The Hero Two Doors Down (7 page)

“It's my practice mitt,” Jackie explained.

“Gee, thanks, Jackie. My friends won't believe it when I tell them where I got this glove.” I was beaming and pushing hard trying to gain an inch or so into the glove.

“Enjoy it, Steve,” Jackie said.

“Is this really one of the gloves you've used in the big leagues?”

“I sure did. I used it during spring training and during warm-ups before games,” Jackie told me.

“It's the best present I ever got,” I pronounced.

Jackie smiled. “I'm glad you like it.”

The conversation changed to the news. I ate quietly while Jackie and Rachel talked about President Truman's integrating the armed forces.

“I think it will happen sometime this summer,” Jackie told Rachel.

“Not if the Southerners in Congress have their way,” Rachel replied.

“President Truman is considering using an executive order to push through the integration of the armed forces,” Jackie explained.

“That would end discrimination in the armed services. Your success in baseball should give Truman encouragement to do whatever he has to in order to desegregate the military,” Rachel replied.

“I know that dis . . . word,” I announced, stumbling on the correct pronunciation for
discrim
ination
. “It happened to my grandparents in Russia because they were Jewish. They left Russia and came to America so they could be treated better.”

“Discrimination is something that Jews and blacks have in common,” Jackie said.

“You said you served in the army?” I asked.

“Sure did,” Jackie replied. “I was a second lieutenant. I was stationed in Fort Hood, Texas, where the law kept black and white people separated in schools, parks, buses, and hospitals. On the army base, Negro soldiers lived in barracks separated from white soldiers. Officers couldn't even socialize together. We had different clubs.

“One day I got on a bus going from the army base into town. I had to see the doctor at the hospital. Because of the Jim Crow laws, I was supposed to move to the back of the bus to sit down. But there was a seat in the middle of the bus next to a woman I knew from the base. The bus driver and I argued, and I was arrested,” Jackie explained.

“Really?” It was hard to believe that someone could get arrested just because they sat down in the wrong seat on the bus.

“Jack, you're confusing Steve. He's too young to understand segregation and its laws,” Rachel interrupted.

“I know that some of our neighbors didn't want a black family to live here,” I protested. “I know that the Dodgers were the first team to have a Negro in the Majors. I know a lot 'cause my father and I talk.”

Rachel smiled. “I'm sorry, Steve. You do know a lot.”

“Did you go to jail?” I asked Jackie.

“No. But my case was tried in a courtroom. I knew my rights. It's a bit complicated, Steve. But because the bus was still on the army base, the laws that required black people to go to the back of the bus didn't apply. I didn't do anything wrong. I won the case and was honorably discharged from the army. So this news that soon President Truman and Congress will end discrimination in all branches of the armed services means a great deal to me and to all Americans,” Jackie explained. “Do you understand, Steve?”

“Kind of,” I said. “When every Major League Baseball team has black players, it will be like the armed services. Right?”

“It will be a start, Steve.”

The very next day, I got into my first fistfight.

It was a warm June afternoon. The Dodgers had an off day but were starting a seven-day home stretch. After school, Sena and I rode our bikes to the school yard. I brought my new mitt along in case there was a game going on. When we arrived, kids were just taking to the field for a game of softball.

“Hey, can we play?” Sena yelled as we ran over to join them.

Sena and I were half the size of most of the kids, but we were eager to play. Sena was a better hitter than me, but I was pretty good at fielding.

“We could use you in right field,” one of the boys told us.

I hated the outfield, so I started to argue, though I held my feelings back because of my talk with Jackie about self-control. The outfield reminded me of pictures I'd seen of small African boys left to herd goats in the middle of the Sahara Desert. I wanted to be in the infield where all the action was. Reluctantly, I grabbed my glove off the handlebars and ran to my position in right field.

It took several long innings before we saw any action beyond second base. Boredom had set in. I considered sitting down on the grass in protest when the next batter slammed the ball high and long. I perked up. The ball was heading toward right field. It was coming straight at me! It was my time to shine. To prove to these fourth and fifth graders that I was as good as them.

I got into position, planted my feet firmly for the catch, and looked up at my gloved hand. The glove was way too big on me. It was intended for a grown man and for a hard ball.
Too late
, I thought. It had worked for Jackie. I reached into the air as the ball began to drop.

“You need help, Steve?” Sena yelled.

“I got it!” I called out without taking my eyes off the rapidly descending ball. My heart pumped faster and faster. Salty sweat stung my eyes. I figured the batter was touching first base and heading toward second. “You won't get far,” I muttered to myself as I built confidence.

The ball was within inches of my hand when I was attacked by a bee. It stung my calf and sent shooting pains up my leg. I tumbled to the ground in agony.

The ball also thumped to the ground. Sena raced over, grabbed the ball, and threw it to the pitcher while I wiped tears off my cheeks. It was too late.

The error let two runs in.

Several boys on our team ran over to me. I thought they were coming to make sure I was all right. When the first boy yelled, “Sissy!” I flinched.

Another flung a bigger insult: “Go home to your mother.”

I was roaring mad. I jumped up from the ground, forgetting the painful sting, and got in their faces.

“How dare you!” I hissed. “Get stung by a bee and let's see how brave you are!”

One of the boys laughed at me. “Stung by a bee . . . yeah, right,” he spat, and bent down to pick up my cherished glove. “And take this wreck of a mitt with you,” he shouted.

“Jackie Robinson gave me that mitt,” I shot back.

All three boys laughed. “Liar! Jackie Robinson didn't give you anything.”

