The Natural by Bernard Malamud

saw him coming he exclaimed, “Oh, my eight-foot uncle, what have we got here, the Salvation Army band?”
    The man set his things on the floor and sat down on a concrete step, facing Pop. He beheld an old geezer of sixty-five with watery blue eyes, a thin red neck and a bitter mouth, who looked like a lost banana in the overgrown baseball suit he wore, especially his skinny legs in loose blue-and-white stockings.
    And Pop saw a tall, husky, dark-bearded fellow with old eyes but not bad features. His face was strong-boned, if a trifle meaty, and his mouth seemed pleasant though its expression was grim. For his bulk he looked lithe, and he appeared calmer than he felt, for although he was sitting here on this step he was still in motion. He was traveling (on the train that never stopped). His self, his mind, raced on and he felt he hadn’t stopped going wherever he was going because he hadn’t yet arrived. Where hadn’t he arrived? Here. But now it was time to calm down, ease up on the old scooter, sit still and be quiet, though the inside of him was still streaming through towns and cities, across forests and fields, over long years.
    â€œThe only music I make,” he answered Pop, patting the bassoon case, “is with my bat.” Searching through the pockets of his frayed and baggy suit, worn to threads at the knees and elbows, he located a folded letter that he reached over to the manager. “I’m your new left fielder, Roy Hobbs.”
    â€œMy what!” Pop exploded.
    â€œIt says in the letter.”

    Red, who had returned from the mound, took the letter, unfolded it, and handed it to Pop. He read it in a single swoop then shook his head in disbelief.
    â€œScotty Carson sent you?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œHe must be daffy.”
    Roy wet his dry lips.
    Pop shot him a shrewd look. “You’re thirty-five if you’re a day.”
    â€œThirty-four, but I’m good for ten years.”
    â€œThirty-four—Holy Jupiter, mister, you belong in an old man’s home, not baseball.”
    The players along the bench were looking at him. Roy licked his lips.
    â€œWhere’d he pick you up?” Pop asked.
    â€œI was with the Oomoo Oilers.”
    â€œIn what league?”
    â€œThey’re semipros.”
    â€œEver been in organized baseball?”
    â€œI only recently got back in the game.”
    â€œWhat do you mean got back?”
    â€œUsed to play in high school.”
    Pop snorted. “Well, it’s a helluva mess.” He slapped the letter with the back of his fingers. “Scotty signed him and the Judge okayed it. Neither of them consulted me. They can’t do that,” he said to Red. “That thief in the tower might have sixty per cent of the stock but I have it in writing that I am to manage this team and approve all player deals as long as I live .”
    â€œI got a contract,” said Roy.
    â€œLemme see it.”
    Roy pulled a blue-backed paper out of his inside coat pocket.
    Pop scanned it. “Where in blazes did he get the figure of three thousand dollars?”

    â€œIt was for a five thousand minimum but the Judge said I already missed one-third of the season.”
    Pop burst into scornful laughter. “Sure, but that entitles you to about thirty-three hundred. Just like that godawful deadbeat. He’d skin his dead father if he could get into the grave.”
    He returned the contract to Roy. “It’s illegal.”
    â€œScotty’s your chief scout?” Roy asked.
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œHe signed me to a contract with an open figure and the Judge filled it in. I asked about that and Scotty said he had the authority to sign me.”
    â€œHe has,” Red said to Pop. “You said so yourself if he found anybody decent.”
    â€œThat’s right, that’s what I said, but who needs a fielder old enough to be my son? I got a left fielder,” he