The Natural by Bernard Malamud Page A

said to Roy, “a darn good one when he feels like it and ain’t playing practical jokes on everybody.”
    Roy stood up. “If you don’t want me, Merry Christmas.”
    â€œWait a second,” said Red. He fingered Pop up close to the fountain and spoke to him privately.
    Pop calmed down. “I’m sorry, son,” he apologized to Roy when he returned to the bench, “but you came across me at a bad time. Also thirty-four years for a rookie is starting with one foot in the grave. But like Red says, if our best scout sent you, you musta showed him something. Go on in the clubhouse and have Dizzy fit you up with a monkey suit. Then report back here and I will locate you a place on this bench with the rest of my All-Stars.” He threw the players a withering look and they quickly turned away.
    â€œListen, mister,” Roy said, “I know my way out of this jungle if you can’t use me. I don’t want any second pickings.”
    â€œDo as he told you,” Red said.
    Roy rose, got his valise and bassoon case together, and
headed into the tunnel. His heart was thumping like a noisy barrel.
    â€œI shoulda bought a farm,” Pop muttered.
    Â 
    The pitcher in the shower had left the door wide open so the locker room was clouded with steam when Roy came in. Unable to find anybody he yelled into the shower room where was the prop man, and the one in the shower yelled back in the equipment room and close the door it was drafty. When the steam had thinned out and Roy could see his way around he located the manager’s office, so labeled in black letters on the door, but not the equipment room. In the diagonally opposite corner were the trainer’s quarters, and here the door was ajar and gave forth an oil of wintergreen smell that crawled up his nose. He could see the trainer, in a gray sweatshirt with KNIGHTS stenciled across his chest, working on a man mountain on the rubbing table. Catching sight of Roy, the trainer called out in an Irish brogue who was he looking for?
    â€œProp man,” Roy said.
    â€œThat’s Dizzy—down the hall.” The trainer made with his eyes to the left so Roy opened the door there and went down the hall. He located a sign, “Equipment,” and through the window under it saw the prop man in a baseball jersey sitting on a uniform trunk with his back to the wall. He was reading the sports page of the Mirror .
    Roy rapped on the ledge and Dizzy, a former utility pitcher, hastily put the paper down. “Caught me at an interesting moment,” he grinned. “I was reading about this catcher that got beaned in Boston yesterday. Broke the side of his skull.”
    â€œThe name’s Roy Hobbs, new hand here. Fisher told me to get outfitted.”
    â€œNew man—fielder, eh?”
    Roy nodded.
    â€œYeah, we been one man short on the roster for two weeks.
One of our guys went and got himself hit on the head with a fly ball and both of his legs are now paralyzed.”
    Roy winked.
    â€œHonest to God. And just before that our regular third baseman stepped on a bat and rolled down the dugout steps. Snapped his spine in two places.” Dizzy grimaced. “We sure been enjoying an unlucky season.”
    He came forth with a tape measure and took Roy’s measurements, then he went back and collected a pile of stuff from the shelves.
    â€œTry this for size.” He handed him a blue cap with a white K stitched on the front of it.
    Roy tried it. “Too small.”
    â€œYou sure got some size noggin there.”
    â€œSeven and a half.” Roy looked at him.
    â€œJust a social remark. No offense meant or intended.” He gave Roy a size that fitted.
    â€œHow’s it look?” Roy asked.
    â€œA dream but why the tears?”
    â€œI have a cold.” He turned away.
    Dizzy asked him to sign for the stuff—Judge Banner insisted. He helped Roy carry it to his locker.
    â€œKeep anything you