Dirty Rice by Gerald Duff Page A

“Hey,” he said in between breaths as I passed, and I said hey back to him.
    â€œDon’t lap me the first time around,” he said. “Have mercy.”
    Dutch let us all run probably ten minutes more, and then he blew into a whistle he had on a chain around his neck. At that the man running closest to me spoke up. “I swear he cut it close that time. One more lap, and I’d have gone for the bastard.”
    â€œI’m going to kill that toad of his,” a short dark-haired man said. “That’s what’d really get him.”
    â€œYou suppose he’s got it in there this morning?” the first one said.
    â€œYou see how happy and satisfied he looks,” the short man said, bending over and holding his knees to ease his belly. “He’s got it in there on every special occasion, don’t he? This is the first day. It don’t get no more special than that for Dutch Bernson.”
    The fellow standing next to him hawked up a big wad and spit it into the grass. “Look at that damn thing. It’s got a life of its own. See it running off?”
    The ones that heard him laughed, and Dutch Bernson stood up from his stool and wiggled the fingers on both hands to call us all closer to him. We gathered in toward where he was standing, and he watched us until everybody had got settled.
    â€œY’all look terrible,” Dutch Bernson said. “Every damn one of you. Did any single soul of you do any moving around at all since the last time I saw you? The way you acting, I believe all you did was eat, drink, and lay up drunk somewhere.” He pointed at the tall skinny fellow in the long-sleeved shirt, and then the man with gray hair. “Clauson,” Dutch said. “Where’d you spend the winter? Spears, what about you?”
    â€œI was at my old man’s farm in Alabama,” the first one said. “Like I always am, mending harness and shucking seed corn, and trying to help get ready to put stuff in the ground.”
    â€œHope you didn’t eat it all up in the process,” the manager said. “Bud, what about you?”
    â€œI don’t remember, Dutch,” the gray-haired fellow with the belly said. “Old folks forget things real easy.”
    â€œNow we got the news of the off-season duly reported,” Dutch Bernson said, “let’s talk about business. We got the first game of the season to deal with here in about two weeks, and Lord knows we got a lot to do to get ready for that. It’s going to be a three game stand with the Millers over in Crowley, and I’d sure like for us to get off to a good start.
    â€œI’ve got the schedule of practices all wrote up and put up on the bulletin board in the clubhouse, and I want y’all to get it by heart and be ready to follow it to the T every time you come to work in the morning. Rest of today, we’re going to have a little batting practice and base running. I want the infielders over there in left field working on grounders and throwing to first base, and we’ll do the outfielders and fly balls this afternoon. Pitchers and catchers in right field this morning.” After saying that, the manager stopped talking and looked around the bunch of us standing in that half circle in front of him. Everybody either had their heads dropped staring at the ground or throwed back looking up at the sky.
    â€œWe got a lot of you back that’s been here before, the same as last year, and some that’s brand new. You can tell who belongs in which of them categories just by looking around you, so I ain’t going to waste any more time saying howdy and calling folks by name.”
    â€œOld Bud ain’t going to be able to tell who’s new and who ain’t,” somebody said, and a few people chuckled at that.
    â€œHe’s going to have to figure that out for his self, then,” Dutch said, “but I will tell all of you that we got two