The H-Bomb and the Jesus Rock Read Free

ready to get serious.
    He said he was serious.
    I told him to get off my property.
    Forty cents for a Minoso. Who’s he think he’s dealing with?
    Minnie Minoso is a colored guy but he’s probably the most popular player on the White Sox. I don’t know why, I don’t follow baseball. All I know is, guys are always wanting to get their hands on a Minoso. So there’s no way I’m selling one for less than a dollar and a half, at least for now.
    Next year, who knows?
    Look at Roger Maris. Before last year I couldn’t get more than a quarter for him but after he beat Babe Ruth’s record I had a nice little bidding war going on. This one kid even offered me his dog. I hate dogs. I had three Maris cards to work with and I ended up with six dollars and fifty cents, a Swiss army knife and that dime-store turtle I mentioned.
    I named him Timmy. I thought maybe I could put together a little show, you know? Set up a tent, charge admission: Toby Tyler and His Turtle Timmy. But I couldn’t train that stupid turtle to do any thing, even roll over, even when I put him on his back—he would just kick his legs around and stretch out his neck, looking at me with this sad little ugly face: Why, Toby? Why?
    I ended up trading him to this kid Phil Burlson for that paperback I told you about, Shameless Lady. Ever read it? It’s about this lady named Ramona who’s totally shameless, if you know what I mean. There’s this one part, she’s in a hotel room completely naked with two completely naked Mexican guys, Juan and Pedro, except she doesn’t know which is which. And here’s the thing: she doesn’t even care.
    That got to me.
    She doesn’t...even...care.

Ralph
    Base hit out to right field, Cavaletto runs over, scoops it up nice and easy, throws it back in—hard, on a line to second base, one bounce, perfect.
    The shortstop, this kid Stu Gardner, yelled out, “Attaboy, Ralph!”
    I punched my glove.
    I wish I had a nickname, maybe “Scooper,” you know? For the way I scoop the ball up so good.
    Attaboy, Scooper!
    I punched my glove some more.
    I like my glove. It’s real old. It used to be my dad’s. The fingers are like sausages and when the ball hits the pocket it makes a fat sound. On the strap it says Spalding and along the last finger it says Marty Marion —he used to play shortstop for the St. Louis Cardinals. Dad says he was really good, a really good fielder. Dad used to play second base for a semi-pro team called the Bruins. He says he was really good, like Nellie Fox. He wasn’t bragging, he was just saying. He doesn’t brag. Maybe sometimes when he’s drunk. But then the next day he’ll say, “That wasn’t me talking, that was a fella named Jim Beam.” That’s the name of the whiskey he drinks, Jim Beam. “That was Jim Beam talking,” he’ll say. But I don’t know. It wasn’t Jim Beam doing the drinking .
    We used to play catch together, me and Dad, in the backyard. I would use the glove and he would use his bare hands, tossing me pop-ups and grounders, always telling me, “Two hands, Ralph.” Guys who one-handed the ball were hot dogs. That’s what he called them, hot dogs.
    But you know what I like the best about my glove? The smell of it. If you put it over your face and take a deep breath it smells really good, like old leather, like old times, like my dad. I don’t mean he smells like old leather, it just reminds me of him, that’s all, of when we used to play catch together.
    So that’s what I was doing, standing there smelling my glove. Then everyone started yelling, “Ralph! Ralph!”

Lou
    My mom put Road Runner back on and went out in the kitchen.
    The dog painted the side of the mountain to look like a tunnel so the bird would try to run through it and smash himself into the mountain but the bird ran right through like it was a tunnel, but then when the dog chased after him it was the side of the mountain again and he smashed into it.
    I got up and went out in the kitchen.
    She had