holes cut in his suit. the wings are glued to his back. or strapped. or something.
“listen,” said Henderson, “will you please get the hell out of here! we’ve got enough comedy on the field now, just playing it straight. they laughed us right out of the park today. now, get out and fast!”
the kid reached over, took a slug from the pint, set it down and said, “Mr. Henderson, I am the answer to your prayers.”
“kid,” said Henderson, “you’re too young to drink that stuff.”
“I’m older than I look,” said the kid.
“and I got somethin’ that will make you a little older!” Henderson pressed the little button under his desk. that meant Bull Kronkite. I ain’t sayin’ the Bull has ever killed a man but you’ll be lucky to be smoking Bull Durham out of a rubber asshole when he gets through with you. the Bull came in almost taking one of the hinges off the door as he entered.
“which ONE, boss?” he asked, his long stupid fingers twitching as he looked about the room.
“the punk with the paper wings,” said Henderson.
the Bull moved in.
“don’t touch me,” said the punk with the paper wings.
the Bull rushed in, AND SO HELP ME GOD, that punk began to FLY! he flapped around the room, up near the ceiling. Henderson and I both reached for the pint but the old man beat me to it. the Bull dropped to his knees:
“LORD IN HEAVEN, HAVE MERCY ON ME! AN ANGEL! AN ANGEL!”
“don’t be a jerk!” said the angel, flapping around, “I’m no angel. I just want to help the Blues. I been a Blues fan ever since I can remember.”
“all right. come on down. let’s talk business,” said Henderson.
the angel, or whatever it was, flew on down and landed in a chair. the Bull ripped off the shoes and stockings of whatever it was and started kissing its feet.
Henderson leaned over and in a very disgusted manner spit into the Bull’s face: “fuck off, you subnormal freak! anything I hate is such sloppy sentimentality!”
the Bull wiped off his face and left very quietly.
Henderson flipped through the desk drawers.
“shit, I thought I had me some contract papers in here somewhere!”
meanwhile, while looking for the contract papers he found another pint and opened that. he looked at the kid while ripping off the cellophane:
“tell me, can you hit an inside curve? outside? how about the slider?”
“god damned if I know,” said the guy with the wings, “I been hiding out. all I know is what I read in the papers and see on TV but I’ve always been a Blues fan and I’ve felt very sorry for you this season.”
“you been hidin’ out? where? a guy with wings can’t hide out in an elevator in the Bronx! what’s your hype? how’ve you made it?”
“Mr. Henderson, I don’t want to bore you with all the details.”
“by the way, what’s your name, kid?”
“Jimmy. Jimmy Crispin. J.C. for short.”
“hey, kid, what the fuck you tryin’ to do, get funny with me?”
“oh no, Mr. Henderson.”
“then shake hands!”
they shook.
“god damn, your hands is sure COLD! you had anything to eat lately?”
“I had some french fries and beer with chicken about 4 p.m.”
“have a drink, kid.”
Henderson turned to me. “Bailey?”
“yeh?”
“I want the full friggin’ ballteam down on that field at 10 a.m. tomorrow morning. no exceptions. I think we’ve got the biggest thing since the a-bomb. now let’s all get outa here and get some sleep. you got a place to sleep, kid?”
“sure,” said J.C. then he flew down the stairway and left us there.
we had the park locked tight. nobody in there but the ballteam. and with their hangovers and looking at the guy with the wings they thought it was some publicity gag. or a practice for one. they put the team on the field and the kid at the plate. but you should have been there to see those bloodshot eyes OPEN when the kid tapped a roller down the 3rd base line and FLEW to first base! then he touched down and before the 3rd base man could let go of the ball the kid flew on down to 2nd base.
everybody just kind of swayed in the early 10 p.m. sunlight. playing for a team like the Blues you figured you were crazy anyway but this was something else.
then as the pitcher got ready to throw to the batboy who we had put at the plate, J.C. flew on down to third base! he jetted on down! you couldn’t even see the wings, even if you had had time for two alka seltzers that morning. and by the time the ball got to the plate, this thing had flown in and touched home plate.
we found the kid could play the whole outfield. his flying speed was tremendous! we just brought in the two other outfielders and put them in the infield. that gave us two shortstops and two second basemen. and as bad as we were, we were hell.
that night would be our first league game with Jimmy Crispin in the outfield.
first thing I did when I got in was to phone Bugsy Malone.
“Bugsy, what are the odds against the Blues finishing first?”
“ain’t no odds. the bet is off the board. no damn fool would bet the Blues even at 10,000 to one.”
“what’ll you give me?”
“are you serious?”
“yeah.”
“250 to one. you wanna bet a dollar, is that it?”
“one grand.”
“one grand! now wait a minute! let me call you back in two hours.”
the phone rang in an hour and forty-five minutes. “all right, I’ll take you. I can always use a grand. somehow.”
“thanks, Bugsy.”
“you’re welcome.”
that first night game, I’ll never forget it. they thought we were pulling some laugh stunt to get the crowds in but when they saw Jimmy Crispin rise into the sky and pull down an obvious home run that would have cleared the left centerfield fence by ten feet, then the game was on. Bugsy had flown down to check things out and I watched him in his box seat. when J.C. flew up to grab that one Bugsy’s five dollar cigar
