Beyond them is the ring-a-bottle toss. “Come on,” I say, pulling her. “They have goldfish prizes. It’s five cents a toss. That’s five tries.”
“Duh,” she laughs. “Let me go first.”
“No way! Like you said, it’s my pet fish. I have to win for it to be lucky. And if I win on the first try, we can still buy some funnel cake and give a dime back to Ma.”
“First try!” Lola laughs again. “I won’t hold my breath.”
“Lola, if I land it on the first try, this fish will bring us luck and that wall will not go up.”
“Well, here’s hoping.” She stands aside. Santa, Ralph, and Matty show up, and all eyes are on me.
I give the money to Sister Lucille, the nun running the game and a teacher at St. Mary’s. She hands me the ring and I concentrate.
“So serious, this one,” Sister Lucille says to Lola.
The noise around me is muffled except for Lola’s “Come on, Jimmy. Light toss, Jimmy.” I fix my gaze on a milk bottle near the middle, flick my wrist, and toss the ring.
I hold my breath as it bounces off one bottle and skims the others, only to land on the very last corner bottle. It shifts, and just like that, settles around the bottleneck. We all jump up and down and squeal like three-year-olds.
“Winner,” Sister Lucille says with dry enthusiasm. “Now pick out a fish.”
I hold up my new fish, and we look into the jar from opposite sides. Lola’s eyes look especially big through the water, and her hair glows as the sun is beginning to set behind us.
“So, what’s his name?” she asks.
“I have to think of a good one.” I watch the bright orange fish slowly swimming in circles without a care in the world. He makes his way to the surface in search of food. I realize that I’m hungry too.
The fair is winding down. Hal, our favorite pretzel vendor from Shibe Park, is closing up and waves us over.
“Here, take the extras home.” He hands us a bag of hot, soft pretzels. “No sense in wasting.”
“Thanks!” we both say at the same time. I give one each to Ralph, Matty, and Santa on their way out.
“Oh wow,” Santa says. “Pa will love it.”
“Hey, you want to take the rest home?” I offer, remembering they packed up the store earlier today.
“Maybe one more for Ma?” he says, and his cheeks flush with embarrassment. I hand him half the bag.
“Thanks, Jimmy.” He gives me a final wave and follows Matty and Ralph toward home.
With everything closed, we make our way to the far end of the park, away from the fair.
For a brief time, we had forgotten all about the wall.
We settle at the Reyburn roundabout, a metal disk that spins like a small merry-go-round. Lola sits on the edge, leaning her shoulder and head on one of the handles. She dangles her legs to the ground, slowly moving it in circles with her feet.
“Bing Miller,” I say to Lola, still looking at my new good-luck charm through his small glass jar. “I’m going to name him Bing Miller. If he’s going to bring luck with this right-field wall, then I’m going to name him after our right fielder.”
“Sounds good,” Lola says with her eyes closed, soaking in the setting sun.
I put Bing Miller in the shade of a tree, sit down, and lay back in the tall, thick grass.
No worries. Just peace and quiet.
“It sure does sound final,” Lola finally says, breaking the silence. So much for no worries. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”
I choose not to respond and just let her keep chattering away. She’s been itching to talk about the wall since we left the rooftop. Her voice becomes softer and louder as she moves the roundabout in circles.
A cloud rolls in, and I wait patiently for the sun to come back out. I barely hear Lola mumbling something on the far end of her circular trip. Her voice is strained, and the words become clear.
“I said: CUT IT OUT!”
My eyes pop open. It’s not clouds blocking the sun, but one of the Polinski brothers, whose dirty smile stretches across his face. He rests his right foot on my chest as I try to rise up.
“Don’t even think about it, Jimmy Frank,” he grunts.
Again, I hear Lola cry out. I crane my neck up to see her clinging to the metal handle of the roundabout. Two other Polinskis have taken hold of the ride and are running it in circles, picking up speed. Lola is yelling for them to stop, but they just keep laughing and egging each other on.
