Goodbye, Mr. Spalding Read online

  Text copyright © 2019 by Jennifer Robin Barr

  All rights reserved. Copying or digitizing this book for storage, display, or distribution in any other medium is strictly prohibited.

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, please contact [email protected].

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Calkins Creek

  An Imprint of Highlights

  815 Church Street

  Honesdale, Pennsylvania 18431

  calkinscreekbooks.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-68437-178-5 (hc)

  ISBN: 978-1-68437-623-0 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018955601

  First ebook edition

  H1.0

  Design by Barbara Grzeslo

  The text is set in Sabon.

  The chapter numbers are set in Chauncey Deluxxe Bold

  To Mom—

  the best storyteller I know

  Life’s Little Rules

  (The Original Rules)

  1. Take responsibility for every area of your life.

  2. Things always happen for a reason.

  3. Say “please” and “thank you.”

  4. Look people in the eye.

  5. Commit yourself to constant improvement.

  6. Don’t expect life to be fair.

  7. Always accept an outstretched hand.

  8. Time heals all wounds.

  9. Treat others the way you want to be treated.

  10. Count your blessings.

  1

  A screen should be built over the right field wall at Shibe Park in Philadelphia.

  —J.G. Taylor Spink, The Sporting News, August 30, 1934

  Jimmie Foxx is definitely dead. I can tell by the way his glassy eyes are staring at me through the fishbowl. Finally. Who knew it would take three years for one fish to die? That means three years since the Philadelphia Athletics have played in a World Series. It also means Rule #13: Bury all dead family pets in Shibe Park for luck.

  I turn onto my back and stare at the hairline crack across the bedroom ceiling. I should be more upset, and I squeeze my eyes shut trying to find an ounce of sadness. Instead, I feel a charge of excitement as my lips curl into a smile. Every time I bury a pet fish at Shibe Park, the A’s go to the World Series.

  I sneak out of bed, tiptoe to my third-floor window, and gaze out at the vast baseball stadium across the street. Shibe Park looks deserted, except for a glaring spotlight under the left-field stands. I wonder if some worker left it on by accident. No time to worry about that now.

  I rub my face awake, try to smooth down the pile of shaggy brown hair on my head and look for my knickers, finding them rolled up in a ball in the corner of the room. I’ll need Lola’s help. We have to bury Jimmie Foxx behind first base, before the sun comes up.

  The Sheridans live in the row house next door, so Lola’s bedroom window is only a few feet from mine. I tug on our Bingle—the name we gave the cord that runs from her window to mine—and listen for the faint ding-a-ling from the bell attached to the other end. Rule #16: Always meet on the roof when you hear the Bingle.

  I gently wrap Jimmie Foxx in a handkerchief, grab my bag, and climb through the hallway skylight and onto the flat roof, our designated meeting place. I look to my left and my right, scanning the rows of rooftops for signs of anyone who might see us at this late hour, especially the Polinski brothers. They are always causing trouble in the middle of the night.

  Each roof has something unique that makes it stand out, like Ma’s tomato plants or her famous flowerpots, but they all have one thing in common: a set of rooftop bleachers to watch major league baseball games.

  Tonight, all the bleachers are empty.

  Our view of the ball field is the best on the block, right in the middle of the street. We can see easily over the short right-field wall and take in each game like we paid for the best seat in the house. Tomorrow, the street, our roof, and this ballpark will be filled with fans watching our Philadelphia Athletics play the Boston Red Sox.

  I love game days. I love the roar of the crowd, the bell of the Good Humor truck, and the smells of Red Hots’ sausages, steaming peanuts, and lit cigars. But at times like this, when Shibe Park is quiet and seems like it’s all mine, I think I like it even more.

  “I’m sorry you’re dead, Jimmie,” I whisper to the fish, “but we can’t lose any more games. When the A’s start winning again and folks pay to sit on our roof to watch, I’ll think of you.”

