Plan B for the Middle Class by Ron Carlson Page B

“Especially that pitcher.”
    â€œI wouldn’t make too much out of that mix-up at the plate today. You know Billy. He’s a kind that can change the weather.” Ketchum was referring to the gray preseason game a year before. Billy came up in a light rain when a slice of sunlight opened on the field like a beacon, just long enough for everyone to see my roommate golf a low fastball into the right-field seats for a round trip. It was the at-bat that clinched his place on the roster, and that gave him his nickname.
    â€œBilly Day is a guy who gets the breaks.” Ketchum reached into the wicker bushel and sampled one of Polly’s shrimp. “And you know what they say about guys who get a lot of breaks.” Here he gave Polly a quick look. “They keep getting them.” He stood up and started to walk off. “Call me if you want to hit a few. We don’t head north until April Fools’ Day.”
    â€œI don’t like that guy,” Polly said when he’d left. “I never liked him.” She pushed her load of shrimp away. “Let’s go.” I was going to defend the coach there, a guy who was fair with his men and kept the signals (steal, take, hit-and-run) simple, but the evening had gone a little flat for me too. There we were out to celebrate, but as always the room was full of Billy Day. He was everywhere. He was in the car on the way back to the hotel; he was in the elevator; he was in the room; and—if you want to know it—he was in the bed too. I knew that he was in Polly’s dreams and there he was in my head, turning back to the umpire, changing a strike to a ball.
    The papers got ahold of what was going on during the last week of March. It was a home game against the Yankees and it was the kind of day that if there were no baseball, you’d invent it to go with the weather. The old Bradenton stands were packed and the whole place smelled of popcorn and coconut oil. Polly was wearing a yellow sundress covered with black polka dots, the kind of dress you wear in a crowded ballpark if you might want one of the players to pick you out while he played first. By this time I was writing a friendly little column for the Pittsburgh Dispatch twice a week on “Lifestyles at Spring Training,” but I had not done much with Billy. He was getting plenty of legitimate ink, and besides—as I said—we weren’t really talking. I liked the writing, even though this was a weird time all around. I kind of had to do it, just so I felt useful. I wasn’t ready to go home.
    It was a good game, two-two in the ninth. Then Billy made a mistake. With one down, he had walked and stolen second. That’s a wonderful feeling being on second with one out. There’s all that room and you can lead the extra two yards and generally you feel pretty free and cocky out there. I could see Billy was enjoying this feeling, leaving cleat marks in the clay, when they threw him out. The pitcher flipped the ball backhand to the shortstop, and they tagged Billy. Ralph “the Hammer” Fox was umping out there, and he jumped onto one knee in his famous out gesture and wheeled his arm around and he brought the hammer down: OUT! After the tag, Billy stood up and went over and planted both feet on the base.
    â€œWhat?” Polly took my arm.
    Ralph Fox went over and I could see Billy smiling while he spoke. He patted Ralph’s shoulder. Then Fox turned and gave the arms-out gesture for safe—twice—and hollered, “Play ball.” It was strange, the kind of thing that makes you sure you’re going to get an explanation later.
    But the ballpark changed in a way I was to see twenty times during the season: a low quiet descended, not a silence, but an eerie even sound like two thousand people talking to themselves. And the field, too, was stunned, the players standing straight up, their gloves hanging down like their open mouths during the