“Amen!” we say loudly. We take our forks and dig in, and I make a note in my head to create a rule about this very soon.
21
The wall will be built high enough to put the outlaw stands on the roofs of Twentieth street dwellings out of business. This has been a sore spot with the A’s for years.
—The Sporting News, December 20, 1934
“Bad news, son.”
Pop’s voice startles me, and my eyes jolt open. He is standing over me with his hands in his pockets and takes a seat at the edge of the bed. What day is today? Am I late for school?
Then I remember the events of the days before. Polinskis. Dilworth. Cops. Hot cocoa. Lasagna. The hearing.
“The hearing?” I ask. Pop nods, and I sit up.
“Mr. O’Connor came over after you went to bed. We lost.”
“What? That can’t be!” I say.
“They had a really good lawyer. We knew it would be a long shot, anyway.” There is a long pause. “They’ll build it before next season begins.”
“But wait! Didn’t their lawyer miss the hearing? Didn’t he think it was at a different time? Did he have gas in his car? I thought that if they didn’t have a lawyer there, the judge would side with us. Didn’t that happen?”
I realize how crazy I sound, but I stare at him, my eyes pleading for an answer. The corners of his mouth curl up a bit.
“He was at the hearing. He didn’t miss it.” Pop rises from the bed and stands above me, arms crossed.
“Really? Are you certain?”
“I’m certain. Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“No, Pop,” I reply.
“Really? Because O’Connor heard something about a prank played on their lawyer.”
“Prank?” I say uneasily.
“Thought the hearing time had been changed. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“No.” I flop back on my pillow so he can’t see my face.
“If you change your mind, I’ll be at the store doing inventory,” he says.
“But I just did that,” I snap.
“Well, we may have had a theft. I need to make sure nothing else is missing,” he says. I shoot up to a sitting position.
“Why do you think that?”
“The police dropped off an empty gas can they found in the street. Had our stamp on the bottom.”
“A gas can? Who do they think stole it? Where was it?” I spew the questions quickly, and Pop crosses his arms.
“James Frances, is there something you need to say to me right now?” he says firmly.
“No, Pop. Nothing.” I bury my head in my hands and wait for him to leave.
A few minutes later, I hear the Bingle.
“I guess the Polinskis weren’t caught,” Lola says when I meet her on the rooftop. “The police would have told your father that.”
“No. They didn’t get caught. And I’m sick and tired of worrying about them. We lost the hearing. That’s what we should focus on.”
“But Jimmy, they’re out roaming the streets right now,” she says uneasily.
“There’s got to be something we can do.”
“Maybe try to talk to them in school? Smooth things over while there’s an adult around,” she says.
“I’m not talking about the Polinski brothers. Can you just focus on the Spite Fence for a minute?”
“It’s just that—well, don’t you think you should focus on more pressing matters?”
“What could be more pressing than the Spite Fence?” I snap.
“Um, maybe that the Polinskis are probably out for you again? You can’t ignore it!”
“I’m not, Lola! But they aren’t up here on this rooftop. Can’t we forget them for ten minutes?”
“It just seems like you are focusing all of your energy on a lost cause. You’ll have to face it sooner or later. That wall is happening.”
“So, you’re giving up.”
“I’m smart enough to know when we’ve lost,” she says, picking up her journal to write something. “And you should be making plans to settle this Polinski thing. No more plans to fix the wall.”
“I’ll figure out what to do,” I say.
“About the Polinskis or the Spite Fence?”
“I’m not going to stop!” I raise my voice at her and point to right field. “That wall isn’t even up yet!”
“Quit taking everything out on me! Yesterday was so much fun. Can’t we just move on?” Lola asks.
“Sure,” I reply sharply. “Look, I gotta go.”
“Where?”
“Just have some things to do.”
“Okay. Maybe the park later?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I might have to help Pop with the inventory,” I say. I know that I am being terrible and can barely look in her direction.
“Yeah. Well, I have to help at the shop, too,” she says. I can’t tell if she is telling the truth. We part ways, each going down our skylights.
I return to my room and climb back into bed. The Polinskis are on the loose. The police are involved. We lost the hearing. We all need to bring in more money. Lola doesn’t understand me.
I pull the covers over my head.
The Bingle doesn’t ring once all weekend.
22
God knows I gave my best in baseball at all times and no man on earth can truthfully judge me otherwise.
—Shoeless Joe Jackson
I wrap my afghan around my shoulders and hop to the window. Monday morning brings a surprise, razor-thin blanket of snow, early, and the first of the season. There is only one person on the dark street so far today. He slips but doesn’t fall, steadying himself with his outstretched hands. It looks miserable. I jump back in bed and close my eyes.
Two days of hiding, and now I have to face it. I know the Polinski brothers will be out for me. I picture my body flopping around like a rag doll between punches, their screeching laughter ringing in my head.
I knock on Lola’s door earlier than normal, hoping to avoid other kids along the walk. When she’s not ready to go, I leave on my own, practically sprinting the whole way. I hide behind cars, scurry along the sides of buildings, and hurry past Jesus and his outstretched arms, staring down at me from the stained-glass window of St. Columba.
