by Carol Gorman
“Yeah, if they didn’t know what it could do,” I said. “Like pull in a ball game from clear down in St. Louis!”
We climbed up the slope and started off toward the boardinghouse. Luther carried the gunnysack over his shoulder. I lugged two of his old blankets to lighten his load a bit.
“That Lobo fella sure seems to have it in for you,” Luther said.
“That’s ’cause I flattened him the other day,” I told him. “I didn’t even think about what I was doing. He started after Walter, who’s not very tough, and it just made me mad.”
Luther nodded. We stopped at the corner and crossed the street. “It was nice of you to stick up for your friend.”
“Well, if I get points for doing good then,” I said, “I’d have to lose a couple for running away the next day. Lobo came after me, and I ran like a scared rabbit into the storm sewer to get away from him.”
“Nothin’ wrong with that, Charlie,” Luther said. “Fighting never solved nothin’, anyway.”
“I was a coward,” I said, my voice low.
“No, you were wise, Charlie,” Luther said. “You fought to protect someone weaker who couldn’t defend himself. But you avoided a fight when Lobo came after you.”
I knew Luther was trying to make me feel better. But I still felt bad about being such a chicken.
We got to the boardinghouse a few minutes later. It was a huge white house with a big porch on the front. A stairway went up the side of the house, and there was a door at the top. We climbed the porch steps and knocked on the screen door.
A lady with white hair answered.
“Oh, hello, Luther,” she said, smiling, “you’re just in time for supper.” She turned to me. “And who is this?”
“This is Charlie Nebraska,” he said. “Charlie, this is Mrs. Hollingsworth.”
“Hello,” I said.
“Nice to meet you, Charlie.” She looked at Luther. “Why don’t you take your things up to your room now? Then come down and join the rest of the boarders in the dining room.” She slipped a hand into her apron and pulled out two keys.
“Now, Luther,” she said, “this key opens the front door and the door at the top of the outside stairs. This other key opens your room. We rarely lock the outside doors, but if we do, you can get in.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, taking the keys. “I’ll be right down for supper. Charlie, you can come up and take a look at my room if you want to. It’s real nice.”
I followed Luther up the stairs and down the hall.
He stopped in front of the last room. It had a big brass 3 on the door. He pushed the key into the keyhole and unlocked it.
Just then the door across the hall opened and a short, skinny man walked out. He glanced up at Luther and looked real surprised. “Who’re you?” he demanded, like Luther was breaking in or something.
“Luther Peale.” He held out his hand. “I’m the new boarder.”
The skinny man glared at Luther and didn’t shake his hand. “The new boarder?” he said. “In this house?”
Luther stiffened but nodded. “That’s right,” he said in a soft voice.
“We’ll see about that,” the man said. He stormed off to the end of the hall and down the steps.
Luther froze.
“Maybe I shouldn’t move in so fast, Charlie,” he said. “I might not be stayin’.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Mrs. Hollingsworth owns this place, right? If she says you can stay, you can stay.”
Luther gave a little sigh and stepped into the room. I walked in behind him. He was right. It was a nice place, clean and kind of sunny. A bed was pushed up against the inside wall, and a chest of drawers stood next to the back window.
“Lots of space,” Luther murmured, opening the closet door. “Don’t have much to hang in it, though.” He gazed over his shoulder. “Mrs. Hollingsworth had sinks put in every room.” He pointed to the sink next to the closet. A small mirror hung over it. “Bathroom’s across the hall.”
“How many people live here?” I asked.
“Three other men upstairs here,” Luther said. “I take it we just met one of ’em. Mrs. Hollingsworth lives in the rooms downstairs. She makes breakfast and supper for everybody.”
I frowned. “I hope you’ll still eat with us sometimes. It sure is better than eating with Vern.”
“Well, thank you, Charlie,” Luther said. “I’d like that.”
We put his things away. They only took up one drawer and a few hangers. He took a paper bag out of the gunnysack. He didn’t open it but set it on the floor in the back of his closet. I figured it was more of that Tennessee moonshine. But I didn’t ask, seeing as how it was none of my business.
