"Slump Buster"
or
A Matter of Faith
It was a seasonable late March afternoon in Louisville; the U of L Cardinals had just returned in our chartered Convair 880 to Standiford Field from a crushing, 0-and-7 road trip to Texas, dropping a three-game series with Houston and single games to Lamar and Rice, and even a pair to Division II patsies Prairie View and Texas Southern. Although spending St. Patrick's Day in the Bayou City was a
killer,
there was little else to enjoy. Personally, I'd been arguably the worst of the lot - one hit, albeit a homer, in seventeen at-bats. Mom and Dad had gotten up early to drive to a brutal eleven A.M. game at Houston and seen me get the Golden Sombrero (four strikeouts in four trips, including the game-ender). My Sophomore season, begun with such promise in February, had spiralled down into the doldrums.
The sullen and dejected team filed wordlessly off the plane at the charter gate and clambered quietly onto the bus which would return us either to our cars in a secure lot at Fairgrounds Stadium or to the University.
I waited at the gate for the attendant to open it, then went in and started my car. A gift from Dad, it was a brand-new Chrysler 300; atom-smasher V-8, leather seats, the works. Although he'd been less than pleased when I went into the service out of high school, and had been bolted into an I-told-you-so mood when I survived the plane crash that ended my short military career, he'd passed into a form of grumpy acceptance now that I was finally making a go of college.
Wheeling out onto Highway 61, I drove a short ways up to Fred and Myra's, a country and western bar run by two of my favorite folks in all the world. Fred and Myra were retired factory workers, he from Ford and his wife from General Electric; they'd bought an old beer joint for amusement. Fred was a musician of some local note, and they both loved people. I'd wandered in there when I first came up from Louisiana to go to U of L, and they'd taken me into their hearts. I was a regular there, although I spread my business around pretty good. When I walked in, Fred greeted me in his usual booming voice: "Hey, Jake! How was the trip?"
"Not the best, Fred, not the best - but I'm back! How are you and your lovely bride?"
"Why, she's just fine, Jake, she's in back re-stocking" he replied.
"You're out here lollygagging with the customers while YOUR WIFE is re-stocking? You ought to be horsewhipped!" I exclaimed.
Fred waved his arm to the patrons at the bar, full but for the end seat, and said, "Y'all will have to excuse Jake, he's one of the nobility - A Republican, for God's sake!"
I slid onto that stool and ordered my usual Oertel's '92, blowing off the sobriquet, and settled in to brood and drink for awhile. I was on my third beer when a well-dressed lady swung around the bar and stood at my end, waiting for service. Instinctively, I arose and held my arm out, indicating she should sit down. "Oh, no, I couldn't!" she protested, but I'd have none of it.
"Well, ma'am, I can't make you sit there - but there's no way I'll sit on my duff when there's a lady standing!" She reluctantly and perhaps a little resignedly slipped onto the stool.
By this time, Fred had come down and leaned over the bar to accept the lady's kiss. "Faith, honey, have you met Jake?" he asked.
"Well, not exactly" she said.
"Jake, this is my niece, Faith MΓΌller," said Fred, doing the honors. "Faith, Jake Menard. Jake's from Louisiana, going to school at U of L."
I looked her over, more than cursorily, but less (I hoped) than to an extent that would put her off. She was very easy on the eyes, a honey-blonde with alert blue eyes and a friendly smile. I took her offered hand, holding it a half-second longer than was socially necessary. A big girl, maybe five-nine and 170, she was decidedly built more for comfort than for speed, with high, full breasts beneath broad shoulders and an ass that would stop time. I gave her my full-treatment smile and said, "Pleased to meet you, ma cherie!" Producing a fiver, I held up two fingers for Fred, who busied himself with her grasshopper, and then my beer.
Her smile got even broader as she replied, "EnchantΓ©!" She said, "You're the new first baseman, number 41! How's your season going?"
"I've had better ones," I replied. "I started out hotter 'n' a house afire, but, man, have I cooled off!"
"The guys in the paper haven't been very easy on you, that's for certain" she said. "And I know what you're going through. I played third base on the Lady Cardinals from just after the Title IX appeal was denied until I graduated last year; number 26, if possibly you might remember." She showed me her red class ring, Louisville 1978. It was on her left ring finger; she wasn't married.
"I've taken extra batting practice until my hands are sore, and they go all over the field, but once the game starts...."
"Well, you made your point against Rice," she said. "I thought that shot would be in Mississippi before it came down!"
She'd watched the game on TV, I thought, amazed. "Yeah," I replied, "we were losing seven to nothing and that made it seven to two. Just another loss."
She gave me a wry, sly smile and said, "Maybe you need a slump-buster."
"And what would that be?" I inquired.