Goodbye, Mr. Spalding

by Jennifer Robin Barr

  “Nah. Can I give you a hand?” I start to help him collect his things.

  “That’d be great, but I have to bring these up to Mr. Shibe’s office today, and I don’t think you are allowed in.” He’s motioning to the very Shibe Park office windows that I was looking up to.

  “I’m James Frances, but everyone calls me Jimmy Frank.” I stick my hand out to shake his.

  “Lester Pott. Nice to meet you.”

  “What is this stuff, anyway?” I ask, as we both gather the clutter.

  “Blueprints, diagrams, order forms. You name it, it’s here. They’re making some changes to the grounds before next season, and I’ve got to deliver these for Mr. Shibe to look over. He wants everything to be ready for Mr. Mack’s approval when he returns from his trip.”

  I stop in my tracks at the mention of blueprints and changes.

  I was meant to bump into Lester Pott. Father Ryan’s lesson rings in my head of the seven virtues and destiny—hard work, commitment, dedication. I quickly compose myself, try to act casual, and clear my throat. This is my destiny.

  “You can trust me. I’m going to be batboy next season.”

  “Is that so? Batboy, huh? How’d you land a job like that?”

  “I’m very responsible.”

  At this point, I’m carrying just about everything under both of my arms. He motions for me to follow and fumbles in his pocket for the key as he approaches the employee entrance. I follow his lead as if I don’t know where I’m going, even though I know every inch and crack in Shibe Park.

  If this guy is some sort of architect or building planner, I sure could give him an earful about what needs to be fixed. Maybe another day I’ll tell him that the left-field stands are shaky, the clubhouse could use better venting, the dugouts can’t really hold a full team, and the brittle wooden outfield walls have already sent more than one great player to the hospital.

  As we walk through the door, I’m very familiar with where we are going. I’ve never been inside the offices, but I still know that the stairs leading up are narrow, the third step is almost broken, and the railing starts halfway up.

  Again, he fumbles with the key a bit and opens the office door, which is creaky and shorter than it seems from the outside. He motions for me to walk into John Shibe’s office.

  From outside of Shibe Park, these offices sit on top of the center turret, a rounded castle-looking building that has a royal feel to it. I pictured the office as being large and luxurious, fitting for the kind of place where all the important baseball decisions are made. And I’m right.

  The tower office is covered with dark wooden paneling and deep brown floors. The desk sits in the middle of the room—rich-looking wood, with a red leather chair and a Tiffany lamp on the side. It’s gold metal, with a fancy glass shade covered in all kinds of different colors.

  There is a sofa on the left and what looks like a slightly open closet door on the right. Mr. Pott places his hat and key on the desk, and points for me to put everything down. One of the tubes of paper rolls across the desk, hitting an inkwell. The ink splashes a bit, with droplets falling on the wooden desk, right next to the key.

  Another opportunity. I glance up to see he’s not looking.

  “I’m sorry!” I say, as I use my sleeve to wipe the ink. He never even notices as I slide the key to the edge of the desk and let it fall into my other hand. I slip it into my pocket in one motion. He spins around.

  “Well, that won’t do,” he says and I hold my breath, the key burning a hole in my pocket.

  “I, ah,” I stutter.

  “No worries, no worries,” Mr. Pott says. “No worries.” He helps clean up the ink. His voice is jumpy, and he seems nervous, but he also seems kind of goofy, and I can’t imagine him having a serious conversation with John Shibe.

  “Careful with that one, it’s my only copy,” he says. I am holding the longest and thickest tube of paper.

  “Sure, Mr. Pott.” I pause. “Only copy of what, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Only copy of the blueprints for a new wall in right field. He wanted it here so fast that I didn’t have time to make another.”

  Only copy of the blueprints. Only copy of the blueprints. The words ring in my head over and over again. Only copy.

  “I have to go home for dinner,” I say abruptly. “Nice to meet you!” I shake his hand and walk out of the room. I faintly hear him say thank you as I sprint down the steps and leave through the employee door.

