Highpockets (8 page)

“Yeah.”

The patient seemed less than enthusiastic about his promotion, yet Highpockets had no choice save to proceed along the same conversational road. “Well, now, what d’ya study in school, Dean?”

He ran his fingers nervously through his tousled hair. “Oh, I d’know. English. History. Oh, an’ geogerfy, too.”

“Which d’you like best?” At this point Highpockets began to feel like a reporter assaulting a baseball star with a series of senseless questions, talking merely to keep things going, hoping to strike on an angle for a story. An angle, an angle, that’s what they were all after as they asked those stupid questions, invariably the same ones. How did it feel ... your greatest thrill ... what do you find different in the majors ...

Suddenly he realized that he too was asking the lad in the bed the same sort of questions. For the first time Highpockets understood why sometimes sportswriters left him after an interview with a worried look upon their faces; for the first time he had some slight feeling of sympathy for those pests of the baseball world. It was a revolutionary idea, although Highpockets hardly appreciated this at the moment.

“Oh ... I guess ... geogerfy. We study that book ... now ...
Our World Today
.”

This was the first time the boy had volunteered a thing. Naturally the ballplayer had never heard of the book, so that topic was soon finished.

“Well, what d’you study next year in high school?”

Again that apathetic glance and the everlasting, “I d’know.”

Highpockets was really discouraged. This was work, real hard work. He thought of his own kid brother, same age, same blue eyes, same yellow hair sticking up straight that never seemed to have been combed. Only if Henry Lee were in the same room with, say, Roy Tucker or Harry Chase of the Giants or Razzle Nugent, he would be sitting up straight, talking. He could talk with them, too, for he knew the batting averages of everyone in the league last year, and when they came up, and how. What he didn’t know, which would be little, it wouldn’t have taken him long to discover. Henry Lee McDade was a question machine from which questions poured endlessly whenever baseball was at issue. The questions usually came so fast he could hardly ask them, one after another, in such excitement that he stumbled and stuttered slightly as he tried in his haste to find out everything he wanted to know: what really happened in the third game of the ’44 Series, and whether Raz minded pitching to left-handed batters, and what kind of a manager Spike Russell was, an’ was he a better manager than Spunky Stowell of the Braves, an’ ... an’ ... an’ ...

He heard his brother’s high-pitched tones, saw his tense face, his concentrated, wide-open eyes. This boy was different. What did he like, what interested him, how on earth could you talk with such a kid? The ballplayer became aware of the faintest tinge of respect for his enemies, the sportswriters, a feeling that was distinctly novel. It must be like this interviewing that rookie Ted Harkins of the White Sox and Judson Strong of the Cards. Yep, and Highpockets McDade of the Brooks, too.

He also discovered that he had assumed a knowledge of kids he did not possess. The whole thing was disconcerting. The silence persisted. The kid ran his fingers through his mop of hair and said nothing, which didn’t help.

Highpockets rose. “Gotta be going. Gotta get moving. I’m playing in the All-Star game in Cincinnati tomorrow night.”

He paused just to let this fact sink in. Still Dean was unimpressed. 823,365 votes, playing in the All-Star his first season in the majors, yet to this solemn-faced boy he was just another tiresome adult asking the same stuffy questions. What school d’you go to? What grade you in? What d’you study? Something was wrong. For most kids in Brooklyn this would be a big moment, perhaps the biggest moment of their lives, an event they’d talk about in school for years. Yet the youngster in the bed was bored. Perhaps unconsciously Highpockets had pictured himself as the home run king, visiting kids in the hospital and leaving them cheered and encouraged merely by his presence. Only things somehow weren’t working out that way.

Highpockets felt uncomfortable. He was glad when a nurse entered with a glass of orange juice. The boy took it without a word, and glanced at the ballplayer across the edge of the glass with wide, curious eyes.

“Well, s’long. Anything you want ... anything you’d like ... you need?” His gaze wandered again toward the table and his unopened books stacked there.

The boy shook his head and said nothing.

“O.K. I’ll be back here the first of the week. Get yerself well and outa this-here hospital before I come back, y’understand?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, g’by now.”

“G’by.”

The boy still looked at him over the rim of the glass as he left. Highpockets walked down the corridor mopping his forehead.

Say! Maybe those sportswriters don’t have such a soft touch after all.

