The Natural

Harriet’s face was flushed, her eyes gleaming with new insights. Occasionally she stopped and giggled at herself for the breathless volume of words that flowed forth, to his growing astonishment, but after a pause was on her galloping way again — a girl on horseback — reviewing the inspiring sight (she said it was) of David jawboning the Goliath-Whammer, or was it Sir Percy lancing Sir Maidemer, or the first son (with a rock in his paw) ranged against the primitive papa?

Roy gulped. “My father? Well, maybe I did want to skull him sometimes. After my grandma died, the old man dumped me in one orphan home after the other, wherever he happened to be working — when he did — though he did used to take me out of there summers and teach me how to toss a ball.”

No, that wasn’t what she meant, Harriet said. Had he ever read Homer?

Try as he would he could only think of four bases and not a book. His head spun at her allusions. He found her lingo strange with all the college stuff and hoped she would stop it because he wanted to talk about baseball.

Then she took a breather. “My friends say I have a fantastic imagination.”

He quickly remarked he wouldn’t say that. “But the only thing I had on my mind when I was throwing out there was that Sam had bet this ten spot we couldn’t afford to lose out on, so I had to make him whiff.”

“To whiff — oh, Roy, how droll,” and she laughed again.

He gri

Harriet appeared startled then gasped, hiding it like a cough behind her tense fist, and vigorously applauded, her bracelets bouncing on her wrists. “Bravo, Roy, how wonderful.”

“What I mean,” he insisted, “is I feel that I have got it in me — that I am due for something very big. I have to do it. I mean,” he said modestly, “that’s of course when I get in the game.”

Her mouth opened. “You mean you’re not —” She seemed, to his surprise, disappointed, almost on the verge of crying.

“No,” he said, ashamed. “Sam’s taking me for a tryout.” Her eyes grew vacant as she stared out the window. Then she asked, “But Walter — he is a successful professional player, isn’t he?”

“The Whammer?” Roy nodded.

“And he has won that award three times — what was it?”

“The Most Valuable Player.” He had a panicky feeling he was losing her to the Whammer.

She bit her lip. “Yet you defeated him,” she murmured. He admitted it. “He won’t last much longer I don’t think-the most a year or two. By then he’ll be too old for the game. Myself, I’ve got my whole life ahead of me.”

Harriet brightened, saying sympathetically, “What will you hope to accomplish, Roy?”

He had already told her but after a minute remarked, “Sometimes when I walk down the street I bet people will say there goes Roy Hobbs, the best there ever was in the game.”

She gazed at him with touched and troubled eyes. “Is that all?”

He tried to penetrate her question. Twice he had answered it and still she was unsatisfied. He couldn’t be sure what she expected him to say. “Is that all?” he repeated. “What more is there?”

“Don’t you know?” she said kindly.

Then he had an idea. “You mean the bucks? I’ll get them too.”

She slowly shook her head. “Isn’t there something over and above earthly things — some more glorious meaning to one’s life and activities?”

“In baseball?”

“Yes.”

He racked his brain —

“Maybe I’ve not made myself clear, but surely you can see (I was saying this to Walter just before the train stopped) that yourself alone — alone in the sense that we are all terribly alone no matter what people say — I mean by that perhaps if you understood that our values must derive from — oh, I really suppose —” She dropped her hand futilely. “Please forgive me. I sometimes confuse myself with the little I know.”

Her eyes were sad. He felt a curious tenderness for her, a little as if she might be his mother (That bird.) and tried very hard to come up with the answer she wanted — something you said about LIFE.

“I think I know what you mean,” he said. “You mean the fun and satisfaction you get out of playing the best way that you know how?”

She did not respond to that.

Roy worried out some other things he might have said but had no confidence to put them into words. He felt curiously deflated and a little lost, as if he had just flunked a test. The worst of it was he still didn’t know what she’d been driving at.

Harriet yawned. Never before had he felt so tongue-tied in front of a girl, a looker too. Now if he had her in bed —

Almost as if she had guessed what he was thinking and her mood had changed to something more practical than asking nutty questions that didn’t count, she sighed and edged closer to him, concealing the move behind a query about his bassoon case. “Do you play?”

“Not any music,” he answered, glad they were talking about something different. “There’s a thing in it that I made for myself.”

“What, for instance?”

He hesitated. “A baseball bat.”

She was herself again, laughed merrily. “Roy, you are priceless.”

“I got the case because I don’t want to get the stick all banged up before I got the chance to use it.”

“Oh, Roy.” Her laughter grew. He smiled broadly.

She was now so close he felt bold. Reaching down he lifted the hat box by the string and lightly hefted it.

“What’s in it?”

She seemed breathless. “In it?” Then she mimicked, “— Something I made for myself.”

“Feels like a hat.”

“Maybe a head?” Harriet shook a finger at him.

“Feels more like a hat.” A little embarrassed, he Set the box down. “Will you come and see me play sometime?” he asked.

She nodded and then he was aware of her leg against his and that she was all but on his lap. His heart slapped against his ribs and he took it all to mean that she had dropped the last of her interest in the Whammer and was putting it on the guy who had buried him.

As they went through a tu

Her high-pitched scream lifted her up and twirling like a dancer down the aisle.

Stricken, he rose — had gone too far.

Crooking her arms like broken branches she whirled back to him, her head turned so far around her face hung between her shoulders.

“Look, I’m a twisted tree.”

Sam had sneaked out on the squirming, apologetic Mercy, who, with his back to the Whammer — he with a newspaper raised in front of his sullen eyes — had kept up a leechlike prodding about Roy, asking where he had come from (oh, he’s just a home town boy), how it was no major league scout had got at him (they did but he turned them down for me) even with the bonus cash that they are tossing around these days (yep), who’s his father (like I said, just an old semipro who wanted awful bad to be in the big leagues) and what, for God’s sake, does he carry around in that case (that’s his bat, Wonderboy). The sportswriter was greedy to know more, hinting he could do great things for the kid, but Sam, rubbing his side where it pained, at last put him off and escaped into the coach to get some shuteye before they hit Chicago, sometime past 1 A.M.

After a long time trying to settle himself comfortably, he fell snoring asleep flat on his back and was at once sucked into a long dream that he had gone thirsty mad for a drink and was threatening the slickers in the car get him a bottle or else. Then this weasel of a Mercy, pretending he was writing on a pad, pointed him out with his pencil and the conductor snapped him up by the seat of his pants and ran his freewheeling feet lickity-split through the sawdust, giving him the merry heave-ho off the train through the air on a floating trapeze, pioop into a bog where it rained buckets. He thought he better get across the foaming river before it flooded the bridge away so he set out, all bespattered, to cross it, only this queer duck of a doctor in oilskins, an old man with a washable white mustache and a yellow lamp he thrust straight into your eyeballs, swore to him the bridge was gone. You’re plumb tootin’ crazy, Sam shouted in the storm, I saw it standin’ with me own eyes, and he scuffled to get past the geezer, who dropped the light setting the rails afire. They wrestled in the rain until Sam slyly tripped and threw him, and helterskeltered for the bridge, to find to his crawling horror it was truly down and here he was scratching space till he landed with a splishity-splash in the whirling waters, sobbing (whoa whoa) and the white watchman on the embankment flung him a flare but it was all too late because he heard the roar of the falls below (and restless shifting of the sea) and felt with his red hand where the knife had stabbed him —.