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Authors: Mark Kurlansky
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lot of people were holding each other that day. It felt good to be holding someone because I felt really scared. But that is another thing that I am only telling you, Diary. I am not going to make that mistake again.
I was the one who told Donnie LePine. We will both always remember that. He was looking smooth, in charge, the way he always looks. And then I told him and for the first time ever he looked lost, confused, scared like me. We held on to each other for just a second or two, long enough for me to realize that there was still a truth to our old Musketeers jokeâfor all his varsity letters, we were friends, guys of the same age with the same struggles and the same frightening future. Even if we canât really talk about it.
President Kennedy didnât get better. He died. And a lot of people are crying. When I got home I could tell that my mother had been crying. My father didnât say anything when he got home and I couldnât tell if he had been crying too.
And so, dear Diary, I am writing to you today because I realize that yesterday was the last day of my childhood. The last day I will ever believe that things might go right. They might start to, but someone could just take a gun and end it. Maybe thatâs what people do in this country. They have weapons, they have missiles, they have armies, and wars, and they kill people and that is how they end everything. That doesnât really make any sense. I canât think clearly. That is why I am writing to you, because if I told anyone else the things Iâm thinking they would just get mad. My fellow Musketeers would say I was betraying them.
Some people thought that John Kennedy was hope. I wasnât so sure. To me, President Kennedy was not a sure thing. He just offered the possibility that the future would be better. And even if you didnât feel that hopeful, he was the only hope we had. So now we have nothing. Who will they shoot next? I think bad things are going to happen. Thank you for listening to me. I will try to write you more often.
Joel
Chapter Eleven
That One Wrong Swing
They say every baseball player has taken one swing that he wishes he could take back and try again. The one that is always talked about is Willie McCoveyâs swing that made the last out of the last game of the 1962 World Series. Matty Alou was on third and Willie Mays was on second. The Giants were beating the Yankees one run to zero. Any kind of outfield hit could have scored both of them and won the series for the Giants. It was one ball and one strike so McCovey didnât have to swing. He could wait for the right pitch. But he swung and drove it straight to the second baseman and lost the series. For me it was all made right the next year when the Dodgers, thanks to the unbelievable arm of Sandy Koufax, swept the Yankees in four games. It ended the Yankees and I donât even think about them anymore. But Iâll bet Willie McCovey is still thinking about that swing.
The swing Tony Scaratini wants to take back is the one at the end of last season when he missed my head. He is never going to forget the varsity letter that I got and he didnât. All fall he stares at me in silence. He seems to be angrily confirming that my head is intact. He is dreaming of taking one more swing and this time connecting.
Leaving homeroom, he walks up to me and says, âIâm going to see you after school.â That is all he says after seven months of thinking about it but everybody knows what he means. My only question is whether he is talking about fists or if he will be waiting for me with a baseball bat.
I donât look forward to fighting Tony. First of all, because he is certain to fight dirty. Also, because he is bigger than me and meaner than me. What makes it even worse is that the weather has just turned cold. It is too cold to be standing outside hitting each other.
I am on my way into science class and I see Tony. âListen,
I was the one who told Donnie LePine. We will both always remember that. He was looking smooth, in charge, the way he always looks. And then I told him and for the first time ever he looked lost, confused, scared like me. We held on to each other for just a second or two, long enough for me to realize that there was still a truth to our old Musketeers jokeâfor all his varsity letters, we were friends, guys of the same age with the same struggles and the same frightening future. Even if we canât really talk about it.
President Kennedy didnât get better. He died. And a lot of people are crying. When I got home I could tell that my mother had been crying. My father didnât say anything when he got home and I couldnât tell if he had been crying too.
And so, dear Diary, I am writing to you today because I realize that yesterday was the last day of my childhood. The last day I will ever believe that things might go right. They might start to, but someone could just take a gun and end it. Maybe thatâs what people do in this country. They have weapons, they have missiles, they have armies, and wars, and they kill people and that is how they end everything. That doesnât really make any sense. I canât think clearly. That is why I am writing to you, because if I told anyone else the things Iâm thinking they would just get mad. My fellow Musketeers would say I was betraying them.
Some people thought that John Kennedy was hope. I wasnât so sure. To me, President Kennedy was not a sure thing. He just offered the possibility that the future would be better. And even if you didnât feel that hopeful, he was the only hope we had. So now we have nothing. Who will they shoot next? I think bad things are going to happen. Thank you for listening to me. I will try to write you more often.
Joel
Chapter Eleven
That One Wrong Swing
They say every baseball player has taken one swing that he wishes he could take back and try again. The one that is always talked about is Willie McCoveyâs swing that made the last out of the last game of the 1962 World Series. Matty Alou was on third and Willie Mays was on second. The Giants were beating the Yankees one run to zero. Any kind of outfield hit could have scored both of them and won the series for the Giants. It was one ball and one strike so McCovey didnât have to swing. He could wait for the right pitch. But he swung and drove it straight to the second baseman and lost the series. For me it was all made right the next year when the Dodgers, thanks to the unbelievable arm of Sandy Koufax, swept the Yankees in four games. It ended the Yankees and I donât even think about them anymore. But Iâll bet Willie McCovey is still thinking about that swing.
The swing Tony Scaratini wants to take back is the one at the end of last season when he missed my head. He is never going to forget the varsity letter that I got and he didnât. All fall he stares at me in silence. He seems to be angrily confirming that my head is intact. He is dreaming of taking one more swing and this time connecting.
Leaving homeroom, he walks up to me and says, âIâm going to see you after school.â That is all he says after seven months of thinking about it but everybody knows what he means. My only question is whether he is talking about fists or if he will be waiting for me with a baseball bat.
I donât look forward to fighting Tony. First of all, because he is certain to fight dirty. Also, because he is bigger than me and meaner than me. What makes it even worse is that the weather has just turned cold. It is too cold to be standing outside hitting each other.
I am on my way into science class and I see Tony. âListen,
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