THE FRANCHISE
                            John Kessel


   John Kessel writes a regular column on books for The Magazine of
Fantasy & Science Fiction and teaches American literature and fiction
writing at North Carolina State University. His inventive and erudite short
fiction has won him a Nebula Award, a Theodore Sturgeon Memorial
Award, and a Locus Award. He is the author of two novels, Freedom
Beach (written with James Patrick Kelly) and Good News from Outer
Space; he has also published a short-story collection, Meeting in Infinity.

   About his Nebula Award finalist "The Franchise," he writes: "I had the
idea for 'The Franchise' years ago, when I first heard that Fidel Castro was
scouted as a pitcher by several major-league baseball teams in 1948. But it
didn't get written until I discovered that George Bush was also a superior
baseball player, captain of the 1948 Yale squad that made the finals of the
college World Series. The resemblance between the Senators and Giants of
my story and the real ones of 1959 is purely expedient.

   "Cynic that I am, sometimes I think the desire to lead a nation is a
character flaw. I find George and Fidel fascinating, both admirable and
astonishingly obtuse. It was interesting to try to get into their heads; I
can't claim any great insight, but this is the closest I'll ever come to either
the White House or the majors."


   Whoever wants to know the heart and mind of America had better
learn baseball.
                                                               Jacques Barzun



                                   ONE

When George Herbert Walker Bush strode into the batter's box to face the
pitcher they called the Franchise, it was the bottom of the second, and the
Senators were already a run behind.

   But Killebrew had managed a bloop double down the right-field line
and two outs later still stood on second in the bright October sunlight,
waiting to be driven in. The bleachers were crammed full of restless fans
in colorful shirts. Far behind Killebrew, Griffith Stadium's green
center-field wall zigzagged to avoid the towering oak in Mrs. Mahan's
backyard, lending the stadium its crazy dimensions. They said the only
players ever to homer into that tree were Mantle and Ruth. George
imagined how the stadium would erupt if he did it, drove the first pitch
right out of the old ball yard, putting the Senators ahead in the first game
of the 1959 World Series. If wishes were horses, his father had told him
more than once, then beggars would ride.

   George stepped into the box, ground in his back foot, squinted at the
pitcher. The first pitch, a fastball, so surprised him that he didn't get his
bat off his shoulder. Belt high, it split the middle of the plate, but the
umpire called, "Ball!"

   "Ball?" Schmidt, the Giants' catcher, grumbled.

   "You got a problem?" the umpire said.

   "Me? I got no problem." Schmidt tossed the ball back to the pitcher,
who shook his head in histrionic Latin American dismay, as if bemoaning
the sins of the world that he'd seen only too much of since he'd left Havana
eleven years before. "But the Franchise, he no like."

   George ignored them and set himself for the next pitch. The big Cuban
went into his herky-jerky windup, deceptively slow, then kicked and threw.
George was barely into his swing when the ball thwacked into the
catcher's glove. "Steerike one!" the umpire called.

    He was going to have to get around faster. The next pitch was another
fastball, outside and high, but George had already triggered before the
release and missed it by a foot, twisting himself around so that he almost
fell over.

  Schmidt took the ball out of his glove, showed it to George, and threw it
back to the mound.
  The next was a curve, outside by an inch. Ball two.

  The next a fastball that somehow George managed to foul into the dirt.

  The next a fastball up under his chin that had him diving into the dirt
himself. Ball three. Full count.

   An expectant murmur rose in the crowd, then fell to a profound silence,
the silence of a church, of heaven, of a lover's secret heart. Was his father
among them, breathless, hoping? Thousands awaited the next pitch.
Millions more watched on television. Killebrew took a three-step lead off
second. The Giants made no attempt to hold him on. The chatter from the
Senators' dugout lit up. "Come on, George Herbert Walker Bush, bear
down! Come on, Professor, grit up!"

   George set himself, weight on his back foot. He cocked his bat, squinted
out at the pitcher. The vainglorious Latino gave him a piratical grin,
shook off Schmidt's sign. George felt his shoulders tense. Calm, boy, calm,
he told himself. You've been shot at, you've faced Prescott Bush across a
dining-room table—this is nothing but baseball. But instead of calm he felt
panic, and as the Franchise went into his windup his mind stood blank as
a stone.

   The ball started out right for his head. George jerked back in a
desperate effort to get out of the way as the pitch, a curve of prodigious
sweep, dropped through the heart of the plate. "Steerike!" the umpire
called.

   Instantly the scene changed from hushed expectation to sudden
movement. The crowd groaned. The players relaxed and began jogging off
the field. Killebrew kicked the dirt and walked back to the dugout to get
his glove. The organist started up. Behind the big Chesterfield sign in
right, the scorekeeper slid another goose egg onto the board for the
Senators. Though the whole thing was similar to moments he had
experienced more times than he would care to admit during his ten years
in the minors, the simple volume of thirty thousand voices sighing in
disappointment because he, George Herbert Walker Bush, had failed, left
him standing stunned at the plate with the bat limp in his clammy hands.
They didn't get thirty thousand fans in Chattanooga.

  Schmidt flipped the ball toward the mound. As the Franchise jogged
past him, he flashed George that superior smile. "A magnificent swing," he
said.

   George stumbled back to the dugout. Lemon, heading out to left, shook
his head. "Nice try, Professor," the shortstop Consolo said.

   "Pull your jock up and get out to first," said Lavagetto, the manager. He
spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the sod next to the end of the dugout.
"Senor Fidel Castro welcomes you to the bigs."

                                 TWO
   The Senators lost 7—1. Castro pitched nine innings, allowed four hits,
struck out ten. George fanned three times. In the sixth, he let a low throw
get by him; the runner ended up on third, and the Giants followed with
four unearned runs.

   In the locker room his teammates avoided him. Nobody had played
well, but George knew they had him pegged as a choker. Lavagetto came
through with a few words of encouragement. "Well get 'em tomorrow," he
said. George expected the manager to yank him for somebody who at least
wouldn't cost them runs on defense. When he left without saying anything,
George was grateful to him for at least letting him go another night before
benching him.

    Barbara and the boys had been in the stands, but had gone home. They
would be waiting for him. He didn't want to go. The place was empty by
the time he walked out through the tunnels to the street. His head was
filled with images from the game. Castro had toyed with him; he no doubt
enjoyed humiliating the son of a U.S. senator. The Cuban's look of
heavy-lidded disdain sparked an unaccustomed rage in George. It wasn't
good sportsmanship. You played hard, and you won or lost, but you didn't
rub the other guy's nose in it. That was bush league, and George, despite
his unfortunate name, was anything but bush.

   That George Bush should end up playing first base for the Washington
Senators in the 1959 World Series was the result of as improbable a
sequence of events as had ever conspired to make a man of a rich boy. The
key moment had come on a May Saturday in 1948 when he had shaken
the hand of Babe Ruth.

   That May morning the Yale baseball team was to play Brown, but
before the game a ceremony was held to honor Ruth, donating the
manuscript of his autobiography to the university library. George, captain
of the Yale squad, would accept the manuscript. As he stood before the
microphone set up between the pitcher's mound and second base, he was
stunned by the gulf between the pale hulk standing before him and the
legend he represented. Ruth, only fifty-three on that spring morning, could
hardly speak for the throat cancer that was killing him. He gasped out a
few words, stooped over, rail thin, no longer the giant he had been in the
twenties. George took his hand. It was dry and papery and brown as a leaf
in fall. Through his grip George felt the contact with glorious history, with
feats of heroism that would never be matched, with 714 home runs and
1,356 extra-base hits, with a lifetime slugging percentage of .690, with the
called shot and the sixty-homer season and the 1927 Yankees and the
curse of the Red Sox. An electricity surged up his arm and directly into his
soul. Ruth had accomplished as much, in his way, as a man could
accomplish in a life, more, even, George realized to his astonishment, than
had his father, Prescott Bush. He stood there stunned, charged with an
unexpected, unasked-for purpose.

   He had seen death in the war, had tasted it in the blood that streamed
from his forehead when he'd struck it against the tail of the TBM Avenger
as he parachuted out of the flaming bomber over the Pacific in 1943. He
had felt death's hot breath on his back as he frantically paddled the yellow
rubber raft away from Chichi Jima against waves pushing him back into
the arms of the Japanese, had felt death draw away and offered up a silent
prayer when the conning tower of the U.S.S. Finback broke through the
agitated seas to save him from a savage fate—to, he always knew, some
higher purpose. He had imagined that purpose to be business or public
service. Now he recognized that he had been seeing it through his father's
eyes, that in fact his fate lay elsewhere. It lay between the chalk lines of a
playing field, on the greensward of the infield, within the smells of pine tar
and sawdust and chewing tobacco and liniment. He could feel it through
the tendons of the fleshless hand of Babe Ruth that he held in his own at
that very instant.

   The day after he graduated from Yale he signed, for no bonus, with the
Cleveland Indians. Ten years later, George had little to show for his bold
choice. He wasn't the best first baseman you ever saw. Nobody ever
stopped him on the street to ask for his autograph. He never made the
Indians, got traded to the Browns. He hung on, bouncing up and down the
farm systems of seventh- and eighth-place teams. Every spring he went to
Florida with high expectations, every April he started the season in
Richmond, in Rochester, in Chattanooga. Just two months earlier he had
considered packing it in and looking for another career. Then a series of
miracles happened.

