We pull and let the tarp fall to the church steps, revealing the brand new stained-glass window to a chorus of gasps and applause.
It is even better than before—a kaleidoscope using every color of the rainbow, patterned in a way that makes each angle look different. There are yellow and green leaf crystals surrounding red roses along the edge, next to deep orange arches scalloping the circle. Blue and purple streaks jet toward the center, highlighting a golden cross over a large red sacred heart.
“This window represents the heart of this community,” Father Ryan opens his remarks. “I wanted to capture that. It’s beautiful, no?” he asks the crowd. Everyone nods in agreement.
Ten minutes later, after a couple of prayers and many thanks to various people in the crowd, he looks in our direction. He talks about charity and commends Connie Mack for coming through for the neighborhood—in this respect, he adds quickly.
Charity, the opposite of Greed, I think.
He then makes some remarks about praying for a winning season before turning the focus to me.
“Earlier this school year, we had a lesson on the Seven Virtues,” he starts. “We discussed using them to create our own destiny …”
This part of the speech is probably only a minute or two, but it seems to take hours. I don’t like the attention, and look down as he mentions something about overcoming adversity, taking responsibility, and making him proud.
The only interesting part is when he mentions that the “other parties involved” are learning their lessons in other ways, and I think about how the three Polinski brothers are spending their winter in juvenile detention.
Ma squeezes my shoulders, which I quickly shrug off. I am sure that my face is a deep shade of red.
“You’ve stepped up to the plate, Jimmy, and you’ve hit a home run.”
I don’t think anyone is surprised that Father Ryan ends with a baseball reference.
36
There will be no beer sold at Shibe Park in Philadelphia this season.
—The Sporting News, March 14, 1935
It takes us longer to leave than expected, with everyone wanting to shake my hand to offer congratulations, and shake Connie Mack’s hand to say thank you. I finally escape to across the street and wait on the stoop with the other boys. Matty, Ralph, and Santa all came to watch. And Tommy Polinski.
Everything changed for Tommy the night of the fight. He moved in with an aunt and started coming around more and more. Ma’s even invited him for dinner a few times. We haven’t talked about his brothers at all, or that he chose me over them that night. I did write about it in the journal for Lola to read.
“Neat window, right?” I ask.
“I guess,” Matty shrugs. “But I liked trying to catch Jesus looking at me.” Ralph pushes him and knocks him off the step.
“That was just an old rumor,” Santa says.
“I never did catch his eye,” Ralph adds.
“I did. Just before my snowball went straight through the window,” I say, and they all laugh, even Tommy. I join in, although I secretly wonder if he did bring me luck. Or at least guide me to create my own destiny.
“Besides,” I continue, “that statue of Mary brought me luck. She helped me hide from your brothers that one morning.” I look over to Tommy.
“Really?” Matty perks up.
“Sure. Just dip your fingers into the holy water, bless yourself, and ask her.”
“I’ll have to try that when they get out of jail,” Tommy says. We all laugh nervously. I do wonder what’ll happen to him when their juvenile detention finally ends.
“We’ll have your back,” Santa says.
“Yeah?” Tommy sits up a little straighter.
“You bet,” Ralph adds. We are not a gang of fighters, but Tommy doesn’t seem to care. He smiles like it’s the best thing he has ever heard.
“Jimmy,” Ma calls from the crowd.
“Time to go.” I take a deep breath. “Gonna find out about batboy.” They all stand and pat me on my back as I leave.
The walk to Shibe Park is quick. Ma and I let Pop and Connie Mack walk ahead of us. We hear small parts of their conversation. It sounds an awful lot like Pop is questioning all of his managerial moves, and Mr. Mack is smiling politely, letting him talk.
We enter the Shibe Park employee entrance, climb the same steps to the offices, and enter the door next to John Shibe’s office. We are standing in an office almost identical to the one that Lola and I broke into, except the closet, sofa, and windows are on the opposite side. The curtains are parted, and the room is quite bright, much lighter than I remember it. There is a statue of a large white elephant on his desk.
