Billiards at Half-Past Nine by Heinrich Böll, Patrick Bowles, Jessa Crispin
Book: Billiards at Half-Past Nine by Heinrich Böll, Patrick Bowles, Jessa Crispin
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already-legendary home run. As if the ball had gone right out of sight onto Olympian heights.
‘I saw it go. How it traveled! Why, it went like a bullet!’
I saw it, the ball Robert hit.
I heard it, the ball Robert hit.
They’ll never find it, the ball Robert hit.
Talk stopped when he came in. Fear lay in the sudden silence, for they were in almost deadly awe of him, he had done what no one would have believed possible, something out of this world unless you’d seen it. Who would have the honor of bearing witness to a home run of such magnitude?
Quickly, barefoot, towels slung around their shoulders, they went into the showers. Only Schrella stayed behind. He had put his clothes on without taking a shower. For the first time it struck Robert that Schrella never took a shower after a game, never took off his jersey in front of the rest. He was sitting there on a stool, blue and yellow contusions on his face and still wet around the mouth where he had washed away dried blood. The skin on his upper arms was discolored where he had been struck by the ball, the one the Ottonians were still looking for. He sat there, rolled down the sleeves of his fadedshirt, put on his jacket, took a book out of his pocket and read:
At evening when the bells ring peace
.
It was awkward to be alone with Schrella, to be thanked by the cool eyes, too cool even to hate. A barely perceptible flicker of the lashes, no more, a fleeting smile of thanks to the savior who had hit the ball. He smiled back at Schrella, an equally small smile, as he turned to the metal locker and took out his clothes, himself wanting to get out of there as quickly as he could without bothering with a shower. On the wall over his locker someone had scratched: ‘Faehmel’s Home Run, July 14, 1935.’
The place smelled strong of leather gear, of dried earth crumbled from soccer balls, handballs, footballs, and caught in the cracks of the concrete floor. Dirty little green and white marker flags were stacked in the corner, soccer nets were hanging up to dry. There was a splintered oar and, framed behind cracked glass, a yellowed certificate, ‘Awarded to the Pioneers of Soccer, Ludwig College, Lower Sixth Form, 1903, by the Regional Chairman.’ A laurel wreath was printed around the group photo. Hard-muscled eighteen-year-olds of the 1885 military class, wearing little mustaches, stared out of the picture at him, looking with animal optimism toward the fate which the future held in store for them. To rot at Verdun, to bleed to death in the quagmires of the Somme. Or, fifty years later, in a military cemetery at Chateau Thierry, to provide occasion for tourists, en route to Paris and overcome by the mood of the place, in the rain-spattered visitors’ book to inscribe conciliatory sentiments. The dressing room smelled of iron, of incipient manhood. A damp mist was coming in from outdoors, drifting in mild clouds across the river meadows. Out of the tavern upstairs in the same building came the sonorous rumble of men off work for the weekend and hoisting a few, the giggling of barmaids, clinking of beer glasses. At the end of the hall upstairs skittle players were already at work, making the skittles tumble. Whereupon a triumphant or a disappointed‘ah’ echoed down the stairs and into the dressing room.
Blinking in the twilight, shivering shoulders hunched, Schrella crouched there. The moment of departure could be held off no longer. One last time he straightened his tie and smoothed out the last fold in the collar of his sports shirt—oh yes, just so, always just right—once again adjusted his shoelaces and counted the money in his wallet for the journey home. The others were starting back from the showers, still talking about ‘the ball Robert hit.’
‘Want to go together?’
‘Why not.’
They ascended worn concrete steps, still strewn with springtime litter, candy wrappings and empty cigarette packages. Then they went up onto the overpass, where
‘I saw it go. How it traveled! Why, it went like a bullet!’
I saw it, the ball Robert hit.
I heard it, the ball Robert hit.
They’ll never find it, the ball Robert hit.
Talk stopped when he came in. Fear lay in the sudden silence, for they were in almost deadly awe of him, he had done what no one would have believed possible, something out of this world unless you’d seen it. Who would have the honor of bearing witness to a home run of such magnitude?
Quickly, barefoot, towels slung around their shoulders, they went into the showers. Only Schrella stayed behind. He had put his clothes on without taking a shower. For the first time it struck Robert that Schrella never took a shower after a game, never took off his jersey in front of the rest. He was sitting there on a stool, blue and yellow contusions on his face and still wet around the mouth where he had washed away dried blood. The skin on his upper arms was discolored where he had been struck by the ball, the one the Ottonians were still looking for. He sat there, rolled down the sleeves of his fadedshirt, put on his jacket, took a book out of his pocket and read:
At evening when the bells ring peace
.
It was awkward to be alone with Schrella, to be thanked by the cool eyes, too cool even to hate. A barely perceptible flicker of the lashes, no more, a fleeting smile of thanks to the savior who had hit the ball. He smiled back at Schrella, an equally small smile, as he turned to the metal locker and took out his clothes, himself wanting to get out of there as quickly as he could without bothering with a shower. On the wall over his locker someone had scratched: ‘Faehmel’s Home Run, July 14, 1935.’
The place smelled strong of leather gear, of dried earth crumbled from soccer balls, handballs, footballs, and caught in the cracks of the concrete floor. Dirty little green and white marker flags were stacked in the corner, soccer nets were hanging up to dry. There was a splintered oar and, framed behind cracked glass, a yellowed certificate, ‘Awarded to the Pioneers of Soccer, Ludwig College, Lower Sixth Form, 1903, by the Regional Chairman.’ A laurel wreath was printed around the group photo. Hard-muscled eighteen-year-olds of the 1885 military class, wearing little mustaches, stared out of the picture at him, looking with animal optimism toward the fate which the future held in store for them. To rot at Verdun, to bleed to death in the quagmires of the Somme. Or, fifty years later, in a military cemetery at Chateau Thierry, to provide occasion for tourists, en route to Paris and overcome by the mood of the place, in the rain-spattered visitors’ book to inscribe conciliatory sentiments. The dressing room smelled of iron, of incipient manhood. A damp mist was coming in from outdoors, drifting in mild clouds across the river meadows. Out of the tavern upstairs in the same building came the sonorous rumble of men off work for the weekend and hoisting a few, the giggling of barmaids, clinking of beer glasses. At the end of the hall upstairs skittle players were already at work, making the skittles tumble. Whereupon a triumphant or a disappointed‘ah’ echoed down the stairs and into the dressing room.
Blinking in the twilight, shivering shoulders hunched, Schrella crouched there. The moment of departure could be held off no longer. One last time he straightened his tie and smoothed out the last fold in the collar of his sports shirt—oh yes, just so, always just right—once again adjusted his shoelaces and counted the money in his wallet for the journey home. The others were starting back from the showers, still talking about ‘the ball Robert hit.’
‘Want to go together?’
‘Why not.’
They ascended worn concrete steps, still strewn with springtime litter, candy wrappings and empty cigarette packages. Then they went up onto the overpass, where
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