   Chattanooga was the farm team for the Senators, who hadn't won a
pennant since 1933. For fifteen years, under their notoriously cheap
owner, Clark Griffith, they'd been as bad as you could get. But in 1959
their young third baseman, Harmon Killebrew, hit forty-two home runs.
Sluggers Jim Lemon and Roy Sievers had career years. A big Kansas boy
named Bob Allison won rookie of the year in center field. Camilo Pascual
won twenty-two games, struck out 215 men. A kid named Jim Kaat won
seventeen. Everything broke right, including Mickey Mantle's leg. After
hovering a couple of games over .500 through the All Star break, the
Senators got hot in August, won ninety games, and finished one ahead of
the Yankees.

   When, late in August, right fielder Albie Pearson got hurt, Lavagetto
switched Sievers to right, and there was George Bush, thirty-five years old,
starting at first base for the American League champions in the 1959
World Series against the New York Giants.

    The Giants were heavy favorites. Who would bet against a team that
fielded Willie Mays, Orlando Cepeda, Willie McCovey, Felipe Alou, and
pitchers like Johnny Antonelli, the fireballer Toothpick Sam Jones, and
the Franchise, Fidel Castro? If, prior to the series, you'd told George
Herbert Walker Bush the Senators were doomed, he would not have
disagreed with you. After game one he had no reason to think otherwise.

   He stood outside the stadium looking for a cab, contemplating his
series record—one game, o for 4, one error—when a pale old man in a loud
sports coat spoke to him. "Just be glad you're here," the man said.

    The man had watery blue eyes, a sharp face. He was thin enough to look
ill. "I beg your pardon?"

   "You're the fellow the Nats called up in September, right? Remember,
even if you never play another inning, at least you were there. You felt the
sun on your back, got dirt on your hands, saw the stands full of people
from down on the field. Not many get even that much."

  "The Franchise made me look pretty sick."
  "You have to face him down."

  "Easier said than done."

  "Don't say—do."

  "Who are you, old man?"

   The man hesitated. "Name's Weaver. I'm a—a fan. Yes, I'm a baseball
fan." He touched the brim of his hat and walked away.

  George thought about it on the cab ride home. It did not make him feel
much better. When he got back to the cheap furnished apartment they
were renting, Barbara tried to console him.

  "My father wasn't there, was he?" George said.

  "No. But he called after the game. He wants to see you."

  "Probably wants to give me a few tips on how to comport myself. Or
maybe just gloat."

   Bar came around behind his chair, rubbed his tired shoulders. George
got up and switched on the television. While he waited for it to warm up,
the silence stretched. He faced Barbara. She had put on a few pounds over
the years, but he remembered the first time he'd seen her across the dance
floor in the red dress. He was seventeen. "What do you think he wants?"

  "I don't know, George."

  "I haven't seen him around in the last ten years. Have you?"

  The TV had warmed up, and Prescott Bush's voice blared out from
behind George. "I hope the baseball Senators win," he was saying. "They've
had a better year than the Democratic ones."

  George twisted down the volume, stared for a moment at his father's
handsome face, then snapped it off. "Give me a drink," he told Barbara.
He noticed the boys standing in the doorway, afraid. Barbara hesitated,
poured a scotch and water.

   "And don't stint on the scotch!" George yelled. He turned to Neil. "What
are you looking at, you little weasel! Go to bed."
  Barbara slammed down the glass so hard the scotch splashed the
counter. "What's got into you, George? You're acting like a crazy man."

  George took the half-empty glass from her hand. "My father's got into
me, that's what. He got into me thirty years ago, and I can't get him out."

   Barbara shot him a look in which disgust outweighed pity and went
back to the boys' room. George slumped in the armchair and stared at the
sports page of the Post lying on the ottoman. CASTRO TO START SERIES,
the headline read.

   Castro. What did he know about struggle? Yet the egomaniac lout was
considered a hero, while he, George Herbert Walker Bush, who at
twenty-four had been at the head of every list of the young men most likely
to succeed, had accomplished precisely nothing.

   People who didn't know any better had assumed that because of his
background, money, and education he would grow to be one of the ones
who told others what it was necessary for them to do, but George was
coming to realize, with a surge of panic, that he was not special. His
moment of communion with Babe Ruth had been a delusion, because
Ruth was another type of man. Perhaps Ruth was used by the teams that
bought and sold him, but inside Ruth was some compulsion that drove
him to be larger than the uses to which he was put, so that in the end he
deformed those uses, remade the game itself.

   George, talented though he had seemed, had no such size. The vital
force that had animated his grandfather George Herbert Walker, after
whom he was named, the longing after mystery that had impelled the
metaphysical poet George Herbert, after whom that grandfather had been
named, had diminished into a pitiful trickle in George Herbert Walker
Bush. No volcanic forces surged inside him. When he listened late in the
night, all he could hear of his soul was a thin keening, a buzz like a bug
trapped in a jar. Let me go, let me go, it whined. Love me. Admire me. I
pray to God and dad and the president and Mr. Griffith to make me a
success.

   That old man at the ball park was wrong. It was not enough, not nearly
enough, just to be there. He wanted to be somebody. What good was it
just to stand on first base in the World Series if you came away from it a
laughingstock? To have your father call you not because you were a hero
but only to remind you once again what a failure you are.
  "I'll be damned if I go see him," George muttered to the empty room.

                               THREE
  President Nixon called Lavagetto in the middle of the night with a
suggestion for the batting order in the second game. "Put Bush in the
number-five slot," Nixon said.

  Lavagetto wondered how he was supposed to tell the President of the
United States that he was out of his mind. "Yessir, Mr. President."

   "See, that way you get another right-handed batter at the top of the
order."

   Lavagetto considered pointing out to the president that the Giants were
pitching a right hander in game two. "Yessir, Mr. President," Lavagetto
said. His wife was awake now, looking at him with irritation from her side
of the bed. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and said, "Go to sleep."

  "Who is it at this hour?"

  "The President of the United States."

  "Uh-huh."

   Nixon had some observations about one-run strategies. Lavagetto
agreed with him until he could get him off the line. He looked at his alarm
clock. It was half past two.

   Nixon had sounded full of manic energy. His voice dripped dogmatic
assurance. He wondered if Nixon was a drinking man. Walter Winchell
said that Eisenhower's death had shoved the veep into an office he was
unprepared to hold.

   Lavagetto shut off the light and lay back down, but he couldn't sleep.
What about Bush? Damn Pearson for getting himself hurt. Bush should be
down in the minors where he belonged. He looked to be cracking under
the pressure like a ripe melon.

   But maybe the guy could come through, prove himself. He was no kid.
Lavagetto knew from personal experience the pressures of the Series, how
the unexpected could turn on the swing of the bat. He recalled that fourth
game of the 47 series, his double to right field that cost Floyd Bevens his
no-hitter, and the game. Lavagetto had been a thirty-four-year-old utility
infielder for the luckless Dodgers, an aging substitute playing out the
string at the end of his career. In that whole season he'd hit only one other
double. When he'd seen that ball twist past the right fielder, the joy had
shot through his chest like lightning. The Dodger fans had gone crazy; his
teammates had leapt all over him laughing and shouting and swearing like
Durocher himself.

   He remembered that, despite the miracle, the Dodgers had lost the
Series to the Yankees in seven.

  Lavagetto turned over. First in War, First in Peace, Last in the
American League… that was the Washington Senators. He hoped young
Kaat was getting more sleep than he was.

                                 FOUR
   Tuesday afternoon, in front of a wild capacity crowd, young Jim Kaat
pitched one of the best games by a rookie in the history of the Series. The
twenty-year-old left-hander battled Toothpick Sam Jones pitch for pitch,
inning for inning. Jones struggled with his control, walking six in the first
seven innings, throwing two wild pitches. If it weren't for the
overeagerness of the Senators, swinging at balls a foot out of the strike
zone, they would surely have scored; instead they squandered opportunity
after opportunity. The fans grew restless. They could see it happening, in
sour expectation of disaster built up over twenty-five frustrated years:
Kaat would pitch brilliantly, and it would be wasted because the Giants
would score on some bloop single.

   Through seven the game stayed a scoreless tie. By some fluke George
could not fathom, Lavagetto, instead of benching him, had moved him up
in the batting order. Though he was still without a hit, he had been
playing superior defense. In the seventh he snuffed a Giant uprising when
he dove to snag a screamer off the bat of Schmidt for the third out, leaving
runners at second and third.

   Then, with two down in the top of the eighth, Cepeda singled. George
moved in to hold him on. Kaat threw over a couple of times to keep the
runner honest, with Cepeda trying to judge Kaat's move. Mays took a
strike, then a ball. Cepeda edged a couple of strides away from first.
   Kaat went into his stretch, paused, and whipped the ball to first,
catching Cepeda leaning the wrong way. Picked off! But Cepeda, instead of
diving back, took off for second. George whirled and threw hurriedly. The
ball sailed over Console's head into left field, and Cepeda went to third.
E-3.