He motions for me to sit across from him and leans back in his red leather chair. He has a pleasant look on his face, the same expression he had when we talked in the boat. Not the monster I created in my head. Not the one who is building a wall just for spite.
Here it goes. Remember Rule #3: Say “please” and “thank you.”
“Mr. Mack, I want to thank you for helping me out. I’m not sure what I would’ve done if you didn’t see me in that boat. And I’d like you to please still consider me for batboy.”
“I never told you what to do, Mr. Frances,” Mack says.
“Well, my head was just all over the place. So, thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, and I feel relieved that that part of the conversation is over. “How is your friend doing?”
I didn’t expect him to ask about Lola. There is a long awkward pause.
“Well,” I clear my throat. “I apologized right away. I mean I’ve tried to apologize. Like a million times.” I didn’t rehearse this part, and my words tumble out faster. “Sometimes I leave a Valomilk or a soda pop for her, but I stopped doing that so I could save more for the window.” I pause and catch my breath.
“But we haven’t talked. We even got Monopoly for Christmas and I haven’t played it yet. I’m waiting to play with her.”
“I bought that from Gimbels myself,” he says. “For my grandkids. Fascinating game.”
“I’ll keep trying.” I bite my bottom lip to keep it from quivering. “Every day, I ring our bell, and knock on her door, and I try to time things just right to bump into her. I just want to be her friend again. That’s all that really matters.”
Mr. Mack stands up, buttons his coat, and shakes my hand. “Time is a funny thing, Jimmy.” He walks toward the closet and opens it. I see the safe in the corner and look over to Ma, catching her eye. She shrugs her shoulders.
“I forgot to bring this to the church,” he says, as he hands me a brown paper bag. I stare at him blankly.
“Go on. Take a look. Try it on.” I rip the bag open and see the soft white fabric. The A’s elephant is staring back at me. “Everyone here needs a uniform,” he says.
“Thanks, Mr. Mack! I won’t let you down.” I shake his hand, and it suddenly feels like spite fences and broken windows are a million miles away. I have my very own A’s uniform. I’m finally part of the team. I slide in each arm right over my dress shirt and begin to button, when I notice a small LS stitched inside near the top buttonhole, just big enough for me to see. Lola stitched this top. The little hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I can’t control my smile as I grin from ear to ear.
“I bet he never takes it off,” Ma says to Connie Mack. She’s probably right. I will never take this off.
“It’s well deserved,” he replies, and turns again to me. “I believe in you, Jimmy. And I wasn’t kidding back at the church. Raising $207 is an incredible accomplishment. I see great things in your future.” He walks us down the steps and to the street. The warm sun hits me and I take a deep breath. Things are looking up.
“The team will be coming back from spring training in about five weeks for the City Series against the Phillies.” Pop sees the opening and starts talking about the A’s most recent headlines. He jumps from Mickey Cochrane managing the Tigers, to the McNair and Higgins
contracts, to Jimmie Foxx’s brother playing in spring training.
“There sure is a lot going on,” Pop says, scratching his chin as if he is contemplating it all. Connie Mack looks back to me, amused.
“Some of the Clubhouse Boys have already started cleaning up the grounds. Why don’t you come by next Saturday to help out? Once the season starts, you’ll be our new batboy. Jimmie Foxx certainly is a fan. And I think you’ve earned it. How does that sound?”
“How does that sound?” I grin. “It sounds like I’ll have the best seat in the house.”
37
Athletics’ manager asserts moundsmen look far better than year ago.
—The Sporting News, March 21, 1935
I wake to a loud motor and a tut-tut-tut that shakes the entire house. I rush to the window and see my biggest fear come true. Or what used to be my biggest fear.
The Warner construction trucks have come down 20th Street and are unloading large sheets of metal and monster-size posts. Men with hard hats, overalls, and tool belts are filing out of the trucks, using gloves to handle the materials.
