The Sweet Bird of Paradise
The Sweet Bird of Paradise
Roger P. Watts
The stadium was a concrete bowl and it held the cold of the late October afternoon. The wind came off the lake, smelling of iron and dead fish, and it came over the high walls and swirled the dust in the infield. It was red dust, fine and dry, and it tasted of copper when the wind blew it into your mouth.
In the stands, there were 40 thousand people. They made a sound like the sea when it was rough and breaking against the rocks, a constant roaring that rose and fell with the flight of the ball. They smelled of roasted nuts and stale beer and the heavy wool of their coats. They were anxious. It was the last game. It was the end of it all. After this, there was only the winter and the snow and the waiting for the spring.
Sully was behind the plate. He was a big man, built square and solid like a block of granite. He was not a great catcher but he was a brave one. He blocked the dirt with his body and he did not complain. He had been crouching for three hours. His knees hurt him. They always hurt him now. He watched the pitcher, the one they called The Kid.
The Kid’s name was Billy, but no one called him that. He was twenty-one years old and he came from the high plains of Oklahoma where the wind blew harder than it did here. He had a face that was smooth and unlined, and eyes that were
wide and blue and empty of everything except the target. He had been raised by a father who believed that a baseball was a weapon. The father had put a tire swing in the backyard and made The Kid throw rocks through it until his arm hung like a dead rope. If he missed, he ran laps until he vomited. The Kid did not love the
game. He respected it, the way a man respects a storm. He had a long arm that moved like a whip. He threw the ball hard. He threw it so it hung like a large white melon launched from his hand, shrinking the closer it came until it was a seed that vanished into the mitt.
Sully signaled for the curve. The Kid nodded. He wound up and threw.
The ball came in fast. It looked straight. It looked high. Sully moved his glove up. But the ball was not straight. It broke. It broke sharply and it broke down and in. It was a bad break for catching but a good break for fooling a hitter.
Sully did not get the web of the mitt on it. He got the meat of the hand. He got the place where the thumb joins the palm and the index finger stands alone.
He knew it broke as soon as it hit.
There was a sound like a dry stick snapping under a boot in a winter wood.
Sully went down in the dirt. He did not scream. He rolled on his side and held his right hand with his left hand and pulled his knees up to his chest. The ball rolled away to the backstop. It lay there white against the red bricks.
The manager, Mac, came out of the dugout. He walked slowly because he was old and his legs were bad, and because he knew that walking fast would not change what had happened. The trainer ran past him with a bag.
They looked at the hand. The index finger pointed away from the other fingers. It was swollen and blue.
“She’s done,” Sully whispered, the grit of the infield in his teeth. “She’s snapped clean off.”
“Let me look at it,” the trainer said.
“Don’t touch it,” Sully said, his breath hissing. “It’s hot like a coal. I can’t feel the end of it.”
“You can’t throw,” Mac said, looking at the hand like it was a broken tool. “A catcher with no hand is no catcher.”
“I could catch one-handed,” Sully said, but there was no hope in his voice. “I could try.”
“No,” Mac said. “Go sit down. You earned your pay.”
They helped him up. He walked to the dugout holding his arm against his chest. He did not look at the crowd. The crowd was quiet. They knew a bad thing when they saw it.
In the bullpen, Tommy Gillis sat on the bench. It was a place for the men who were waiting. It was cold there in the shade. Tommy had a towel around his neck. He was thirty years old. He had a face that was brown from the sun of the minor leagues. He had eyes that were tired, eyes that had seen many buses and cheap hotels and nights staring at the ceiling.
He saw Sully go down. He saw the way he held his arm.
“He’s hurt,” Tommy said. “He’s holding it like a baby.”
“Yeah…” the bullpen coach, Smitty, said. “Hurt bad.”
Tommy felt the cold in his stomach. It was not the wind. It was the fear. He was not supposed to play. He was on the roster because the other catcher, Landy, was a drunk.
