For Dad
Σε αγαπώ
CHAPTER
1
EVERYTHING STARTED ON the day I had that close call with Tank.
Tank lives two blocks away, so I see him almost every day, but he usually ignores me. This is probably for the best, since Tank is a rhinoceros. A 2,580-pound Diceros bicornis with a seventeen-inch horn, according to the sign on his fence. That fence also happened to be our right-field fence, which is how Tank and I got to know each other on a first-name basis. It was my turn to play right field, and I’ll admit it: my mind wandered. If you’ve ever played baseball, you know what it’s like. Because no one ever hits the ball to right field.
Except, of course, when they do.
It doesn’t help that I’m a terrible outfielder. To be perfectly honest, I couldn’t catch a fly ball to save my life.
So there I was, caught flat-footed when Pete walloped the ball. It sailed over my head and landed with a thunk in a pile of hay on the wrong side of the fence. Tank’s side. And there was Tank, snoozing in the shade of a billboard. (CALL KING’S MOTORS AT HOPKINS 5800 SOURCE FOR GENUINE PACKARD PARTS!)
That was our last baseball. Somebody had to get it back.
And that somebody was the right fielder.
Let me say this right now: the general public does not belong in rhinoceros pens—ever. This fact is so obvious, some genius decided that a stone wall topped with a chest-high chain-link fence would be enough of a reminder. Sure, it’s enough to keep a stumpy-legged rhino in. But it’s useless at keeping a twelve-year-old kid out. Because here’s another obvious thing: Baseballs do not belong in rhinoceros pens either. What if Tank ate the ball? That would end the game in a hurry—or at least postpone it. The truth always comes out in the end (so to speak).
The fellas gave me their usual encouragement.
“What’re ya waiting for, Nick?”
“I think he’s chicken, that’s what I think.”
“Some right fielder you are! What, are ya scared of a little ol’ rhino?”
I dropped my mitt and sized up the situation: hop the fence, grab the ball, and back to safety. Six seconds, tops.
Or never. Depending on the reflexes of the rhino.
“Yep. He’s chicken, all right.”
“Bawwwwk, bawk bawk . . .”
I took a deep breath, wound myself up, and . . .
vaulted the fence, up and over (“Atta boy, Nick!”)
raced to the hay pile (“Hurry up!”)
grabbed the ball (That’s not the ball. What is that?)
There’s the ball!
SNORT.
“RUN! Don’t look back!”
Over the top, and OUT.
Exactly 2,580 pounds of muscle crashed into the wall behind me, leaving a Tank-shaped dent in the stone. (I might be making up that last part. But everything else is true, I swear.)
I somersaulted on the ground. My heart was pounding. My pants were torn. Something smelled really bad.
But I was holding the ball.
“You did it!” said Ace, running out from shortstop.
“Holy moly, we thought you were a goner,” hollered Charlie from the pitcher’s mound.
Chuck just stood there in left field with his mouth hanging open.
“Look at you, Spirakis.” Here came Pete, swaggering out from home plate with the bat on his shoulder. “You might live to finish sixth grade after all. Now grab your mitt and hand over that muddy ball. That was a home run and it’s four to three. Still two outs.”
I stood up, brushed myself off, and flipped the ball to Pete. “Not so fast, slugger. You know the rules. Anything hit into the rhino pen is an automatic out. And by the way—that ain’t mud.”
CHAPTER
2
BY NOW YOU MIGHT HAVE figured out that we play ball in the zoo. This is not as crazy as it sounds. The zoo is part of the city park. In other words: public property.
There’s not a lot of room, what with Tank in right field, the buffalo pen along the first-base line, and city streets on the other two sides. We don’t usually have enough players for a real game, so we made up our own version and call it Scramble (because whenever the ball’s in play, that’s what everybody has to do).
We played two more innings, until the five-o’clock whistles blew. First, from the brewery on State Street. Then, a half second later, from the factories under the viaduct, one after another.
“Same time tomorrow?” said Pete, and we all nodded.
“Seventh inning, and it’s tied at five,” I said, swiping my mitt at Ace. “Your turn in right field tomorrow.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Ace sounded tough, but I caught him shooting a nervous glance toward the rhino pen.
We collected our gear and headed toward home. Once we were out of the park, Ace and I broke off from the group and started south, down Forty-Fourth Street. It’s one of those streets where all the houses look pretty much the same: squat, brick bungalows, each one with a tiny square of lawn and a big front porch. Elm trees lining both sides of the street, heaving up the sidewalk with their roots.
