Goodbye, Mr. Spalding

by Jennifer Robin Barr

  “I’ll take that to Mrs. Carson,” I say and take the smaller bag. I turn to Lola: “Meet me in the park in ten minutes. And hurry!”

  “Okay,” she says, and we run toward home on 20th Street.

  I drop the bag off and sprint the two blocks to Reyburn Park. I enter the Funfield Rec Center and pass the swimming pool, now full of leaves and partially covered.

  “Yo, Jimmy, over here,” I hear from the left. “We have seven; we need another.” It’s Santa. “We got a game of Johnny-on-the-pony started. You want in?”

  “Where’s your dame?” I look over and see seven guys waiting for my answer, including the Polinskis. I’m not sure which one of them said it, and choose to ignore the question.

  Johnny-on-the-pony is a game where one team creates a four-person “pony” and tries to hold the other team up without toppling over. It is a brutal game, even without the Polinskis, and I tense up.

  “Sure thing,” I try to say casually. “But I have to be home soon.” I put my army bag down and walk over to join them.

  Santa, Ralph, and Matty are on my team. The four Polinski brothers are the other. Just standing near them makes me uneasy. Santa appoints himself team captain and starts giving orders.

  “Shove your head into my stomach real hard and wrap your arms around my waist,” he says. “Then I’ll grab your back. Ralph and Matty, you two move behind us and do the same around our waists to make the pony.”

  We do as he says and hold tight to form an awkward arch. I hear a ready and brace myself. Here they come.

  The first Polinski leaps on top of the arch. One Johnny on top. The second one is heavier, but we hold tight. Two Johnnies on top. I squeeze my eyes closed, hear the ready, and tighten up my whole body. I can hear quick feet in the dirt, a leap, and a grunt. Waves of bodies fall on top of me, roaring with laughter.

  A few games later and I am officially sore. We go back and forth like that for a while, with the pony arch collapsing during the third jumper each time, until finally we change our strategy and hold a tight arch. When we don’t collapse after four Polinskis/Johnnies are on top, we finally win. All eight of us lie on the ground laughing, all of us slow to get up. Beating the Polinskis feels so good, but I know not to gloat.

  I limp away, still laughing. Maybe those Polinskis aren’t so bad. At least the youngest one, who helped me up more than once today. Or maybe they were just too distracted to beat me up. I turn the corner and see Lola.

  “What took you so long?” Lola is sitting on the edge of the metal roundabout, using her feet to circle around. I freeze and look behind me. The Polinskis are out of her sight line.

  “Nothing. Just got caught up,” I say.

  “You kept me waiting for thirty minutes!”

  “Sorry. Geez, I can’t believe you’re sitting there. Last time you were on this thing …”

  “Those creeps aren’t going to scare me away from anything.” I’m careful not to tell her that I played a game with them. And that it ended well. I can’t really believe it myself.

  “Okay, you wanted me here. But you’re late, and now I have to be home soon.”

  “I have a plan I want to run by you. A Spite Fence plan.” I clear my throat and stand tall before her, pretending to start a speech.

  “And you came up with this plan while we were counting hammers?” she asks, grabbing my bag.

  “Yes, and it’s all thanks to Bing Miller. I told you that fish was good luck.”

  “Oh, yeah? I thought we had to bury him before he would be lucky?” she says. I hadn’t really thought about it, but she’s right.

  “Well, maybe this one is different. Look, if the real Bing Miller hadn’t gotten released, I would not have been listening to what Pop and Mr. Fletcher were talking about. And what they said made me think of this idea. Only I’m not sure how to do it.”

  “Now I’m interested.” She smirks and pulls her journal from my bag. “If it’s good enough, I can help you figure it out. If it’s good enough, that is.”

  “You heard Pop and the guys in the store talk about Shibe’s lawyer, Richardson Dilworth.”

  “Yes, I heard them. Sounds like a rich man’s name,” Lola says. She stands up and brushes off her skirt. “Like a phony rich man.”

