“Hey, when were you ever one to back away from a challenge?”
“What challenge? And be serious, Jimmy. Your crazy schemes and daydreamer ideas are not going to stop it. Read the article again.”
I ignore her and continue. “But without that home run, they would have lost! And don’t forget my lucky fish. That was your idea!”
“Yes, Jimmy. Without that home run, they would have lost. And now you have a lucky fish. And without some sleep, I’m never going to make it through Sister Lucille’s handwriting lesson. And if we are caught doing anything crazy, you’re out as batboy.”
We leave through the back door and continue our normal walk home, but I can’t let it go. I pull Lola into the shadows of the grandstand entrance and hold both her shoulders.
“I have an idea. A really good idea.” I’m grinning from ear to ear. “Just hear me out.”
“Okay, okay. Settle down!” she says.
“You mark my words, Lola. I am going to save our view.”
9
To think of a team equipped with such a brilliant infield and a mighty outfield as the Athletics, finishing in seventh place, suggests a problem very difficult to fathom.
—The Sporting News, September 20, 1934
It’s been three weeks since we found out about the Spite Fence, two weeks since I came up with a plan to save the view, and one week since Lola and I figured out exactly how to make it happen. Today is the day.
I pace on Lola’s porch, waiting for her to walk to school. Where is she? I lean against the rail, picking at the peeling paint. I rang that bell five minutes ago. She should be out here by now.
“Jimmy Frank!” Lola’s mother bursts out the door in her housecoat and slippers. I jump off the ledge and stand straight up.
“Good morning, Mrs. Sheridan.” I clear my throat. I’m not used to her tone and answer more formally than usual. She looks from me, to the peeled paint, then back to me.
“Are you planning on painting our porch, dear?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, then, I would appreciate it if you didn’t ruin what paint is left,” she sighs.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
Lola finally makes her way outside and saves me. She looks at the two of us, grabs me by my bag, and pulls me down the steps.
“See ya, Ma,” she calls. I wave and turn away.
“I think I just ruined your Mom’s morning,” I say.
“Nah,” Lola says. “She’s always like that now.” We wave to Mrs. Carson like we do every morning. She waves back from her porch.
“Ma’s like that now, too,” I confess a few steps later. “She just keeps saying that she’s ‘waiting for the day’ for the team to take their hardware business elsewhere. But I don’t know. I just can’t see that happening.”
“What do you mean you just can’t see that happening? It’s not just a wall, Jimmy. You have to know that.” We are crossing 23rd Street now, and some other kids are making their way out of their homes. She ignores them and continues.
“Think about it. They sued us to take down the stands, and they lost. Now we are suing them to stop the wall from being built. Whether we win or lose, there are going to be bad feelings.”
“You sound like an adult.”
“Just repeating what the adults are saying,” she replies.
“So, does your Mom think they’ll give the uniforms to someone else, just because you live on 20th Street?”
“Who knows. But she’s nervous,” she says. “And you should be nervous too.”
“What? Why?”
“I wonder if they’ll still give batboy to someone who has bleachers on their roof.” Lola eyes me, looking for a reaction. I keep looking forward.
“I guess we’ll see,” I say firmly. I am not going to let them take this away too. I change the subject. “After the doubleheader today, we’ll be on the right track.” She just looks at me and smiles. I’m not sure she actually believes our plan is going to work.
“So, let’s go over it again,” she says, trying to sound positive. “I’ll pretend to be Jimmie Foxx.”
“Okay,” I reply.
“Son, my home runs usually go to left field,” Lola says in a deep voice.
“Not the last one,” I mumble, and Lola stops in her tracks.
“That’s not good enough. Try again. You have to be able to convince the great Jimmie Foxx, an MVP, of why he has to go up against Shibe and Mack.”
“You’re right.” I straighten up and clear my throat. “Mr. Foxx, two years ago you missed the home run record by only three runs. There are always a few that go to right field. And if you want to chase that record, building a wall will almost guarantee you never reach it.”