  I realize that halfway down the street I’m calling Lola’s name loud enough for everyone to hear. I dart behind a car and look in each direction for the Polinski brothers. I see one of them before he sees me. I hop onto Mrs. Carson’s porch and knock on her door.

  “My dear,” she says, opening the door wide, and I scoot in.

  “Hi, Mrs. Carson. Just wanted to see how you were doing today?” I say, completely out of breath.

  “Is that right?” she says with a smile. “And I suppose it has nothing to do with those two boys across the street?”

  I scramble to the window and see two of the Polinskis staring at Mrs. Carson’s house. Before I know it, she is outside calling across the street.

  “Hello boys. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Nah,” I hear one of them yell back.

  “Well then, you best be getting home for supper,” she says. Her voice is old and shaky, but she stands her ground with arms crossed. She returns once the coast is clear.

  “Thanks,” I say, embarrassed. Somehow, Mrs. Carson knows everything about everyone.

  “Go on home now.” She pats my back. “Be safe.”

  I sprint to the house and call Lola’s name. When she comes to the window, I point to the roof. She’s waiting for me when I pop out of the skylight.

  “Hold on,” I say as I lean over, breathing heavily. “Just a sec. I met the architect,” I say, practically panting. “And I was in the offices.”

  “You just met an architect and went to an office,” she says flatly.

  “Yes! I was in Shibe’s office, and Mr. Pott let me carry his papers and tubes and folders and notebooks after we collided.” I touch my head and feel a swelling bump.

  Ten minutes later, I’ve relayed the whole story.

  “Wow, that’s quite a tale,” she says, now sitting on the bleachers.

  “I have a new plan,” I say.

  “In the last few minutes, you’ve come up with a new plan?”

  “Yes.” I sit next to her. “Let’s take the blueprints. We can just go up there and take them. And hide them, or bury them, or maybe even burn them! Just get rid of them!”

  I squirm in her silence.

  “No,” she finally says, looking at Shibe Park. “How hard did you hit your head? Breaking in to steal the blueprints is not just a little wrong. It’s really wrong. It’s even worse than stealing some gas.”

  I don’t say anything. Listening to her say the plan out loud makes it sound much worse than it did in my head.

  “Whatever happened with you and the Polinski boys today anyway?”

  “Nothing. I don’t want to talk about them,” I snap. “You haven’t agreed with me at all lately. Geez Lola, I’m not always wrong. I’m trying to do this for all of us. For our families. For the money! It’s not just about watching the games!”

  “And I want to help!” she exclaims. “But your plans sound more Polinski than Frances. I won’t steal the blueprints. Period.”

  “Maybe we can just misplace the plans. You know, stall everything a bit.” I look at her, pleading. “It’s the only copy. It might not stop it forever, but maybe it saves next season. Maybe it gives us time to convince the newspapers to be on our side, or more players involved, or to protest with signs and megaphones. Help me figure it out instead of just saying no!”

  “Okay. If we can figure out a plan that’s not so illegal, maybe I’ll help,” she says. “But I won’t like it. Not one bit.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I
reply. “Why even do it then, anyway?”

  “Because you’re my best friend.” She smiles, and immediately frowns, making me laugh out loud.

  “Thanks,” I say. I hope she knows I really mean it. “You won’t regret it, Lola. And it’ll be easy.”

  “I might regret it, but I’ll still do it. Until it becomes dangerous. Promise me?”

  “I promise.” We look over to Shibe Park. The outfield is dusted with small patches of snow.

  “Okay then, let’s talk details.” She springs up. “So, you want to break into John Shibe’s office, take the blueprints, and put them where?”

  “We can hide them under my bed, and then put them back in a couple of weeks?”

  “That’s stealing,” she says bluntly. “It’s no different than the gas. Your sense of right and wrong is all jumbled up inside of your head.”

  “Alright. What if we dropped the blueprints off at Mr. Pott’s office, so he thinks he never brought them to Shibe Park?”

  “Stealing.”

  “Just take them overnight?”

  “Still stealing, Jimmy. If you take those blueprints out of Shibe Park, you are stealing them.” I don’t like how she’s shifted from we to you.

  “What are your ideas?”