W
HEN YOU’RE FREE
and loose and nothing depends on it, that’s when you can really play baseball. At the start of the afternoon, the parishioners in the right field bleachers at Crosley Field jeered and poured abuse, as the crowds did everywhere all over the circuit whenever Highpockets first took his place at bat or in the outer garden. He reacted to their noise by belting one into the stands against Seaman McNutt of the Yanks his first time at bat. He was passed in the fourth, and when he came up in the seventh the tone of the crowd had changed. This time he hit a terrific clout into the stands in right, known as “Giles’ Picnic Grounds.” Cincinnati sportswriters said a blow like that hadn’t been hit there since the days of Babe Ruth.

Highpockets’ first thought was to call the hospital as soon as he reached New York. From the start there was something strange about that telephone call: the long silences, the way everyone from the main operator to the head nurse kept asking his name and who he was and putting him off and passing him along to someone else. Except for the fact that the youngster was still hospitalized, he couldn’t get a lot of information. Suddenly a supervisor of some sort came on the wire.

“Hold on a minute, please. Dr. Jansen is in the hospital now. I’ll let you talk with him.” Click-click, went the operator, click-click.

This is awful. Maybe something has happened to the boy. Must be the kid is worse. If only I hadn’t lost my temper with the truck driver and started down the street so fast; if only I hadn’t muffed that fly ball that day. If ... if ... if ...

A voice asked whether Dr. Jansen was there, whether Dr. Jansen had come down from Surgery, and finally in tired tones someone answered, “Dr. Jansen.”

“Oh, Doctor, this Cecil McDade.”

“Who?”

“Cecil McDade, yessuh. I’m inquiring about Dean Kennedy, the boy who was injured last week in an auto accident. Hurt his leg, remember?”

“Oh, yes, oh, yes, I remember. You’re the man who ... yes, I remember now.” There was an unpleasant pause. “Ah, that didn’t turn out quite so well, not quite as we all expected.”

Highpockets hardly knew what to say. He was stunned. If only I’d kept my temper with that taxi driver, and had started off more slowly. “Yessuh. Is he still there in the hospital?”

“Yes, he is. You see that case didn’t turn out the way we hoped. The boy has osteomyelitis.”

“Has what? What’s that?”

“Osteomyelitis. An inflammation of the bone in his leg has set in that necessitates an operation. We’ll probably operate tomorrow. Though we haven’t told him yet.”

“Tomorrow? Is it serious?”

“Well, of course it could be. Fortunately we’ve got him in time, and I anticipate no complications. He’s a healthy boy. Naturally, any operation ... one never knows ... you understand.”

Highpockets was dizzy when he hung up. There was sweat over his forehead. Nothing I could have done would have prevented his smashing into my car; it wasn’t my fault, it was his fault. Look, it really wasn’t my fault. I was only going twenty ... well, maybe thirty ... I think ... I honestly believe it wasn’t over thirty. Osteomyelitis. Sounds bad. If only I hadn’t dropped that fly or got mad with the truck driver; if only they’d never given me the darn car. I wish I’d never seen the Ford. But it wasn’t my fault. You have to be reasonable in these things; it wasn’t my fault and everyone said so; his own dad said so; the boy ran straight off the curb into the car. Like that.

Highpockets went out into the street. He did something he seldom did, especially when subways were running. He hailed a taxi.

“Bushwick Hospital in Brooklyn.” All the way over he was thinking. If only I’d held on to that fly and not been upset, if I’d kept my temper when that goon honked at me from his truck, if only ...

The boy was wider-eyed than ever, somewhat paler and quite as unresponsive as the previous week. Meanwhile the fame of his visitor plus the two homers in the All-Star at Cincinnati still meant nothing to him. In several minutes, however, his father came along. Highpockets was relieved to have the man greet him with a delight that also had respect in it. He, at any rate, had heard of the Dodgers. Notwithstanding the impending operation, of which he knew, he again absolved the ballplayer of blame for the accident.

The victim glanced from one to the other with a wide-eyed stare, saying nothing and not missing a word. Then the nurse entered with a pill for her patient. Highpockets immediately noticed a change in her attitude. The previous week the boy had been an occupied bed, a nuisance, a kid who could easily be taken care of at home. Now he was a potential surgical case and possibly something more. For one never knew about operations.