  I try to put the naysayers out of my head—the parents who put down manager Connie Mack and the way he sells off his best players, the sportswriters who say the real Jimmie Foxx is past his prime, and even the Polinski brothers, who make it their mission to bully anyone who roots for the A’s instead of the Phillies, especially me. All I know tonight is that I’ve got a dead fish, and he is going to bring us luck.

  “Jimmy Frank! It’s nearly midnight!” Lola says in a loud whisper, scaring me half to death. Tucking her flour-sack nightgown into overalls, she walks from her flat roof to mine, talking quickly as she arrives. “What could possibly be so important? I was having the best dream. I was dressed like Amelia Earhart—with the goggles and the scarf and the whole bit. But instead of flying, I was picketing in front of the White House with Alice Paul, who was telling me …”

  “Can you tell me about your dream later? Jimmie Foxx is dead.” I point to the fish lying on the white handkerchief.

  Lola’s pale skin shines white in the darkness of the late night, and her long curly brown hair falls over her shoulder as she leans over to inspect it.

  “Jimmy Frank killed Jimmie Foxx. Now that’s a fun headline,” she says. She knows I didn’t kill him, and I choose to ignore her comment. We stand in silence, both gazing down.

  “So I guess we’ll need a burial,” she finally says, “in the ground. Gram still talks about how Great Uncle Ronan probably isn’t in Heaven because he wasn’t put in the ground.”

  “Where was he put?”

  “Nobody knows. He died in The Great War, somewhere in France or something.”

  “Maybe he is in the ground,” I say, hopeful. Not going to Heaven seems awful. “That’s why we’re here, anyway. Rule #13.”

  “We haven’t needed Rule #13 for a long time.” Lola opens my bag, pulls out our thin book of rules, and reads: “Rule #13: Bury all dead family pets in Shibe Park for luck.”

  “How about first base?” I point to the spot in the ballpark where the real Jimmie Foxx plays.

  Lola looks at me with a tilt of her head and one eyebrow raised. “Do you really think a dead fish is going to bring them luck?”

  “All I know is that in each of the years I buried a pet fish somewhere in the park, they went to the World Series. It is not a coincidence.” She lets me keep talking with that here-we-go-again look of hers. “Quit looking at me like that! Now that Jimmie Foxx is dead, we need to get moving.” I make my way to the ladder at the back of the roof. “You coming?”

  “Rule #13 or not, there is no way that team can climb out of the basement this year,” she says, following me.

  “But what happens if they win a few?”

  “Well, they win a few. Whoop-de-do.”

  “No, listen. Maybe they win a few. And maybe, because of that, a few more people want to come out to watch a game. Then, just maybe, some of those folks decide to come up to our roof and pay money to our parents instead of going into the ballpark.” Lola purses her lips.
I know she cannot disagree with this.

  “We can really use the money,” she says, looking down at her shoes. “Ma says that starting next week, I’ll have to pitch in at the shop right after school.”

  “Really?” is all I can muster to say. Our daily after-school trip to the playgrounds at Reyburn Park and the Funfield Rec Center might be coming to an end.

  “Well, my parents can’t really pay someone right now. I can tailor clothes just as good as anyone.”

  “When did you learn all that fancy stitching?”

  “I didn’t. But I can sew buttons and hem pants and skirts.”

  “So that’s why we need to do this. If just one more person watches a game from our roof, that could be one less afternoon at the shop.”

  “I guess. Maybe.”

  “More than maybe!”

  “Fiiiiine,” she says with a half-smile, trying to sound like she’s doing me a favor. But she and I both know that she was coming all along.

  Rule #12: Jimmy and Lola will always be best friends forever.

  2

  Lola and I gather our things from the hiding spot under the front porch. Lola takes my Army Musette bag, the one Poppi gave me from The Great War. He had only one rule when he gave it to me—Rule #20: Keep fishing line, a matchbook, a library card, and a canteen on your person at all times. I don’t use most of them, but I keep them in the bag anyway. You never know.

