was the best talking-to he’d ever had.
C H A P T E R
8
J oey and Bobbie walked down the street, heading for the vacant lot. The sun beat down on Joey’s shoulders and he could already feel a line of sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades. It was a scorcher, but he wouldn’t have cared if it was twice as hot. Today the golden bat was perched on his shoulder, and dangling from the end of it was Bobbie’s daddy’s glove. Bobbie had casually tossed it to him, and he’d just as casually shoved his ratty old one under the bed. The glove felt so good on his hand. Just like the bat felt so good on his shoulder.
Joey pictured himself leaning on the bat while he shot the breeze with the fellas, as if he leaned on brand-new Louisville Sluggers every day … holding it high and ready, waiting for the pitch… swinging it around straight and true, for a grand-slam home run….
If I get to play this time
, he thought, catching himself.
If the two goons aren’t there.
As he and Bobbie got closer, he saw Grossie, Vito, Louie, and Larry. No sign of Eli and Tommy.
Good.
“Hiya, fellas,” Bobbie called.
The boys looked up. “Hey, Bobbie. Joey.”
“Hiya, fellas,” Joey called back.
They remembered my name.
“Hey, Joey, you all right now?” Vito asked. “Not too banged up?”
“Yeah, fine.”
He cared.
“Whatcha looking at?” Bobbie asked.
Grossie raised his head. “Did you hear? About Jackie?”
“No, what?” Bobbie asked in alarm. “Is he hurt?”
Louie thrust a newspaper clipping at her. Joey looked over her shoulder. A bizarre sight met his eyes. There was a photo of Jackie Robinson at the plate, and something black on the field near the home team’s dugout. The headline said: “Robinson Taunted with Black Cat.”
Joey looked closer. Was that what the black smudge was – a cat?
“What!” Bobbie said. “Who did that?”
“The Phillies,” Grossie answered.
“The players were ragging him all game. Then they threw a black cat on the field,” Larry added. “Then they yelled, ‘Hey, Jackie, there’s your cousin.’ Says here the Philly fans were laughing and cheering.”
“But not all of ’em, Lar. Some booed,” his twin said.
“Those rats!” Bobbie said. “Those stinking dirty low-down rotten rats!”
“Poor Jackie,” Grossie said. “I don’t know how he stands it.”
Joey felt the heat rush to his face. Everyone knew that Jackie Robinson had faced terrible abuse ever since he’d come up to the majors: name-calling, petitions to keep him off the team, even death threats. And he couldn’t fight back, because he’d promised the Dodgers’ owner, Branch Rickey, that he wouldn’t.
Joey knew how it felt – just like Jackie Robinson did. How people picked on you just because of your color, when you knew that your color had nothing to do with whether you were good or bad. Joey wished he’d been there, in Philadelphia. Maybe Robinson couldn’t fight back, but
he
sure could. He’d show those cowards –
Joey caught himself. What the heck was he doing, getting all wound up about Jackie Robinson? Robinson was a Brooklyn player. A Dodger!
Finally, Louie shoved the clipping in his back pocket and they started to play. Bobbie and Vito were namedcaptains, and the kids divided into two sides, Joey, Bobbie, and Grossie against Vito, Larry, and Louie. Because there were only six of them, they decided to play half the field. That meant that, depending on whether a kid batted righty or lefty, only first and second base, or second and third, were in play. There was no catcher, and a throw to the pitcher on the mound, or a forced play, was an out. Joey knew the rules all too well. There’d been plenty of times when he’d only been able to scrounge up a handful of boys – other mixed-race kids who’d been excluded from the Negro kids’ teams.
Everyone went to the side of the lot, where a sheet of plywood, with a strike zone marked on it, leaned against the
C H A P T E R
8
J oey and Bobbie walked down the street, heading for the vacant lot. The sun beat down on Joey’s shoulders and he could already feel a line of sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades. It was a scorcher, but he wouldn’t have cared if it was twice as hot. Today the golden bat was perched on his shoulder, and dangling from the end of it was Bobbie’s daddy’s glove. Bobbie had casually tossed it to him, and he’d just as casually shoved his ratty old one under the bed. The glove felt so good on his hand. Just like the bat felt so good on his shoulder.
Joey pictured himself leaning on the bat while he shot the breeze with the fellas, as if he leaned on brand-new Louisville Sluggers every day … holding it high and ready, waiting for the pitch… swinging it around straight and true, for a grand-slam home run….
If I get to play this time
, he thought, catching himself.
If the two goons aren’t there.
As he and Bobbie got closer, he saw Grossie, Vito, Louie, and Larry. No sign of Eli and Tommy.
Good.
“Hiya, fellas,” Bobbie called.
The boys looked up. “Hey, Bobbie. Joey.”
“Hiya, fellas,” Joey called back.
They remembered my name.
“Hey, Joey, you all right now?” Vito asked. “Not too banged up?”
“Yeah, fine.”
He cared.
“Whatcha looking at?” Bobbie asked.
Grossie raised his head. “Did you hear? About Jackie?”
“No, what?” Bobbie asked in alarm. “Is he hurt?”
Louie thrust a newspaper clipping at her. Joey looked over her shoulder. A bizarre sight met his eyes. There was a photo of Jackie Robinson at the plate, and something black on the field near the home team’s dugout. The headline said: “Robinson Taunted with Black Cat.”
Joey looked closer. Was that what the black smudge was – a cat?
“What!” Bobbie said. “Who did that?”
“The Phillies,” Grossie answered.
“The players were ragging him all game. Then they threw a black cat on the field,” Larry added. “Then they yelled, ‘Hey, Jackie, there’s your cousin.’ Says here the Philly fans were laughing and cheering.”
“But not all of ’em, Lar. Some booed,” his twin said.
“Those rats!” Bobbie said. “Those stinking dirty low-down rotten rats!”
“Poor Jackie,” Grossie said. “I don’t know how he stands it.”
Joey felt the heat rush to his face. Everyone knew that Jackie Robinson had faced terrible abuse ever since he’d come up to the majors: name-calling, petitions to keep him off the team, even death threats. And he couldn’t fight back, because he’d promised the Dodgers’ owner, Branch Rickey, that he wouldn’t.
Joey knew how it felt – just like Jackie Robinson did. How people picked on you just because of your color, when you knew that your color had nothing to do with whether you were good or bad. Joey wished he’d been there, in Philadelphia. Maybe Robinson couldn’t fight back, but
he
sure could. He’d show those cowards –
Joey caught himself. What the heck was he doing, getting all wound up about Jackie Robinson? Robinson was a Brooklyn player. A Dodger!
Finally, Louie shoved the clipping in his back pocket and they started to play. Bobbie and Vito were namedcaptains, and the kids divided into two sides, Joey, Bobbie, and Grossie against Vito, Larry, and Louie. Because there were only six of them, they decided to play half the field. That meant that, depending on whether a kid batted righty or lefty, only first and second base, or second and third, were in play. There was no catcher, and a throw to the pitcher on the mound, or a forced play, was an out. Joey knew the rules all too well. There’d been plenty of times when he’d only been able to scrounge up a handful of boys – other mixed-race kids who’d been excluded from the Negro kids’ teams.
Everyone went to the side of the lot, where a sheet of plywood, with a strike zone marked on it, leaned against the
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