The Knack

By Robert Kline

Ernest Murphy has a knack.He knows things that he has never learned. He has seen places where he has never been. And his knack could impact his father’s big league baseball career, his sister’s birth and his grandfather’s death. He must use his knack wisely. But when he tries, he sets in motion a tragic series of events that threatens to tear the family apart. Only the sage advice of a shadowy relatives can alter the dangerous course that has been set in motion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Kline
• Release date: Nov 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465856722

Robert Kline

Raised in Philadelphia, transferred to Minnesota by 3M, had 2 successful novels published in early 90s, retired from 3M in '93, started Valley Forge Wood Products upon retirement, it is an online mfg and retailer of engraved items, embarking on extended writing career selling ebooks.

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The Knack

Robert Y. Kline

Published by Robert Y. Kline at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Robert Y. Kline

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter One

Kirby Puckett shrugged his husky shoulders, flexed his neck and stepped into the batter’s box. His body quivered as his muscles sought clearance in the folds of his shirt. He tugged at his glove, glanced at the stands, kicked a puff of dust and dug his cleats in the dirt. Satisfied, he wiggled his hips and hunched over the plate. With knees bent and bat cocked, he glared at the pitcher.

The pitcher toed the mound, spit and glared back. He touched the peak of his cap and leaned forward. Squinting at the catcher, he shook off one sign then another. Finally he nodded.

The catcher punched his glove and squatted. He adjusted his mask, held his glove low and inside.

The umpire humped up his chest protector, clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward.

The pitcher brought the ball to his chest, checked the runner on first, wound up and fired.

Puckett swung from his heels and the breeze from the mighty whiff fluttered the flag in left field.

Steeeerike, the umpire bellowed, pivoting and pumping his arm like a piston.

The fans groaned. A man in front of us tossed a cup in disgust. Some started for the exits.

Atta way to take a cut, Kirby, take your time, baby, look ‘em over, baby, Andy Murphy coaxed from the left field stands.

Andy is my granddad, my father’s father. I call him Gramps. He enjoys attending Twins’ games in the Metrodome even though he won't admit it. The place looks like a mutated mushroom, he griped when the enclosed arena was opened. Baseball’s an outside game. You gotta have sunshine, clouds, wind, rain and lightning. Good Lord, Del, you can’t even light up a cigar in the place. But the left field stands weren’t usually crowded and Gramps could roam around to work out the kinks that old people get when they sit too long.

You can do it, Kirby baby, Gramps hollered through cupped palms. He glanced at the scoreboard. Two out in the bottom of the ninth, Twins down by one run, no balls and one strike on Puckett, the tying run on first, the winning run at the plate. It was prayer time.

Come on, Kirby, I yelled. I was standing next to Gramps, hoping that my adolescent lungs might punch up enough gusto to reach the field. Smack it out’a here, Kirby baby, I piped.

I wish it was ol’ Harmon at bat, Gramps said. The killer would poke one into the cheap seats. You can bet your butt on that.

Dad turned to Gramps and said, Puckett’s a better hitter with men on base than Killebrew was. Then he added, And there are no more cheap seats, Pop. You’re living in the past. Dad spoke with the authority of one in possession of indisputable facts. He also buried any semblance of excitement, worried that it might harm his image to be observed expressing passion for the game. He was, after all, at work. Dad is a sports reporter for the St. Paul newspaper, a line of work he often finds himself defending. This draws dubious smirks that contain not a whit of sympathy. His friends think his job is cush city and they don’t let him forget it. He doesn’t find this amusing. As a matter of fact, Dad finds very little amusing lately.

My sister, Shiela, sits to Dad’s right looking bored out of her mind. Baseball is not her thing. To date, no one has been able to figure out what her thing is. Perhaps her thing is discontent. Whatever her thing is, she seems determined to inflict it on others. She is slouched in her seat, lips curled in terminal malaise, trying to render herself invisible from the leers of the drooling, sex-crazed boys who were no doubt treating themselves to a covert view of her pubescent body.

Pubescent.

I could never get comfortable with that word. It has the clammy sound of something green and wet. Freshly squashed muskrats would probably be pubescent. So would the bottoms of garbage cans on an August afternoon. There should be a better word to describe the larval stage of girls.

Come on, Kirby, Gramps shouted. He liked Puckett but he'd rather have Killebrew at the plate if only because Harmon represented a more innocent era when the game was played for fun and athletes didn’t have agents. They could scratch themselves in the old days too but nowadays the ladies’ league for itchless athletes becomes outraged at the sight of the harmless relief. And they played outside on real grass in fresh air so he could smoke his cigars without getting nasty glances. Everything good about the game was coming under fire and Gramps wasn’t taking it laying down but Dad turned a deaf ear to his father’s harangue about how things used to be. He'd tell Gramps that he’s living in the past which is partly true but he’s not against progress. After all, he’s the one who owns the video store.

