Dreaming of Babylon. Richard BrautiganЧитать онлайн книгу.

       The Front Door to Babylon

      I guess I should give you a little background about my involvement with Babylon. I was out of high school and looking around for something to do with my life.

      I’d been a pretty fair baseball player in high school. I lettered two years in a row and hit ·320 in my senior year, including four home runs, so I decided to try my hand at professional baseball.

      I tried out one afternoon for a semi-pro team and figured that it was the beginning of a career that would take me to the New York Yankees. I was a first baseman, so the Yankees would have to get rid of Lou Gehrig who was playing first base for them, then, but I figured that the better man would win out and that was of course me.

      When I arrived at the ball park to try out for the team, the first thing the manager said to me was, “You don’t look like a first baseman.”

      “Looks are deceiving. Watch me play. I’m the best.”

      The manager shook his head.

      “I don’t think I’ve even seen a baseball player that looks like you. Are you sure you’ve played first base?”

      “Put a bat in my hand and I’ll show you who I am.”

      “OK,” the manager said. “But you’d better not waste my time. We’re in second place, just a game out of first.”

      I didn’t know what that had to do with me but I pretended that I appreciated the significance of this achievement.

      “You’ll be five games in first place after I take over first base,” I said, humoring the son-of-a-bitch.

      There were about a dozen halfwit-looking baseball players standing around playing catch and shooting the breeze with each other.

      The manager motioned toward one of them.

      “Hey, Sam!” he yelled. “Come over here and throw a few balls at this guy. He thinks he’s Lou Gehrig.”

      “How’d you know?” I said.

      “If you’re wasting my time, I’ll personally toss your ass out of this ball park,” the manager said.

      I could see that him and me were never going to be friends, but I’d show the bastard. He’d be eating his own words soon enough.

      I picked up a baseball bat and walked up to home plate. I felt very confident.

      Sam, the pitcher, took his place on the mound. He was a very unimpressive-looking pitcher. He was about twenty-five and had a slight build hanging awkwardly on a six-foot frame. I don’t think he weighed over a 130 soaking wet with a bowling ball in his lap.

      “Is that the best you’ve got!” I yelled at the manager.

      “Sam!” the manager yelled. “Put some smoke on it for this kid!”

      Sam smiled.

      He was never going to make it in the movies. He had a pair of buckteeth that made him look like the first cousin of a walrus.

      I took some practice swings. Then Sam very slowly wound up. He took the longest time to wind up. He was like a snake uncoiling. The smile never left his face.

      That’s the last thing I remembered before being in Babylon.