  Kaat was shaken. Mays hit a screamer between first and second.
George dove, but it was by him, and Cepeda jogged home with the lead.

   Kaat struck out McCovey, but the damage was done. "You bush-league
clown!" a fan yelled. George's face burned. As he trotted off the field, from
the Giants' dugout came Castro's shout: "A heroic play, Mr. Rabbit!"

   George wanted to keep going through the dugout and into the
clubhouse. On the bench his teammates were conspicuously silent. Console
sat down next to him. "Shake it off," he said. "You're up this inning."

   George grabbed his bat and moved to the end of the dugout. First up in
the bottom of the eighth was Sievers. He got behind 0-2, battled back as
Jones wasted a couple, then fouled off four straight strikes until he'd
worked Jones for a walk. The organist played charge lines and the crowd
started chanting. Lemon sacrificed Sievers to second. Killebrew hit a drive
that brought the people to their feet screaming before it curved just
outside the left-field foul pole, then popped out to short. He threw down
his bat and stalked back toward the dugout.

   "C'mon, professor," Killebrew said as he passed Bush in the on-deck
circle. "Give yourself a reason for being here."

   Jones was a scary right hander with one pitch: the heater. In his first
three at-bats George had been overpowered; by the last he'd managed a
walk. This time he went up with a plan: he was going to take the first
pitch, get ahead in the count, then drive the ball.

  The first pitch was a fastball just high. Ball one.

  Make contact. Don't force it. Go with the pitch.

   The next was another fastball; George swung as soon as Jones let it go
and sent a screaming line drive over the third baseman's head. The crowd
roared, and he was halfway down the first-base line when the third-base
umpire threw up his hands and yelled, "Foul ball!"
   He caught his breath, picked up his bat, and returned to the box.
Sievers jogged back to second. Schmidt, standing with his hands on his
hips, didn't look at George. From the Giants' dugout George heard, "Kiss
your luck good-bye, you effeminate rabbit! You rich man's table leavings!
You are devoid of even the makings of guts!"

   George stepped out of the box. Castro had come down the dugout to the
near end and was leaning out, arms braced on the field, hurling his abuse
purple faced. Rigney and the pitching coach had him by the shoulders,
tugging him back. George turned away, feeling a cold fury in his belly.

   He would show them all. He forgot to calculate, swept by rage. He set
himself as far back in the box as possible. Jones took off his cap, wiped his
forearm across his brow, and leaned over to check the signs. He shook off
the first, then nodded and went into his windup.

   As soon as he released George swung, and was caught completely off
balance by a change-up. "Strike two, you shadow of a man!" Castro
shouted. "Unnatural offspring of a snail and a worm! Strike two!"

   Jones tempted him with an outside pitch; George didn't bite. The next
was another high fastball; George started, then checked his swing. "Ball!"
the home-plate ump called. Fidel booed. Schmidt argued, the ump shook
his head. Full count.

   George knew he should look for a particular pitch, in a particular part
of the plate. After ten years of professional ball, this ought to be second
nature, but Jones was so wild he didn't have a clue. George stepped out of
the box, rubbed his hands on his pants. "Yes, wipe your sweaty hands,
mama's boy! You have all the machismo of a bankbook!"

   The rage came to his defense. He picked a decision out of the air,
arbitrary as the breeze: fastball, outside.

   Jones went into his windup. He threw his body forward, whipped his
arm high over his shoulder. Fastball, outside. George swiveled his hips
through the box, kept his head down, extended his arms. The contact of
the bat with the ball was so slight he wasn't sure he'd hit it at all. A line
drive down the right-field line, hooking as it rose, hooking, hooking…
curling just inside the foul pole into the stands 320 feet away.

   The fans exploded. George, feeling rubbery, jogged around first, toward
second. Sievers pumped his fist as he rounded third; the Senators were up
on their feet in the dugout shouting and slapping each other. Jones had
his hands on his hips, head down and back to the plate. George rounded
third and jogged across home, where he was met by Sievers, who slugged
him in the shoulder, and the rest of his teammates in the dugout, who
laughed and slapped his butt.

   The crowd began to chant, "SEN-a-TOR, SEN-a-TOR." After a moment
George realized they were chanting for him. He climbed out of the dugout
again and tipped his hat, scanning the stands for Barbara and the boys. As
he did he saw his father in the presidential box, leaning over to speak into
the ear of the cheering President Nixon. He felt a rush of hope, ducked his
head, and got back into the dugout.

  Kaat held the Giants in the ninth, and the Senators won, 2-1.

   In the locker room after the game, George's teammates whooped and
slapped him on the back. Chuck Stobbs, the clubhouse comic, called him
"the Bambino." For a while George hoped that his father might come
down to congratulate him. Instead, for the first time in his career,
reporters swarmed around him. They fired flashbulbs in salvoes. They
pushed back their hats, flipped open their notebooks, and asked him
questions.

  "What's it feel like to win a big game like this?"

  "I'm just glad to be here. I'm not one of these winning-is-everything
guys."

   "They're calling you the senator. Your father is a senator. How do you
feel about that?"

    "I guess we're both senators," George said. "He just got to Washington
a little sooner than I did."

  They liked that a lot. George felt the smile on his face like a frozen
mask. For the first time in his life he was aware of the muscles it took to
smile, as tense as if they were lifting a weight.

  After the reporters left he showered. George wondered what his father
had been whispering into the president's ear, while everyone around him
cheered. Some sarcastic comment? Some irrelevant political advice?
   When he got back to his locker, toweling himself dry, he found a note
lying on the bench. He opened it eagerly. It read:

                       To the Effeminate Rabbit:
      Even the rodent has his day. But not when the eagle pitches.
                                  Sincerely,
                         Fidel Alejandro Castro Ruz



                                   FIVE
   That Fidel Castro would go so far out of his way to insult George
Herbert Walker Bush would come as no surprise to anyone who knew him.
Early in Castro's first season in the majors, a veteran Phillies reliever, after
watching Fidel warm up, approached the young Cuban. "Where did you
get that curve?" he asked incredulously.

   "From you," said Fidel. "That's why you don't have one."

   But sparking his reaction to Bush was more than simple egotism.
Fidel's antipathy grew from circumstances of background and character
that made such animosity as inevitable as the rising of the sun in the east
of Oriente province where he had been born thirty-two years before.

   Like George Herbert Walker Bush, Fidel was the son of privilege, but a
peculiarly Cuban form of privilege, as different from the blue-blooded
Bush variety as the hot and breathless climate of Oriente was from chilly
New England. Like Bush, Fidel endured a father as parsimonious with his
warmth as those New England winters. Young Fidelito grew up well
acquainted with the back of Angel Castro's hand, the jeers of classmates
who tormented him and his brother Raul for their illegitimacy. Though
Angel Castro owned two thousand acres and had risen from common
sugarcane laborer to local caudillo, he did not possess the easy assurance
of the rich of Havana, for whom Oriente was the Cuban equivalent of
Alabama. The Castros were peasants. Fidel's father was illiterate, his
mother a maid. No amount of money could erase Fidel's bastardy.

   This history raged in Fidelito. Always in a fight, alternating boasts with
moody silences, he longed for accomplishment in a fiery way that cast the
longing of Bush to impress his own father into a sickly shadow. At
boarding school in Santiago, he sought the praise of his teachers and
admiration of his schoolmates. At Belen, Havana's exclusive Jesuit
preparatory school, he became the champion athlete of all of Cuba. "El
Loco Fidel," his classmates called him as, late into the night, at an outdoor
court under a light swarming with insects, he would practice basketball
shots until his feet were torn bloody and his head swam with forlorn
images of the ball glancing off the iron rim.

    At the University of Havana, between the scorching expanses of the
baseball and basketball seasons, Fidel toiled over the scorching expanse of
the law books. He sought triumph in student politics as he did in sports.
In the evenings he met in tiny rooms with his comrades and talked about
junk pitches and electoral strategy, about the reforms that were only a
matter of time because the people's will could not be forever thwarted.
They were on the side of history. Larger than even the largest of men,
history would overpower anyone unless, like Fidel, he aligned himself with
it so as not to be swept under by the tidal force of its inescapable currents.

    In the spring of 1948, at the same time George Herbert Walker Bush
was shaking the hand of Babe Ruth, these currents transformed Fidel's
life. He was being scouted by several major-league teams. In the university
he had gained control of his fastball and given birth to a curve of so
monstrous an arc that Alex Pompez, the Giants' scout, reported that the
well-spoken law student owned "a hook like Bo-Peep." More significantly,
Pirates' scout Howie Haak observed that Fidel "could throw and think at
the same time."

   Indeed Fidel could think, though no one could come close to guessing
the content of his furious thought. A war between glory and doom raged
within him. Fidel's fury to accomplish things threatened to keep him from
accomplishing anything at all. He had made enemies. In the late forties,
student groups punctuated elections for head of the law-school class with
assassinations. Rival political gangs fought in the streets. Events conspired
to drive Fidel toward a crisis. And so, on a single day in 1948, he
abandoned his political aspirations, quit school, married his lover, the fair
Mirta Diaz Balart, and signed a contract with the New York Giants.

