“A thousand dollars?” I whisper to Ma. “I’m never gonna be able to pay for that.”
“Oh Jimmy, you are white as a ghost!” she says, but I can tell she’s worried too. She puts her arm around me and whispers, “I’m so proud to be your mother. It sure is a lot of money, but we’ll work it out. Father Ryan will not let us go hungry over some colorful glass. I promise you.”
“Right,” I reply uneasily. She squeezes my shoulder for a hug, and I jump in pain.
We walk to St. Columba and stand under the broken window. Father Ryan and Pop carefully break out the remaining glass while Ma and I pick up the pieces. They find a tarp in the church basement and fasten it to cover the opening.
“I’ll find a few jobs and give you the money as it comes in,” I say.
“Going to take more than a few jobs, Jimmy,” Pop says and turns to Father Ryan. “Is it really one thousand dollars?”
“It was a beauty,” he replies. “One of a kind.”
“It certainly was,” Pop agrees. “Look, if I lose the store, we’ll have no way to pay you.”
“And if we lose the house, we’ll have no place to live,” Ma interjects.
“One thousand dollars is impossible,” I say.
“I know what’s important, Mr. Frances.” Father pats Pop on the back. “Let’s see how this tarp works for now. Let the events of last evening settle in.”
“I’ll board this up tomorrow,” Pop says. “Fletch will help.”
“Yes, it will all work out. Maybe even better than before.” Father Ryan shakes his hand.
“I’m not sure about that,” I say. Father puts his hands on my shoulders.
“Son, the strength of a community is surprising. I have a good feeling about this.”
“Rule #2,” Ma says. “Things always happen for a reason.”
“But a thousand reasons?” I blurt out.
“Maybe,” Father Ryan says. “Maybe it happened for a thousand reasons.”
33
You can’t win them all.
—Connie Mack
Three times. It takes me three rings of the Bingle to know that she’s not answering. Maybe she isn’t home.
“Drop this off for Mrs. Carson.” Ma comes into my room and hands me a brown bag.
“Okay,” I say.
I walk slowly past Lola’s house, trying to sneak a glance in the window, but all the curtains are drawn.
“Jimmy!” I turn to see Santa, Matty, and Ralph running up behind me.
“Holy Cow!” Santa says. “You look terrible!”
“I know,” I reply. “The Polinskis are at the station. I think I’m safe at the moment.”
“We heard all about it,” Matty says. “Geez, Jimmy. You sure took a beating.”
“Everyone is talking about it,” Ralph adds.
“That’s just great,” I say. “Hey, I gotta drop this off for Mrs. Carson.”
“Come to the park when you’re done,” Santa says, already heading toward the alley.
“Maybe,” I say. But I only want to see Lola. I walk down the street, keeping my head low and avoiding anyone’s eye contact.
“You are so bruised, my dear!” Mrs. Carson says when I knock on her door.
“I was worse this morning. Ma wanted you to have this.”
“Thank you, thank you. You know, Lola stopped by,” she says, keeping an eye on my reaction.
“Really? What did she say? She’s so mad at me!”
“She needs some time, Jimmy. That’s all.” She smiles softly.
“Time heals all wounds,” I reply. Rule #8.
“While I have you here, there’s something I’d like you to have.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say and cross my fingers, hopeful for another baseball card. She slowly makes her way to the bookshelf and picks out a leather-bound book.
“What’s this?” I ask when she hands it to me.
“It’s a journal. An old one, but empty,” she says. “I thought giving it to Lola might be a nice gesture. Better coming from you than from me. She told me that you had her journal and she didn’t have anything to write in.”
“I do have her journal. But it has blood stains all over it.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Carson says. “Well then, all the more reason for a new one.”
I stand on the porch for at least ten minutes before I have the nerve to knock.
“Jimmy!” Mrs. Sheridan says, opening the screen door and stepping outside. “You look terrible!”
“Yes,” I say. Hearing about my bruised face is becoming tiresome. “Can I please see Lola?”
