The Pinch Hitter and Other Sports Stories by Scott Young

Author:Scott Young [Young, Scott]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781443434171
Publisher: HarperCollins Canada
Published: 2014-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Dangerous Ice

That evening, in the last few minutes before it was time to dress, get into a taxi and go up to the arena, the man the hockey writers called Iron Mike—but whose real name was Michael Patrick Bradley—was alone in his hotel room. It had a single bed, two armchairs, a dresser, a fully carpeted floor and modem hunting prints on the walls.

Mike had eaten a light supper of soup and a chicken sandwich here in his room and had pushed the linen-covered service table into a corner. Every once in a while he rose from an armchair and walked to the window, or glanced at the newspapers littering the bed, or just jingled the change in his pockets and sat down again. He was a tall man with a strong but not handsome face. His long jaw, high cheekbones and hollow cheeks—from which he never entirely was able to shave the blue stubble of his beard—made his face look hard. His black, wiry hair receded from his temples and he looked several years older than his age, which was twenty-seven.

The phone rang and he grabbed it.

“HeIlo?”

“It’s Al.” Al Jones was the coach of the Wasps. On Sunday night in the first game of this road trip Mike had clashed on the boards with Larry Hallett of the Flyers, and Hallett had been carried from the ice unconscious. He was still unconscious. Since then, Jones had never been far away from Mike, who was his friend as well as the club’s best center man.

“Wondered if you want to ride up with me to the game,” said Al.

“Sure. What time?”

“Seven,”

Mike glanced at his watch. It was quarter to seven now. “Phone me when you get downstairs. I’ll be ready to start.”

“O.K., I’ll ring you.”

Mike stood by the phone irresolutely for a moment after he hung up. Then he lifted the receiver. When the hospital answered, he said, “Any change in Larry Hallett’s condition?”

“No change,” the woman said.

“Still unconscious?”

“Yes. No change.”

“Thank you.” Hallett’s skull was fractured. There had been one operation.

In the last two days the telephone had been almost his sole companion. He had talked to the hospital dozens of times. He had talked to reporters. He had talked to the president of the league before going to the president’s room yesterday for the inquiry, after which the president had announced that, at least until Hallett could testify, no action would be taken against Mike Bradley. He talked to his wife, Norma, twice yesterday and once today. Today, after he had listened to a rather puzzled and tentative “Hello, daddy,” from Mark, his three-year-old son, Norma had come back on, and had said abruptly, “Want me to come? Would I be any help?”

He knew she’d be a lot of help, but he couldn’t ask her to face what he was facing. He had to do it as he was doing it, alone. “Thanks, babe,” he said. “But we get out of here tomorrow. It’ll be better then.”

“Well,” she said. “I thought I’d ask.

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