   It seemed a fortunate choice. In his rookie year he won fifteen games.
After he took the Cy Young Award and was named MVP of the 1951 Series,
the sportswriters dubbed him "the Franchise." This past season he had
won twenty-nine. He earned, and squandered, a fortune. Controversy
dogged him, politics would not let him go, the uniform of a baseball player
at times felt much too small. His brother Raul was imprisoned when
Batista overthrew the government to avoid defeat in the election of 1952.
Fidel made friends among the expatriates in Miami. He protested U.S.
policies. His alternative nickname became "the Mouth."

   But all along Fidel knew his politics was mere pose. His spouting off to
sports reporters did nothing compared to what money might do to help
the guerrillas in the Sierra Maestra. Yet he had no money.

   After the second game of the Series, instead of returning to the hotel
Fidel took a cab down to the Mall. He needed to be alone. It was early
evening when he got out at the Washington Monument. The sky beyond
the Lincoln Memorial shone orange and purple. The air still held some of
the sultry heat of summer, like an evening in Havana, But this was a
different sort of capital. These North Americans liked to think of
themselves as clean, rational men of law instead of passion, a land of
Washingtons and Lincolns, but away from the public buildings it was still
a southern city full of ex-slaves. Fidel looked down the Mall toward the
bright Capitol, white and towering as a wedding cake, and wondered what
he might have become had he continued law school. At one time he had
imagined himself the Washington of his own country, a liberating warrior.
The true heir of Jose Marti, scholar, poet, and revolutionary. Like Marti he
admired the idealism of the United States, but like him he saw its dark
side. Here at the Mall, however, you could almost forget about that in an
atmosphere of bogus Greek democracy, of liberty and justice for all. You
might even forget that this liberty could be bought and sold, a franchise
purchasable for cold cash.

   Fidel walked along the pool toward the Lincoln Memorial. The
floodlights lit up the white columns, and inside shone upon the brooding
figure of Lincoln. Despite his cynicism, Fidel was caught by the sight of it.
He had been to Washington only once before, for the All Star Game in
1956. He remembered walking through Georgetown with Mirta on his
arm, feeling tall and handsome, ignoring the scowl of the maitre d' in the
restaurant who clearly disapproved of two such dark ones in his
establishment.

   He'd triumphed but was not satisfied. He had forced others to admit
his primacy through the power of his will. He had shown them, with his
strong arm, the difference between right and wrong. He was the
Franchise. He climbed up the steps into the Memorial, read the words of
Lincoln's Second Inaugural address engraved on the wall. THE
PROGRESS OF OUR ARMS UPON WHICH ALL ELSE CHIEFLY
DEPENDS IS AS WELL KNOWN TO THE PUBLIC AS TO MYSELF…

   But he was still the crazy Cuban, taken little more seriously than Desi
Arnaz, and the minute that arm that made him a useful commodity
should begin to show signs of weakening—in that same minute he would
be undone. IT MAY SEEM STRANGE THAT ANY MEN SHOULD DARE
TO ASK A JUST GOD'S ASSISTANCE IN WRINGING THEIR BREAD
FROM THE SWEAT OF OTHER MEN'S FACES BUT LET US JUDGE NOT
THAT WE BE NOT JUDGED.

   Judge not? Perhaps Lincoln could manage it, but Fidel was a different
sort of man.

   In the secrecy of his mind Fidel could picture another world than the
one he lived in. The marriage of love to Mirta had long since gone sour,
torn apart by Fidel's lust for renown on the ball field and his lust for the
astonishing women who fell like fruit from the trees into the laps of
players such as he. More than once he felt grief over his faithlessness. He
knew his solitude to be just punishment. That was the price of greatness,
for, after all, greatness was a crime and deserved punishment.

   Mirta was gone now, and their son with her. She worked for the hated
Batista. He thought of Raul languishing in Batista's prison on the Isle of
Pines. Batista, embraced by this United States that ran Latin America like
a company store. Raul suffered for the people, while Fidel ate in four-star
restaurants and slept with a different woman in every city, throwing away
his youth, and the money he earned with it, on excrement.

   He looked up into the great sad face of Lincoln. He turned from the
monument to stare out across the Mall toward the gleaming white shaft of
the Washington obelisk. It was full night now. Time to amend his life.

                                   SIX
   The headline in the Post the next morning read, SENATOR BUSH
EVENS SERIES. The story mentioned that Prescott Bush had shown up in
the sixth inning and sat beside Nixon in the presidential box. But nothing
more.
   Bar decided not to go up to New York for the middle games of the
Series. George traveled with the team to the Roosevelt Hotel. The home
run had done something for him. He felt a new confidence.

   The game-three starters were the veteran southpaw Johnny Antonelli
for the Giants and Pedro Ramos for the Senators. The echoes of the
national anthem had hardly faded when Allison led off for the Senators
with a home run into the short porch in left field. The Polo Grounds fell
dead silent. The Senators scored three runs in the first; George did his
part, hitting a change-up into right center for a double, scoring the third
run of the inning.

  In the bottom half of the first the Giants came right back, tying it up on
Mays's three-run homer.

   After that the Giants gradually wore Ramos down, scoring a single run
in the third and two in the fifth. Lavagetto pulled him for a pinch hitter in
the sixth with George on third and Console at first, two outs. But
Aspromonte struck out, ending the inning.

   Though Castro heckled George mercilessly throughout the game and
the brash New York fans joined in, he played above himself. The Giants
eventually won, 8-3, but George went three for five. Despite his miserable
first game he was batting .307 for the Series. Down two games to one, the
Washington players felt the loss, but had stopped calling him "George
Herbert Walker Bush" and started calling him "the Senator."

                                SEVEN
  Lavagetto had set an eleven o'clock curfew, but Billy Console persuaded
George to go out on the town. The Hot Corner was a dive on Seventh
Avenue with decent Italian food and cheap drinks. George ordered a club
soda and tried to get into the mood. Ramos moaned about the plate
umpire's strike zone, and Consolo changed , the subject.

    Consolo had been a bonus boy; in 1953 the Red Sox had signed him
right out of high school for $50,000. He had never panned out. George
wondered if Console's career had been any easier to take than his own. At
least nobody had hung enough expectations on George for him to be called
a flop.
   Stobbs was telling a story. "So the Baseball Annie says to him, 'But will
you respect me in the morning?' and the shortstop says, 'Oh baby, I'll
respect you like crazy!' "

   While the others were laughing, George headed for the men's room.
Passing the bar, he saw, in a corner booth, Fidel Castro talking to a couple
of men in slick suits. Castro's eyes flicked over him but registered no
recognition.

   When George came out the men in suits were in heated conversation
with Castro. In the back of the room somebody dropped a quarter into the
jukebox, and Elvis Presley's slinky "Money Honey" blared out. Bush had no
use for rock and roll. He sat at the table, ignored his teammates'
conversation, and kept an eye on Castro. The Cuban was strenuously
making some point, stabbing the tabletop with his index finger. After a
minute George noticed that someone at the bar was watching them, too. It
was the pale old man he had seen at Griffith Stadium.

   On impulse, George went up to him. "Hello, old-timer. You really must
be a fan, if you followed the Series up here. Can I buy you a drink?"

   The man turned decisively from watching Castro, as if deliberately
putting aside some thought. He seemed about to smile but did not. Small
red splotches colored his face. "Buy me a ginger ale."

   George ordered a ginger ale and another club soda and sat on the next
stool. "Money honey, if you want to get along with me," Elvis sang.

  The old man sipped his drink. "You had yourself a couple of good
games," he said. "You're in the groove."

  "I just got some lucky breaks."

   "Don't kid me. I know how it feels when it's going right. You know just
where the next pitch is going to be, and there it is. Somebody hits a line
drive right at you, you throw out your glove and snag it without even
thinking. You're in the groove."

  "It comes from playing the game a long time."

  The old man snorted. "Do you really believe this guff you spout? Or are
you just trying to hide something?"
  "What do you mean? I've spent ten years playing baseball."

   "And you expect me to believe you still don't know anything about it?
Experience doesn't explain the groove." The man looked as if he were
watching something far away. "When you're in that groove you're not
playing the game, the game is playing you."

  "But you have to plan your moves."

   The old man looked at him as if he were from Mars. "Do you plan your
moves when you're making love to your wife?" He finished his ginger ale,
took another look back at Castro, then left.

   Everyone, it seemed, knew what was wrong with him. George felt
steamed. As if that wasn't enough, as soon as he returned to the table
Castro's pals left and the Cuban swaggered over to George, leaned into
him, and blew cigar smoke into his face. "I know you, George Herbert
Walker Bush," he said, "Sen-a-tor Rabbit. The rich man's son."

  George pushed him away. "You know, I'm beginning to find your
behavior darned unconscionable, compadre."

   "I stand here quaking with fear," Castro said. He poked George in the
chest. "Back home in Biran we had a pen for the pigs. The gate of this pen
was in disrepair. But it is still a fact, Senator Rabbit, that the splintered
wooden gate of that pigpen, squealing on its rusted hinges, swung better
than you."

   Consolo started to get up, but George put a hand on his arm. "Say,
Billy, our Cuban friend here didn't by any chance help you pick out this
restaurant tonight, did he?"

  "What, are you crazy? Of course not."