Landy was on the twelfth floor of the Sheraton. The curtains were drawn and the room smelled of gin and old sickness. Landy had been the best catcher in the league three years ago. He had velvet hands and an arm like a cannon. But the noise got to him. The noise of the crowd, the noise of the press, the noise of his own father telling him he wasn’t good enough. He found that the gin stopped the noise. It made the world quiet and soft. But the gin took his legs and it took his eyes. He had called Mac at noon. He was weeping. He said he could not find his shoes. He said the spiders were coming out of the air conditioning vent. Mac told him to stay there and rot.
So Tommy was the insurance.
Tommy looked at his hands. They were thick hands, calloused from years of catching warm-ups. He remembered when they were young hands. He remembered the Jimmy’s Barber Shop team.
He was ten years old. The uniform was wool and it scratched his skin. It was purple with gold letters. He was the catcher because he was the only one who was not afraid of the ball. He loved the shin guards and the chest protector. He felt like a knight. He slept in the jersey the first night he got it. He lay in his bed and smelled the wool and the dirt and he knew he would be a
baseball player. He hit a home run over the fence into the creek. He ran around the bases and he felt like he was flying, just like a bird.
He played in college. He played for the State University Shamrocks. Hit .378 his junior year. The scouts came.. They sat in the stands with their radar guns and their notebooks. They smoked cigars and nodded when he threw a runner out. He signed a contract. Bought a car and thought it would last forever.
Then he went to the Triple-A Red Hawks. He was the “Big Bird.” He hit twenty-one home runs. He was going to the Show. He could taste it. It tasted like hot dogs and cold beer.
Then came the routine physical.
The doctor was a small man with cold hands. He listened to Tommy’s chest. He frowned. He listened again. He sent him for an X-ray. Then a scan.
The doctor snapped the picture onto the light box. He pointed to a shape in the chest. “This is your aorta,” the doctor said. “It is the main river of blood.”
“I know what it is,” Tommy said in a way that really said, ‘I’m really hurting.”
“It is ballooning,” the doctor said. “It is an aneurysm. The wall is thin. It is like an old tire.”
“I need you to fix it,” Tommy said.
“We can fix it,” the doctor said. “But you’ll never play baseball. If you slide, if you get hit at the plate, the pressure will burst it. You will bleed out in seconds.”
“I feel fine,” Tommy said. “I feel strong as a bull.”
“You’re a walking bomb…” the doctor said. “a glass jar waiting to explode.”
The team kept him because he was good with the pitchers. He could calm them down. He could talk to The Kid when The Kid was crying
because he missed the strike zone. He could talk to Landy when Landy was shaking for a drink. He was the bullpen catcher. He was paid to squat and catch and throw the ball back. He was paid to be a nursemaid. He was paid to watch the game he loved from behind a fence.
The phone rang loud and sharp on the wall.
Smitty answered it. Smitty chewed tobacco and he spat on the floor. It was a brown stream. He listened and he hung up the phone. He looked at Tommy Gillis.
“You,” Smitty said like it was a jury’s sentence. “Sully’s finished. You’re in.”
“But the blood” Tommy said. “You know it’s all about the aorta that could explode..”
“To hell with the doctor,” Smitty said. “Landy’s drunk. Sully’s broken. There is no one else. Suit up. Mac needs a catcher, not a patient!”
Tommy stood up. His hands shook. He put on the shin guards. He pulled the straps tight. He felt the hard plastic against his legs. He put on the chest protector. It was heavy. It smelled of sweat and oil. It felt like Jimmy’s Barber Shop gear. It felt like armor.
He picked up his mitt.
“Go,” Smitty said. “Stop’em all…treat every pitch like it wants to get away from ya.”
They opened the gate and Tommy Gillis ran out into The Show.
It was a long run. The grass was green and short. The infield dirt was raked smooth. The stadium was huge. The people looked down at him. They saw the number 13 on his back. They did not know his name. There was no name on the jersey. They saw a man running who should not be running.
He felt his heart beating against the weak wall of the artery… Thump. Thump…a bomb ticking in his chest. Mac met him at home plate. Mac’s eyes were tired. “You know the situation,” Mac said.