  She stuffs the bag with all sorts of things we’ve stashed away over the years: a small shovel, a flashlight, a piece of parchment paper, a pencil, and of course, her writing journal.

  “Here.” I hand her a small piece of cloth and watch as she tucks Jimmie Foxx into a tin sardine box, just big enough for a fish-size coffin. With everything packed, we are ready to put our plan into action.

  There are no cars, no lit streetlamps, and not a single bit of trash on 20th Street. We all moved here for the ballpark, and our neighbors take pride in keeping this street clean. Tomorrow, there will be men in their dapper pinstripes and fedora hats jumping on the trollies, or walking up our street to see the game. Maybe one or two new folks will come up to our roof instead of buying a real ticket.

  We stand on the sidewalk and look at the twelve-foot wall just across the street from our porches. A sudden squeak from old Mrs. Carson’s screen door makes us both jump, and we duck in the shadow until we are sure she’s inside. She is the eyes and ears of the neighborhood. She knows all the secrets.

  It’s chillier than I expect for the last day of August, and I take in a deep, cool breath before crossing.

  We’ve always found ways to sneak into Shibe Park—propping open doors, prying back wooden fence panels, hiding in delivery trucks. Finally, now that we are almost thirteen years old, we are tall enough to sneak over the short right-field wall. We’ve learned how to scout the street for people and how to hide in the darkness, waiting for our chance.

  It took some planning at first. One late April night, we dug two grooves in the wood: one about halfway up, and another a few feet above that. At the top of the wall, we nailed a small piece of rope. Lola got that idea from one of my Boys’ Life magazines. Of course. She’s always reading them more than me.

  “Let’s go,” she says. “Squat down.”

  The plan is simple. When the street is clear, Lola goes over first. She steps first on whatever we can find on the street. It might be a cinder block left over from a kid’s game of half-ball, or maybe a wooden crate that a food vendor forgot.

  Lola steps from the crate onto my shoulder, her other foot finding the first small groove and her hand finding the next. She grabs the rope. I give her a big push, and she swings her leg over to sit on the top.

  “Mmmph,” she grunts.

  “Shhh!”

  “Oh, quit worrying. Nobody is around here!” she says, waving her hands and balancing as she sits, with one leg on each side of the wall. I still try to hurry.

  I’m two inches taller than Lola, but I still need some help. I step on the crate, find the same two grooves and rope, and grab onto Lola’s outstretched arm to launch the momentum to land on the top. We both quickly swing our legs over and drop to the other side.

  The first couple of times we did this were tricky. A few falls and sore behinds reminded us for days. But we’ve had a summer of practice, and now we can make it over in thirty seconds flat. Tonight is just as easy.

  We land in the warning track and squat down, dirt kicking up all around. The vast ballpark is deserted in front of us, but the spotlight underneath the left-field stands is still on.

  “Lola,” I nudge her and point.

  “Somebody probably just left it on today,” she says, breaking up my thoughts. “No need to worry.”

  “Sure,” I say, my voice squeaking a bit.

  “Besides, you’ve never worried before.”

  “I guess I never really thought about getting caught before.” I step back to the shade of the outfield wall. “You think we’ll lose Mr. Shibe’s business at the hardware shop? Or maybe they won’t give the uniform orders to your parents anymore? And what about being batboy next year? If we are caught sneaking in, and they realize who we are …”

  “Jimmy,” Lola looks me straight in the eye, “we’ve done this a million times, and you were the one who wanted to bury your fish. Come on.” She puts her hand on my arm and softens her tone. “You can walk around this ballpark blindfolded and still escape without being seen.”

