Schwartz - Stealing Home

For Bill who has a bit of Joey in him.
And for Dad, who always cries.

J oey Sexton tossed a baseball over his head, caught it in his glove, then transferred it to his bare hand. Threw it again, higher this time, caught it. Higher still, in a looping arc, ran to catch it. Smack.

And DiMaggio makes another spectacular grab in centerfield! he said out loud, pitching his voice nasal and tinny like Mel Allen, the Yankees announcer. He trotted down the street, tossing the ball back and forth. Stuffing poked out from a side seam of his glove, and the strap on the back, where the stitching had come loose, flapped when he whipped his hand out, but he paid it no mind. No chance of getting a new glove now, not with Mama gone, so he might as well stop wishing.

Barely a breeze stirred the humid air, and Joeys damp shirt stuck to his back. Throwing and catching, announcing the action in a steady patter, he jogged past old apartment buildings where dark-skinned ladies sat, fanning themselves with newspapers at the top of tall stoops, and babies, dressed only in diapers, dozed on blankets at their feet.

DiMaggio fires to first Joey stepped into the street, making the throw. A loud, deep horn blasted, and he looked up to see a dump truck bearing down on him.

Watch where youre going, kid!

Aw, keep your shirt on, Joey yelled, but he quickly stepped back. Waiting for the light, he went into a batters stance, cocking an imaginary bat over his shoulder. A long, slender bat of pure blond ash Louisville Slugger branded on in brown letters. He pulled a tattered baseball card from his back pocket and studied the picture, then replaced the card. Shifting his weight more onto the balls of his feet to match DiMaggios stance, he lifted his right elbow an inch higher.

And heres Joltin Joe himself to lead off the inning, he announced in the same nasal voice. DiMaggio steps into the box. Takes a practice cut. Look at that powerful swing. The pitcher winds up. He delivers Joey swung his arms around, tight and fast, like DiMaggio, his feet swiveling but not lifting off the ground, channeling all the power of his arms and shoulders and hips. Its a line drive! DiMaggios safe at first. How about that!

The light changed. Joey sprinted1 across the intersection, imagining himself sliding into second for a stolen base. True, DiMaggio wasnt so hot on stolen bases. Not like that new fellow, Jackie Robinson. It was only June, and he already had ten. Fast? Shoot! He was a speed demon. But Robinson was on the Dodgers-the hated Brooklyn Dodgers.

Joey turned the corner and scanned the abandoned field at 157th Street and Courtlandt Avenue, where Harry and some of the other boys sometimes gathered for a game. Nobody there. Shucks. Well, maybe they were at the schoolyard.

Heading down a different street, he threw the ball up as high as he could. With two outs in the top of the ninth and the Yankees leading the White Sox by a run, Luke Appling hits a high fly to center. DiMaggios running back, back Hes got it to end the inning and win the game! My, what a start the Bronx Bombers have had this year! Coming off a disappointing 46 season, theyre back on track to win the pennant.

Joey turned a corner. There loomed the massive red brick P.S. 82 with its double cement staircases leading to the Boys and Girls wooden entrance doors. Prison during the school year, complete with bars over the windows to guard against errant balls; playground in the summer. Joey dragged his glove along the chain-link fence that ran around the school. Thwackeda, thwackeda, thwackeda. Voices sounded from the back. Somebody had a game going-he hoped it was Harry and those fellows. Squeezing through the gap where the fence was broken, he circled around to the rear of the school.

Shoot. Jerome and his gang. The Negroes. Six or eight of them, a few boys crouching at the ready in the field-if you could call it a field. It was more like a gravel patch, the odd tuft of weeds sprouting through the pebbly dirt. The tall skinny kid, Donny, was at bat, and Jerome, as usual, was on the mound. As Joey watched, Jerome wound up. Zoom. Boy, that kid could pitch. He was a head taller than Joey, and twice as strong. Donny swung. Grounder to short. Maurice a small boy who always tagged along behind Jerome like a skittish shadow scooped it up. Donny dove for first, sending up a cloud of dust, as Maurice made the throw.

One out! Jerome sang.

Darn! Donny said, retrieving the bat a Louisville Slugger.

Maybe this time, Joey thought. Sooner or later theyd break down. He inched forward.

Hey, fellas.

Jerome turned, made a face. You again. What do you want?

Can I play?

No. Jerome turned to face the next batter.

Aw, come on, Joey said, approaching third base.

You heard him, Donny said.

You only got seven, Joey argued. Ill even out the sides.

Forget it.

Joey edged closer. Hey, come on, I can hit.

Yeah, but howre you going to field with that worn-out raggedy thing? Donny said, pointing to Joeys glove. The other boys laughed, their teeth white in dark brown faces.

Stuffins fallin out.

Flap-flappety-flap, Maurice said, flapping his arms like a chicken.

Joeys cheeks burned. So what if my gloves old? That doesnt mean

Jerome jerked his thumb. Get lost, whitebread.

That name again. Dont call me that, Joey said in a low voice.

Aw, hurt your feelings?

I mean it.

Jerome grinned at the others. We dont want no crackers in our game, do we, boys?

Shut up! It wasnt the words that infuriated Joey so much as the way they were said. As if there was something wrong with being half white. Or half black, for that matter. Who cared? But no one was going to rag him about it and get away with it. He dropped his glove and flung himself at the taller boy.

Surprised, Jerome stumbled back, but quickly recovered. Tossing his glove to the shortstop, he shoved Joey. Joey saw his nostrils flare, his lips press into a brown line. The other boys closed in.

Shut him up, Jerome!

Joey flailed with his fist, but only grazed Jeromes cheek. It was enough to enrage the other boy, however, who responded with a blow to Joeys shoulder that made him stagger.

Attaboy, Jerome.

Regaining his balance, Joey swung upward. His fist plowed into the soft pillow of Jeromes stomach, and Joey felt keen satisfaction to see him grimace, to hear him grunt. But a moment later, Jerome landed a sharp blow to Joeys mouth. He felt a sting, tasted blood. He lashed out, but missed. Jerome laughed.

Show him, Jerome.

Joey stepped in closer, swung, and connected with Jeromes jaw. The other boy hit him on the side of the head, knocking him to the ground. Sharp pebbles dug into his bottom, the backs of his legs. Before he could react, Jerome hauled him up by the shirt. Joey heard the fabric rip. Shoot! Mrs. Webster had already reamed him out for tearing this same shirt the other day. Furious, he jumped on Jerome, swinging wildly.

You dirty, rotten

So intent was he on trying to hit Jerome that he didnt notice that the others had fallen silent, until he felt a strong grip on his arm. Thinking it was one of the boys, he tried to shake it off. Let go

What in Gods name you think youre doing?

An ebony face, framed by a straw hat with wisps of frizzy gray hair sticking out, was frowning down at him.