“Say, Charlie, would you do me a favor?” Luther asked.
“Sure.”
He took out a dollar and handed it to me. “I need some paper to write my daddy and brothers. Could you get me a tablet I could tear paper out of? And some envelopes?”
“Sure,” I said. “Woolworth’s has that stuff.”
“No hurry,” he said. “Just when you’re over that way. Now, you better go. I got to go down for supper.”
We heard shouting downstairs, and Luther opened the door to the hallway.
“I ain’t livin’ with a Negro,” the voice shouted. “If he’s here, I’m movin’ out.”
“Charlie, you better take the outside stairs tonight.” I opened my mouth to argue, but he went on. “See if you can get the team to come practice about seven. Over at the diamond where I saw you playing before.”
I planted myself in front of him. “Okay, but I’m walkin’ downstairs with you.”
Luther nodded. “All right, Charlie, but you follow me down.”
I walked behind Luther to the end of the hallway and down the stairs. When we got to the bottom of the steps I could see the dining room just past the living room. Two men sat stiff at the table like they had metal rods inside their backs. They stared at their plates.
The third man, the skinny one we saw upstairs, got up. “Mrs. Hollingsworth,” he said, pointing his finger at the old lady, “if you let that boy set down here, I’m packin’ up and leaving.”
Mrs. Hollingsworth, sitting at the head of the table, turned to Luther. Her face was as white as her hair, and her eyes looked scared. She said in a quiet voice, “Mr. Peale, please sit down and join us for supper.”
The skinny guy shoved his plate off the table and it crashed to the floor, spilling slices of beef, potatoes, and green beans across the rug. He cussed in a loud voice and stormed into the living room, past us, and up the stairs.
“Mrs. Hollingsworth—” Luther said, his voice hushed.
But she held up her hand. “I never did like him anyway, Luther,” she said. “You sit down here and enjoy your supper.”
The two men at the table looked uncomfortable, but nodded at Luther. I couldn’t believe how calm Luther looked. His insides had to be jumping like mine. He nodded back to them, then turned to me.
“Charlie, I’ll see you at the park at seven,” Luther said.
“Okay,” I said. “See you.”
“Nice to meet you, Charlie,” Mrs. Hollingsworth said. Her voice was soothing, like she was trying to smooth over what just happened.
“Same here, ma’am,” I said.
I walked out the front door, down the sidewalk, and headed toward home.
* * *
I called everybody to tell them about practice. None of them could wait to get coached by a professional baseball player. Even Will said he’d be there. Eileen’s voice sounded kind of funny, but she didn’t explain why. I found out when I got to the baseball diamond that night.
I could see that something was up when I saw Luther standing at home base looking worried. Parents were piling out of their cars, along with their kids. Eileen’s parents were there, along with Walter’s and Brian Malone’s. They all looked real serious as they walked toward the baseball diamond.
“What
’s goin’ on?” I asked Will.
“Eileen said her dad doesn’t like it that Luther’s coaching,” he said.
“Why?” I asked him. “Because he’s colored?”
“I don’t know,” Will said. “Could just be ’cause he doesn’t know Luther.”
“But Luther’s a professional,” I said. “He’ll be a great coach! Are they going to let her brothers play?”
Will shrugged.
“Well,” I said, “Casey played with the Wildcats, and Coach Hennessey can be mean and boss people around. Besides, Luther’s a way better coach.”
Will scowled. “Hey, Hennessey’s a great coach, Charlie. You shouldn’t say all that just because you didn’t make the team.”
I stared at Will. “Even if I was playin’ with the Wildcats, I wouldn’t like the way he acts,” I told him. I looked over at Luther. “I just want to know why people are suspicious of Luther when he’s nice to everybody and he knows so much about baseball.”
Will didn’t say anything. He just turned and walked away. I didn’t have time to think about Will, though, because Mr. McNally walked up to Luther right then.
“We came down here to find out what’s going on,” Mr. McNally said. “How come you want to coach these kids?”
“They asked me to help,” Luther said quietly. His back was straight as a telephone pole, and his words were slow and careful. “I thought maybe I could give them some pointers. Help ’em be better players.”