The father was talking. He asked the boy whether he had thanked Mr. McDade for the lovely flowers, the baseball books, and the games which were heaped up, unopened still, on the side table. No? Had he written to thank him then? No, the boy had not. Mr. McDade was thanked somewhat sullenly in mumbled tones. Next the father thanked him, and then there was another one of those pauses.

At last came the usual, the inevitable, query: What’s the matter with the Dodgers? Highpockets pointed out that although they were in fourth place, they were only six games off on the losing side, not bad for the end of July. Sometimes, he explained, it was harder to lead the league, to set the pace, than to come from behind. The father was interested and attentive, if the boy was not. He declared with enthusiasm that he was a great Dodger fan, and had seen Highpockets hit his sixteenth homer against the Cards and his twenty-first against the Phils.

“Never dreamed I’d ever get to meet you, though,” he said, as if it was an honor to have his son run over by Highpockets. The ballplayer accepted this. Then conversation died away again. Highpockets became desperate. He tried to say something.

“Kinda funny, Mr. Kennedy, you living in Brooklyn and being interested in baseball, but this boy doesn’t seem to care one bit.”

The father turned on him, “All the time, all the time, Mr. Hi ... Mr. McDade, that boy spends on his stamps. Won’t work at school nor play ball nor anything. I’ve tried to send him to camp this summer; he won’t go. And I’ve told him if he doesn’t get to work and pass next year in high school, I’ll take his stamps away. I sure will.”

The boy sat up. The change in his expression was amazing. For the first time the youngster seemed alive. Then his face twisted; he was almost in tears. “Aw, Dad, you can’t do that. Besides, I do so work in school, I do so. I got an A in geogerfy.”

“Geography! Geography! Yes, and how ’bout your ’rithmetic and English and history? Geography! That’s all you think of, that and your stamps. What I’m gonna do with him, I’m sure I don’t know.”

The boy ignored the remark and addressed a question to the ballplayer. It was the first time he had spoken to him directly. “You c’llect stamps?” There was a note of hopefulness in his voice.

“Collect stamps? Why, no, I never did. To tell you the fact, I never did collect stamps.” Strange boy, thought Highpockets. Lives in Brooklyn, collects stamps, and isn’t interested in the Dodgers!

The boy paid no attention. “I’ll show you my c’llection.”

The father interrupted. “No, Dean, no. He isn’t interested in stamps.”

“Sure, sure, I’d like for to see his collection very much indeed. Where is it?”

The collection was on the side table, close at hand. It was a thick book with a cloth cover apparently sewed on zealously by an amateur. The boy reached for it with an eagerness in his grasp that almost had affection in it. Then he propped the book up and opened it. Now he was a different boy. His face was alive, excited, his eyes full of delight as he turned the pages, flipping a stamp over here, caressing one there, pointing out his best specimens in a torrent of words.

“Now these, here’s one of my best pages. I’m fairly strong here, see; I specialize pretty much in British colonies. Well, not entirely though. Here’s Ceylon. This five rupee, that’s worth six-fifty, that one is. It’s worth more unused, though. I exchanged it for a USA Columbian with Terry Walters. His dad gives him lots of stamps. France. Now, I’m not so strong on France. There, see, Gold Coast, see? I only need two more to complete that set. The four shilling green, oh, boy, that’s expensive, that is; costs six bucks. Leastways that’s the list price in the Scott catalogue. You can often get ’em cheaper at auctions, though.”

“Dean!” said his father.

“India. Yeah, I’m pretty fairly strong in the native states. Patiala. That one anna carmine is sure hard to get, plenty hard. I know a boy in Bayonne has the two anna; only he won’t exchange, though. That’s the way it is. Mauritius. One of the first countries to issue stamps. Didn’t you know that? You didn’t? Gee, I thought everyone knew that. You know the one penny head of Queen Victoria, their first? It’s worth forty thousand bucks today. That’s because it’s scarce. I saw it once at a stamp exhibition in New York my dad took me to. See, I’ve got the six penny and the one shilling myself. That one shilling’s a good specimen. I saved a long time to buy that, shoveled snow ’n’cut lawns ’n’everything. Malta. Not so good. But I’m improving. My uncle is buying me the five penny brown for my birthday. That’s next Tuesday, the twenty-second. New Zealand. See, the five shilling Nile green. You might think it belonged in 1889, there. It doesn’t, it’s watermarked; it belongs where it is.”