how he tracked that ball almost all the way back to October 3rd, 1951. That guy didn't look like a guy at a baseball game looking for bargains. He took some Kind of a morbidly obsessed guy, a guy who puts his heart and soul into it. He made me believe that the ball he was holding was real, 99.9 percent likely. Then he got Nick to believe it. Nick asked him how much? They got it deal." "You've been lied to," Sims told me. I saw the Dodgers shortstop get the grounder and throw it to first base. Glaske said: "That guy spent years, tracking down that ball. He probably spent a lot of money, calling, sending letters, looking around. The total cost of the money was more than what Nick paid, to use an exaggeration. " A sneer flashed across Sims' face, a sneer that could grow meaner at any moment. "The whole thing is unbelievable," he told me. "If that ball is real, how can anyone afford it?" "Let me tell you why it's affordable," Glaske said. "First, the merchant couldn't provide absolute final proof, which lowered the price. Second, this item came before the souvenir market was booming. At a Sotheby's auction since then, there was an offer of $400,000 for a tiny baseball card." "I don't know," Sims said. "I don't know either," I said. Farish finally got his wine, took one look at me, and asked, "How much did you pay for that ball?" "Our shame comes from the bottom of our hearts. Let's not get into the details." "What shame?" "I didn't buy that thing because it represented brilliance and excitement. It represented not Thomson with a home run, but Branca with a mispitch. It represented nothing but failure." "Bad luck," Glask said, picking up a potato with a fork and placing it on my plate. "It's about the suspense of doom, it's about the suspense of failure. I don't know. I keep saying I don't know, I don't know. And yet, it's the only thing I have to have in my life." "Secret full of shame?" Farish asked. "Yeah. Spending big bucks on baseballs as souvenirs, then buying them for the sake of buying them. Commemorating the failure, freezing that moment in my hands: Blanca turning around, watching the baseball fall into the stands — shame from He came to me." Everyone except Sims laughed. Glaske said: "Even his name has that in it, melancholy Ralph Blanca, like a character from an old epic. Melancholy, heavy Ralph was killed in some kind of twilight die." "Shot by a black arrow," said the English woman. "Wonderful, of course it's just a joke. You keep thinking about that horrible moment, what does it feel like to have a day like this?" "A moment in the game," she said. "Plodding all the way across the outfield turf towards the clubhouse." Sims turned to us, scowling. "I don't think you guys see that," he said, emphasizing the word guy. "What failure? What failure are we talking about? Didn't they all go home happily? I mean Blanca—Blanca got a number plate with 13 on it. He wanted to People know he's the guy who misses the pitch. Branca and Thomson go to sports dinners and sing songs and tell jokes together. They give the entertainment world a long-running skit show. You guys Guys don't see that." He spoke in a way that made us sound like dumb kids in preppy costumes. "Blanca is a hero. I mean, people gave Branca a lot of opportunities to come out of that game. And we all know why." There was an air of displeasure around the table. "Because he's white," Sims said, "because the whole thing is white. Because they give you a chance and you survive, endure, prosper. But you've got to be white before they give you a chance .” Glaske shifted in his chair. Sims tells the story of a baseball pitcher named Donnie More.In a playoff game, Dhoni hit a clutch home run, and his wife was shot and killed.Donnie More was black, and so was the guy who hit the home run.As a result, he shot himself.He fired several shots at his wife, missed vital parts, and turned the gun on himself.He slept in his laundry room for a while, Sims said.Sims told the story to the Englishwoman, but it was the first time I heard it, and I could see that Glaske could barely remember it.I'd never heard of Doni More, didn't know about the shooting.Sims said the shooting happened years after that home run, but had a direct connection to that game.Donny More didn't get a chance, didn't get over the shadow left by that failure.Fans are deeply saddened that there will be no skits performed at the banquet held by the baseball community. Sims knew a lot about the shooting and described in detail what happened to Doni More's wife. Farish closed his eyes to better imagine the scene. "We heard what you said," Glaske said, "but you can't just compare these two things in terms of skin color." "What else is there?" "That home run by Thomson is so fresh in people's minds because it happened decades ago and the events that happened back then weren't going to be replayed before midnight on the first day, worn down, worn down, drained. From some kind of In a sense, the more scratches there are on an old film or tape, the better it is remembered. This is because it doesn't have to compete with thousands of other episodes for our attention. Because it's preserved Unique stuff. Donny More, um, sorry, but how do we separate the Donny More incident from other games, from other shooting incidents?" "The issue here is not what we notice or remember, it's what happened," Sims said. "It's the impact on the person. We're talking about the dead, the survivor. " “It’s not the why, though,” Glaske said. “If we look at the causes honestly and comprehensively, instead of looking at the surface, would we see something else?” "An ahistorical point of view," I said. "Then, we realize that there could be more than one reason that guy shot, most of which we neither know nor understand." Sims once again referred to us as dudes.I changed the support object several times.We ordered another round of wine and continued to drink.Afterwards, we did not speak to Jane Farish, neither noticed her reaction nor interested her.Sims used the word dude several times to refer to us, and later the word guy, which started to get a little comical.We ordered coffee and watched the game.Farish sat there, legs crossed, body bent, gazing out the window, thoughtful, overcome by the power of our differences. "Buying and selling baseballs, it hurts. You never told me," Sims said. "A long time ago." "I could have talked you out of that." "Actually, you buy it yourself," Glaske said. "I deal with other kinds of waste. The real stuff in the world. Let me dispose of tons of disposable diapers, don't make me deal with this depressing waste left over from yesterday." "I don't know." I said again. "What do you do, get that ball out of the closet? And then?" "He thinks about the meaning of it," Glaske said, "that it's something historical. He thinks about failure, wondering what brings people bad luck. What brings people the sweetness of enjoying good luck. Also, That baseball is a lovely thing in itself. An old baseball? It's a lovely thing, Sims. This ball is different from the others, and it's got a lot going on." "He's got money," Sims said, "and he's got a worthless thing in his hand." We paid our bill and left.Sims pointed to a photo hanging on the wall of the bar, one of many photos of sports stars.It was recently taken and shows two gray-haired older athletes, Thomson and Blanca, in dark suits and fit, standing on the White House lawn with Bush holding an aluminum bat between them president. We went out and sat in the box for ten minutes so that Glaske could hear the voices of the audience.Later, we descended the ramp and headed towards the parking lot.Farish asked a few questions about the infield ball rules.By the time we got to the car, Sims and Glaske had been able to agree on this.This is surprisingly particularly useful stuff for the BBC. I sat in the backseat and watched the city's streetscapes flash past the car window, envisioning Sims running the streets of St. Louis as a child.He wore dungaree overalls, the legs rolled up into raised cuffs, and the reverse of the fabric was whitish, not as dark as the chinos on the front.He waved his arms and shouted: He is Bobby Thomson.