“Yeah,” Tommy said. “Top of the ninth. Tie game. Two outs. Man on first. He’s a jack rabbit, but he runs like he’s scared.”
“Do not let him steal,” Mac said. “But don’t knock yourself out. We just need an out.”
“I’ll get it done,” Tommy said.
He put on the mask. The world became a grid of wires. He squatted behind the plate. The umpire was big and black in his suit.
“Play ball,” the umpire said.
The runner on first was named Johnson. He was lean and he had legs like a deer. He danced off the bag. Tommy knew he would try to steal second. Johnson knew Tommy was cold.
The Kid threw a high fastball. Johnson raced for second..
Tommy caught the ball. He stood to throw. His arm felt heavy. The memory of the throw was there, but the muscle was cold. He was afraid. He was afraid of the strain. He threw the ball but he did not step into it. It bounced in the dirt. Johnson slid in safe.
The crowd groaned. It was a low, heavy sound. It was the sound of disappointment. Tommy felt the shame of it burn his neck. He pounded his mitt.
“It’s alright,” he told himself. “Shake it off. Get the batter.”
The batter was a big man named Davis. Davis swung the bat like a club. He had forearms like oak branches. The count went to two balls and two strikes.
Tommy looked at The Kid. The Kid was breathing hard. He was looking at the ground. He was thinking of his father. He was thinking of the rocks and the tire swing.
Tommy walked out to the mound. The Kid looked small in the center of the stadium.
“Kid,” Tommy said.
The Kid looked up. His eyes were wet.
“I can’t hit the spot,” The Kid said. “My arm is dead. The plate looks like a dime.”
“Your arm is fine,” Tommy said. “It is just air. The plate is the same size as in Oklahoma. Just breathe the air and spit it out.”
“He’s big,” The Kid said, looking at the batter. “He looks like a mountain.”
“He’s just meat and bone,” Tommy said. “Throw the curve. The one that broke Sully.”
“I’ll hit him,” The Kid said, I could kill him.”
“You won’t hit him,” Tommy said. “Throw it at my mask. Make it break. Trust the spin. Throw it like you’re throwing a rock at a rabbit.”
The Kid nodded. Tommy went back. He squatted. He gave the sign. The Kid threw it.
It did not break down. It stayed up in the light. It spun slow and fat. It was a mistake. It was a hanging curveball, the worst pitch in baseball.
Davis swung. There was a crack like a rifle shot. The ball flew fast and low to left field.
Johnson ran from second. He ran hard. He rounded third and he came for the plate. He was coming to score the run that could win the game. He lowered his shoulder.
The left fielder fielded the ball and threw it. The throw was true. It came in low and hard. It was a beautiful thing to see.
Tommy stood at the plate. He saw Johnson coming. Johnson was a train. Johnson was a missile. Tommy saw the ball coming, and his only focus was the ball.
He did not step away. He planted his feet. He thought of the Jimmy’s Barber Shop club. He thought of the Red Hawks. He thought of the doctor.
He caught the ball.
Johnson hit him.
It was a hard hit. It shook the bones in his head. It drove the air out of his lungs. It felt like a car hitting a wall. Tommy fell back. He felt a tearing in his chest, a small one, like a stitch popping. But he held the ball. He swept the glove across Johnson’s leg.
“Out!” the umpire yelled with a crooked arm and a thumb in the air…”He is out!”
The crowd roared. It was a roar of relief and of savage joy. Tommy lay in the dirt. He felt his chest. The heart was beating fast. The pain was there, but it was dull. The wall held. He was alive.
He stood up and rolled the ball to the mound. He walked to the dugout. He did not look at the crowd. He sat down on the bench. His hands were shaking. He drank a gulp of water. It tasted of nothing.
It was the bottom of the ninth. The score was tied. The sun was going down behind the stadium rim. The shadows covered the infield. The air was getting colder.
The first batter grounded out. The second batter popped up. The crowd was quiet again. They were afraid of the extra innings. They were afraid of the winter coming. They wanted to go home but they could not leave.
