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

The ball started out right for his head. George jerked back in a
desperate effort to get out of the way as the pitch, a curve of prodigious
sweep, dropped through the heart of the plate. "Steerike!" the umpire
called.

Instantly the scene changed from hushed expectation to sudden
movement. The crowd groaned. The players relaxed and began jogging off
the field. Killebrew kicked the dirt and walked back to the dugout to get
his glove. The organist started up. Behind the big Chesterfield sign in
right, the scorekeeper slid another goose egg onto the board for the
Senators. Though the whole thing was similar to moments he had
experienced more times than he would care to admit during his ten years
in the minors, the simple volume of thirty thousand voices sighing in
disappointment because he, George Herbert Walker Bush, had failed, left
him standing stunned at the plate with the bat limp in his clammy hands.
They didn't get thirty thousand fans in Chattanooga.

Schmidt flipped the ball toward the mound. As the Franchise jogged
past him, he flashed George that superior smile. "A magnificent swing," he
said.

George stumbled back to the dugout. Lemon, heading out to left, shook
his head. "Nice try, Professor," the shortstop Consolo said.

"Pull your jock up and get out to first," said Lavagetto, the manager. He
spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the sod next to the end of the dugout.
"Senor Fidel Castro welcomes you to the bigs."

TWO
The Senators lost 7тАФ1. Castro pitched nine innings, allowed four hits,
struck out ten. George fanned three times. In the sixth, he let a low throw
get by him; the runner ended up on third, and the Giants followed with
four unearned runs.

In the locker room his teammates avoided him. Nobody had played
well, but George knew they had him pegged as a choker. Lavagetto came
through with a few words of encouragement. "Well get 'em tomorrow," he
said. George expected the manager to yank him for somebody who at least
wouldn't cost them runs on defense. When he left without saying anything,
George was grateful to him for at least letting him go another night before
benching him.

Barbara and the boys had been in the stands, but had gone home. They
would be waiting for him. He didn't want to go. The place was empty by
the time he walked out through the tunnels to the street. His head was
filled with images from the game. Castro had toyed with him; he no doubt
enjoyed humiliating the son of a U.S. senator. The Cuban's look of
heavy-lidded disdain sparked an unaccustomed rage in George. It wasn't
good sportsmanship. You played hard, and you won or lost, but you didn't
rub the other guy's nose in it. That was bush league, and George, despite