“That’s better,” she says. “Listen, you don’t know how much time you’ll have before they kick you out. I can’t be there with you, so every word you say has to mean something.”
Lola always knows how to put things into perspective.
“I wish you could go in with me,” I say.
“Jimmy, we both know a girl in the clubhouse will draw too much attention. Besides, they’re not ready for me yet.”
“Probably not.”
“Now, I’ll help you sneak inside Shibe Park. Just remember everything we talked about. It’s a doubleheader, so try to speak to him before game one starts. Be strong. Don’t stumble over your words. And remember Rule #4: Look people in the eye.” Lola smiles nervously as she says this, noticing Santa, Ralph, Matty, and a few other boys waiting for me on the next block. The Polinski brothers are also approaching the group from the other direction.
“I gotta go,” I say quickly.
“How can you still walk to school with them?” she points to my eye.
“It’ll be worse if I don’t.” My face becomes hot. “There is no way to avoid them. I just have to act like everything is normal.”
“I will never, ever, understand boys,” she exclaims, and turns right to head to her school. “I’ll see you in six hours.” Her voice trails off as she walks away.
My stomach swirls with nerves. If I can make it through today, sneak into the ballpark, and find Jimmie Foxx, everything will be okay. But first, I just have to get through the Polinskis. Unharmed.
10
I join the boys on the next block. I hang behind the group, avoiding eye contact with the Polinskis. They haven’t said much to me since the roundabout, but seeing me with Lola might prompt girlfriend-taunts and insults. Lucky for me, they seem less interested in beating anyone up and more interested in baseball. Every conversation centers on the Spite Fence.
“My dad has a friend, who has a friend who works at the courthouse, who says the judge is probably going to side with the A’s,” Matty says.
“My old man says you can build whatever you want on your own damn property,” the oldest Polinski grunts in his father’s gruff voice. “I hope they build that wall.” He spits to the side, hitting Santa’s shoe. Ralph catches Santa’s eye and shakes his head, as if to say keep quiet.
We turn toward St. Columba, the Irish church and boys’ school. I continue to lag behind the group. As they walk ahead, I wonder what would happen if I actually did what Lola always says I should. I close my eyes, picturing the moment.
“Hey Polinski,” I’d shout. “We aren’t your punching bags. Keep your hands to yourself from now on!” All the neighborhood kids would be impressed as the brothers run down the block. Ralph, Matty, and Santa would pat me on the back with you did it! and good job! coming from all directions. Lola would be on a nearby stoop, watching with a big grin.
I come back to reality when I stumble on the cobblestone, barely catching myself before falling. Everyone turns and laughs. I laugh nervously and continue to walk.
Finally, at school, I can relax. With adults around, the Polinskis will keep away, at least a little. We all stand in front of the brick church. The large, round, stained-glass window is glistening in the morning sun, shooting colorful diamo
nds on the steps as we walk into school. I look up at its image of Jesus with outstretched arms, a yellow glow encircling him. The rumor is that if you catch him looking you straight in the eye, it will bring good luck. I stretch my neck to catch his gaze, but no luck today.
Father Ryan greets us as we enter, shooing us into the class and closing the doors tight. He runs the place with his own set of rules, and being on time is a big one. We sit alphabetically, with hats off, good posture, and no talking. There is only one large classroom for the school, which means the four Polinski brothers are a couple rows behind me.
“Take out your pencils,” he says, handing out our black and white writing journals. “We are going to do a little exercise. Who can tell me what it means to be spiteful?”
The room buzzes at the word “spite.”
“You all know I’m a baseball fan,” he lectures, waving his arms to highlight the A’s pennants all over the room. “And with all this talk about the Spite Fence, I think a lesson in spite is appropriate. Now, Mr. Frances, can you tell me what it means to be spiteful?”
I squirm in my seat and straighten my back. “Yes, Father. You are spiteful when you do something just to, ah, spite someone else.”