The third batter was The Rookie. The Rookie was nineteen. He was fast and he was stupid with courage. He singled to right field.
Then Pops came up. Pops was old and fat but he could hit. He had been in the league for 19 years. He ran like he was pulling a piano. He hit a ball into the gap. The Rookie ran to third. Pops ran toward second but he stopped at first because he knew he could not make it.
Two outs. Runners on the corners.
Mac looked down the bench. There was no one. The pinch hitters were no good. One had a bad back. The other could not hit the fastball.
“Gillis,” Mac said.
Tommy looked up. He still had his chest protector on.
“Can you hit?” Mac asked.
“I could hit once,” Tommy said.
“Then do it again,” Mac said. Get in there and get a hit. Just swing it level. Don’t be a hero. Just be a pain in the ass.”
Tommy took off the shin guards. He took off the chest protector. He felt light. He felt naked without the iron. He walked to the bat rack. He picked up a bat. It was smooth and heavy ash, it was Sully’s bat, and it felt good in his hands.
He walked to the on-deck circle. He watched the pitcher.
The pitcher was a giant. His name was Alvarez. He came from the mountains of the Dominican Republic. He was six feet five inches tall. He had a beard like black wire. He threw the ball a hundred miles an hour. He did have a curving slider but he didn’t use it much. He did not have a changeup. He had fire. He threw the ball
and he dared you to hit it. He had killed a man in a bar fight in San Pedro, or so the story went. He looked like he could kill a man now.
Tommy stepped into the dusty box. He dug his back foot in. He looked at Alvarez. Alvarez looked at him. Alvarez saw a backup catcher with no name. He saw a man with no heart. He saw an easy out.
The first pitch came at his head.
It was a message. Tommy dropped to the dirt. The ball hissed past him like a snake. He stood up and brushed the dust from his uniform. He was not angry. It was part of the game. Alvarez wanted him to be afraid.
“Ball,” the umpire called the count.
The next pitch was a fastball on the outside corner. Tommy watched it. It was too fast.
“Stri-eeek,” the umpire shrieked.
The next pitch was inside. It jammed him. Tommy swung and fouled it off his foot. The pain was sharp. He limped for a while in a circle.
“Strike,” the umpire called quietly.
One ball, two strikes. The crowd was standing. They were making a noise like a continuous scream.
Tommy gripped the bat. He squeezed the wood until his knuckles were white to relax his hands. He stepped out of the batter’s box to catch his breath. He remembered the fields in the minor leagues. The cornfields of Iowa. The long bus rides at night when the only light was the glow of a cigarette. The smell of the grass at night. He remembered the dream of the Show. He was in the Show now. It was one pitch.
The count went to three balls and two strikes. Alvarez had wasted two pitches trying to get him to chase the bad ones. Now he had to throw a strike. He could not walk Tommy to make the bases full.
He waited. He was ready. He cleared his mind. He did not think of the aorta. He did not think of the doctor. Tommy only thought of the ball.
Alvarez wound up. He kicked his leg high. He threw.
It was a fastball. It was waist high. It was straight. It spun tight and fast. It looked like a pearl.
Tommy swung.
He did not swing for the fence. He swung to meet the ball. He threw the head of the bat at the white blur. He used the hips he had learned to use in college. He used the wrists he had developed in the minors.
There was a sound. Thwack.
It was a solid sound. It was the sound of wood meeting leather perfectly. It was the best sound in the world. The vibration went up his arms and into his shoulders. It felt good. It felt clean. It felt like redemption.
The ball hit the hard dirt in front of the plate. It bounced high. It went over Alvarez’s head. It went toward the middle of the field.
The shortstop was playing deep. He ran to his left. He moved fast. He fielded the ball on a high hop.
The Rookie on third base darted for home.
Tommy Gillis ran for the glory of it.
He dropped the bat and he ran hard. He pushed off the dirt. He felt his legs pumping. He had not run like this in years. He felt the wind on his face. He felt the joy of the sprint.