Steeeerike two! the ump bellowed as Kirby watched a slider break down and out and more fans headed for the exits.

Everyone was on their feet now, either shuffling for the exits or waiting for a Puckett miracle. All except Shiela. Being pubescent, she slumped like a downtrodden clam.

The next throw was high and wide and Kirby couldn’t have nicked it with a broom handle. Ball! the ump signaled with a weak stab of his left hand.

The drama cooled as Kirby stepped out and I saw Dad bring his little recorder to his lips and whisper some nugget of sportsworld wisdom. Sometimes in church when the place is as quiet as a grave, Dad will get a sudden burst of inspiration and sneak the thing to his face and whisper a mumbled column while the priest is droning the sermon. He tries to make it appear that he’s scratching his chin but sometimes it looks like he’s picking his nose. It embarrasses Mom and mortifies Shiela. Mom hinted that Shiela’s stage has something to do with her period but she didn’t explain what a period was and, even though I thought I knew, I was afraid to ask. When I was eleven, it was Dad who sat me down hombre to hombre and gave me my ‘how babies are made’ lecture but it was up to Mom to make the excuses for Shiela. I’ll give Dad a ‘B’ minus but Mom flunked miserably. She blushed like a beet and spoke about body parts as if they were carburetors. In one session she said, You see, Ernest, when young girls start to become grown women they have this -- this change in their system and they start to -- they start to lose fluids -- .

I nodded knowingly but Mom got more flustered. She was telling me about a part called a Volvo and we were both flaming when she finally threw in the towel and told me not to worry about it. Shiela will get over her stage soon, she promised as she retreated to the kitchen. In the meantime, just be patient and understanding. It’s not an easy time for her right now.

Not easy for her?

Way to look ‘em over, Kirby baby, Gramps shouted as Puckett backed away from a slider.

The count was two and two. On first base, Dan Gladden stretched his lead by half a step and the catcher whipped the ball down the line and Gladden dove back. It was a close play and Dad whispered a note into his machine. He must have noticed something that completely eluded me. That’s why he’s a good sports writer. What makes his talent even more inspiring is that he never wanted to write about baseball in the first place. He wanted to play the game.

Gramps often told me that Dad was good, really good. Your dad wasn’t just Triple A good where you ride buses from Podunk to East Underwear. Your old man was the kind of good that gets All-Star votes and megabucks.

But Dad rarely spoke about his aborted Major League career. It came and went in a single day at spring training. He was playing in his first game with the Twins, trying to stretch a single into a double, sliding into second, snagging the bag with his spike, ripping his knee apart like a Thanksgiving turkey leg.

Pffffft went the tendons.

Pffffft went the All-Star votes.

Pffffft went the megabucks.

If it happened to me, I wouldn’t want to talk about it either. What good would it do?

Ball three, the ump honked and the crowd responded with tentative applause.

The count was three and two, two down in the bottom of the ninth, the tying run on first, Puckett at bat. It doesn’t get more exciting than this.

Shiela yawned loudly without covering her mouth and it made a clucking noise at the back of her pubescent throat.

I think I will kill her.

You have to have patience with your sister, Mom’s words echoed.

Maybe I’ll just maim her.

Kirby ticked a foul off the catcher’s glove and the crowd ooohed.

Way to get a piece of it, Gramps praised.

Isn’t the stupid game over yet? Shiela whined.

You really ought’a be watching, Honey, Gramps suggested. Kirby’s at bat and he can win it with one swing.

Oh, wow! She took a breath of utter despair then shut her eyes .

Gladden took a few steps toward second, enough to jitter the pitcher who stepped off the mound. Gladden smiled and leaned back toward first. Kirby stepped out of the box and worked the grip of the bat. The umpire and the catcher didn’t move.

Come on Kirby, baby, Gramps shouted.

The pitcher stepped to the rubber, eyeballed Gladden closer to the bag then went into an abbreviated wind up. Kirby cocked the bat and crouched. He was expecting a fast ball, high and inside which is also what the pitcher had in mind but, instead of high, the pitch was at Kirby’s letters, boring an irresistible hole down the middle of the plate.

Puckett pounced on it like a cat on a June bug.

The crack of the bat echoed through the Metrodome. Gladden lowered his head and took off at a sprint. Kirby dropped the bat and galloped toward first. The ball screamed over the infield, just beyond the shortstop's outstretched glove. The catcher threw off his mask and hogged the front of the plate. Gladden rounded second and was halfway to third as Kirby rounded first. The ball nicked the turf just inside the foul line and shot into the corner. Gladden rounded third and bore down on the catcher who had to step aside and allow the tying run to pass.

The crowd roared.