  We start for home. A cool wind has picked up, and dirt from the street is swirling around us. “Anyway, they also said that there is some sort of mandatory hearing next Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, between our lawyer and Shibe’s lawyer.”

  “So?”

  “So, what if we somehow stop Dilworth from making it to that hearing? It’s mandatory, so if he’s not there, they can’t side with Shibe and Mack. Right?”

  “You think they’ll really just stop the wall from being built because he’s not there?” When she puts it like that, I do wonder if it is that simple.

  “Sure. It’s mandatory. They said so. If our lawyer is there, and their lawyer isn’t, then the judge has to side with us!”

  “I guess. It just seems too easy. And how do you propose we prevent him from going?”

  “That’s the part I haven’t figured out yet. They mentioned where he lives—just on the other side of the tracks.”

  “So, if I am a hotshot lawyer who has to make it to an important meeting near city hall, what will stop me from going?” We arrive home but aren’t ready to go inside yet. I sit on the porch steps. Lola starts pacing in front of me. Her hair is swirling in the wind.

  “We could sneak in and change the clocks in his house?” I suggest.

  “Take his laundry from the tailor so he has nothing to wear?” she adds.

  “Rig a bucket to dump water on his head when he opens the front door?” I smile at the thought.

  “Put up some fake roadblocks?” She spreads her arms wide and stands in the street to demonstrate.

  “Maybe we freeze water in front of his car so his wheels can’t move?” I know it’s ridiculous, but none of our ideas make sense.

  Lola’s eyes focus on a paper looping in the street. She puts her palm to her forehead and smiles. “Change the time of the meeting?”

  “Change the time of the meeting!” I smile back, knowing what she is thinking. Rule #22. Why hadn’t we thought of this before?

  Rule #22: Change the time of all doctor appointments when a shot is involved.

  15

  The rule is a simple change the time of the event scheme that all started when Lola refused to get a shot—the smallpox vaccine. The plan was successful at first. We delivered a well-crafted fake note from Mrs. Sheridan to Dr. Henry, changing the appointment time and tricking him into missing the house call. For a short time (that is, one week, until she was forced to get the shot), Rule #22 became the ultimate and most successful rule we had ever created.

  We then used a variation of Rule #22 to play a joke on Nina and cancel what she called “the biggest date of her life,” after which Nina called me “the most vile human being on the face of the earth.” I would definitely call that one a success.

  All it takes is some official-looking memorandum or telegram, or both, to make it work. The trick is making everything look real. We scurry off to my room and dig out my shoebox filled with the Philadelphia Athletics things I’ve collected, hoping that something in there will help us fake a letter.

  “When is the meeting again?” Lola asks.

  “They said we’d know by noon on November thirtieth. I guess sometime that morning,” I reply.

  “If we’re caught, it might cost you batboy,” Lola says, going through the box and staring at a photo of us taken on the rooftop. Shibe Park is clear as day in the background. “This is my favorite photograph, you know.” She puts it back as her cheeks start to blush. “I’ll be the messenger,” she quickly adds.

  “What? Why?”

  “Look, if both of you are around the clubhouse next year, he might recognize you.”

  “A girl messenger?” I question. “No way. He’ll know it’s fake for sure.”

  �
�Girls can do anything boys can do!”

  “Yes, I know. You tell me every day. Don’t you think that Dilworth will question whether this letter is real when it’s delivered by a girl?”

  “I’ll put my hair in a cap and wear knickers.” She takes my hat and tucks her hair underneath. Not bad. “And besides, I couldn’t help with the last plan because I’m a girl.”

  “That might work. But if he asks you a question, it’ll give you away.” I try to persuade her to change her mind.

  “I won’t open my mouth. I’ll just hand it to him.”

  “All right,” I agree. It’s not worth the argument, and she will probably be fine. “Now for the memorandum.”

  We spend the next hour poring through different Philadelphia Athletics items. There are ticket stubs, newspaper clippings, photos, white-elephant mascot ink stamps, pins, baseball cards, a cloth pennant, and my 1929 TIME magazine with Jimmie Foxx on the cover. We focus on an official letter I received in the middle of the summer offering me a spot as batboy for the start of the 1935 season. There is a seal on the top of the letter and Connie Mack’s signature at the bottom.