   "Too bad. I thought if he did, we could get some good Communist food
here."

  The guys laughed. Castro leaned over.

   "Very funny, Machismo Zero." His breath reeked of cigar smoke, rum,
and garlic. "I guarantee that after tomorrow's game you will be even
funnier."
                                EIGHT
   Fidel had never felt sharper than he did during his warmups the
afternoon of the fourth game. It was a cool fall day, partial overcast with a
threat of rain, a breeze blowing out to right. The chill air only invigorated
him. Never had his curve had more bite, his screwball more movement.
His arm felt supple, his legs strong. As he strode in from the bull pen to
the dugout, squinting out at the apartment buildings on Coogan's Bluff
towering over the stands, a great cheer rose from the crowd.

   Before the echoes of the national anthem had died he walked the first
two batters, on eight pitches. The fans murmured. Schmidt came out to
talk with him. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing is wrong," Fidel said, sending him back.

  He retired Lemon on a pop fly and Killebrew on a fielder's choice. Bush
came to the plate with two outs and men on first and second. The few
Washington fans who had braved the Polo Grounds set up a chant:
"SEN-a-TOR, SEN-a-TOR!"

   Fidel studied Bush. Beneath Bush's bravado he could see panic in every
motion of the body he wore like an ill-fitting suit. Fidel struck him out on
three pitches.

  Kralick held the Giants scoreless through three innings.

   As the game progressed Fidel's own personal game, the game of pitcher
and batter, settled into a pattern. Fidel mowed down the batters after
Bush in the order with predictable dispatch, but fell into trouble each time
he faced the top of the order, getting just enough outs to bring Bush up
with men on base and the game in the balance. He did this four times in
the first seven innings.

  Each time Bush struck out.

   In the middle of the seventh, after Bush fanned to end the inning, Mays
sat down next to Fidel on the bench. "What the hell do you think you're
doing?"

   Mays was the only player on the Giants whose stature rivaled that of
the Franchise. Fidel, whose success came as much from craft as physical
prowess, could not but admit that Mays was the most beautiful ball player
he had ever seen. "I'm shutting out the Washington Senators in the fourth
game of the World Series," Fidel said.

  "What's this mickey mouse with Bush? You trying to make him look
bad?"

  "One does not have to try very hard."

  "Well, cut it out—before you make a mistake with Killebrew or Sievers."

  Fidel looked him dead in the eyes. "I do not make mistakes."

   The Giants entered the ninth with a 3-0 lead. Fidel got two quick outs,
then gave up a single to Sievers and walked Lemon and Killebrew to load
the bases. Bush, at bat, represented the lead run. Schmidt called time and
came out again. Rigney hurried out from the dugout, and Mays, to the
astonishment of the crowd, came all the way in from center. "Yank him,"
he told Rigney.

  Rigney looked exasperated. "Who's managing this team, Willie?"

  "He's setting Bush up to be the goat."

  Rigney looked at Fidel. Fidel looked at him. "Just strike him out," the
manager said.

    Fidel rubbed up the ball and threw three fastballs through the heart of
the plate. Bush missed them all. By the last strike the New York fans were
screaming, rocking the Polo Grounds with a parody of the Washington
chant: "Sen-a-TOR, Sen-a-TOR, BUSH, BUSH, BUSH!" and exploding into
fits of laughter. The Giants led the series 3-1.

                                NINE
   George made the cabbie drop him off at the corner of Broadway and
Pine, in front of the old Trinity Church. He walked down Wall Street
through crowds of men in dark suits, past the Stock Exchange to the
offices of Brown Brothers, Harriman. In the shadows of the buildings the
fall air felt wintry. He had not been down here in more years than he cared
to remember.
   The secretary, Miss Goode, greeted him warmly; she still remembered
him from his days at Yale. Despite Prescott Bush's move to the Senate,
they still kept his inner office for him, and as George stood outside the
door he heard a piano. His father was singing. He had a wonderful singing
voice, of which he was too proud.

  George entered. Prescott Bush sat at an upright piano, playing Gilbert
and Sullivan:

                         "Go, ye heroes, go to glory
                      Though you die in combat gory,
                       Ye shall live in song and story.
                            Go to immortality!"

  Still playing, he glanced over his shoulder at George, then turned back
and finished the verse:

                   "Go to death, and go to slaughter;
                    Die, and every Cornish daughter
                  With her tears your grave shall water.
                        Go, ye heroes, go and die!"

    George was all too familiar with his father's theatricality. Six feet four
inches tall, with thick salt-and-pepper hair and a handsome, craggy face,
he carried off his Douglas Fairbanks imitation without any hint of
self-consciousness. It was a quality George had tried to emulate his whole
life.

  Prescott adjusted the sheet music and swiveled his piano stool around.
He waved at the sofa against the wall beneath his shelf of golfing trophies
and photos of the Yale Glee Club. "Sit down, son.

   I'm glad you could make it. I know you must have a lot on your mind."

   George remained standing. "What did you want to see me about?"

   "Relax, George. This isn't the dentist's office."

   "If it were I would know what to expect."

   "Well, one thing you can expect is to hear me tell you how proud I am."
  "Proud? Did you see that game yesterday?"

   Prescott Bush waved a hand. "Temporary setback. I'm sure you'll get
them back this afternoon."

  "Isn't it a little late for compliments?"

   Prescott looked at him as calmly as if he were appraising some stock
portfolio. His bushy eyebrows quirked a little higher. "George, I want you
to sit down and shut up."

   Despite himself, George sat. Prescott got up and paced to the window,
looked down at the street, then started pacing again, his big hands
knotted behind his back. George began to dread what was coming.

   "George, I have been indulgent of you. Your entire life, despite my
misgivings, I have treated you with kid gloves. You are not a stupid boy; at
least your grades in school suggested you weren't. You've got that Phi Beta
Kappa key, too—which only goes to show you what they are worth." He
held himself very erect. "How old are you now?"

  "Thirty-five."

    Prescott shook his head. "Thirty-five? Lord. At thirty-five you show no
more sense than you did at seventeen, when you told me that you intended
to enlist in the Navy. Despite the fact that the Secretary of War himself,
God-forbid-me Franklin D. Roosevelt's Secretary of War, had just told the
graduating class that you, the cream of the nation's youth, could best serve
your country by going to college instead of getting shot up on some Pacific
island."

   He strolled over to the piano, flipped pensively through the sheet music
on top. "I remember saying to myself that day that maybe you knew
something I didn't. You were young. I recalled my own recklessness in the
first war. God knew we needed to lick the Japanese. But that didn't mean
a boy of your parts and prospects should do the fighting. I prayed you'd
survive and that by the time you came I back you'd have grown some
sense." Prescott closed the folder of I music and faced him.

   George, as he had many times before, instead of looking into his
father's eyes looked at a point beyond his left ear. At the moment, just past
that ear he could see half of a framed photograph of one of his father's
singing groups. Probably the Silver Dollar Quartet. He could not make out
the face of the man on the end of the photo. Some notable businessman,
no doubt. A man who sat on four boards of directors making decisions
that could topple the economies of six banana republics while he went to
the club to shoot eight-handicap golf. Someone like Prescott Bush.

   "When you chose this baseball career," his father said, "I finally realized
you had serious problems facing reality. I would think the dismal history
of your involvement in this sport might have taught you something. Now,
by the grace of God and sheer luck you find yourself, on the verge of your
middle years, in the spotlight. I can't imagine how it happened. But I
know one thing: you must take advantage of this situation. You must seize
the brass ring before the carousel stops. As soon as the Series is over I
want you to take up a career in politics."

  George stopped looking at the photo. His father's eyes were on his.
"Politics? But, dad, I thought I could become a coach."

  "A coach?"

  "A coach. I don't know anything about politics. I'm a baseball player.
Nobody is going to elect a baseball player."

   Prescott Bush stepped closer. He made a fist, beginning to be carried
away by his own rhetoric. "Twenty years ago, maybe, you would be right.
But, George, times are changing. People want an attractive face. They
want somebody famous. It doesn't matter so much what they've done
before. Look at Eisenhower. He had no experience of government. The only
reason he got elected was because he was a war hero. Now you're a war
hero, or at least we can dress you up into a reasonable facsimile of one.
You're Yale educated, a brainy boy. You've got breeding and class. You're
not bad looking. And thanks to this children's game, you're famous—for
the next two weeks, anyway. So after the Series we strike while the iron's
hot. Yot retire from baseball. File for Congress on the Republican ticket in
the third Connecticut district."

  "But I don't even live in Connecticut."

   "Don't be contrary, George. You're a baseball player; you live on the
road. Your last stable residence before you took up this, this—
baseball—was New Haven. I've held an apartment there for years in your
name. That's good enough for the people we're going to convince."
  His father towered over him. George got up, retreated toward the
window. "But I don't know anything about politics!"

   "So? You'll learn. Despite the fact I've been against your playing
baseball, I have to say that it will work well for you. It's the national game.
Every kid in the country wants to be a ball player, most of the adults do,
too. It's hard enough for people from our class to overcome the prejudice
against money, George. Baseball gives you the common touch. Why, you'll
probably be the only Republican in the Congress ever to have showered
with a Negro. On a regular basis, I mean."

   "I don't even like politics."