I don’t have a good view, but it looks like the youngest Polinski brother walks over and tries to stop it, without success. She passes in flashes, going by too fast for me to help. If her hand slips, she will fly off and crash on the hard ground. Again I try to sit up, but the Polinski steps harder on my chest.
“Aw, Jimmy Frank. Is that your girlfriend?” he taunts.
“Hey Polinskis!” I yell at them. “Quit picking on a girl!”
They immediately let go. The roundabout continues to circle, with its momentum doing the work now. The three other Polinski brothers come toward me like they’ve been looking for a fight all day. The oldest brother crouches down to my level.
“What was that?” he says, close to my face.
“Come on, guys. I said leave her alone. She didn’t do anything to you.” My voice cracks.
“You can’t talk to us like that. You hear me?”
“Yeah, sure guys,” I say, trying again to shift out from under the boot.
“I don’t think you did,” one of them says while they grab my wrists and ankle. “And you know what we can do to you.”
Only my left leg is free, until the oldest Polinski points to his youngest brother and motions for him to grab my foot.
“Let’s just leave them be,” the youngest brother replies.
“Get it now!” he says with such force that the Polinski jumps to attention and picks up my foot. We make eye contact before he quickly looks away. Pinned down and completely helpless, I hold my breath and stare up at the clouds, waiting for the first strike.
“I know, guys. Come on, we didn’t do anything to you,” I plead.
“You were spyin’ on us earlier. Now how can we be sure you won’t snitch?”
“Snitch on what?” I say in a panic.
“Let’s scram before they catch us,” the oldest one says. I strain to lift my head and see Sister Lucille and another nun walking near us, heading toward the exit.
The other brothers let go of my arms and legs and follow, except the one with his foot on my chest.
“I said come on,” the oldest one snips. He picks up our bag of hot soft pretzels and takes them with him.
The Polinski brother takes his foot off and I exhale. I try to catch my breath, turn on my side, and start to cough uncontrollably. I look up toward the roundabout when I feel a stabbing pain to my head. I grunt as my eyes blur with tears and my head slumps back to the ground.
“Keep your mouth shut or you’ll have more than just a boot to the face,” he says as he walks away to catch up with his brothers.
I try to focus my eyes on Lola, who is now in the grass and doubled over, clutching her stomach.
“Jimmy?” I hear her say as my head rests back on the ground. She crawls over to me and collapses. Lying under the tree, we take deep breaths.
“One day, we’ll figure out the right way to handle them,” she says, finally breaking the silence.
“Lola, there is no right way to handle them.”
“We’ll see about that.” She pulls me up and reaches for my eye. “Ouch.”
“Is it that bad?” I touch my eye and wince.
“You could say, ‘you should see the other guy.’” She forces an uneasy laugh.
“I can’t. They’ll know the other guys were the Polinskis.”
“Right. It’s always the Polinskis.”
8
Crowd of 33,318 jams Shibe Park.
—The Sporting News, September 6, 1934
A we
ek later and my bruised eye has changed from black to a greenish yellow. I lie in my bed, trying to read a copy of Boys’ Life. The team has been on the road, and except for school, it’s been easy to avoid everyone.
I tidy my room just to keep busy. I make my bed, lay the afghan across the top, and tuck in the sides. I grab the fish food and peer into the bowl.
“Here you go, Bing.” He swims to the top and pokes at his dinner. “What are we gonna do?” I ask the goldfish.
“Jimmy,” Ma yells from downstairs. “Dinner’s almost ready. Mrs. Carson is joining us.”
“Aw, Ma. Do I have to eat with everyone?” I ask, knowing the answer already. “Can Lola come for dinner?”
“Can I bring my friends, too?” Pop yells from the kitchen.
“Very funny.” Ma giggles and then calls back up. “It’s Sunday—just make sure her parents haven’t planned something. And as long as she’s ready in ten minutes.”
I rush to the window and ring the Bingle, put on my lucky A’s cap, and run up the skylight.
“What’s going on?” Lola says a minute later.