“I’m sorry, Jimmy. Lola isn’t up for it today, and she’ll be helping at the store a bit more now.”
“Oh.” My lip starts to shake uncontrollably.
“Maybe come by in a few days and see if she’s free,” Mrs. Sheridan says.
“Really?” The tears are now flowing, and I wipe my nose on my sleeve. She hands me a handkerchief from her housecoat pocket. “Maybe I can just see her for a minute?” I blubber.
“Jimmy,” she begins to whisper. “Lola doesn’t have many other close friends. Most girls don’t understand her the way you do. I think she just needs time. Don’t give up on her.”
“I’d never give up on her,” I say softly. “I mean, I did give up on her, but I made a big mistake. Can’t I just see her?”
“Not today,” she replies and slips back inside.
“Mrs. Sheridan? Can you give her this?” I hand her the blood-stained journal.
“Of course,” she says, and closes the door.
I leave her porch and sneak to my room, close the door, and sit on my bed. Will she ever forgive me? What can I do? The empty fishbowl sits on the bedside table, and I wonder if there is any real luck in the world.
Create your own destiny rings in my head. Create your own destiny.
I open the new leather journal and title the first entry: Dear Lola.
34
Foxx, who’ll catch for ‘good of club,’ asserts hitting will suffer as catcher. A’s star places his own choice secondary to Mack’s wishes in giving up first base job.
—The Sporting News, February 7, 1935
The snow from last December never really melted, and the winter of 1935 is one of the coldest I can remember. I lie on my bed covered in afghans, thinking about all of the things I’ll be doing on this cold February day.
I stare at the empty glass bowl on the table. Maybe it’s time for a new fish. I can sure use the help. No, no, no. Create your own destiny, Jimmy.
My weekend mornings have become very busy, and I wake up before everyone. First on the agenda are deliveries for two of the stores on 22nd Street. It’s dark when I leave the house, with a dull haze filling the streets from the rising sun. I bundle up and deliver bread to Doc Hoffman’s, Elrae’s, and The Hop Inn, and some meats to Kilroy’s Tap Room and Nick’s, where the manager gives me some hot coffee. I think they are starting to forget that I’m just a kid.
My next stop is the druggist, who has me make twelve deliveries to some of the elderly and sick folks in the neighborhoods. I let him pay me, but I refuse all of the tips. No matter how much money I am trying to raise, I can’t bring myself to take money from the sick. I do accept warm muffins, if they offer.
I then make my way to the library on 24th Street and help stock books. They can’t pay me, but they give me an early lunch every Saturday, and that’s one less meal Ma has to make.
Down every alley and on every street corner, I look for Lola. I often see her through the store window, or coming out of Mrs. Carson’s house. Sometimes I wave, and she is starting to smile more and more. My insides skip every time she does. I hope one of these times she’ll motion for me to join her.
But that hasn’t happened yet. She still hasn’t answered the Bingle, and we haven’t walked to school together since that night.
At noon, I rush over to the movie theater and put on my apron and hat to take tickets. In the last six weeks, attendanc
e is up, and the movie house manager says that’s good for the economy. I just think people want to escape from their troubles and are willing to pay a dime to do so.
When it’s all done, I’ll probably make about twelve dollars today, and that’s before whatever odd jobs I can cook up in the evening. Everyone in town knows that I’m trying to pay for the window.
Today’s movie matinee is Death on the Diamond with Robert Young and Madge Evans. It’s a whodunit that I’ve been able to watch in between selling tickets and pop. But I haven’t seen the ending, so I make my way over to the doors to have a peek.
“Anything good, kid?” I hear from behind me. I quickly scramble from the door back to the booth.
“Yes, sir. Next show is at three p.m. Would you like a ticket?” I say, before even looking up at the person in front of me.
“Well, look at you,” says Jimmie Foxx, in that same nice drawl that I heard in the clubhouse last September. A slow realization comes over his face. “I thought the next time I saw you, you’d be in an A’s uniform instead of that getup. You trading baseball for Hollywood?”
“No, sir. Wow, you remember me?”