  “But how do we copy this seal?” Lola ponders. I’m wondering the same thing. If all of his letters are on this paper, it will never work. Nothing here will work.

  Wait! I rush to Pop’s room and pull out his own memory box from the closet. His box is even bigger than mine. It reminds me of just how much baseball means to him.

  I find what I’m looking for, careful to put everything back the way it was, and run back to Lola.

  “This letter is from the time that section of left-field stands almost collapsed a few years ago,” I explain. “And we all carried over supplies from the store in between a doubleheader. Pop and a couple of the guys were able to brace the stands for game two, until they got them fixed for real.”

  Dear James,

  Thank you for bringing those supplies and helping in between games yesterday. We were in a real pinch and appreciate you coming out on such short notice. I’m happy to have a resource like you in the neighborhood. Please accept this token of our appreciation.

  Connie Mack

  The rest of the story we’ve heard a million times. To thank him, Connie Mack secretly sent him a whole case of Scottish Cutty Sark Whisky, which Pop then secretly shared with the whole neighborhood. All very illegal during Prohibition, which made it the perfect gift. This should work.

  “I bet he can’t afford gifts like that anymore,” Lola says.

  “Nah, this whole money thing is nonsense,” I say. “Just today, I read in the paper how the Depression hasn’t really hurt baseball. How they were the ones with all of the jobs. Another reason that we should stop this wall—it really is just for spite. It’s not because they are losing profits.”

  “So, what do you think about that letter?” she says, changing the subject back and bouncing to her feet.

  “I think it will work. See that ink stamp at the top?” I point to the A’s mascot elephant in the right-hand corner. “It’s the same ink stamp that I have in my shoebox.”

  “That will work!” Lola grabs the note, and I plead with her to be careful with it.

  “Yep!” she says as she stomps down the steps.

  While Lola goes to work, I continue to look through my memories. I have the ticket stub from the first (and last) game I actually paid for, a wooden knot that we dug out from the wall to peek through and see inside the stadium at the ground level, an autograph from Bing Miller on the back of a napkin from Shillings on 22nd Street, and another from Mickey Cochrane on a movie ticket stub from the theater at 25th and Lehigh. There are baseball cards and newspaper articles, and a couple of photographs of Shibe Park from our rooftop.

  When Lola shows back up, her smile is as wide as I’ve ever seen, and she’s holding something behind her back.

  “Back already?” I ask.

  “Already? It’s been an hour. Honestly, Jimmy! You are such a daydreamer!” I scramble to my feet to see what she’s done.

  She hands me an envelope with “Richardson Dilworth, Esq.” typed on the front. I raise my eyebrows and grin. This looks real.

  “Ma let me use her typewriter,” she smiles. “I guess if they force me to learn to type, I may as well use it for something good.”

  “Esq?”

  “That means lawyer,” she says proudly.

  The page inside looks just like Pop’s note from Connie Mack. The elephant stamp looks identical.

  Dear Mr. Dilworth,

  Please be advised that the hearing against the residents of 20th Street has been moved to 3:00 p.m. on Friday, November 30, 1934. We look forward to hearing positive results.

  Thank you,

  Connie Mack

  “Wow!” The only real difference is that his name is typed, instead of a signature. “You are THE BEST!” I can’t help but give her a big bear hug, which of course Nina sees from the hallway.

  “Awwwwwww. Isn’t that cute,” she mocks. We quickly separate and whisper plans to place it into Dilworth’s hands.

  “If he reads it too early, he may find out it’s a fake.” Lola folds the note carefully into the envelope.

  “I agree. You deliver it on Friday morning at his home. Before he leaves for work.”

  “What about school?”

  “We don’t have school the day after Thanksgiving.”

  “That’s right!”

  “What are you two scheming? I can tell you are up to something, Jimmy Frank,” Nina says from the hall.

  “Nothing to concern you,” I say and wait for her to leave.