The left fielder scooped the ball, spun and whipped it toward third. The third base coach held up his hands telling Kirby to stop. Kirby never touched the brakes. The ball was halfway to the infield when Kirby rounded third and drove for the plate. The fans in the aisles stopped and turned, those already through the exits crashed back into the stadium. The third baseman snatched the ball from the air. He pivoted, planted his foot and burned a strike at the catcher. The catcher was blocking the plate like a boulder. Kirby and the ball arrived at the same instant. The ball sunk into the catcher’s glove. Kirby’s knee sunk into the catcher’s chest. Both players hit the ground in a cloud of dust.

You’re out!, the umpire roared.

A curtain of silence enveloped the stadium. Kirby reached out and frantically groped for the plate. The catcher lay on his back gazing at a nova of stars. The ball trickled lazily from his glove. The umpire pulled back his arm, spun toward the stands and shot both arms to the sides. Safe, safe, safe! he corrected.

The crowd exploded. People who never met embraced like long lost siblings. Hands stung hands in high fives. Backs were slapped.

The Twins burst from their dugout. Kent Hrbek reached Kirby first, hoisted him like a rag doll and passed him around for the rest to hug. Gramps was pumping his fist in the air and dancing a jig. Dad held his little recorder high above his head, preserving the moment on tape.

Shiela slumped in her seat. Is it over yet? she groaned.

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Chapter Two

Gramps’ complaints about the Metrodome came alive when we walked from the cool stadium into the warm sun. There were a few lazy clouds overhead and the sky was robin’s egg blue. Gramps stepped into the sunshine, planted his fists on his hips and sucked in a grateful breath, like a prisoner finally tasting freedom.

You know what’s the real pity? Gramps said as he studied the surging crowd.

No. What’s the real pity, Pop? Dad asked, suspecting that the answer would probably aggravate him.

The real pity is that in ten years, half of these people won’t know any better. They’ll think about outdoor stadiums the same way we think about coal heat. They’ll think it’s a throwback to ancient times.

Coal heat is a throwback to ancient times, Dad said.

Gramps snorted and we headed for the parking lot.

I made the walk to the car more pleasant by pretending that Shiela wasn't part of our family which was easy since she lagged far behind. That was fine with me because she embarrassed me as much as I embarrassed her. Her mode of walk, for example, was more a vehicle to display her latent breasts than it was a means of locomotion. She would strut like a peacock, punching out her chest so her embryonic boobs stretched her jersey like little ant hills and when an equally pubescent boy was in the vicinity, she’d pull her shoulders back for maximum boobishness. This gave her the appearance of a flat chested girl wearing an empty training bra and a very tight back brace.

As we made our way toward the lot, I noticed that the fans are friendlier after a win. Drivers smile and cars actually stop and wave pedestrians to cross in front of them. A guy in a Chevy pickup let us cross to the parking lot even though we were in the middle of the block. He was wearing a Twins’ cap and chugging a can of something. He didn’t realize that Shiela was part of our family though and he cut her off and she demolished him with one of her famous pubescent stares. Had she been in front of the pickup, he probably would have waived the temporary cease fire and made her a part of his grille. I would have.

Gramps drove today. He has a mini-van with three rows of seats which is efficient for the Murphy clan because Shiela can brood in the back by herself. This lessens the urge to strangle her. Dad sat next to Gramps and I was by myself in the middle row.

Anderson pitched a good game, Dad announced as Gramps turned onto Sixth Street. He had the good stuff goin' for him today.

Gramps shrugged in half-hearted agreement. Anderson’s OK but he’s no Jim Bunning.

Dad just shook his head and looked out the window.

Or Bobby Schantz, I added.

They both turned and gaped at me. What do you know about Bobby Schantz? Dad asked.

He sure had me there. I had never heard of anybody named Bobby Schantz. The name just popped into my head out of the blue and trickled out my mouth, one of those unexplainable bursts of trivia that I seem to pull out of the air at the oddest times. Dad thought this talent was very strange. Uncle Emmett thought it was neat. It scared Mom though. She even suggested that I should see the doctor about it. It's not natural, she worried.

I don’t know what the big deal is. Some kids are good at math, some play the piano, some run the hundred in eleven seconds. My dubious claim to fame is that I have this strange knack for knowing about things that I never learned. Except Dad doesn't buy it. He says I probably read the stuff in a book or saw it on television and it just stuck in some brain groove waiting to be released by a little tweak of a neuron. I do read a lot. He says it’s a quirk in my subconscious. Maybe he’s right but I doubt it. I’m positive that I never heard of anybody named Bobby Schantz but right now I see him clear as a bell. He’s a little guy wearing a white baseball uniform with a big letter ‘A’ on the shirt.

Didn’t he pitch for the ‘A’s? I asked.

Of course he did, Gramps said, The Philadelphia A's, not Oakland ones. But how did you know about that?

I shrugged. The same way I know all the other stuff, I guess, I answered honestly. After