“How could I forget? I had lots of discussions with Connie on our way to Japan.”
“Say, why are you here in Philly?” I ask. “Don’t you have some sort of baseball academy in Florida to run? I read about it in the paper.”
“Sure do. I’m heading down later next week. Takin’ my tonsils out tomorrow and the Doc is up here. Ain’t never been the same since Canada.”
“That guy sure did bean you in the head, didn’t he?”
“Sure did.” He pauses and adds, “Now don’t you go on telling anyone. I don’t want to read about it in the evening Bulletin.”
“My lips are sealed,” I say, pretending to button them closed. The matinee has ended, and some of the moviegoers are pointing at Jimmie Foxx and whispering.
“Sorry about that wall, kid. I talked to Connie, but it was all for naught. Looks like we’ll both lose out when it goes up.”
“Yes, sir. I talked to Mr. Mack as well. Thank you for trying. Anyway, there is nothing we can do about it anymore,” I say. “That’s Rule #6.”
“Ah yes, the rules. What’s this one?” he asks.
“Rule #6: Don’t expect life to be fair.”
“You got that right, kid.” He leans toward me and whispers, “If life were fair, I’d still be at first base.” He pulls out his money to pay. “I guess I’ll see you over at Shibe.”
“Maybe. To be honest, sir, I’m working to pay for a church window that I broke, mend a friendship that I destroyed, and save my job as batboy,” I say.
“Save your job as batboy?”
“Yes. If I pay for the church window, I think I have a shot. But it will take forever, so we’ll see. It’s a long story, and your movie is about to start. I do hope to see you, so fingers crossed,” I reply and hold up my crossed fingers. I always say the dumbest things around him.
“Committing yourself to constant improvement,” he says, smiling.
“Hey, that’s a rule, too! Rule #5!”
“Like I said before, I sure do like your rules. I guess we are both tryin’ to make the best out of what we have,” he says.
I beam at the comparison.
He continues, “You do what you have to do, Jimmy Frank. And I’ll see you for the start of the season.”
“Hopefully, Mr. Foxx,” I reply. I take his money and show him inside.
I return for the rest of my shift, and during the down times, I take out the journal from Mrs. Carson. With Lola not speaking to me, I’ve taken to writing in it each day to tell her what’s been happening. The diary reads like a long apology letter, dotted with mishaps and funny things that I don’t want to forget to tell her.
I write about parking cars during the Penn rugby matches, about learning to fix the pipes with Pop and him sending me on real handyman jobs, and about cleaning up Reyburn Park for a fancy wedding and landing a five-dollar tip.
Every night, I ring the Bingle, and when she doesn’t show on the roof, I leave the journal on her side. Every morning I pick it up. I have no idea if she ever reads it. I title today’s entry: Jimmy and Jimmie Meet Again.
35
Mack shuffles infield talent and comes up with a full hand. There are no unsigned players in the house of Mack.
—The Sporting News, March 7, 1935
The sunlight warms my face, and I spring out of bed with a shot of energy. I look at the clock: 8:01 a.m. I rush to the window to see bright blue skies and folks walking without overcoats or scarves. It’s March, and spring has arrived early.
I quickly put on my freshly pressed knickers, and crisp shirt and cap, and hustle downstairs.
“Ma! Pop! MA! POP!” I stomp down each step.
“Quiet down! What’s so important?” Nina asks. I walk so close to her that she can’t move in any direction, and wrap my arms around her for a hug.
“What is your problem?” she says, squirming out of the way and smoothing down her skirt.
“Just wish you could come today,” I say, flashing a devious smile and wrapping my arms around her again. She pushes me lightly and actually laughs a little, before grabbing my hat and throwing it across the room.
“Me too.” She tussles my hair on her way out the door. “Michele is waiting for me,” she says, halfway down the porch steps.
“Have a great morning, sweetheart,” Ma says through the screen door. Nina has been working for the owner of Lee’s Bakery for a month now, and getting more and more hours each week. She’s hoping to work full time over the summer.
