63

That afternoon, for the second straight day, the Harpooners had a flat, desultory practice. Even Coach Cox seemed lethargic. Schwartz, unable to practice because of his knees and unwilling to watch anymore, headed back to the locker room to soak. He was in the whirlpool tub when his teammates wandered in. The door was half open, so he could hear what was being said.

“How good you think these teams are?” asked one of the young guys, probably Loondorf. “Compared to Coshwale.”

“Put it this way,” Rick replied. “Coshwale’s won conference, what, eight times in ten years?”

“Okay.”

“And they’ve never gone to nationals. It’s always some team from the River Nine. Or else WIVA. But mostly River Nine. Those guys are beasts.”

“Who’s the River Nine team?”

“Northern Missouri.”

“Shit. Northern Missouri.”

“In oh-six they won the whole shebang.”

“Are they in our half of the bracket?”

“I think so. I think we play them if we beat McKinnon.”

“Crap. Northern Missouri. When you put it that way.”

“Yeah.”

“Man, we could sure use Henry. Even just to DH.”

“Amen to that.”

“It’ll be good experience, either way.”

“Who knows? Maybe we’ll beat McKinnon. Starblind on the mound. Then see what happens.”

“Could use Henry’s bat, though.”

“One thing I know. We’re gonna party when it’s over. Regardless.”

Schwartz wasn’t in the whirlpool anymore. He was through the door, naked and dripping, closing fast, feet slipping on the concrete floor. He jacked Rick up against the lockers, two hands twisted into Rick’s T-shirt for leverage. “You want to throw a party?” he was screaming, his voice less a voice than a visitation from some very dark place. “Is that what you want?”

Rick shook his head no. He was trembling a little and had his gut sucked in, afraid to breathe, as if Schwartz might hurt him badly. He was right. This wasn’t college-boy Schwartz getting riled up for effect. This wasn’t Schwartz Lite. This was full-bore Schwartz, the kind of Schwartz these prep-school pansies didn’t know they’d never seen. Nobody moved to intervene. Nobody moved at all.

“This weekend is not the end!” Schwartz let go of Rick; he was addressing them all. He bashed his fist against a locker, not even remembering to use his left. He dented the metal, bloodied his knuckles. “Anyone who thinks otherwise, anyone who’d rather go play for McKinnon, or Chute, or Northern Missouri, can clear the hell out. I’m winning a regional , and then I’m winning a national championship. And guess what? You motherfuckers are along for the ride.”

Coach Cox had wandered into the locker room and was watching dispassionately, hands in his pockets. Through the haze of his rage Schwartz saw a glass Snapple bottle in little Loondorf’s hand; he grabbed it and sent it flying a foot or two over Coach Cox’s head, just because. It was a fucked-up thing to do but he needed their attention. Coach Cox ducked. The bottle exploded against the dingy tile wall between the clock and the water fountain. Shards of glass rained over the room.

“You want to have a party?” Schwartz beat lockers, beat his chest, beat anything stupid enough to be near. “Then it’s going to be a goddamn national championship party. That’s the only kind of party anyone in this room is going to. Because we’re not fucking this up. We’re the Westish Harpooners. Do you hear what I’m saying? Do you hear me?”

He sank down on a splintered bench. His shoulders rose and fell as if he were sobbing, but without any tears or noise. He felt pathetic. Always before, his rants and speeches had had an element of performance in them, an element of calculation. But this was pure need. After the season there was nothing. No baseball no football. No meds no apartment no job. No friends no girlfriend. Nothing. And it had to be that way for all of them, down to the last man. They couldn’t just want to win. The other teams wanted to win, and the other teams had more talent. The Harpooners had to feel, like he did, that they would die if they lost.