“Where did you come from?” Mrs. Malone asked. “And why did you come here to Holden?”
“I’m from Tennessee, ma’am,” Luther said. “Hurt my arm playing ball. I come up north lookin’ for work.”
“So what’s in this for you?” Mrs. Holladay asked, narrowing her eyes a little bit.
I walked over and stood next to Luther. “Nothing’s in it for him,” I said. “He’s a professional baseball player, and he’s helpin’ us. He’s my friend, and all of us want Luther to coach us. Right, Eileen?”
“Right,” she said, nodding hard.
“Right, Brian?” I asked.
Brian’s mom looked at him sharply. He looked uncomfortable and shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Will?”
Will nodded but looked away.
Mrs. McNally spoke up. “Mr. Peale, some of us were a little uncomfortable because we don’t know you—”
“And he’s livin’ down on the river like a tramp,” Mrs. Malone butted in.
“I did spend a couple of nights camping, ma’am,” Luther said. “Till I got me a room.”
Mrs. Malone still didn’t look happy.
I was sorry for Luther because everyone was so suspicious. But I spoke up. “He lives in a boardinghouse over on Willet Street.”
Mrs. McNally swatted at a mosquito and said, “Well then.” She smiled. “I don’t see why Mr. Peale shouldn’t teach the kids. Maybe if a parent comes to the practices—”
“I’ll come,” offered Mr. Malone. His wife looked doubtful, but she didn’t say anything.
Walter’s dad wiped a hand over his chin. “Well, it’s okay with me as long as a parent is here.” Walter smiled at him.
Mrs. Malone spoke up. “Johnny O’Toole won’t be here. His mother and father won’t let him play with a …” Her voice trailed away.
I wanted to say, His name is Luther Peale, but something told me to keep my mouth shut.
“Well, my Jim won’t be playing, either,” said Mrs. Holladay. “Come on, Jim, let’s go.”
“You said you’d hear what everyone has to say,” Jim protested.
“I’ve heard enough. Let’s go.” She turned and walked off toward the parking lot. Jim looked at Luther and said quietly, “Sorry.”
Luther nodded to him. Jim followed his mom toward the parking lot, but turned back to look over his shoulder. I held up a hand to thank him for trying.
“So, I guess everything’s settled, then,” Mrs. McNally said. “Mr. Peale is nice enough to help the kids, and we’ll have a parent at every practice.” She smiled at Luther. “Thank you, Mr. Peale.”
He nodded again and said softly, “Ma’am.”
“I’ll stay tonight,” Mr. Malone offered.
Mrs. Malone turned, shaking her head, and walked to their car. The rest of the parents looked awkward and stared at the ground. A few called out “Thank you” to Luther. Then one by one, except for Mr. Malone, they shuffled off toward the parking lot.
Luther watched them go. His face didn’t tell me what he was thinking.
What a day. First Lobo was mean to Luther, then the man at the boardinghouse didn’t want him living in the same house with him, and now these parents made him feel bad for trying to help us.
It was kind of a surprise to see some of these people—the parents of my best friends—act so different from how I knew them. Or how I thought they were. It was like you could suddenly see a part of them that they usually kept hidden in the dark.
I felt sorry for Eileen and her brothers. They had to watch their dad act so mean for no reason. I would’ve been real embarrassed.
But I bet Luther felt a lot worse.
“Sorry about all of that, Luther. But I’m glad we can have our team.”
Luther sighed. “Yeah.” He looked around at us kids. “Well, I guess we can start practice now.”
“Right,” I said. “We better get started. We’re playing a game in three weeks.”
Everyone looked surprised. “We’re going to play the Wildcats,” I told them.
“What?” Bowie yelled.
“Why?” Walter asked, worry spreading over his face.
“It’ll give us a goal to work for,” Luther said. “We can win this game. We just have to hustle. Hustle wins more games than base hits.”
Everyone looked scared except Will. Maybe he was trying to decide which team he’d play on. I was wondering the same thing. He’d be playing “official” games with the Wildcats, but would he play with us against them for this game?
