Goodbye, Mr. Spalding Read online

  We sneak in the shadows down 21st Street past the ticket booth, round the grandstand entrance, and turn at the front tower of Shibe Park onto Lehigh Avenue, around the corner from our houses. We stay close to the stadium wall, giggling nervously, and passing each engraved and arched window quickly.

  I suddenly feel invincible and look up. From this side, I would never guess this is a major league ballpark. It looks more like a castle, or something I might find in Italy or France or some other place I have only read about in books. Lola’s a step ahead and reaches back for my hand to help me catch up.

  “You should have seen your face, Jimmy,” Lola laughs, breaking the silence of the last ten minutes.

  “I knew we’d make it out,” I say, with as much confidence as I can muster. Why was I so nervous? We are safe, Jimmie Foxx is buried, and our luck is about to change.

  “Well it’s a good thing the Polinskis didn’t see you shaking. They’d never let you live it down,” she eggs me on.

  “I wasn’t shaking!” I give her a small shove. “Why do you always bring them up anyway?”

  “Because one day you’re going to stand up to them.”

  “Yeah, sure.” I grin at the thought, knowing that one Polinski brother versus one Jimmy Frank is a lopsided fight. Four Polinskis is a massacre.

  “I’m serious, Jimmy.”

  “No way. Nobody who has ever stood up to them has come out okay. You remember what happened to Matty and Ralph last year.” Lola grimaces at the memory. Their faces were bruised for weeks.

  “They are the worst kind of bullies,” she says.

  “What do you mean? Like there are good bullies?”

  “I mean, they bully you one minute, and expect you to play with them the next.”

  “Well you can’t play half-ball with four kids, so I guess they need us. I just keep my head down and out of their way. I’ll play games when they want me to, and ignore them when they don’t,” I say. “Besides, that one Polinski seems a little different than the rest.”

  “Which one?”

  “The youngest one. I think he’s our age. I don’t know his name,” I say.

  “The only name that matters is Polinski, Polinski, Polinski, Polinski.” She counts them out on her fingers. “One Polinski is the same as the next. They’re all bad.”

  “Even in school, Father Ryan calls them all Mr. Polinski,” I say with a smirk.

  She rolls her eyes and opens her mouth to reply when we both spot people sitting on my porch. We dive toward the row of homes, crouching out of sight.

  “Did they see us?” she whispers.

  “No. It looks like my parents, your dad, Mr. Donahue, and Mr. O’Connor.”

  “That’s strange. Something must be wrong.”

  “Let’s go under.”

  We squat down on the sidewalk out of their sight, peel back the side panel, and slip underneath the porch. We crouch quietly, trying to figure out what is happening to bring out the neighbors at this late hour.

  “I’m surprised it isn’t in the papers yet,” Pop says.

  “Aw, they’re too busy covering that Detroit pitcher Schoolboy Rowe and his winning streak. This doesn’t matter to them,” Mr. O’Connor says. “All this here? This is just for spite. They are finally getting their way.”

  The men are talking in what seems like a riddle. Over the next few minutes, we strain to hear words like lawsuit, ordinance, and municipality. Mr. O’Connor keeps cursing a man named Dilworth. I look to Lola, but she shrugs. I point to my ear and inch closer to their voices.

  “But it will be in the papers soon,” Ma’s breaks into the conversation. Normally cheerful, her voice is low and sad. “No more secret meetings in the middle of the night. We need to tell the kids.” Lola and I lock eyes at the mention of kids.

  “For spite or not, once this happens, there will be no more watching baseball from our rooftops. And gentlemen, there will be nothing we can do about it.”

  3

  If you listen closely, you can hear the whispers in the outfield. That’s what Pop always says. Ghosts of players past, asking for the ball.

  I don’t hear anything right now. The stadium is silent as a photograph. I walk to the mound and look toward home plate. I’m ready for anyone.

  That’s when I hear the voice.

  “Jimmy,” it says softly in the distance. I swing around and search the outfield.

  “Jimmy,” it whispers again, laughing at me.

  “JIMMY FRANK!”

  I jerk awake to a squeaking sound, a foul smell, and something soft and white covering my eyes.