  “I’m not the one that’s been up to the office. I don’t have any ideas,” she says.

  “Gosh Lola, you aren’t even trying.”

  Silence.

  “Fine. How about we keep the blueprints in Shibe Park—just move them somewhere. Like put them in a closet or something.” At this point, I’m desperate.

  “Keep going.” She still isn’t looking at me; her eyes are locked on Shibe. “You say there’s a closet in the office?”

  “Yes. In the front of the office, on the right-hand side. Just a regular closet door with no lock.”

  “Oh, a lock! How do we sneak into Shibe’s office to begin with?”

  I’m happy to hear her at least thinking about the plan. I shove my hand in my pocket and dangle the key in front of her face. In a time when nothing seems to go my way, producing the key is one of my best moments.

  “Jimmy Frank! Where did you find that?”

  I explain how easy it was to pick up, and how Mr. Pott never missed it.

  “He used it for both the front staff door and the office door. No more going over the fence. Before you tell me how wrong it is, don’t forget we’ve been sneaking in for years.”

  “I guess,” she replies. “Having this key just feels different.”

  “It’s exactly the same,” I say. “It’s just through the door instead of over the wall.”

  “Don’t you think he’ll be in trouble for losing the key?”

  “He won’t be in trouble. I promise. This is not a big deal.”

  “Jimmy, I …”

  “Lola, once that Spite Fence goes up, this will be our only way in.”

  “My only way in, you mean,” she says. “You’ll be in the dugout. Unless, of course, you’re caught stealing the blueprints.”

  “Moving the blueprints.” I smile uneasily.

  “When is Connie Mack due back?” she asks.

  “A few weeks.”

  “Let me think about it. If the blueprints are just sitting on the desk until he comes home, we have time. And if we do this, we’ll just move them to the closet. But promise me that this is the end, Jimmy. I promise to help you, if you promise that this is it—no more schemes. Pinky rule.”

  I cross my finger in front of my heart. “I promise.”

  We latch our pinky fingers together and say Rule #17: A pinky promise cannot be broken.

  24

  Rival pitchers will rejoice and rival batsmen will shed tears when they view Shibe Park next season.

  —The Sporting News, December 20, 1934

  Pop is spending more time outside of the store doing odd plumbing jobs around the city. Ma continues to pick up work, and Nina is at the store just about every day after school. She continues to look for a real job, with no luck.

  I do my best to work for tips. I park cars at the Baker Bowl, where nobody cares that I don’t have a license—so long as I keep my head down and stay out of trouble. Sometimes I make deliveries for the shops on 22nd Street. Rainy days are the best times to land the bigger tips. I try to put at least twenty-five cents in the cookie jar each night. Sometimes it’s more, but most of the time, it’s less.

  I devote the next weeks to dodging the Polinski brothers and urging Lola to make our move.

  “Tomorrow,” she always says. She continues to write in her journal, and listens to me without too many Jimmy, you’re crazy moments. Sometimes she reads her headlines to me:

  John Shibe Nabs Teens in the Halls of Shibe

  Park Lester Pott Fired for Losing Key to Ballpark

  Spite Fence Goes Up Despite Neighborhood Kids

  Her hesitation has put off our blueprints plan, but The Sporting News article on December 20 about the wall helps my cause. Now it’s more than just Philadelphia news. Now the whole country knows. We make plans to sneak into Shibe Park and move the blueprints before the sun comes up the next morning.

  “It’s a Saturday. I start deliveries in the dark anyway. You can say you’re helping me.”

  She finally agrees.

  It’s difficult to sleep, and the draft that is sweeping throughout the house doesn’t help matters at all. The old furnace doesn’t reach my bedroom, and the tape sealing the window cracks isn’t working. It takes three of my nana’s crocheted afghans and four pairs of socks before I finally drift off.

  The sound of the Bingle startles me awake, and I shoot up out of the bed, nearly breaking my neck in a tangle of bed sheets and blankets. Is it five a.m. already? Coming from the outside is a strange, dull, lingering light.

