The Natural Read Free Page A

afry at the mention of his professional baseball career.
    “Believe I’ve heard the name,” Mercy said nervously. After a minute he nodded toward the man Sam knew all along as the leading hitter of the American League, three times winner of the Most Valuable Player award, and announced, “This is Walter (the Whammer) Wambold.” It had been in the papers that he was a holdout for $75,000 and was coming East to squeeze it out of his boss.
    “Howdy,” Sam said. “You sure look different in street clothes.”
    The Whammer, whose yellow hair was slicked flat, with tie and socks to match, grunted.
    Sam’s ears reddened. He laughed embarrassedly and then remarked sideways to Mercy that he was traveling with a slambang young pitcher who’d soon be laying them low in the big leagues. “Spoke to you because I thought you might want to know about him.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Roy Hobbs.”
    “Where’d he play?”
    “Well, he’s not exactly been in organized baseball.”
    “Where’d he learn to pitch?”
    “His daddy taught him years ago — he was once a semipro — and I have been polishin’ him up.”
    “Where’s he been pitching?”
    “Well, like I said, he’s young, but he certainly mowed them down in the Northwest High School League last year. Thought you might of heard of his eight no-hitters.”
    “Class D is as far down as I go,” Mercy laughed. He lit one of the cigars Sam had been looking at in his breast pocket.
    “I’m personally taking him to Clarence Mulligan of the Cubs for a tryout. They will probably pay me a few grand for uncovering the coming pitcher of the century but the condition is — and Roy is backing me on this because he is more devoted to me than a son — that I am to go back as a regular scout, like I was in 1925.”
    Roy popped his head into the car and searched around for the girl with the black hat box (Miss Harriet Bird, Eddie had gratuitously told him, making a black fluttering of wings), and seeing her seated near the card tables restlessly thumbing through a magazine, popped out.
    “That’s him,” said Sam. “Wait’ll I bring him back.” He got up and chased after Roy.
    “Who’s the gabber?” said the Whammer.
    “Guy named Simpson who once caught for the Brownies. Funny thing, last night I was doing a Sunday piece on drunks in baseball and I had occasion to look up his record. He was in the game three years, batted.340, 260, and.198, but his catching was terrific — not one error listed.”
    “Get rid of him, he jaws too much.”
    “Sh, here he comes.”
    Sam returned with Roy in tow, gazing uncomfortably ahead.
    “Max,” said Sam, “this is Roy Hobbs that I mentioned to you. Say hello to Max Mercy, the syndicated sportswriter, kiddo.”
    “Hello,” Roy nodded.
    “This is the Whammer,” Max said.
    Roy extended his hand but the Whammer looked through him with no expression whatsoever. Seeing he had his eye hooked on Harriet, Roy conceived a Strong dislike for the guy.
    The Whammer got up. “Come on, Max, I wanna play cards.”
    Max rose. “Well, hang onto the water wagon, Bub,” he said to Sam.
    Sam turned red.
    Roy shot the sportswriter a dirty look.
    “Keep up with the no-hitters, kid,” Max laughed.
    Roy didn’t answer. He took the Whammer’s chair and Sam sat where he was, brooding.
    “What’ll it be?” they heard Mercy ask as he shuffled the cards. They had joined two men at one of the card tables.
    The Whammer, who looked to Sam like an overgrown side of beef wrapped in gabardine, said, “Hearts.” He stared at Harriet until she looked up from her magazine, and after a moment of doubt, smiled.
    The Whammer fingered his necktie knot. As he scooped up the cards his diamond ring glinted in the sunlight.
    “Goddamned millionaire,” Sam thought.
    “The hell with her,” thought Roy.
    “I dealt rummy,” Max said, and though no one had called him, Sam promptly looked around.

    Toward late afternoon the Whammer, droning on about his