“Come over for dinner. It’s just me with Nina and Mrs. Carson. It’ll be awful without you there.”
“Why is that so bad?” she says.
“Mrs. Carson is fine, but Nina’s been miserable lately. I’ll be miserable without you.”
“I don’t know. Buck Rogers is coming on the radio soon.” She scrunches her face like it’s a hard choice, but I know she just wants me to beg.
“Look at my eye!” I rip off my cap. “Don’t you feel sorry for me?” I can’t help my grin.
“That is so pathetic,” she says laughing. “Okay, let me check.”
Ten minutes later, we are seated in the living room. Pop is pouring Mrs. Carson some whisky, Ma and Nina are in the kitchen, and Lola and I squish together on the sofa. Benny Goodman’s “Moonglow” drifts through the house from the radio.
“Healing well I see?” Mrs. Carson says to me. I can’t tell if it’s a statement or a question, and I smile awkwardly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“The Polinskis?” she presses.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Want me to change the subject?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Lola blurts out a laugh like she’s been holding it in for hours.
“Very well,” Mrs. Carson grins. “How’s school, Lola?”
“Fine, thank you,” Lola says, sitting up straighter.
“And what are you learning right now?”
“Nothing good. It’s all girl stuff.”
“And that’s a problem?” Mrs. Carson laughs.
“Yes. We learn how to type. We have cooking and sewing classes. And all the girls talk about is boys and hairstyles and boys and clothes. And boys.”
Mrs. Carson laughs again and shakes her head.
“What do you want them to talk about?” Pop asks.
“Anything else!” Lola says, and the words begin to tumble out of her mouth. “Why can’t girl stuff be science? What about Marie Curie? Or the Equal Rights Amendment? Or at least going to college before getting married!”
“College would suit you well,” Mrs. Carson says, and Lola’s face brightens with one of the biggest grins I have ever seen.
Ma rings the dinner bell, interrupting our conversation. Nina puts the finishing touches on the place settings in the dining room, and we all take our seats. Pop sits at the head of the table, and Mrs. Carson takes the other end.
“The table looks beautiful,” Mrs. Carson says with a genuine smile. In front of us are our formal china plates and crystal glasses. Most of them are now chipped and mismatched. In the middle is a large covered soup tureen.
Pop leads us in a prayer and ends with: “We love our bread, we love our butter, but most of all we love each other.” Ma smiles as we all say Amen.
Ma opens the lid and starts to dish out piles of cubed potatoes and sliced hot dogs. Lola and I grin from ear to ear as a mound of Poor Man’s Meal sits before us.
“It’s not much,” Ma says, shaking her head.
“It’s GREAT,” I say, my mouth full of savory hot dogs fried in butter and onions. Lola smiles in agreement.
“Say, did anyone see the evening Bulletin?” Mrs. Carson asks.
“Not yet, ma’am,” Lola replies. “Anything good?”
“Some updates on that right-field wall.”
“What do they say?” I ask urgently. Lola’s eyes catch mine and grow wide.
“I read it. No real change for us,” Pop says. “We’ll let you know when there’s something important to share.”
“That wall is ruining everything,” Nina says, pushing her food around.
“What do you care? You don’t even like baseball,” I say.
“You don’t know anything,” she mumbles under her breath and turns to Mrs. Carson. “So, what will happen to you when the wall is built?”
“Nina,” Ma urges.
“It’s fine. It’s fine.” Mrs. Carson shrugs. “Oh, dear. What will I do? Try to find another way to make some extra money. Maybe I’ll mend socks or make fudge or rent out a room. I can host a coffee klatch. Five cents a person.” Mrs. Carson looks to me. “We’ll have to be creative, I suppose.”
“What’s a coffee klatch?” Lola asks.
“Just a gathering,” Ma says. “A way for folks to socialize.”
“Maybe we can do that, too?” Nina perks up a bit. “What do you think? We can have one every Sunday after church.”
“We can talk about it later, honey.” Pop pats her hand.