  “We need to figure out Dilworth’s schedule,” Lola whispers.

  “I’ll bring the binoculars.”

  “I’ll bring my notepad.”

  “Let’s meet outside tomorrow at seven a.m. sharp,” I suggest.

  “You’re going to get up that early? Pinky swear.” She hooks her pinky into mine.

  “Pinky swear. I’ll be up. Surveillance tomorrow. Deliver it Friday. This is gonna work, Lola. I just know it.”

  16

  Lola and I have a good time playing detective, and it only takes a few days of investigation to find out that Richardson Dilworth drives a red 1932 Ford Model B, leaves for work around eight fifteen every morning, and arrives home around seven each night.

  It’s not until Tuesday that I start to panic.

  “What if it doesn’t work? What then?” Lola and I are on the roof, prepping it for the winter. We dig the tulip bulbs out of the flowerpots and put a tarp over the bleachers.

  “Calm down. There is no reason for him to question it.” Lola is just as nervous as I am, but she is doing a good job of pretending that she is the opposite.

  “And besides, I’ve got my performance down just right.” She tucks her hair in the hat and walks around like she’s a boy, pretending to chew gum and spit. She even swears one time and we both giggle.

  “You’re good,” I say truthfully. “I just wish we had a backup plan in case this doesn’t work.”

  “One thing at a time, Jimmy. If we can’t fake him out, all we can do is hope that he runs out of gas.” She smiles and continues with her I-can-act-like-a-boy show. But all I can think of is what she just said.

  “Hey, that’s actually a good idea, too. How can we make sure Richardson Dilworth’s car runs out of gas?” I say aloud.

  “Jimmy! One thing at a time!”

  “I just think that’s a good idea, too,” I say. “But you’re right.”

  “Hey, Jimmy Frank,” I hear from below, followed by a whistle. Santa, Ralph, and Matty wave me down for a game of half-ball. Lola and I peek down and see the Polinski brothers not far behind.

  “I gotta go,” I say to Lola, hurrying to the back ladder and waving goodbye.

  “What’s your hurry?”

  “Just need to see someone about something.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she says. Her shoulder slumps and she pretends to spit one last time. “Hey—stay away from the
m. Rule #19.”

  A guilty pit forms in my stomach as I make my way down. Rule #19: Stay away from the four Polinski brothers at all costs.

  I meet the three of them out front at the same time that the Polinskis join the group. I look up, relieved that Lola doesn’t see me with them, but I still cross the street to be out of view.

  “How you guys doin’?” I ask the brothers.

  “Pretty good,” the youngest one replies. Matty crinkles his forehead, and I shrug my shoulders. None of the other brothers answers.

  Two games of half-ball and one Johnny-on-the-pony later and we’re all making our way home. I’m clenching my stomach after falling one too many times—or maybe it’s my nerves. All we can do is hope that he runs out of gas rings in my head. I take a deep breath. Now is my chance. This backup plan could work.

  I keep behind and watch the brothers start to walk home. One of the middle brothers lags behind, and I make my way across the street to catch up with him.

  “Hey, Polinski,” I say, but only a little louder than my regular voice. He doesn’t turn around.

  “POLINSKI!” I say, quite a bit louder than I expected. The adults chatting across the street look over to me, probably wondering why anyone in their right mind would knowingly try to have a conversation with any of the Polinski brothers.

  “This better be good or I’ll kick your ass.” His arms are crossed, and his face contorts into a scowl. He’s a few inches shorter than me, but I believe him.

  I clear my throat. “Um, I was wondering if you and your brothers might want to help me with something.”

  He starts to walk away.

  “You’ll get free stuff out of it.” He stops in his tracks.

  “What do you need, and be quick about it. The old lady’s got ham and mash waiting for me.”

  “Oh. I, uh, need to pull some gas from a car over on 26th Street,” I say uneasily, quickly regretting this decision.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Well, I’m trying to stop someone from going somewhere.” I stumble over every word. I sound pathetic.

  He snickers. “And your best plan is to take his gas? Just slash his tires and be done with it.”