  Underpants.

  “Nina! Cut it out!” I say, squinting and watching my sister collect the laundry across the room. She has opened the bedroom curtain and sunlight is blazing into my eyes.

  “Snap to it, golden boy,” she sneers. “It’s not like you to oversleep on game day.” My body shoots up and I dash out of bed. People will be arriving for the game in no time, and I still have to sweep off the roof.

  I open the window and look across the street to Shibe Park. The ballpark activity is well under way. The groundskeepers are finishing up the infield lines and cleaning off the pitcher’s mound. I’d know the squeaking sound of the line-marker wheels any day.

  The street is loud with that game-day buzz. It’s never as busy as it was a few years ago, but it’s still where all the action happens.

  There is a chill in the air this morning. It’s been such a long, hot summer. Maybe the cooler day will bring the team back to life. Well, the cooler day and a dead fish.

  “Jimmy Frank, come down here!” I look down to see the Polinski brothers putting together a game of half-ball. They need more kids for a full game and are waving for me to join. “Get down here. Now.”

  I shake my head. “Chores!” I yell down and slide just to the left of my window, out of their sight. I’m relieved to have a real excuse to avoid them today.

  A honk grabs my attention. Clouds of dust and dirt surround two police officers on horseback who are trying to clear one last car, and the street is becoming more crowded each minute. There is a Red Hots’ sausage cart setting up, and a few men in suits and hats are heading toward the ticket window. The smell of crisp Italian sausage makes its way to my nose, and my stomach grumbles.

  I grab my knickers out of the laundry basket, put on my lucky A’s cap, and fill my army bag with all the goodies I’ve collected for today’s game. I have a special treat for Lola. I make my way into the hallway and climb up the ladder, through the skylight, and onto our rooftop.

  I try not to think about the conversation we heard under the porch. Or the half-conversation we heard. Whatever they were talking about in the middle of the night makes me worry. But when I go through the skylight, all these thoughts are overcome by blue skies, bright sun, and a cool breeze perfect for baseball.

  My pre-game chores are easy. I sweep the roof in no time, give Ma a peck on the cheek, and eat one of her famous roast-pork sandwiches for breakfast. Pop is wiping off the bleachers as Nina tries to convince him to let her miss the game and go to her friend Kate’s house.

  “No. You’ll stay here and tend to our guests,” he says, continuing to clean.

  “Maaaaaa.” Nina stomps away and Pop shakes his head.

  “We have the best view in the city. How can you not love baseball?” he asks her, knowing the question will go unanswered. “I hope it’ll be a big crowd today.” Pop looks over to me.

  “Sure thing, Pop,” I reply. Nina is imitating me with a silent and overexaggerated Sure thing, Pop behind him.

  “It’s a great day for a game.” He slaps me on the back and looks up. “There is nothing like a baseball game on a sunny afternoon.”

  I give him a you bet nod. Ma squeezes my shoulder, and we all look over to the Shibe Park grounds. Neither of them seems upset. Maybe last night was nothing? Pop kisses her cheek and whispers something into her ear, which makes her smile. Ma has the best smile.

  People are sta
rting to arrive on our rooftop. Most are popping up through the skylight, but a few have made it all the way up from the back ladder that runs down all three stories to the ground.

  “Hold up, Miss,” I say, as one lady catches her dress on the top of the ladder. I take her hand and release the dress. Nina sticks her finger down her throat like she’s going to throw up.

  “You sure have a good kid here,” Mr. Fletcher says, shaking my hand and looking across the street as the Shibe Park stands fill up. “Bet this view never gets old. Shibe is a fool if he takes this awa—”

  “Good to see you, Fletch.” Pop cuts him off and shakes his head just a little, as if to say “no.”

  The conversation from last night rushes back to me.

  “Well,” Mr. Fletcher replies, glancing quickly from Pop, to me, and back to Pop. “Say, did ya hear there was another break-in on 22nd Street? They hit two shops this time,” he continues, awkwardly changing the subject.

  “No, I didn’t. I was at our store this morning. No break-in for us,” Pop says.

