"John Kessel - The Franchise" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kessel John)

George stepped into the box, ground in his back foot, squinted at the
pitcher. The first pitch, a fastball, so surprised him that he didn't get his
bat off his shoulder. Belt high, it split the middle of the plate, but the
umpire called, "Ball!"

"Ball?" Schmidt, the Giants' catcher, grumbled.

"You got a problem?" the umpire said.

"Me? I got no problem." Schmidt tossed the ball back to the pitcher,
who shook his head in histrionic Latin American dismay, as if bemoaning
the sins of the world that he'd seen only too much of since he'd left Havana
eleven years before. "But the Franchise, he no like."

George ignored them and set himself for the next pitch. The big Cuban
went into his herky-jerky windup, deceptively slow, then kicked and threw.
George was barely into his swing when the ball thwacked into the
catcher's glove. "Steerike one!" the umpire called.

He was going to have to get around faster. The next pitch was another
fastball, outside and high, but George had already triggered before the
release and missed it by a foot, twisting himself around so that he almost
fell over.

Schmidt took the ball out of his glove, showed it to George, and threw it
back to the mound.
 The next was a curve, outside by an inch. Ball two.

The next a fastball that somehow George managed to foul into the dirt.

The next a fastball up under his chin that had him diving into the dirt
himself. Ball three. Full count.

An expectant murmur rose in the crowd, then fell to a profound silence,
the silence of a church, of heaven, of a lover's secret heart. Was his father
among them, breathless, hoping? Thousands awaited the next pitch.
Millions more watched on television. Killebrew took a three-step lead off
second. The Giants made no attempt to hold him on. The chatter from the
Senators' dugout lit up. "Come on, George Herbert Walker Bush, bear
down! Come on, Professor, grit up!"

George set himself, weight on his back foot. He cocked his bat, squinted
out at the pitcher. The vainglorious Latino gave him a piratical grin,
shook off Schmidt's sign. George felt his shoulders tense. Calm, boy, calm,
he told himself. You've been shot at, you've faced Prescott Bush across a
dining-room tableтАФthis is nothing but baseball. But instead of calm he felt
panic, and as the Franchise went into his windup his mind stood blank as
a stone.