I put my cap back on and walk into the kitchen. Pop is at the breakfast table reading the Inquirer while Ma puts a few hotcakes on a plate for me. She pats the chair for me to sit and hums to Guy Lombardo singing on the radio: My heart’s humming. Better times are coming. Have a little faith in me.
I stare at the food, and my stomach jumps at the lyrics. “Don’t you think we should be going?”
“Settle down, Jimmy,” Ma says. “We have an hour until the unveiling.”
“It’s not just the unveiling,” I say, thinking about how my job as batboy still hangs in the balance. In the distance there’s a silver lining—the lyrics drift in from the radio, and my stomach rolls again.
Forty-five minutes later, we walk out the door, cross the street, and head toward St. Columba. I’m so proud that Ma and Pop are coming with me today. I notice that Ma is looking particularly nice.
“New hat, Ma?”
“New to me,” she says in an upbeat voice, touching the edge to move it slightly. Even thrift-store clothes can make her feel good today.
We arrive at St. Columba to a small crowd. The stained-glass window is still covered with the tarp. Two ropes hang on either side, ready for the unveiling. Father Ryan is talking to Connie Mack. He motions for us to join him. We carefully weave our way through the people who are chatting and enjoying fresh tea and hot coffee. I wave to Ralph, Matty, and Santa, who are sitting on a stoop across the street.
Father Ryan is in the middle of a conversation about serving alcohol in the ballpark.
“So, the courts actually sided against you,” Father Ryan says. “I didn’t think it was possible. Too bad the housing commission doesn’t take advice from the city treasurer.”
Even on a day like today, baseball comes first. After an uncomfortable pause, Connie Mack turns his attention to us.
“Mrs. Frances, it’s very nice to see you again,” Connie Mack says, greeting Ma. He shakes all of our hands.
“I thought you’d be in Florida for spring training?” Pop asks.
“And miss this? Never! I had some contracts to attend to anyway, but that’s now all squared away. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Well thank you, Mr. Mack. For coming today. For all of this,” she waves her hand toward the church.
“Thank me? I’m not the one who raised all the money. You should be proud of your son, Mrs. F
rances. Raising $207 dollars in this economy is not an easy task.” He turns to me. “You’ve been a busy young man. Quite the entrepreneur.”
“Yes, sir. But I’d never have gotten the rest without you,” I reply.
“Yes, you would have. And there is no shame in taking my help,” he says.
Ma whispers in my ear: “Rule #7: Always accept an outstretched hand.”
“No, donating the rest was selfish on my part. People think I’m a cheap-skate, but I do like to give back. And your friend Jimmie Foxx thought it would be a good idea as well.”
“Is that so?” Father Ryan says eagerly. “Is he interested in joining St. Columba?”
“Not exactly,” Connie Mack says. “Foxx bumped into Jimmy this winter and started rambling on about some rules, and how I need to find ways to make amends with the neighborhood. This is a small step in the right direction.”
“You still have time to change your mind about that wall,” Pop jumps in, but his tone is not bitter or unfriendly. Connie Mack smiles, and they both know that the wall is still going up. There is no reason to argue.
“I left something back at the office. Will the three of you join me after we are finished here?” Connie Mack asks, and we agree. I raise my eyebrows enough for Ma to see. This is it. Batboy. I look around, hoping to see Lola in the crowd.
“She’s not here,” a voice behind me says. I turn to see Mrs. Carson.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. I know that Lola has been spending time with her. “I’ve been meaning to thank you again for the journal. I promise I’ll give it to her soon, but first I’ve been filling it with things I want to tell Lola.”
“I know. She shares it with me,” she says, and I brighten at the thought of Lola actually reading it each night. Is she ever going to forgive me? I want to ask, but before I have the chance, Mrs. Carson says, “It looks like we are getting started.”
We turn toward Father Ryan, who is trying to quiet the crowd. He motions for me and Pop, and we each take a rope.
“Thank you for coming today. Is everyone ready?” The crowd nods their heads and buzzes in anticipation. “Okay! Ready—one, two, three!”
Goodbye, Mr. Spalding Page 15