  I stumble to the window and pull aside the drapery, feeling the sudden need to shield my eyes. A thick blanket of snow has fallen in the last few hours. The sound I hear is heavy snow resting on our Bingle string and making it ring, probably on both ends.

  I open the window, fighting against some ice that has formed on the edges, and reach to the Bingle string, knocking the snow off.

  “Jimmy Frank! It’s three a.m.! What do you want?” I look up to see Lola’s head pop out of her window.

  “The snow keeps ringing the bell,” I reply, careful not to wake anyone else. “Besides, we need to be up in a couple of hours anyway.” I motion toward the ballpark.

  Even from here, I can see Lola roll her eyes.

  “We can’t break in now. We’ll leave footprints!” Her hands motion toward the snow with a don’t-you-see-this-stupid! sort of face, and she crinkles her mouth. I’m certain that behind that window she is folding her arms in a huff.

  But she’s right. The snow is covering every inch outside. It’s piled on our porch roof and is still coming down heavily. It’ll be tough to sneak in.

  “Tomorrow is our last chance. We have to figure something out,” I call back and close the window.

  I climb back to bed and turn to watch Bing Miller circle his bowl. Why did I wait so long? There were so many opportunities. So many clear nights. So many times I could have moved those blueprints. What if I missed my chance?

  Sleep doesn’t come for an hour.

  The next morning is bright with activity on the street. I’m exhausted but can’t sleep in through all the noise. Men are shoveling, or taking cigar breaks and talking in the middle of the street. Ralph and Matty are already throwing snowballs over the right-field wall. There is so much joy outside. How can they be so happy? The little kids are laughing, pulling each other on a sled and building a snowman.

  A snowman. That’s it!

  I grab a pair of scratchy wool knickers and sweater—better to be warm than comfortable, as Ma always says—and head downstairs. My loud feet on the stairs draw unwanted attention.

  “Hold on there, Jimmy.” Ma’s voice is upbeat, and I’m happy she’s in a good mood.

  “Morning, Ma. I’m headi
ng out. Going to make some money shoveling.”

  “Very good, sweetheart. But first you must help Mrs. Carson.”

  “Ma, come on! That will take forever!”

  “Jimmy, she is old and poor, and has nobody to help her. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “Fine.” I head to the door with less spring to my step than a few minutes earlier.

  There are shovels on the porch. Pop has already taken care of our house and is in the middle of the street, knee deep in snow, smoking a cigar and laughing with some of his buddies. Mr. Sheridan and Mr. O’Connor are laughing too, along with a fourth gentleman whom I don’t recognize. It’s funny how a little snow can bring out the neighbors and lighten the mood.

  “Hey!” Lola bops out of her house, hands me a hot pancake, and picks up a shovel.

  “Thanks.” The cold air is more than I expect, and the pancake feels good.

  “I have to shovel Mrs. Carson’s place. Then we go into Shibe Park and save our neighborhood,” I say matter-offactly, as I motion for her to follow, ignoring her crooked scowl.

  “Into Shibe! In broad daylight!” she says, but I continue forward, even as she flicks snow on my back with her shovel. Mrs. Carson is actually tearful when Lola and I show up.

  “My two saints,” she says, folding her arms to protect herself from the cold.

  “It’s no problem, ma’am. We’re happy to be here.” I look over at Lola who is still scowling. I widen my eyes in a come-on-get-over-it way, and she forces a smile.

  “Tush now, I know you’d rather be outside playing. I didn’t fall off the haystack yesterday.”

  “Who has ever really fallen off a haystack?” Lola wonders out loud. Mrs. Carson laughs and goes back inside, rubbing her hands for warmth.

  We start, and the snow is lighter and easier to move than I imagined. We’ll have this done in no time.

  “Look, Jimmy. I want to help. But how do you expect to sneak in with all this activity? Maybe this snowfall is a sign …”

  “What sign? Remember the new rule? Rule #25: Create your own destiny?” I walk around so she is right in front of me. “Today’s our last chance, and I’ve got it all figured out. We can start to build a snowman by the door and wait for the street to clear. In the daylight, we can move around easier. We’ll just grab the blueprints and sneak away.” My confidence is surprising, even to me.