“Jackie's fat,” one of the boys shouted.

“Yeah! He can't even steal a base this year,” another boy challenged.

Now I was really, really mad. It was okay if the boys were making fun of me, but not Jackie. “He's the best player in baseball,” I shouted back at them.

Sena grabbed my arm. “Let's get out of here,” she whispered to me.

I pulled my arm away and jammed it into the belly of one of my attackers instead of retreating. The boy punched me hard in the gut. I dove into the two other boys.

Sena screamed so loud she made my ears pop. My head whipped around. “Run!” she yelled.

This time I listened. Sena and I took off at top speed and didn't look back. We reached our bikes, hopped on them, and pedaled away like we were being chased by a pack of dogs. After a few minutes of heavy riding, we looked back. Nobody was after us. The game had resumed and we were forgotten.

Sena glared at me. “Are you crazy?” she yelled at me. “Don't ever start a fight you can't finish! Those boys outnumbered us by a dozen and they were twice our size. What were you thinking?”

“Well,” I stammered. “They had no right talking bad about Jackie. He's lost weight and is hitting again. He'll show them. He'll show everybody,” I shouted back. I raced home, leaving Sena behind me.

I left my bike at the bottom of our front stoop and folded my frustrated frame on the top step. Mom stuck her head out from behind the front door. “Glad you're home. Did you play ball?”

“Sort of,” I grunted.

“Stephen, please look at me when I'm talking to you.”

“Yes, Mom,” I said, standing up so we could face each other. Mom looked me up and down. I hoped she couldn't see signs of war. The dirty shirt. A ripped pocket. A bruised and sad face.

“Please come inside, Stephen. A hot shower will do wonders. You'll see,” Mom said.

“Just a few more minutes, okay, Ma?”

“Ten minutes, Stephen.”

My mother closed the door, and I sat back down with a loud sigh. Finally, I was about to head inside when I spotted Jackie Robinson coming up the street with groceries.

“Hi, Jackie,” I called out and dashed down the steps. “Can I help?”

“I've got it, Steve,” Jackie replied, pushing past me and heading up his steps. He reached the top step and turned around to me. “Back in a few,” he told me. “Wait on the stoop.”

“You bet,” I replied, and grinned for the first time all day. I settled on the steps to Jackie's house, wondering if I should tell him about the fight. He wasn't inside more than ten minutes before re­appearing with empty hands.

“Take a walk with me, Steve,” Jackie suggested.

I turned and looked toward my house. My mother would be hopping mad if I left the area without getting her okay.

“Don't worry,” Jackie said as he patted me on the back. “Rachel telephoned your mom. We have her permission. I want to see your school.”

My school
, I thought, horrified.
I can't face those boys again.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. Did he know? “My school's closed,” I mumbled.

“Doesn't matter,” Jackie said. “Let's go.”

We walked slowly, without words, for the first few minutes.

“Anything on your mind?” Jackie asked me.

I covered my mouth with my hands and coughed. “Maybe,” I replied.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Uh . . . There are some boys at the school yard who aren't very nice,” I said.

“Tell me more,” he pressed.

I stopped walking and faced Jackie. “You know, don't you?”

“Sort of,” he replied. “Sena's mother called your mom, who told Rachel . . . well, you understand. But I'd like to hear the story from you,” Jackie said.

“Got into a fight,” I admitted. Then I gave Jackie the blow-by-blow.

“You're not a sissy, Steve,” Jackie said flat out. “But there are better ways to fight back, especially when you're outnumbered and much younger. Can you think of a better way to handle a verbal attack?”

“I'm not strong like you, Jackie,” I protested.

“Yes, you are, Steve. Every situation is different, but in general, punching someone who has verbally attacked you will only make things worse. The bee sting was unfortunate and bad timing, but it wasn't your fault. Your attackers were looking for a fight. If you can, take the high road next time. You missed the ball. It happens. You strike out. The important thing is to get back up and do your best. And as for the glove,” Jackie chuckled. “That was my mistake to give you a mitt intended for a man twice your size. Sorry about that. I meant for you to keep it safely in your room. Maybe show it to your friends, but it's not for you to play with now. Besides, it's meant for baseball, not softball.”

I laughed so hard that all the tension left my body. “You're right about that!” I said. “But, Jackie, those boys had no right talking bad about you.”

“I can handle it, Steve. Please don't try to defend me. I've heard a lot worse. Besides, I did come back to work overweight. It's up to me to get back to my playing shape. I'm almost there,” Jackie said. “So should we pay those boys a visit?”

“You mean go over to the school yard?” I asked.

“That's right,” Jackie replied.

“Wow! You mean you and me?”

Our slow walk up Tilden Avenue was interrupted every couple of feet by autograph seekers. Jackie was patient and polite to all the kids. I stood four feet two inches, but I grew taller with each step. By the time we reached school, I felt ten feet tall.

The softball game was breaking up as we approached the field. The kids who'd been mean to me an hour ago now stood silently. When the shock wore off, they flocked around Jackie.

I stepped back, but Jackie grabbed my arm and pulled me to his side. We were a pair. I beamed up at him. We were friends. As the realization sank in, I relaxed.
That's it!
I thought.
Jackie Robinson has become my friend.

Jackie's face eased into his signature broad, warm smile. “I was hanging out with my friend Steve, and he suggested that I come by and meet you all,” Jackie told the kids.

“Really?” one of the boys asked.

“We didn't mean to chase Steve away,” another said, and several chimed in.

“You don't look fat, Jackie,” a chubby boy suggested.