  "George, there are only two lands of people in the world, the employers
and the employees. You were born and bred to the former. I will not allow
you to persist in degrading yourself into one of the latter."

   "Dad, really, I appreciate your trying to look out for me. Don't get me
wrong, gratitude's my middle name. But I love baseball. There's some big
opportunities there, I think. Down in Chattanooga I made some friends. I
think I can be a good coach, and eventually I'll wear a manager's uniform."

   Prescott Bush stared at him. George remembered that look when he'd
forgotten to tie off the sailboat one summer up in Kennebunkport. He
began to wilt. Eventually his father shook his head. "It comes to me at last
that you do not possess the wits that God gave a Newfoundland retriever."

   George felt his face flush. He looked away. "You're just jealous because I
did what you never had the guts to do. What about you and your golf?
You, you—dilettante! I'm going to be a manager!"

   "George, if I want to I can step into that outer office, pick up the
telephone, and in fifteen minutes set in motion a chain of events that will
guarantee you won't get a job mopping toilets in the clubhouse."

   George retreated to the window. "You think you can run my life? You
just want me to be another appendage of Senator Bush. Well, you can
forget it! I'm not your boy anymore."

  "You'd rather spend the rest of your life letting men like this
Communist Castro make a fool of you?"
  George caught himself before he could completely lose his temper.
Feeling hopeless, he drummed his knuckles on the windowsill, staring
down into the narrow street. Down below them brokers and bankers
hustled from meeting to meeting trying to make a buck. He might have
been one of them. Would his father have been any happier?

   He turned. "Dad, you don't know anything. Try for once to understand.
I've never been so alive as I've been for moments—just moments out of
eleven years—on the ball field. It's truly American."

    "I agree with you, George—it's as American as General Motors. Baseball
is a product. You players are the assembly-line workers who make it. But
you refuse to understand that, and that's your undoing. Time eats you up,
and you end up in the dustbin, a wasted husk."

  George felt the helpless fury again. "Dad, you've got to—"

  "Are you going to tell me I have to do something, George?" Prescott
Bush sat back down at the piano, tried a few notes. He peeked over his
shoulder at George, unsmiling, and began again to sing:

                     "Go and do your best endeavor,
                      And before all links we sever,
                      We will say farewell for ever.
                       Go to glory and the grave!
                  "For your foes are fierce and ruthless,
                     False, unmerciful and truthless.
                   Young and tender, old and toothless,
                     All in vain their mercy crave."


George stalked out of the room, through the secretary's office, and down
the corridor toward the elevators. It was all he could do to keep from
punching his fist through the rosewood paneling. He felt his pulse
thrumming in his temples, slowing as he waited for the dilatory elevator to
arrive, rage turning to depression.

   Riding down he remembered something his mother had said to him
twenty years before. He'd been one of the best tennis players at the River
Club in Kennebunkport. One summer, in front of the whole family, he lost
a championship match. He knew he'd let them down, and tried to explain
to his mother that he'd only been off his game.

  "You don't have a game," she'd said.

   The elevator let him out into the lobby. On Seventh Avenue he stepped
into a bar and ordered a beer. On the TV in the corner, sound turned low,
an announcer was going over the highlights of the Series. The TV switched
to an image of some play in the field. George heard a reference to "Senator
Bush," but he couldn't tell which one of them they were talking about.

                                  TEN
   A few of the pitchers, including Camilo Pascual, the young righthander
who was to start game five, were the only others in the clubhouse when
George showed up. The tone was grim. Nobody wanted to talk about how
their season might be over in a few hours. Instead they talked fishing.

   Pascual was nervous; George was keyed tighter than a Christmas toy.
Ten years of obscurity, and now hero one day, goat the next. The memory
of his teammates' hollow words of encouragement as he'd slumped back
into the dugout each time Castro struck him out made George want to
crawl into his locker and hide. The supercilious brown bastard. What kind
of man would go out of his way to humiliate him?

   Stobbs sauntered in, whistling. He crouched into a batting stance,
swung an imaginary Louisville Slugger through Kralick's head, then
watched it sail out into the imaginary bleachers. "Hey, guys, I got an
idea," he said. "If we get the lead today, let's call time out."

   But they didn't get the lead. By the top of the second, they were down
3-0. But Pascual, on the verge of being yanked, settled down. The score
stayed frozen through six. The Senators finally got to Jones in the seventh
when Allison doubled and Killebrew hit a towering home run into the bull
pen in left center: 3-2, Giants. Meanwhile the Senators' shaky relief
pitching held, as the Giants stranded runners in the sixth and eighth and
hit into three double plays.

  By the top of the ninth the Giants still clung to the 3-2 lead, three outs
away from winning the Series, and the rowdy New York fans were gearing
up for a celebration. The Senators' dugout was grim, but they had the
heart of the order up: Sievers, Lemon, Killebrew. Between them they had
hit ninety-four home runs that season. They had also struck out almost
three hundred times.

   Rigney went out to talk to Jones, then left him in, though he had Stu
Miller up and throwing in the bull pen. Sievers took the first pitch for a
strike, fouled off the second, and went down swinging at a high fastball.
The crowd roared.

  Lemon went into the hole 0-2, worked the count even, and grounded
out to second.

   The crowd, on their feet, chanted continuously now. Fans pounded on
the dugout roof, and the din was deafening. Killebrew stepped into the
batter's box, and George moved up to the on-deck circle. On one knee in
the dirt, he bowed his head and prayed that Killer would get on base.

  "He's praying!" Castro shouted from the Giants' dugout. "Well might
you pray, Sen-a-tor Bush!"

   Killebrew called time and spat toward the Giants. The crowd screamed
abuse at him. He stepped back into the box. Jones went into his windup.
Killebrew took a tremendous cut and missed. The next pitch was a
change-up that Killebrew mistimed and slammed five hundred feet down
the left-field line into the upper deck—foul. The crowd quieted. Jones
stepped off the mound, wiped his brow, shook off a couple of signs, and
threw another fastball that Killebrew slapped into right for a single.

   That was it for Jones. Rigney called in Miller. Lavagetto came out and
spoke to George. "All right. He won't try anything tricky. Look for the
fastball."

   George nodded, and Lavagetto bounced back into the dugout. "Come
on, George Herbert Walker Bush!" Consolo yelled. George tried to ignore
the crowd and the Giants heckling while Miller warmed up. His stomach
was tied into twelve knots. He avoided looking into the box seats where he
knew his father sat. Politics. What the blazes did he want with politics?

   Finally Miller was ready. "Play ball!" the ump yelled. George stepped
into the box.

  He didn't wait. The first pitch was a fastball. He turned on it, made
contact, but got too far under it. The ball soared out into left, a high, lazy
fly. George slammed down his bat and, heart sinking, legged it out. The
crowd cheered, and Alou was circling back to make the catch. George was
rounding first, his head down, when he heard a stunned groan from fifty
thousand throats at once. He looked up to see Alou slam his glove to the
ground. Miller, on the mound, did the same. The Senators' dugout was
leaping insanity. Somehow, the ball had carried far enough to drop into
the overhanging upper deck, 250 feet away. Home run. Senators lead, 4-3.

  "Lucky bastard!" Castro shouted as Bush rounded third.

  Stobbs shut them down in the ninth, and the Senators won.

                               ELEVEN
   SENATOR BUSH SAVES WASHINGTON! the headlines screamed.
MAKES CASTRO SEE RED. They were comparing it to the 1923 Series,
held in these same Polo Grounds, where Casey Stengel, a
thirty-two-year-old outfielder who'd spent twelve years in the majors
without doing anything that might cause anyone to remember him, batted
.417 and hit home runs to win two games.

   Reporters stuck to him like flies on sugar. The pressure of released
humiliation loosened George's tongue. "I know Castro's type," he said,
snarling what he hoped was a good imitation of a manly snarl. "At the
wedding he's the bride, at the funeral he's the dead person. You know, the
corpse. That kind of poor sportsmanship just burns me up. But I've been
around. He can't get my goat because of where I've got it in the guts
department."

    The papers ate it up. Smart money had said the Series would never go
back to Washington. Now they were on the train to Griffith Stadium, and
if the Senators were going to lose, at least the home fans would have the
pleasure of going through the agony in person.

   Game six was a slugfest. Five homers: McCovey, Mays, and Cepeda for
the Giants; Naragon and Lemon for the Senators. Kaat and Antonelli were
both knocked out early. The lead changed back and forth three times.

   George hit three singles, a sacrifice fly, and drew a walk. He scored
twice. The Senators came from behind to win, 10-8. In the ninth, George
sprained his ankle sliding into third. It was all he could do to hobble into
the locker room after the game.

   "It doesn't hurt," George told the reporters. "Bar always says, and she
knows me better than anybody, go ahead and ask around, 'You're the
game one, George.' Not the gamy one, mind you!" He laughed, smiled a
crooked smile.

  "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do," he told them. "That strong
but silent type of thing. My father said so."

                              TWELVE
   Fonseca waited until Fidel emerged into the twilight outside the Fifth
Street stadium exit. As Fonseca approached, his hand on the slick
automatic in his overcoat pocket, his mind cast back to their political
years in Havana, where young men such as they, determined to seek
prominence, would be as likely to face the barrel of a pistol as an electoral
challenge. Ah, nostalgia.