He saw first base. It was a white canvas square. It was ninety feet away. It looked very far.
He ran harder. The shortstop planted his foot and threw the ball. The ball flew across the diamond. It was the man against the ball. It was the heart against the clock.
Tommy Gillis ran.
He felt it happen at forty feet.
It was not a pain at first. It was a warmth. It started in the center of his chest. It was a release. It was like a dam breaking. The aorta gave way. The weak spot burst. The blood poured out into his chest cavity. It filled him up.
Then came the pain. It was a tearing pain. It was a fire. But it was distant. It was happening to someone else.
The lights of the stadium got very bright. They turned into stars. The noise of the crowd went away. There was a rushing sound in his ears like a river in flood. It was the sound of his own blood.
He did not stop. He could not stop. The momentum carried him. The will carried him. The boy from Jimmy’s Barbershop carried him.
He saw the bag. It was glowing white. He lunged for it.
Tommy Gillis’s foot hit the bag. Thud.
The ball hit the first baseman’s mitt. Pop.
The umpire spread his arms wide.
“Saaaaaafe!” he bellowed.
The Rookie crossed home plate with the winning run. The game was won. The season was over.
Tommy Gillis ran past the bag he touched safely. He ran into foul territory. His legs gave out. He fell forward. He hit the ground. He did not put out his hands. He hit the dirt with his face.
He tasted the dirt. It tasted of copper and salt. The dirt of the diamond.
The team ran out of the dugout. They were screaming. They were jumping. They were a wave of. They wanted to lift him up. They wanted to carry him like a king.
They reached him. The Rookie got there first.
“Tommy!” The Rookie yelled. “You did it! You did it! We won!”
Tommy Gillis did not move. He lay with his face in the dirt. The Rookie touched him. He tried to turn him over.
Tommy Gillis was heavy. He was loose and heavy.
The Rookie turned him over. Tommy Gillis’s eyes were open. They looked at the sky. They did not see the sky. They were still.
“Tommy?” The Rookie said. The smile faded from his face. “Hey, Tommy?”
The other players stopped. They stood in a circle. The noise in the stadium began to die. It went from a roar to a murmur to a silence. The silence started at first base and it spread up into the stands. It spread all the way to the top of the concrete bowl. The 40 thousand people stood still. They knew something had happened that was not part of the game.
Mac came through the circle. He kneeled down in the dust. He put his hand on Tommy Gillis’s chest. There was no movement. The chest was full.
Mac took off his cap. He looked at that face. It was a peaceful face. It was the face of a man who had finished his work. It was the face of a man who had finally played in the Show.
“He’s a goner,” Mac said, his voice quiet. “His heart was too big for the cage.”
The wind blew across the infield. It picked up a white hotdog wrapper from the stands. The paper blew across the grass. It tumbled and lifted. It caught an updraft from the heat of the lights.
It rose higher and higher. It twisted in the wind. To the dying eyes of Tommy Gillis, in that last fraction of a second before the dark came, it was not a wrapper.
It was a flower. It was a Bird of Paradise. It was orange and blue and brilliant. It had a long neck and a beak like a bird. It was a flower that looked like it was flying.
He rose up past the lights. He rose into the dark sky. He flew over the stadium wall. He flew toward the stars.
Tommy Gillis was not there in the dirt. He was that flower. He was rising. He was free of the gravity that breaks fingers and hearts. He was free of the blood that demands a toll. He had done the job. He had blocked the plate. He had run the line. He had touched the bag.
The trainers came with a stretcher. They covered him with their warm-up jackets. The crowd stood up. They took off their hats. They did not speak. They watched the men carry Tommy Gillis from the field.
The game was won. Winter could come now. The snow could fall on the red dust and cover it. It was alright. It was finished. The sweet bird had flown.
Roger P. Watts is a first-time contributor to The Twin Bill.
Elliot Lin is a law school student who spends their free time musing about sports and how they shape or reflect identity. You can find their other sports-related illustrations here, on Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram.
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