  “I bet it was those darn Polinski brothers again. You stayin’ away from those boys?” Mr. Fletcher directs his question back to me.

  “Um. Mostly, sir. But what exactly did you mean about …”

  “Nothing but trouble, those Polinskis. Don’t forget the ’31 World Series,” he continues. “Stole from your father’s store. Money out of your own hands. And right there in the middle of game three.”

  He is going out of his way to stay on this subject, but no matter what he says, Shibe is a fool if he takes this away circles my thoughts.

  “You should’ve never let them go.” He turns back to Pop, who rolls his eyes.

  “They were just little kids. Their father was in jail.”

  “Seems like he’s always in jail. Teach ’em early. That’s what I always say. Now they strut around here like they own the place.”

  “Yes, well …” Pop becomes lost in his own thoughts. Mr. Fletcher is right. Getting away with that break-in was when it all changed. They went from being neighborhood kids to neighborhood bullies. The worst part? They thought I snitched on them. And they’ve never let me forget it.

  “I need to finish,” I say, holding up the broom. They seem to have forgotten why Mr. Fletcher brought the Polinskis up in the first place—to distract me. It didn’t work, anyway. I need to tell Lola about what I just heard: Old-man Shibe is a fool if he takes this away.

  “Pssst, Lola.” I wave her over.

  “What?”

  “Mr. Fletcher just …” I whisper in her ear.

  “Aw, aren’t you two cute!” Nina interrupts, loud enough for everyone to look.

  “You sure are grouchy today,” Lola scoffs at her, but we quickly separate and avoid each other for a while.

  I take twenty-five cents from each person and give it to Ma, who puts it into her front apron pocket. She smiles each time and loudly says across the rooftop, Thank you, Mr. so-and-so. I see her counting the money. With the sunny skies, a Sunday game, and Ma’s food, I bet we can make ten dollars today. And with the way Ma can bargain, ten dollars will buy us food for more than a week.

  I’m deep in my thoughts as the dugouts fill up with the Philadelphia Athletics and Boston Red Sox players. I need to shake off the distractions and find my seat. It’s time for Rule #11: Watch every single Philadelphia Athletics home game from our rooftop, no matter what.

  4

  I make my way around the stands and take my spot on the front right corner edge of our bleachers. From here, I can see everything in the ballpark—every pitch, every fly ball, every run. It also lets me sit right next to Lola, who sits on the far left edge of her bleachers.

  The stands behind us—ten elevated, wooden rows on top of our flat roof—are now filled with all kinds of folks chatting away. Random bits of conversation break through the noise:

  … six daughters and one on the way …

  … leaving town, heading back to Ireland …

  … textile workers are striking just before midnight …

  … the bank is taking their home …

  Not one conversation is about baseball. What makes an adult come out to a ballpark and not concentrate on the game is a mystery to me. I try to put everything out of my mind and focus on the game.

  It’ll be strange to see Lefty Grove, the A’s former all-star, playing against Jimmie Foxx and Bing Miller and all of the A’s players I love. It’s probably strange for him to play against his friends. But he left and took more money in the big player trade of ’33, when Connie Mack signed away most of our key players to “rebuild” the team.

  “Hogwash,” Pop always says. “There’s no rebuilding, Jimmy. If you ask me, all we got out of it was fewer folks on our roof buying seats and spending money.”

  Lola arrives and pulls out her journal. I watch her write “September 1, 1934” on the corner. She sees me looking, slams it shut, and gives me a “friendly” push forward that’s hard enough to knock me right off my seat. I laugh until I realize the Polinski brothers were watching from the street and give a howl in my direction.

  “Geez, Lola! Why can’t you be more like other girls?” I snap. She scowls at me with her squinty eyes. I quickly look away and rummage through the bag to make sure nothing has fallen out. I can feel my face grow redder and redder, until Lola finally gives in and cracks a smile. Her face lights up. Sometimes, I don’t know if I want her to be more like a boy or more like a girl.

  “Alright, Jimmy Frank, let’s see what you got today,” she says.

  I sit down and pull the bag from over my shoulder. I carefully pull out each item, placing them on our legs.

  “One box of candy cigarettes. A bag of boiled peanuts.”