Someone snickers behind me.
“Yes, son.” Father is now standing beside my desk, looking forward. “And what does that mean? To, as you say, spite someone else.”
“Well. To do it just to be mean. To do it because you want to get back at someone.”
“Very good.” He starts walking up and down the aisle. “Mr. Frances, have you ever done something out of spite?”
He cannot be serious.
“Yes, sir.” My face is hot. I’m not in confession. I start searching in my head for something that I did to Nina. Something not too embarrassing. Like the time I threw her stuffed Teddy Roosevelt bear out the window into the street below. I squirm in my seat.
“I would imagine we all have done something spiteful in our lives.” He lets me off the hook. I exhale and look at Matty, who puts his hand over his mouth to stop from laughing. I look down as I hold in my own laugh, too.
“I probably did a few things myself as a boy,” he continues. “Even in the Bible, there are stories about spite. And it goes on today. There are several reasons why someone might become spiteful.” Father makes his way to the chalkboard. “Can anyone tell me some of these reasons?”
Some kids around me are raising their hands. They say things like “hurt feelings.” Someone behind me mentions an unfair game of half-ball, and others talk about parents losing jobs or having to shut down a family business.
I raise my hand and wait for him to call on me.
“Greed,” I say.
“Yes, Mr. Frances. Greed. Well done.” He writes the word up on the blackboard and stands in front of all of us. “And let me tell you why building that wall at Shibe Park is full of greed and spite.”
11
School ends, finally. I walk slowly and stop to tie my shoe, letting everyone else go ahead of me.
I try to walk casually toward Shibe and the doubleheader, but the excitement quickens my steps and I have to consciously slow myself down. I say hello to some of the grandparents sitting on their porches on 23rd Street, and turn at Santa’s old corner store, now boarded up. A block later, I finally give in and run the rest of the way to Shibe Park, hopping over curbs and faintly hearing a where you goin’ in such a rush? from someone to my left.
I arrive just in time to see the groups of kids walk up. Lola is heading toward me, and Operation Knothole Gang is ready to go. We both study the crowd.
“Just like any other Knothole Gang day,” she says. “We’ll blend right in. Time for Rule #15: Watch games from inside the ballpark on Knothole Gang days.”
“Yep. They’re wearing red today.” I rummage through my bag, searching through the colored badges left on the ground after games. Over the years we’ve collected them all—blue, yellow, green. I pull out two red badges looking good as new.
“Where are they from today?” she wonders aloud.
“I don’t know. Maybe West Philly? Or the suburbs? Sure is a big crowd.”
“I wonder who paid for all their tickets. That’s got to be an awful lot of money.”
“And our ticket,” I grin, handing her the badge and chain. She slides it over her head.
“Well whoever it is, I bet they’d help us stop that wall from being built. We’ll all have to watch games through the knotholes in the fence if it goes up.”
“That’s not going to happen. Not after our plan works,” I say and motion for us to join the crowd.
We lag a little behind the group as they head inside, and I scan the turnstile for a ticket-taker who doesn’t already know me. Normally, this is all a breeze, but today there is more at stake. My heart thumps a few times, and I stop for a minute to catch my breath.
“Over here,” Lola says, looking back and resting her hand on my arm. “It’s easy-peasy. We’ve done this before.” I nod.
We choose the ticket-taker on the right, and slide in line behind two ladies chatting over what concession food to eat first. They decide on Wilbur’s Famous Chocolate. That sounds pretty good to me.
The first lady quickly enters the ballpark, but the second one is having trouble with the turnstile, an old, rusty piece of junk with black paint chipping off the top. It jams and traps her as she tries to push it forward.
“Hold on, Miss. I’ll help.” I take the metal section behind her and place my hands on top of the bar, ready to push. The ticket-taker slips his hand into the section in front of her, ready to pull.