  She’s right, as usual. We’ve been sneaking into Shibe Park for as long as I can remember. Most of the time, we play jacks or cards. Sometimes we just sit in the dugout or gaze up at the stars—nothing to cause alarm. But, for the first time, the image of getting caught sticks with me. A’s manager Connie Mack has promised I can be batboy next year—a real job with steady money. I can’t lose that. Almost every boy in my class at St. Columba wants it. Except for the Polinskis, of course. I can’t imagine them ever having a real job.

  We jog to first base and find the perfect spot for a burial, right where the real Jimmie Foxx stands.

  “I think we should be careful about the dirt,” Lola says, almost to herself. She slowly slides the shovel beneath the dry, brown infield, pulling up a rectangular-shaped piece and laying it to the side. She starts on the small hole as I unpack the bag.

  “What’s the paper for?” I ask.

  “To write something down. Go ahead. We can bury him with it.”

  What do you say about a dead fish? Yes, he was named after my favorite ballplayer—an all-star who everyone respects, and one of the only good players left from our World Series streak a few years ago.

  But this is about more than just our first baseman. It seems strange burying something dead to bring the team back to life. But it’s worked before. It can work again.

  The finger snap in front of my eyes wakes me from the daydream.

  “Jimmy! One minute, you’re shaking in your boots, and the next minute, you’re lollygagging around!”

  We both laugh a little as I start to write:

  Dear Jimmie Foxx,

  You were a good fish.

  I hope you go to Heaven.

  Love, Me

  I would have liked to sign my actual name, but if this box is ever found, “James Martucci Frances III” will get me into some serious trouble. I place the note in the tin box and put it into the hole.

  “Okay,” she says. “You should say something.”

  “Something,” I snort.

  Lola muffles a laugh. “Jimmy, this is a funeral. Say something nice.” She forces a somber tone. “Gram says that death leaves a heartache that no one can heal. You have to say goodbye.”

  “But I just wrote a note!”

  Her eyes don’t flinch.

  “Fine.”

  I look down and stomp on the disturbed ground to flatten it once again. I talk fast. “You were named after the great Jimmie Foxx. He’s a first baseman and bought me a cherry Coca-Cola over at Doc Hoffman’s last summer. He even won
Most Valuable Player a couple of times. I, ah, like how our names are similar. Please bring him luck. Please bring the team luck. Please help them win.” I pause. “Oh, and if you see Lola’s great uncle Ronan, tell him hello.”

  “Amen,” we say together. I fling my bag across my chest, and we head toward our exit—through an employee door on the other side of the ballpark.

  “Hey, that light just went out,” Lola says, looking across to left field.

  We lock eyes, both knowing what that means.

  My feet are moving before I even realize it. We race across the field. Lola is faster than me, and she pulls my hand as we sprint.

  We hop into the stands behind third base, run up the aisle, and hide in the stairwell.

  “Stay here while I check to make sure the coast is clear,” Lola whispers.

  “Wait!” I try to grab her arm, but she’s already gone. I stay still, and my eyes dart between the columns and back down the aisle to the field.

  My breathing echoes throughout Shibe Park. Or is that just in my head?

  The shadows are moving. Or are they?

  I close my eyes and hold my breath. A bead of sweat slides down my face, and I strain to listen for the sound of someone walking. What if they find us? There goes batboy. There goes our freedom in the ballpark. There goes the family business.

  Get a hold of yourself, Jimmy.

  My eyes pop open at the tug on my shirt. Lola’s grin washes away some of my fear, and she motions for me to follow. I don’t think she’ll ever be nervous.

  We tiptoe toward the exit, sliding our backs against walls that seem to never end. We shuffle quietly until we find the door. I unlock it from the inside knob with a loud click, and we both freeze, listening for anyone that might be near us. Lola peeks outside to make sure Lehigh Avenue is empty, jumping back and holding the door closed.

  Someone is walking near the entrance. We silently wait in the darkness.

  Please hurry. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and I can see even Lola taking deep breaths.

  Finally, the coast is clear. We slip through the door and shut it tight. I exhale as we sprint toward the corner.