The Natural

With only six games to play, a triple first-place tie resulted. The Knights’ fans beat themselves delirious, and it became almost unbearable when the Phils lost a heartbreaker to the Cards and dropped into second place, leaving the Pirates and Knights in the tie. Before the Phils could recover, the Knights descended upon Shibe Park, followed by wild trainloads of fans who had to be there to see. They saw their loveboys take the crucial playoff (Roy was terrific), squeak through the second game (he had a poor day), and thoroughly wipe the stu

The ride home from Philadelphia usually took a little more than an hour but it was a bughouse nightmare because of the way the fans on the train pummeled the players. Hearing that a mob had gathered at Pe

In their locker room after the last game at Philly, some of the boys had started chucking wet towels around but Pop, who had privately wept tears of joy, put the squelch on that.

“Cut out all that danged foolishness when we still need one more to win,” he had sternly yelled.

When they protested that it looked at last that they were in, he turned lobster red and bellowed did they want to jinx themselves and cook their own gooses? As a result, despite all the attention they were receiving, the boys were a glum bunch going home. Some had secretly talked of celebrating once they had ditched the old fusspot but they were afraid to. Even Roy had fallen into low spirits, only he was thinking of Memo.

His heart ached the way he yearned for her (sometimes seeing her in a house they had bought, with a redheaded baby on her lap, and himself going fishing in a way that made it satisfying to fish, knowing that everything was all right behind him, and the home-cooked meal would be hot and plentiful, and the kid would carry the name of Roy Hobbs into generations his old man would never know. With this in mind he fished the stream in peace and later, sitting around the supper table, they ate the fish he had caught), yearning so deep that the depth ran through ever since he could remember, remembering the countless things he had wanted and missed out on, wondering, now that he was famous, if the intensity of his desires would ever go down. The only way that could happen (he relived that time in bed with her) was to have her always. That would end the dissatisfactions that ate him, no matter how great were his triumphs, and made his life still wanting and not having.

It later struck him that the picture he had drawn of Memo sitting domestically home wasn’t exactly the girl she was. The kind he had in mind, though it bothered him to admit it, was more like Iris seemed to be, only she didn’t suit him. Yet he could not help but wonder what was in her letter and he made up his mind he would read it once he got back in his room. Not that he would bother to answer, but he ought at least to know what she said.

He felt better, at the hotel, to find a note from Memo in his mailbox, saying to come up and celebrate with a drink. She greeted him at the door with a fresh kiss, her face flushed with how glad she was, saying, “Well, Roy, you’ve really done it. Everybody is talking about what a wonderful marvel you are.”

“We still got this last one to take,” he said modestly, though tickled at her praise. “I am not counting my onions till that.”

“Oh, the Knights are sure to win. All the papers are saying it all depends what you do. You’re the big boy, Roy.”

He grabbed both her palms. “Bigger than Bump?”

Her eyelids fluttered but she said yes.

He pulled her close. She kissed for kiss with her warm wet mouth. Now is the time, he thought. Backing her against the wall, he slowly rubbed his hand up between her thighs.

She broke away, breathing heavily. He caught her and pressed his lips against her nippled blouse.

There were tears in her eyes.

He groaned, “Honey, we are the ones that are alive, not him.”

“Don’t say his name.”

“You will forget him when I love you.”

“Please let’s not talk.”

He lifted her in his arms and laid her down on the couch. She sat bolt upright.

“For Christ sakes, Memo, I am a grown guy and not a kid. When are you go

“I am, Roy.”

“Not the way I want it.”

“I will.” She was breathing quietly now.

“When?” he demanded.

She thought, distracted, then said, “Tomorrow — tomorrow night.”

“That’s too long.”

“Later.” She sighed, “Tonight.”

“You are my sugar honey.” He kissed her.

Her mood quickly changed. “Come on, let’s celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?”

“About the team.”

Surprised she wanted to do that now, he said he was shaved and ready to go.

“I don’t mean to go out.” What she meant, she explained, was that she had prepared a snack in one of the party rooms upstairs. “They’re bringing it all up from the kitchen — a buffet with cold meats and lots of other things. I thought it’d be fun to get some girls together with the boys and all enjoy ourselves.”

Though he had on his mind what he was going to do to her later, and anything in between was a waste of time, still she had gone to all the trouble, and he wanted to please her. Nor was the mention of food exactly distasteful to him. He had made a double steak disappear on the train, but that was hours ago.

Memo served him a drink and finished telephoning the men she couldn’t reach before. Though on the whole the players said they wanted to come, some, still remembering Pop, were doubtful they ought to, but Memo convinced them by saying that Roy and others were coming. She didn’t ask the married players to bring their wives and they didn’t mention the oversight to her.

At ten o’clock Memo went into the bathroom and put on a flaming yellow strapless gown. Roy got the idea that she was wearing nothing underneath and it gave him a tense pleasure. They rode up to the eighteenth floor. The party was already on. There were about a dozen men around but only four or five girls. Memo said more were coming later. Most of the players did not exactly look happy. A few were selfconsciously talking to the girls, and the others were sitting on chairs gabbing among themselves. Flores stood in a corner with a melancholy expression on his phiz. Al Fowler, one of those having himself a fine time, called to him when was the wake.

Someone was pounding the keys of the upright piano against the wall. On the other side of the room, a brisk, pint-size chef with a tall puffed cap on, half again as big as him, stood behind a long, cloth-covered table, dishing out the delicatessen.

“Sure is some snack,” Roy marveled. “You must’ve hocked your fur coat.”

“Gus chipped in,” Memo said absently.

He was immediately a