That’s when I see three of the Polinski brothers huddled together just beyond the entrance, whispering secrets and sneering to each other. They are already here.
“There he is,” I think I hear from their direction. My stomach drops, and the base of my head begins to throb. I rush inside, standing before a statue of Mary in the church lobby and weighing my options. She is draped in porcelain white cloth, holding her hands to her heart. There are ceramic tears on her cheeks falling into a basin of holy water. I take some and bless myself a few times.
“Watch over me, okay?” I whisper to her, as holy water drips down my forehead. I look up and can swear she looked me right in the eye.
I dart into the church pews and hide near the front, crouching down. My chest rises and falls waiting for the bell. Thank you, Mary.
“Hey, Jimmy.”
Oh no.
“Down here.”
I look under the church pew and see a set of boots and a pair of overalls crouched down, out of sight. The bell rings, and the youngest Polinski brother pops up and rushes toward class.
“Who are you hiding from?” I say, following him down the hall.
“My brothers, just like you,” he replies. “Come on or we’ll be late.”
We slide safely into class at the last moment, and I shrink slowly into my seat, my head down.
The Polinskis are not in jail, and I’m not exactly sure if that’s a good thing. Jail for the Polinskis—at least for three of them—would solve my problems. I wouldn’t have to run. I wouldn’t be scared all the time. I wouldn’t have to pretend that they are my friends, or that they didn’t steal from us all those years ago. I just wouldn’t have to think about them anymore.
I glance back to the youngest Polinski brother—the same brother who didn’t want to grab my ankle at the roundabout, who helped me up during Johnny-on-the-pony, and who told me to follow his lead that night at Dilworth’s car. I was right—he is different.
Father Ryan is writing a quote from an old A’s player, Shoeless Joe Jackson, on the blackboard. Joe was kicked out of baseball before I was born for cheating at a World Series with the White Sox, and Father Ryan has made him a common topic about sin and forgiveness during religion class. Looks like we’ll be talking baseball later today.
Lunchtime comes, and I make sure that I am always near a teacher or walking closely between other kids. I’ll have to add a note to Rule #19. Something like: Never be alone when the Polinskis are out to get you.
“Did ya hear ’bout the Polinskis?” Santa says in between bites of his bologna sandwich.
“No,” I say. My voice cracks a little.
“We did!” Matty says. “Pa says they almost got caught by the cops again. He told us to stay away from them.”
“Me too. Maybe they’ll be expelled,” Santa adds and looks at me. “You didn’t hear nothin’?”
“No. I didn’t,” I reply, looking down. I hold my hands on my lap to hide the shaking. Nobody seems to know exactly what the Polinskis were doing, but the stories from the neighboring tables become increasingly more sinister:
… broke right into a lady’s house …
… stole a car and sold it for parts …
… slashed tires up on 26th Street …
I turn my head quickly to see who mentioned 26th Street, and catch a few of the Polinskis glancing over at me. I quickly look away. Lunch ends, and I wrap up my uneaten meal.
Class starts again, and I choose to keep quiet and just listen, which becomes easier once Father Ryan starts his religion lesson. We’ve become accustomed to him creating lessons around the building of the Spite Fence, and on these days, we are all ears. Ma thinks he uses the wall to “keep all you boys engaged.”
Today’s lesson involves the Seven Deadly Sins, and he begins a long speech about what the wall will do to our neighborhood. I listen closely. He is the only adult who will really talk about the wall.
He starts with greed and brings it back to Shoeless Joe Jackson.
“His whole life would have been different if he didn’t give in,” he says.
“But he says he’s innocent,” someone says behind me.
“Yes, well, we’ll never know, will we? What we do know has all the earmarks of greed. They took money to throw a baseball game. The question is, will people eventually forgive him?
“Let’s bring it back to 1934,” he continues. “Greed tugs at us. It challenges and tests our resolve. Can we turn down something that might make us happy, if it is acquired in a malicious way? What about turning down something that affects our livelihood? Is it greedy to take something that isn’t ours to feed our family or put a roof over our heads?
“And what about our neighborhood. Is that right-field wall a symbol of greed? When they build it, will we forgive them?
“Mr. Polinski.” He looks over to the oldest Polinski brother. “Can you name some of the other Seven Deadly Sins?”
I can name three of them: Polinski, Polinski, and Polinski.
“Well, greed.” Polinski pauses. “Lust.” There is a muffled laugh throughout the room. “Wrath.” Polinski immediately looks at me, and I quickly look away.
Father keeps his back to us as he writes on the chalkboard. He adds pride, gluttony, sloth, and envy. “Mr. Polinski, can you give me an example?”
“Yeah, sure. How ’bout, ‘When I get my hands on that good-for-nothing traitor, he’s gonna feel my wrath.’” The last word is emphasized, and he stares at me.
“That’s one example, I guess.” Father looks at him and crinkles his forehead. “Now, how do these sins relate to our little situation?”
We’ve always been taught that there are minor sins, the ones we say in confession. The forgive me, Father, for I have sinned—I cursed four times this week, pushed my sister in the backyard, snuck out after bedtime, and buried a fish at first base kind of sins. But the Seven Deadly Sins are the big ones, the ones we don’t speak about.