  "Pretty funny, that Sen-a-TOR Bush," Fonseca said. He shoved Fidel
back toward the exit. Nobody was around.

  If Fidel was scared, a slight narrowing of his eyes was the only sign.
"What is this about?"

  "Not a thing. Raul says hello."

  "Hello to Raul."

  "Mirta says hello, too."

   "You haven't spoken to her." Fidel took a cigar from his mohair jacket,
fished a knife from a pocket, trimmed off the end, and lit it with a
battered Zippo. "She doesn't speak with exiled radicals. Or mobsters."

   Fonseca was impressed by the performance. "Are you going to do this
job, finally?"

  "I can only do my half. One cannot make a sow look like a ballet
dancer."

  "It is not apparent to our friends that you're doing your half."
   "Tell them I am truly frightened, Luis." He blew a plume of smoke. It
was dark now, almost full night. "Meanwhile, I am hungry. Let me buy you
a Washington dinner."

   The attitude was all too typical of Fidel, and Fonseca was sick of it. He
had fallen under Fidel's spell back in the university, thought him some sort
of great man. In 1948 his self-regard could be justified as necessary
boldness. But when the head of the National Sports Directory was shot
dead in the street, Fonseca had not been the only one to think Fidel was
the killer. It was a gesture of suicidal machismo of the sort that Fidel
admired. Gunmen scoured the streets for them. While Fonseca hid in a
series of airless apartments, Fidel got a quick tryout with the Giants,
married Mirta, and abandoned Havana, leaving Fonseca and their friends
to deal with the consequences.

   "If you don't take care, Fidel, our friends will buy you a Washington
grave."

  "They are not my friends—or yours."

   "No, they aren't. But this was our choice, and you have to go through
with it." Fonseca watched a beat cop stop at the corner, then turn away
down the street. He moved closer, stuck the pistol into Fidel's ribs. "You
know, Fidel, I have a strong desire to shoot you right now. Who cares
about the World Series? It would be pleasant just to see you bleed."

   The tip of Fidel's cigar glowed in the dark. "This Bush would be no hero
then."

  "But I would be."

  "You would be a traitor."

   Fonseca laughed. "Don't say that word again. It evokes too many
memories." He plucked the cigar from Fidel's hand, threw it onto the
sidewalk. "Athletes should not smoke."

   He pulled the gun back, drew his hand from his overcoat, and crossed
the street.

                            THIRTEEN
   The night before, the Russians announced they had shot down a U.S.
spy plane over the Soviet Union. A pack of lies, President Nixon said. No
such planes existed.

   Meanwhile, on the clubhouse radio, a feverish announcer was
discussing strategy for game seven. A flock of telegrams had arrived to
urge the Senators on. Tacked on the bulletin board in the locker room,
they gave pathetic glimpses into the hearts of the thousands who had for
years tied their sense of well-being to the fate of a punk team like the
Senators.


   Show those racially polluted commie-symps what Americans stand
for.

   My eight year old son, crippled by polio, sits up in his wheelchair so
that he can watch the games on TV.

  Jesus Christ, creator of the heavens and earth, is with you.


   As George laced up his spikes over his aching ankle in preparation for
the game, thinking about facing Castro one last time, it came to him that
he was terrified.

   In the last week he had entered an atmosphere he had not lived in since
Yale. He was a hero. People had expectations of him. He was admired and
courted. If he had received any respect before, it was the respect given to
someone who refused to quit when every indication snouted he ought to
try something else. He did not have the braggadocio of a Castro. Yet here,
miraculously, he was shining.

   Except he knew that Castro was better than he was, and he knew that
anybody who really knew the game knew it, too. He knew that this week
was a fluke, a strange conjunction of the stars that had knocked him into
the "groove," as the old man in the bar had said. It could evaporate at any
instant. It could already have evaporated.

  Lavagetto and Mr. Griffith came in and turned off the radio. "Okay,
boys," Lavagetto said. "People in this city been waiting a long time for this
game. A lot of you been waiting your whole careers for it, and you younger
ones might not get a lot of chances to play in the seventh game of the
World Series. Nobody gave us a chance to be here today, but here we are.
Let's make the most of it, go out there and kick the blazes out of them,
then come back in and drink some champagne!"

  The team whooped and headed out to the field.

   Coming up the tunnel, the sound of cleats scraping damp concrete, the
smell of stale beer and mildew, Bush could see a sliver of the bright grass
and white baselines, the outfield fence and crowds in the bleachers,
sunlight so bright it hurt his eyes. When the team climbed the dugout
steps onto the field, a great roar rose from the throats of the thirty
thousand fans. He had never heard anything so beautiful, or frightening.
The concentrated focus of their hope swelled George's chest with
unnameable emotion, brought tears to his eyes, and he ducked his head
and slammed his fist into his worn first baseman's glove.

   The teams lined up on the first- and third-base lines for the National
Anthem. The fans began cheering even before the last line of the song
faded away, and George jogged to first, stepping on the bag for good luck.
His ankle twinged; his whole leg felt hot. Ramos finished his warmups, the
umpire yelled "Play ball!" and they began.

   Ramos set the Giants down in order in the top of the first. In the home
half Castro gave up a single to Allison, who advanced to third on a single
by Lemon. Killebrew walked. Bush came up with bases loaded, one out. He
managed a fly ball to right, and Allison beat the throw to the plate. Castro
stuck out Bertoia to end the inning, 1-o, Senators.

  Ramos retired the Giants in order in the second. In the third, Lemon
homered to make it 2-0.

   Castro had terrific stuff, but seemed to be struggling with his control.
Or else he was playing games again. By the fourth inning he had seven
strikeouts to go along with the two runs he'd given up. He shook off pitch
after pitch, and Schmidt went out to argue with him. Rigney talked to him
in the dugout, and the big Cuban waved his arms as if emphatically
arguing his case.

   Schmidt homered for the Giants in the fourth, but Ramos was able to
get out of the inning without further damage. Senators, 2-1.

   In the bottom of the fourth, George came up with a man on first. Castro
struck him out on a high fastball that George missed by a foot.
   In the Giants' fifth, Spencer doubled off the wall in right. Alou singled
him home to tie the game, and one out later Mays launched a triple over
Allison's head into the deepest corner of center field, just shy of the crazy
wall protecting Mrs. Mahan's backyard. Giants up, 3-2. The crowd
groaned. As he walked out to the mound, Lavagetto was already calling for
a left-hander to face McCovey. Ramos kicked the dirt, handed him the
ball, and headed to the showers, and Stobbs came on to pitch to McCovey.
He got McCovey on a weak grounder to George at first, and Davenport on
a pop fly.

   The Senators failed to score in the bottom of the fifth and sixth, but in
the seventh George, limping for real now, doubled in Killer to tie the game,
and was driven home, wincing as he forced weight down on his ankle, on a
single by Naragon. Senators 4—3. The crowd roared.

   Rigney came out to talk to Castro, but Castro convinced him to let him
stay in. He'd struck out twelve already, and the Giants' bull pen was
depleted after the free-for-all in game six.

   The score stayed that way through the eighth. By the top of the ninth
the crowd was going wild in the expectation of a world championship.
Lavagetto had pulled Stobbs, who sat next to Bush in his warmup jacket,
and put in the right-hander Hyde, who'd led the team in saves.

   The Giants mounted another rally. On the first pitch, Spencer laid a
bunt down the first-base line. Hyde stumbled coming off the mound, and
George, taken completely by surprise, couldn't get to it on his bad foot. He
got up limping, and the trainer came out to ask him if he could play.
George was damned if he would let it end so pitifully, and shook him off.
Alou grounded to first, Spencer advancing. Cepeda battled the count full,
then walked.

   Mays stepped into the box. Hyde picked up the rosin bag, walked off
the mound, and rubbed up the ball. George could see he was sweating. He
stepped back onto the rubber, took the sign, and threw a high fastball that
Mays hit four hundred feet, high into the bleachers in left. The Giants
leapt out of the dugout, slapping Mays on the back, congratulating each
other. The fans tore their clothing in despair, slumped into their seats,
cursed and moaned. The proper order had been restored to the universe.
George looked over at Castro, who sat in the dugout impassively.
Lavagetto came out to talk to Hyde; the crowd booed when the manager
left him in, but Hyde managed to get them out of the inning without
further damage. As the Senators left the field the organist tried to stir the
crowd, but despair had settled over them like a lead blanket. Giants, 6—4.

  In the dugout Lavagetto tried to get them up for the inning. "This is it,
gentlemen. Time to prove we belong here."

   Allison had his bat out and was ready to go to work before the umpire
had finished sweeping off the plate. Castro threw three warmups and
waved him into the box. When Allison lined a single between short and
third, the crowd cheered and rose to their feet.

  Sievers, swinging for the fences, hit a nubbler to the mound, a sure
double play. Castro pounced on it in good time, but fumbled the ball,
double-clutched, and settled for the out at first. The fans cheered.

   Rigney came out to talk it over. He and Schmidt stayed on the mound a
long time, Castro gesturing wildly, insisting he wasn't tired. He had struck
out the side in the eighth.