I try to move, but my feet are stuck to the ground. I wobble a bit and steady myself on the windowsill. It’s a warm Saturday for March, and I open the window and stick my head out. The entire neighborhood has come out to watch.
I pull at the Bingle a few times—like I have done almost every day since that dreadful night—throw on some clothes, and grab the journal. I find a ribbon that Ma gave me and wrap it up.
The sun hits my eyes as I emerge from the skylight, and I squint down the row of houses. The rooftops are filled with solemn faces and people crying. Boys who are normally terrorizing their sisters or making fart jokes are sitting quietly on their benches.
Ma and Pop are at the store, and our rooftop bleachers are empty. I make my way to the lowest bench, where I sit and watch.
A moment later, I look up to see Lola standing above me. The sun, which is directly behind her, outlines her hair, and I can’t tell if she is smiling or frowning. By the time my eyes adjust, she has already looked away toward Shibe Park.
She sits, lifts her knees to her chest, and hugs them. I lean back with my elbows on the bench behind me.
Even without speaking, I am convinced that Lola is back by my side. Back to our friendship. Back with me for good.
“So, I think the A’s are going to be a good team this year,” I say, fumbling over my words a bit.
“Oh, yeah? Your own expert opinion?” she says. I’ve never been so happy to hear Lola’s sarcasm, and I can’t help but grin.
“Not mine. Everyone’s.” I pull out Wednesday’s Sporting News from my army bag, and read aloud:
Ft. Myers, Fla.—So well pleased is Connie Mack with his pitchers and Jimmie Foxx’s brilliance and power behind the bat that he has come out openly and predicted that the Athletics would resume their role of pennant contender this year. “It’s the best team I have had in several years,” Mack said, “and we must be considered strictly in the race …
“I wasn’t fooling. I figured the catching department to be the weak spot on our club and Foxx was the only man at my command who could change it into …”
“At my command,” Lola interrupts.
“Sorry?” I stop.
“Connie Mack said at my command. He’s just so powerful,” she says, motioning to the construction.
“It’s just a wall,” I say. Lola closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. We both continue to look straight ahead and watch. “I even made a rule about it,” I add.
“What’s that?” she asks.
I hand her our list of rules, and she reads it out loud.
“Rule #26: Walls don’t block us from the things that really matter.”
I smile nervously and wait for her reaction.
“That’s a statement. It’s not a rule,” she says. I look up and begin to defend it, only to see her grinning from ear to ear.
“Very funny,” I say and grab the rule book back.
“Looks like your Ma’s first flower is coming up,” she says. I look at the flowerpot where Bing Miller is buried and see a small bulb beginning to peek out from the dirt.
Thank you, Bing.
The wall will go up in squares—thick metal posts raised to the sky, crossed by horizontal support beams. It’s like a chessboard, with each square ready to be filled by green metal sheets. It will probably take weeks to complete, but it takes just one day for us to feel the barrier and see it take shape.
Home plate, third base, and right field will all be gone. I already miss the sliding catches, the players in the dugouts, the managers bickering, and the Jimmie Foxx home runs—only inches over the right-field wall. The sun, now on the other side of Shibe Park, is shining through the metal grid, creating strange shadows on the street below.
We barely talk, but we stay on the roof for hours. Lola rests her head on her knees as the men in hard hats pack up for the day, and the construction trucks sputter away. The street becomes eerily quiet.
“Let’s not watch tomorrow,” Lola finally says.
“Alright,” I say. “Gosh, I have so much to tell you. About Ma and Pop and the store. And Nina’s new job. About the church window and Connie Mack. Did you know that he donated the final $800 to help fix it? And Jimmie Foxx convinced him to do it? I’ve been parking cars and selling lemonade and making deliveries for Nick’s Restaurant. And I have so many funny stories about it all.” I stop to catch my breath.
She now has a grin from ear to ear.
“I missed you too,” she says.
I rummage through my bag and hand Lola the journal.
