Balling the Jack. Frank Baldwin
they bring nine guys to every match. You want to play for Duggan, you better win. Lose in singles and he’ll sit you the rest of the night, and spit in your drink besides. We took an early doubles match from them last time and the two losers stood at the board cursing each other, ready to duke it out. That’s their weakness. One big family so long as they’re winning, but get them down a little and they turn on each other. If we can get ahead early tonight, we’ll have a shot.
Christ, beating Duggan would be sweet. I don’t know what it is about him, but from the first I hated him. Maybe it’s the way he hit Killigan when he wasn’t looking. Maybe it’s the eyes, or because he calls me college boy. Maybe everyone’s born into this world with one enemy and he’s mine. Who knows. Anyway, I don’t want him coming into our place and walking out with this trophy. I want to beat him at the boards, fair and square, and turn that mean grin of his around. Then maybe rub it in a little. Put some Irish music on the jukebox, hold the post-match handshake an extra second and ask him if the losers want a round on the house. Then walk the whole pack of them to the door and call out after them, “Next time, gentlemen, bring your darts.”
Jimmy’s voice breaks into my reverie.
“Snap out of it, Tommy. You look like you’re getting laid.”
I’m back at the bar.
“Hi, Jimmy. Almost as good. I was thrashing Duggan.”
“The devil himself. What do you say we end his reign tonight? Mason! A couple pints for the good guys.”
Jimmy is our big gun. If we win tonight, he’ll have a lot to do with it. He was the only A division player to finish the regular season undefeated in singles—12–0. Even beat Killigan once. Watching Jimmy throw is always a treat. His concentration is total. Once he locks in on the target, Cindy Crawford could blow in his ear and he wouldn’t notice. Sometimes after a match, if I have enough in me, I’ll make a V with my fingers against the board. Jimmy splits them every time. Good thing, too, because he really fires that dart.
Before he got hitched we used to hustle a little on the weekends. I’d drop a few friendly games to some guy, get him thinking he’s an ace, then ask if he wants to grab a partner and play for a little dough. Five dollars, ten dollars, whatever he wants. He would call his buddy over, I’d call Jimmy, and if we milked them just right, winning each game by a little, we could take four or five before they realized what was up.
I keep telling Jimmy he should turn pro. Hit the dart circuit with me as his trusty manager. I’d take a modest thirty percent and any women he couldn’t handle. His eyes light up at that kind of talk, but of course that’s all it is. Since the marriage he’s lucky to make it out on dart night. Don’t get me started on that.
Jimmy is tall, about my height, with brown hair he parts in the middle and a smile that goes on and off like a light switch. He carries his weight well, like an athlete, though each time I see him he seems to have a little more to carry.
“Hi, guys.”
We turn around. The first sight of Claire each week is a tonic. Scrubbed features, light freckles, milk in her eye. A heartland princess in the teeth of the big city. She gives us a kiss.
“You look great, Claire. Feel hot tonight?”
“Like always.”
Don’t let her fool you. She may look sweet, but put a dart in her hands and Claire is a killer. She’ll be key tonight. You should see these Irish guys when they go up against a good-looking girl. Boy, do they lock up. We might be in McDougal’s, or O’Flannery’s, and all Claire has to do is shake her opponent’s hand and he starts to sweat. If the guy is getting any action at all, it clearly isn’t in her league. When she steps to the line to warm up he can’t keep his eyes off her ass. He’s a mess before the game even starts.
In darts it doesn’t take a lot to knock you off-stride. An eighth of an inch turns a triple 20 into a triple 1. The guy gets behind early, still out of it, and then the ribbing starts up from his teammates.
“Can’t beat a girl, lad?”
“What’ll you have from the bar, Wally? A wine cooler?”
Brutal. So then he starts to press, swearing between throws, his dart arm full of tension. Claire hits a big round and now the pressure is really on, and the peanut gallery turns it up a notch.
“Whyn’t you tell us it was ladies’ night, Wally?” All of a sudden this A league darter can barely hit the board. Claire finishes him off and the guy slinks back to the bar, ruined for the rest of the evening. We’ve seen it a dozen times.
Dave walks in humming the Notre Dame fight song. He puts his arms around the three of us, bringing our heads together.
“Gentlemen. Claire. We WILL win it all. You know what I did last night?”
No one offers a guess.
“Think of the great fighters, before a fight.”
“You slept alone,” says Jimmy.
“I slept alone.”
“You’re a martyr, Dave,” I say.
“I am that. Though I’ll confess that since I swore off Catholic girls, the rotation’s been a little weak.” He turns to Claire. “I may be able to slip you in there.”
She laughs. “I’ll pass.”
“Okay. But that does mean Debbie’s going to have to go again on two days’ rest.”
Claire shakes her head. “Tell me, Dave, where do you find these women?”
“Claire, Claire.” Dave takes a long taste of his pint and winks at us. “They find me.”
Tank and Bobby walk in together and join us at the bar. Tank kisses Claire and scowls at the rest of us.
“I been thinking about this all day,” he says. “Didn’t get a lick of work done.”
Tank was my roommate junior year. The fullback on the football team until he tore up his knee, then keg captain of his frat. He’s the only guy in New York who knows more about the Mets than I do. His perfect Friday night is a case of beer and a video of the ’86 Series. A solid dart player and a no-bullshit guy. Likes a head butt before every match, and as captain I oblige.
Bobby would fit nicely under Tank’s arm. He’s five feet three and looks fourteen years old. Nearly cost us a playoff match a few months back by forgetting his license. We paid off the bouncer to get him in but no dice getting him a drink, and sober his game deserted him. We were lucky to squeak by. Bobby is a freak of nature. He can’t weigh more than 140 pounds but he goes beer for beer with any of us, and the damnedest thing is he never has to piss. We can’t figure out where it all goes. He jumps onto a barstool.
“Okay, guys. Ante up.”
Bobby is also the songmaster. He gets two bucks from each of us to load up the jukebox before a match. Dave held the job at the start of the season but lost our trust. He was liable to spring Madonna on us, or Loverboy. He played them back to back at midseason and we booted him. I speak up.
“Before you go, Bobby. Everyone in close. Mason, a round of tequilas, please.”
“Pep talk,” says Bobby.
“Who do I kill, captain?” says Tank.
“Give us the word, skip,” says Jimmy.
“Put me in the mood,” says Claire.
Mason pours them out.
“Okay, guys,” I say, “I’ll keep it simple.” I look at each in turn.
“Tonight we’re the ’69 Mets.” We raise our shots. “Bottoms up.”
We toss them back, turn our glasses over on the bar and walk to the boards. We’re ready.