“Lobo’ll kill us,” Walter said. His voice was higher than usual, and his mouth went down so far at the edges I thought he might cry.
“No he won’t, Walter,” Luther said. “I’ve seen you kids play ball, and you all have talent. You just need a little coaching and lots of practice. And most of all, you need to believe in yourselves.”
“Well, I believe we’re gonna get stomped,” Kathleen murmured, scratching at a mosquito bite on her leg.
Luther didn’t look at her, but he said, “There’s no room for negative thinking. You have to believe in yourselves and your teammates. When you’re standin’ in the batter’s box, you tell yourself you’re going to hit that ball. It don’t matter if we have two strikes against us and you’re the player we’re counting on. You say over and over while you’re up at bat, ‘I’m gonna hit the ball; I’m gonna hit the ball.’ And you keep your eyes on that ball every second. You have to make contact with the ball to put it in play. You will hit it.”
I could tell my friends were listening hard. They were leaning forward to hear everything Luther said.
“Luther?” Walter put up his hand.
Luther smiled. “You don’t have to raise your hand, Walter.”
“Are we going to have a team name?” he asked.
Luther’s smile widened. “I’ve been thinkin’ about that. How about the Stumptown Stormers?”
“That’s good!” I said.
We all said the name to try it out. Everybody liked it.
“Wouldn’t it be something if the Stumptown Stormers beat the Wildcats?” Eileen said. “We’d be famous around here!”
I glanced quick at Will. He frowned, but he didn’t say anything.
“We’ll never beat—” Walter stopped himself midsentence. “Uh, no, I mean—”
“Good, Walter,” Luther said, nodding. “You caught yourself in negative talk. Keep aware, and stop when you catch yourself talkin’ or thinkin’ that way. We can and will beat the Wildcats.”
I thought I saw Mr. Malone smile. I wasn’t sure whether he thought that was funny or whether he just agreed with Luther.
“Okay, let’s get started,” Luther went on. “We’re going to work on hitting tonight. Here are some things to remember. It’s important to feel comfortable in the batter’s box. Wear loose clothes to practice and games. And be sure to keep your body closed while you’re at the plate. No ‘steppin’ in the bucket’ to the side. Step toward the ball. Now let’s see your bats.”
Alan brought three bats up to Luther. They were all cracked and taped. Two of them were Louisville Sluggers signed by Stan Musial and Ralph Kiner.
“Okay, these’re good,” Luther said. “We got any newer bats?”
Nobody said so, and he nodded. “Okay. We’ll use these. Everybody line up to bat now. Charlie, you pitch, and remember what I told you about keepin’ your fingers across the seams. Follow through. And grab up a pinch of dirt afterward. Use Walter’s catcher’s pud as a target.”
He turned to Walter. “Hold that pud in the middle of the plate about as high as the batter’s knee,” he said.
First up was Alan. He picked up the Stan Musial bat and got ready.
“Close your stance more,” Luther told him. Alan turned slightly to the right. “Now I want to hear you say, ’I’m gonna hit the ball—I’m gonna hit the ball.’ Keep sayin’ it till your turn’s over. And watch that ball. Never take your eyes off it.”
Alan’s face squeezed up as he focused. “I’m gonna hit the ball,” he said. “I’m gonna hit the ball.”
Luther nodded at me. I wound up and pitched Alan a good one. He socked it high over my head.
I heard Mr. Malone whistle.
“Excellent!” Luther called out. “Remember the three Cs of hitting: be comfortable, concentrate, and make contact with that ball. Next up.”
It was amazing how much better everybody batted that day. It was almost like Luther worked some kind of magic on us.
I pitched better, too. I only threw two wild ones, and that was because I was thinking about how good we were all doing and I forgot to concentrate.
After everybody had batted awhile, Luther told me to vary my pitches. “Charlie, sometimes aim as high as the batter’s left shoulder or as low as the batter’s knees,” he called out. “Your pitches are much better now, so you don’t have to pick up dirt anymore. But be sure you follow all the way through on every pitch.”