“One, two, three,” I say. Together we push–pull. The turnstile jerks, lurching the lady forward and into the ballpark corridor. I follow with a stumble, and I hear her cry out in pain. A small blood trail reveals a tiny cut on her leg, thanks to what looks like a broken, rusty pedal at the turnstile base.
“That doesn’t look too good, Miss,” I say. “We can show you to the first aid station.”
Lola comes through the turnstile next, and we brush the rust and dirt off our clothes. The line begins to back up, and the ticket-taker gives us a grateful nod and points in the direction of the first aid station. I assure him that I know the way, and together we disappear into the Shibe Park crowd.
“That was easy,” I whisper. Lola nods in agreement.
Lola and I take the two women to the first aid station and say goodbye, walking swiftly to where Ronny the Clubhouse Boy usually hangs out before games. It’s about ten minutes before we spot him near the door, where all the players are getting ready.
“Hey Ronny, over here.” Ronny looks up and smiles. He is much taller than me, skinny, and almost frail-looking in the A’s uniform. He makes his way over. Lola turns to a concession sign and pretends to study the menu.
“Jimmy Frank, what brings you inside?”
“I need to see Jimmie Foxx. I have to ask him a question. Can I bring his meal today?”
“Too late.” Ronny holds out a dirty plate and a greasy brown bag that has all the earmarks of Nick’s Restaurant from around the corner. My shoulders sink. “Besides, his tip is too big for me to pass it up. What’s so urgent?”
“Just a question. Any other time I can catch him?”
“He asked me to bring him peach pie between games,” he says pulling out a one-dollar bill.
“Wow, he’s a big tipper!”
“Yep. But it’s for the whole doubleheader,” he says, examining the bill.
“So if you already have the money, what does it matter?”
This is not ideal. The clubhouse between a doubleheader is always more hectic than beforehand. But at least I’ll have a reason to be in there.
“Alright.” He’s eyeing me up. “But if you get yourself caught, you didn’t see me today—you did this all on your own.”
I agree, and we shake on it. I spot Lola and shrug my shoulders. No sense in being upset. We have a plan. Now there is nothing we can do but find a
seat, enjoy the first game, and practice how I am going to approach a two-time MVP.
The game is fast, and it feels a little like the guys on the field want to finish this one quickly. I bet the players hate doubleheaders during the last week of a losing season, when both teams are out of contention for the pennant.
For most of the game, we sit in some open seats along the first-base side. I keep my eye on Jimmie Foxx for any sign—something I can use to convince him to help me. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I still keep a close watch. He’s a keen player, gazing toward the hitter, motioning to the rest of the infield, using his signs. No matter what place the team is in, Jimmie is out to win. That’s what makes him an MVP.
It’s the top of the eighth inning when I notice two security guards hanging around us.
“Lola.” I nod my head in their direction.
“Wanna go for a pop?” Lola says loud enough for them to hear and tugs my shirt sleeve. “Come on.”
The first guard isn’t paying attention anymore, but the second one makes eye contact with me when I stand up. I quickly look down and pretend to check my pocket for change.
“Where’s your group?” he says as we pass. We stop and slowly turn around. I open my mouth but can’t find any words. Lola takes my hand in hers.
“Just on the other side. We just wanted to sneak away for a little,” she says in a sweet, soft voice. She blushes and actually looks lovestruck and embarrassed.
“Okay, run along. No funny business. You aren’t supposed to leave the group.”
“Yes, sir,” we both say and turn away. We lose them in the crowd and find an empty seat just by third base, below the left-field stands.
“How did you do that? Your face was bright red! Just like that!” I snap my fingers.
“Maybe I’ll be a big-screen actress, or a Broadway star.” She flips her hair and poses.
“You’d be good!”
Lola is still pretending to pose when I glance at the field and see Jimmie Foxx step out of the dugout. As he approaches the plate, I overhear a father telling his son about Foxx’s home run in game one of the 1929 World Series against Chicago.
Goodbye, Mr. Spalding Page 5