  She’s pretending to fall asleep at my slow reveal, which makes me draw the process out even longer.

  “Two licorice sticks. One Peanut Chews.”

  Behind us, I place two black-cherry pops, our book of rules, and my lucky baseball, the first home run ball I ever caught. The bat must have hit the ball smack in the middle, because I can only make out the S and the G from the word Spalding written across the center.

  I also take out the canteen of water and the latest issue of the Saturday Evening Post that came in yesterday’s mail. She sees that and grabs it.

  “Well?” I say. Today was my day to bring the snacks, a rule we added last April when the A’s finally started playing on Sundays. Rule #23: Take turns bringing snacks to Sunday games. I’ve been collecting them for two weeks.

  “Not bad,” she says casually. I know she’s impressed, by the way her lips are curling up at each end.

  I save the best for last.

  “And one pack of Valomilk.” I take the orange and brown wrapped candy out of the bag and place it on Lola’s leg.

  “Not bad at all.” She rips it open and bites, as gooey marshmallow oozes out. “Where’d you get the money for all this?”

  “I’ve been making deliveries for the pharmacy on 22nd street. Ten cents a run.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “To surprise you,” I say quietly so that Nina can’t hear me. “You know when I’m batboy next year, I won’t be able to watch the games with you.” My cheeks flush a little, and she doesn’t say anything at first. Her eyes are still looking ahead, and her lips are pursed shut.

  “Yes, well, I’ll be too busy anyway,” she finally says. “Doing something important, like writing for The Bulletin or advising President Roosevelt, or running my own ball club, for girls.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I say without kidding around. “I really just wish you could come with me. You know, like as a bat girl.”

  Lola looks directly at me.

  “Jimmy Frank! Do you think the great and powerful Connie Mack could ever possibly allow a girl into the dugout?”

  “It’s just a wish, Lola,” I say. “And besides, why not? I mean, there’s got to be some baseball owners that are girls.”

  “Women,” Lola co
rrects me. “Don’t worry, Jimmy. I’ll break some sort of barrier one day. I just don’t think it will be as bat girl for the A’s.”

  Ralph and Matty, the twins from 24th Street, jump on either side of us. The rest of our bottom row is empty, but the stands behind us have filled up nicely. I glance back—there must be twenty people here.

  “It’s game day!” Matty says, with his permanent goofy grin. They start to grab for the snacks, and Lola swats at their hands. I quickly shove everything back into my bag.

  “Where’s Santa?” I ask. Stanley St. Nick lives near Ralph and Matty on 24th Street. The three of them are always together.

  “Pa said they were packing up their store today,” Ralph replies.

  “So, that’s really happening.” I slump back on the bench.

  “Yep. Their rent is too high,” Lola says. “You know it’s double on a corner.”

  “Where am I gonna buy my baseball cards?” Matty asks. Lola shoots him a look, and he shrinks a little.

  “Pa said Mr. St. Nick was down at the dock in Fishtown looking for some work,” Ralph says. “And he’s gonna try the Tastykake factory. They’re looking for wagon drivers.”

  “Hey! Santa can sneak us free snack cakes,” Matty adds. Lola promptly smacks the back of his head.

  “But those factory jobs fill quick. Besides, that’s all the way down in Hunting Park,” I say.

  “At least it’s in the city. It’s better than moving,” Ralph says.

  “Moving?”

  “They have family in Brooklyn,” Matty adds. “Maybe they’ll move to New York.”

  “Or go back to Ireland,” Lola says.

  We become silent, worry slowly washing over all of us. We’ve heard these stories before, but this is one of us. It feels closer, and I look at my friends. It’s Santa today, but it could be any of us tomorrow.

  5

  For the first time in my life, it’s hard to concentrate on the game. I try to tune out all my worries. We watch the players make their way out to the field.

  Lola stretches behind me and takes her journal, a tattered book filled and filled and filled with words on the front and back of each page. I think it’s a combination of diary entries, short stories, and pretend newspaper articles. She says she’s going to be a publisher, or a novelist, or another Sarah Hale, whatever that means. She’s always throwing around names of important women that I don’t know.