Father Ryan smiles. “Take our beautiful stained-glass window. These are gray, depressing times that we are in—soup lines and fathers out of work. But that window—that window is a symbol of pride. It represents what is possible. We delight in its beauty—Jesus and his outstretched arms, welcoming our parishioners. Look closely and you see the doves, the rays of sunlight, the red heart, blue sky, and green trees. All captured in one scene. Shibe Park is the same. As a community, we have a sense of pride and beauty that the ballpark provides.”
“Not everyone,” I hear from someone who sounds an awful lot like a Polinski.
“But I thought pride was a deadly sin?” Matty calls out. “It’s right there, on the board.”
“Very true! Very true. Pride is one of those words that has a negative and a positive meaning. I’m not talking about the kind of pride that is vain. No, I’m talking about the kind of pride that helps a community feel content and fulfilled.”
He takes a deep breath as vacant expressions wash over all of us.
“I feel that I’ve lost you,” he continues. “Let’s have a little fun. For homework, I want everyone to write this list of sins. Then write how John Shibe and Connie Mack will benefit from doing the opposite.” The class groans, and I feel a wad of paper hit me from the back. I don’t look to see where it came from.
Father Ryan waits for the class to calm down and continues. “Let me explain further. The opposite of these sins will help us create our own destiny in this community. The seven virtues are ideals to live by. For example, Mr. Frances, how can we create our own destiny?”
I stare at him blankly and think.
“Okay, let’s try this—what is the opposite of greed? What is the opposite of someone taking money?”
“Giving someone money?” I say.
“Exactly, and what’s another word for giving away money?”
“Charity.”
“Yes! Right, Mr. Frances. The opposite of greed is charity. And how can the owners of Shibe Park be charitable right now?”
A better question is how can the Polinskis be charitable right now.
“They can stop the plans to build the Spite Fence and let us watch the game from our rooftops. And they can start winning. Folks will buy tickets like they did in ’29 if they just win a few games.” The class laughs.
Father Ryan smiles. “Well, stopping the wall would definitely be charitable. The winning may be the opposite of another sin—sloth. Can anyone tell me the opposite of sloth, or neglect, or being lazy? Go ahead, call out some things.”
A few words come from around the room—diligence, patience, kindness.
“Exactly,” Father Ryan says. “For homework, think about the others. Talk with your parents. Discuss with them how destiny is created through these virtues.” We hurriedly scribble down what’s written on the chalkboard.
The bell rings, and Father Ryan stops us from gathering our things. “Keep this in mind. The A’s may not be so guilty of the Seven Deadly Sins, but they certainly can benefit from doing the opposite. It’s a good lesson for all of us.”
Another wad of paper lands in my lap. I open and read the one word written.
REVENGE.
I crumple it up and decide that it’s time to create my own destiny.
23
You’re born with two strikes against you, so don’t take a third one on your own.
—Connie Mack
I successfully sneak out after school and run toward home. The route has slick, icy patches all over the sidewalks, and I go a longer way to avoid the Polinskis. Father Ryan and his words are running through my head.
Create your own destiny. It sounds an awful lot like a rule.
Connie Mack sure knows how to create his own destiny.
I tried to create my own destiny, and nothing has changed. Jimmie Foxx didn’t argue for us. Dilworth didn’t miss the meeting. But the Polinskis? I’m destined to be beaten by them. Over and over again.
I spot one Polinski brother to my left and scramble. He hasn’t seen me yet, and I scurry around the front corner of the ballpark near the house. That was close. I look up at the castle-like dome that houses the offices of Connie Mack and John Shibe, all closed up while the players are off with their families and Mack is with the all-stars in Japan. It’s behind those windows where important baseball decisions are made.
I sense something in front of me when I barely hear a desperate “KID!” My body collides with a tall man who falls in a clump of grunts and thuds. Dark wool scratches my face, and I fall on top of him in a heap, my head hitting the concrete. I see a hat roll down the street and close my eyes.
“Hey kid. Hey kid. HEY KID!”
My eyes open to a man kneeling over me and yelling in my face. His pointy nose is just a few inches from my own, and he is slapping both of my cheeks. I throw my hands up to stop him.
“Cut it out!” I say. He sits with a thump on the concrete and puts his head between his knees. I sit up and wonder if I’m in a dream. I look around and see the Polinskis on the other end of the block looking at me. Not a dream. They are waiting for me. Whoever this guy is, I have to stick with him.
“You all right, Mister?” His blue wool overcoat is covered in snow, and his parted hair has gone to the wrong side, sticking almost straight up. His glasses are crooked, and his face is scratched a little. He looks around for his hat. This guy is a mess.
“I’m sorry, kid. I couldn’t see with holding all of this.” He motions to the ground where big tubes of white paper, stacks of binders, and some large yellow envelopes are scattered. “You all right? I need to be more careful.” He starts to get up, muttering some ouches along the way.
“No, no, sir. It’s my fault. I wasn’t looking either.”
“Are you certain you didn’t hit your head too hard?” he asks again.
Goodbye, Mr. Spalding Page 10