“Here. I’ve been writing in it, but it’s yours.” She takes it, gingerly opening the bow and putting the ribbon into her hair. Her cheeks are flushed.
She opens the journal and looks closely at the photo I’ve taped to the inside cover, the one of us from the rooftop with Shibe Park in the background. Her eyes brighten, and her face fills with even more color.
She reads aloud what I’ve written underneath: Rule #12: Jimmy and Lola will always be best friends forever.
I watch as she flips to a blank page and titles her first entry: Goodbye, Mr. Spalding.
Epilogue
As long as the A’s were in Florida, the weather was clear and hot and everything was serene.
—The Sporting News, April 11, 1934
“Run to the clubhouse and find me another pair of socks.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Foxx!” I say, scurrying out of the dugout and into the ballpark hallway. Lola follows quickly behind, laughing as the A’s newly adopted dog, Rags, nips at her heels. “Careful—Rags bit Dib Williams a couple of weeks ago, and he’s still hurt.”
“Going somewhere fast, I see.” We both stop in our tracks at the sight of Connie Mack. Even after all of the events over the last few months, he’s still the powerful manager of the A’s. I still get a little nervous.
“Yes, sir. With all the rain, Mr. Foxx asked for a fresh pair of socks,” I say.
Connie Mack bends down to pet Rags, who quickly runs away. He turns his focus to Lola. “The other Clubhouse Boys brought their fathers as guests to opening day.”
Lola and I look at each other. We have been working on my girls-should-be-allowed-in-the-dugout, too! speech all morning.
“Yes, well,” I clear my throat. “You remember Loughrea Sheridan? Lola?” I watch in relief as Connie Mack smiles.
“Of course.” He turns to me. “Well done, Mr. Frances.”
“Thank you, sir,” I reply. No speech needed today.
“A girl in the dugout. I guess there is a first for everything,” he says, and Lola lights up. Connie Mack shakes our hands and walks toward the field.
We are back just in time for the first at-bat. Even on this rainy, gray day, there is a buzz in the air. The players are chatting and laughing, telling jokes, and making snide remarks about the Washington players.
“So how do you like the view from here, Jimmy Fran
k?” Jimmie Foxx asks as the Senators take the field. I grin and look at Lola sitting next to me in the dugout.
“Not bad at all, Mr. Foxx,” I reply.
“Today is my favorite day of the season,” he says to us.
“Even in this rain?”
“You bet,” he says and takes a deep breath. “Today is opening day.”
“Rule #14,” Lola and I say at the same time.
“I need to start writing these down. What’s this one?” he asks as I hand him his bat.
“Rule #14: On opening day, everyone is in first place.”
Life’s Little Rules
(More Important Rules for Jimmy & Lola’s Eyes Only!)
11. Watch every single Philadelphia Athletics home game from our rooftop, no matter what.
12. Jimmy and Lola will always be best friends forever.
13. Bury all dead family pets in Shibe Park for luck. Added: Flowerpots work, too.
13a. Win lucky fish at every school fair.
14. On opening day, everyone is in first place.
15. Watch games from inside the ballpark on Knothole Gang days.
16. Always meet on the roof when you hear the Bingle.
17. A pinky promise cannot be broken.
18. Never eat cold pie.
19. Stay away from the four Polinski brothers at all costs.
19a. Never be alone when the Polinskis are out to get you.
20. Keep fishing line, a matchbook, a library card, and a canteen on your person at all times.
21. Never say “I told you so.”
22. Change the time of all doctor appointments when a shot is involved.
23. Take turns bringing snacks to Sunday games.
24. Eat lasagna off the floor whenever possible.
25. Create your own destiny.
26. Walls don’t block us from the things that really matter.
Author’s Note
Two fans watching the Philadelphia Athletics at Shibe Park
While many of the details within Goodbye, Mr. Spalding are historically accurate, this story is a work of fiction.
Goodbye, Mr. Spalding Page 16