The Dixon Cornbelt League, and Other Baseball Stories
W. P. Kinsella
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
A collection of ghostly baseball stories by the author of Shoeless Joe, the basis for the film Field of Dreams, depicts a magical, mystical universe where the national pastime is always in season. 35,000 first printing. $25,000 ad/promo. Tour.
to bear your crosses for you,” the Rev. Bascombe Jones said. “All you have to do is ask.” He explained how I would have to change my life. I could give up stimulants; I never was much of a drinker, I remembered what my old man did when he was drunk. I’d have a difficult time keeping my mouth clean. A sportswriter once wrote that I had a seven-word vocabulary, six of them beginning with f. The most difficult change to make had to do with my marriage. I did enjoy road trips. I had a dozen girls
going to be through with baseball for good in a few weeks.” “If you want a professional career, I might be able to arrange it. It would involve a trip to Courteguay. And I don’t know, you being white and all.” “Not interested.” “There’s a factory down there. They sing and chant over your body, wrap it in palm fronds, feed you hibiscus petals and lots of other things. After a week or so, you emerge from the factory with an iron arm and the speed of a bullet and the ability to be in more than
wants to watch you show off.” His second time at bat he ripped the ball into the right-field corner. This time he didn’t even pause going around second — triple all the way. Trouble was there was a lumbering outfielder on base in front of him. Wheels had to scramble back to second. In the third inning he was replaced at shortstop by an ex-pitcher who wasn’t going to get a chance to pitch. The ex-pitcher made two errors and the National League won 6-5. “Wait ’til next time,” Wheels muttered.
open. He got up and walked slowly to the kitchen. He opened the fridge, eyed two pieces of apple pie and checked the freezer compartment, going eyeball to eyeball with a gallon tub of vanilla ice cream. LUMPY DROBOT, DESIGNATED HITTER If there’s anything I hate more than my nickname, it’s my manager, the guy who hung it on me. Lumpy. Lumpy Drobot, designated hitter. “Lumpy runs with all the speed of water finding its own level,” the manager is saying to a reporter. Then he guffaws,
covering first on a sacrifice play. The first baseman charged, the pitcher fielded the bunt — and had no one to throw to. The fans jeered, the pitcher slammed the ball into his glove, glowering at me. The manager, in the dusk of the dugout, spit in my direction. I want to become invisible. I don’t want to play professionally — I only want to play for fun. * * * I don’t like Dilly Eastwick. For all his sincerity there is something sneaky about him, not exactly evil but furtive, always looking