“Why later?” Nina cries. Her sudden change in mood startles us all. “May I please be excused?”
“Yes, dear,” Ma says. “We’ll clean up.” Nina runs from the table, and Lola and I exchange looks.
“What was that all about?” I ask.
“She’s upset. We’ve asked her to help us out more,” Pop says.
“More hours at the store?”
“No. To find a real job. We told her last Sunday morning,” he adds.
“We’re depending on her more than we should depend on a fifteen-year-old,” Ma sighs. “But we don’t want you to worry about it. You’re too young to work, or we would have asked you, too.”
“I’m not too young to work,” I urge.
“Not yet,” Ma says and pats me on the back. “Nina’s old enough to start a real job and bring home a real paycheck.”
“Does she need to quit high school?” Lola asks.
“We aren’t quite there,” Ma says, “but she had her own ideas for the future and she is having trouble adjusting to this reality.”
“Like college?” Lola asks.
“Everyone is adjusting,” Mrs. Carson says. “It’ll affect all of us a little differently. And not just all of us,” she waves her hand around the table. “Think of all those home run hitters, too,” she says with a smirk and continues eating.
I lower my head and stare at the empty plate. Lola and I don’t say a word for the rest of the meal. The adults keep talking about the neighborhood, the news, the church. Mrs. Carson loves the gossip, and Pop is indulging her.
“Can I go out?” Nina says, appearing from the doorway in her coat. “Kate heard there are some jobs at The Hop Inn and we’re going to stop by. They close at eight.”
“Certainly,” Ma says and turns to me. “Would you both like to scoot out, too?”
“Yes, ma’am,” we say in unison.
“Can I take the paper?” I add.
“Of course.” She sees our clean plates and a look of satisfaction comes across her face. We leave as Ma and Mrs. Carson retire to the living room while Pop fixes them an after-dinner drink.
“Let’s go into Shibe,” Lola whispers, and I nod. She stuffs the paper in my army bag. We patiently wait for the street to clear and climb the wall. Easy as pie. We settle in the dugout, sitting on the bench and looking drearily at our rooftops in the distance.
Lola quickly reads the articl
e, updating me as she goes along.
“They grouped our families together and tried to sue everyone on the street,” she says.
“Everyone? Why would they do that? What else?” I say impatiently.
“Looks like the fire marshal was involved. Now our parents are suing back to stop the wall from being built. But it doesn’t look good.”
“I guess anyone can build anything they want on their own property. We can build bleachers. They can build a wall.”
“Exactly,” she says. “And the Spite Fence will be built by the start of the next season.”
“Spite Fence?” I look up sharply.
“That’s what they are calling it,” she says. “The Spite Fence.” I stare at right field and feel a strange charge. The Spite Fence. The name burns in me.
“They can’t do this,” I say in frustration. “Shibe Park had such a big crowd last week.”
“That’s only because that Detroit pitcher was going for his 17th straight win.”
“Did I show you this?” I pull out today’s copy of The Sporting News and read, “The Shibe Park management expected a good turn-out, but nothing like the mob that stormed the park. World Series scenes were revived on Lehigh Avenue …”
“I read that, too. Don’t just read the parts you want to hear.” Lola takes the newspaper from me. She scans the print. “Attendance on most days at Shibe Park this year has been small, and the record crowd is all the more remarkable as a consequence.”
“I wonder how many home runs Jimmie Foxx has hit to right field.”
“Who knows?”
“A lot I bet.”
“Why does that matter?”
“Didn’t you hear Mrs. Carson tonight? She said, ‘think of all those home run hitters.’” I spring up. “Lola, they really can’t do this while Foxx is still on the team!”
“Sure, they can. They can do anything they want.”
“Not if someone … not if we can convince them of why it’s such a bad idea!”
“Aw, come on, all of our parents can’t do anything but we are going to do something? Is that right?” Lola says. She climbs the three dugout steps and motions for me to follow.
Goodbye, Mr. Spalding Page 4