   Rigney left him in, and Castro rewarded him by striking out Lemon for
his seventeenth of the game, a new World Series record. Two down.
Killebrew was up. The fans hovered on the brink of nervous collapse. The
Senators were torturing them; they were going to drag this out to the last
fatal out, not give them a clean killing or a swan-dive fade—no, they would
hold out the chance of victory to the last moment, then crush them dead.

   Castro rubbed up the ball, checked Allison over his shoulder, shook off a
couple of Schmidt's signs, and threw. He got Killebrew in an 0-2 hole, then
threw four straight balls to walk him. The crowd noise reached a frenzy.

    And so, as he stepped to the plate in the bottom of the ninth, two outs,
George Herbert Walker Bush represented the winning run, the potential
end to twenty-seven years of Washington frustration, the apotheosis of his
life in baseball, or the ignominious end of it. Castro had him set up again,
to be the glorious goat for the entire Series. His ankle throbbed. "C'mon,
Senator!" Lavagetto shouted. "Make me a genius!"

   Castro threw a fat hanging curve. George swung. As he did, he felt the
last remaining strength of the dying Babe Ruth course down his arms. The
ball kissed off the sweet spot of the bat and soared, pure and white as a
six-year-old's prayer, into the left-field bleachers.
   The stands exploded. Fans boiled onto the field even before George
touched second. Allison did a land of hopping balletic dance around the
bases ahead of him, a cross between Nureyev and a man on a pogo stick.
The Senators ran out of the dugout and bear-hugged George as he
staggered around third; like a broken-field runner he struggled through
the fans toward home. A weeping fat man in a plaid shirt, face contorted
by ecstasy, blocked his way to the plate, and it was all he could do to keep
from knocking him over.

   As his teammates pulled him toward the dugout, he caught a glimpse
over his shoulder of the Franchise standing on the mound, watching the
melee and George at the center of it with an inscrutable expression on his
face. Then George was pulled back into the happy maelstrom and
surrendered to his bemused joy.

                              FOURTEEN
   Long after everyone had left and the clubhouse was deserted, Fidel
dressed, and instead of leaving walked back out to the field. The stadium
was dark, but in the light of the moon he could make out the trampled
infield and the obliterated base paths. He stood on the mound and looked
around at the empty stands. He was about to leave when someone called
him from the dugout. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

   Fidel approached. It was a thin man in his sixties. He wore a sporty
coat and a white dress shirt open at the collar. "Yes?" Fidel asked.

  "The field is beautiful."

   Fidel sat next to him on the bench. They stared across the diamond.
The wind rustled the trees beyond the outfield walls. "Some people think
so," Fidel said.

   "I thought we might have a talk," the man said. "I've been waiting
around the ball park before the last few games trying to get hold of you."

  "I don't think we have anything to talk about, Mr…"

  "Weaver. Buck Weaver."

  "Mr. Weaver. I don't know you, and you don't know me."
   The man came close to smiling. "I know about winning the World
Series. And losing it. I was on the winning team in 1917, and the losing one
in 1919."

   "You would not be kidding me, old man?"

  "No. For a long time after the second one, I couldn't face a ball park.
Especially during the Series. I might have gone to quite a few, but I
couldn't make myself do it. Now I go to the games every chance I get."

   "You still enjoy baseball."

    "I love the game. It reminds me where my body is buried." As he said
all of this the man kept smiling, as if it were a funny story he was telling,
and a punch line waited in the near future.

   "You should quit teasing me, old man," Fidel said. "You're still alive."

   "To all outward indications I'm alive, most of the year now. For a long
time I was dead the year round. Eventually I was dead only during the
summer, and now it's come down to just the Series."

  "You are the mysterious one. Why do you not simply tell me what you
want with me?"

   "I want to know why you did what you just did."

   "What did I do?"

   "You threw the game."

   Fidel watched him. "You cannot prove that."

   "I don't have to prove it. I know it, though."

   "How do you know it?"

   "Because I've seen it done before."

   From somewhere in his boyhood, Fidel recalled the name now. Buck
Weaver. The 1919 Series. "The Black Sox. You were one of them." That
appeared to be the punch line. The man smiled. His eyes were set in
painful nets of wrinkles. "I was never one of them. But I knew about it, and
that was enough for that bastard Landis to kick me out of the game."

  "What does that have to do with me?"

  "At first I wanted to stop you. Now I just want to know why you did it.
Are you so blind to what you've got that you could throw it away? You're
not a fool. Why?"

  "I have my reasons, old man. Eighty thousand dollars, for one."

  "You don't need the money."

  "My brother, in prison, does. The people in my home do."

  "Don't give me that. You don't really care about them."

   Fidel let the moment stretch, listening to the rustling of the wind
through the trees, the traffic in the distant street. "No? Well, perhaps.
Perhaps I did it just because I could. Because the game betrayed me,
because I wanted to show it is as corrupt as the mierda around it. It's not
any different from the world. You know how it works. How every team has
two black ball players—the star and the star's roommate." He laughed.
"It's not a religion, and this place"— he gestured at Griffith Stadium
looming in the night before them— "is not a cathedral."

  "I thought that way, when I was angry," Weaver said. "I was a young
man. I didn't know how much it meant to me until they took it away."

  "Old man, you would have lost it regardless. How old were you?
Twenty-five? Thirty? In ten years it would have been taken from you
anyway, and you'd be in the same place you are now."

  "But I'd have my honor. I wouldn't be a disgrace."

   "That's only what other people say. Why should you let their ignorance
affect who you are?"

   "Brave words. But I've lived it. You haven't—yet." Plainly upset, Weaver
walked out onto the field to stand at third base. He crouched; he looked in
toward the plate. After a while he straightened, a frail old man, and called
in toward Fidel: "When I was twenty-five, I stood out here; I thought I had
hold of a baseball in my hand. It turned out it had hold of me."
   He came back and stood at the top of the dugout steps. "Don't worry,
I'm not going to tell. I didn't then, and I won't now."

  Weaver left, and Fidel sat in the dugout.

                              FIFTEEN
  They used the photo of George's painfully shy, crooked smile, a
photograph taken in the locker room after he'd been named MVP of the
1959 World Series, on his first campaign poster.

   In front of the photographers and reporters, George was greeted by Mr.
Griffith. And his father. Prescott Bush wore a political smile as broad as
his experience of what was necessary to impress the world. He put his arm
around his son's shoulders, and although George was a tall man, it was
apparent that his father was still a taller one.

   "I'm proud of you, son," Prescott said, in a voice loud enough to be
heard by everyone. "You've shown the power of decency and persistence in
the face of hollow boasts."

   Guys were spraying champagne, running around with their hair sticky
and their shirts off, whooping and shouting and slapping each other on
the back. Even his father's presence couldn't entirely deflect George's
satisfaction. He had done it. Proved himself for once and for all. He wished
Bar and the boys could be there. He wanted to shout in the streets, to stay
up all night, be pursued by beautiful women. He sat in front of his locker
and patiently answered the reporters' questions at length, repeatedly. Only
gradually did the furor settle down. George glanced across the room to the
brightly lit corner where Prescott was talking, on camera, with a television
reporter.

   It was clear that his father was setting him up for this planned political
career. It infuriated him that he assumed he could control George so
easily, but at the same time George felt confused about what he really
wanted for himself. As he sat there in the diminishing chaos, Lavagetto
came over and sat down beside him. The manager was still high from the
victory.

   "I don't believe it!" Lavagetto said. "I thought he was crazy, but old
Tricky Dick must have known something I didn't!"
  "What do you mean?"

   "Mean?—nothing. Just that the president called after the first game
and told me to bat you behind Killebrew. I thought he was crazy. But it
paid off."

   George remembered Prescott Bush whispering into Nixon's ear. He felt
a crushing weight on his chest. He stared over at his father in the TV
lights, not hearing Lavagetto.

    But as he watched, he wondered. If his father had indeed fixed the
Series, then everything he'd accomplished came to nothing. But his father
was an honorable man. Besides, Nixon was noted for his sports obsession,
full of fantasies because he hadn't succeeded himself. His calling Lavagetto
was the kind of thing he would do anyway. Winning had been too hard for
it to be a setup. No, Castro had wanted to humiliate George, and George
had stood up to him.

  The reporter finished talking to his father; the TV lights snapped off.
George thanked Lavagetto for the faith the manager had shown in him,
and limped over to Prescott Bush. "Feeling pretty good, George?"

  "It was a miracle we won. I played above myself."

   "Now, don't take what I said back in New York so much to heart. You
proved yourself equal to the challenge, that's what." Prescott lowered his
voice. "Have you thought any more about the proposition I put to you?"

   George looked his father in the eye. If Prescott Bush felt any discomfort,
there was no trace of it in his patrician's gaze.

  "I guess maybe I've played enough baseball," George said.

  His father put his hand on George's shoulder; it felt like a burden.
George shrugged it off and headed for the showers.

   Many years later, as he faced the Washington press corps in the East
Room of the White House, George Herbert Walker Bush was to remember
that distant afternoon, in the ninth inning of the seventh game of the
World Series, when he'd stood in the batter's box against the Franchise.
He had not known then what he now understood: that, like his father, he
would do anything to win.