Of course, the houses aren’t exactly the same. Right now, we were walking past a house with a BEWARE OF DOG sign out front. Somewhere inside, something very small yapped to beat the band. And there was old Mr. Goldberg, waving from his porch swing as usual.
We passed a couple more houses. Someone had their windows open, even though it was still chilly, and I could hear Dick Tracy playing on a radio.
At the next house, Ace twitched his nose like a rabbit. “Phew! Sauerkraut at Schmitzy’s again. How can they eat that stuff? It smells even worse than you do right now!”
“Very funny.”
“What’s the matter with you?” he said. And then the lightbulb turned on over his head. “Are you still worked up about Tank?”
I kicked at the cracks in the sidewalk. “I thought rhinos had bad eyesight.”
“Very bad eyesight. Very good hearing. Who knew? With those tiny ears?” Ace grabbed his own ears (which weren’t so tiny) and wiggled them. Then he poked me with his mitt. “You’d do it all over again if you had to. I know you would.”
I felt a smile creeping across my face. “It was pretty swell, wasn’t it?”
“Swell?” said Ace. “It was legendary! Did you get a load of Pete’s face when you tossed him that brown ball? What a thing of beauty!”
“He deserved it,” I said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say Pete hit that ball into Tank’s yard on purpose.”
Ace’s eyebrows shot up. “Nah. Ya think?”
“He batted lefty,” I told him. “All of a sudden he decides he’s a switch hitter? He just wanted to hit the ball over the right-field fence, so I’d have to go after it.”
“Pete’s not that good,” said Ace. “Or that smart. He just got lucky.”
“Maybe.” We stepped around a couple of girls playing hopscotch on the sidewalk. “But I think he was hoping to get lucky.”
We were at Ace’s house now, and his nose twitched again. “Hey! I smell . . . fried burgers! How great is that? Want me to see if there’s extra?”
“Nicky!” called a voice from next door. My ma. “Come wash up now.”
My stomach rumbled. “Maybe next time. Thanks anyway.”
Ace looked past me and waved. “Hiya, Mrs. S!” He slapped me on the back. “See ya later, Nicky.” And he darted into his house, letting the screen door slam behind him.
“I hope you choke on that burger!” I hollered after him. I turned, and there was my mother, kneeling on the front lawn with a tin bucket next to her. “Ma? What ya doing?”
“Supper,” she said. “What happens to your pants?”
“Tore ’em. Playing ba
ll.”
“Again?” She sighed. Then she showed me the bucket, half filled with dark green leaves. “They look nice, neh? Your father’s favorite.”
I glanced around, and my face burned. “Aren’t there enough dandelions in the backyard?”
“Not so many,” said Ma, standing up and brushing at her apron. “What? I embarrass you? Your friend Azy, he doesn’t mind if I pick radikia.” She nodded toward the house next door, and she grinned. “I pick some from their yard too.”
“Gee whiz, Ma! And anyway, it’s Ace, not Azy.”
“That’s what I said. Azy.” We climbed the porch steps. “Why you want him to choke? That’s not a nice thing to tell your best friend.”
I remembered what I’d said to Ace. “It was nothing, Ma. Just a joke.” I pulled the screen door open, and she clattered the bucket through.
“Joke? I thought you said ‘choke.’ ” She wrinkled her nose as she squeezed past me. “What do I smell?”
“You don’t want to know, Ma.”
CHAPTER
3
THAT’LL BE NINETY-FIVE CENTS.” I punched the keys on the cash register, and the drawer slid open with a ding.
The customer handed over a dollar bill. “Keep the change,” he said. “A little Saturday bonus.” He adjusted the fedora on his head and called toward the back of the shop. “Thanks again, George. Nobody can block a hat like you.”
In a halo of lamplight, a small, wiry guy with glasses and bushy eyebrows waved a shoe and then bent over his work again. My father.
The customer swept out onto the sidewalk. As the door jingled shut behind him, the odor of shoe polish collided with fresh air and bus exhaust.
“Nicky?” called my father from his workbench. “Mister Watson’s shoes, they’re ready. Bring me a box, neh?”
“Sure thing, Pop.” I grabbed an empty shoe box from behind the counter, along with a sheet of blank newsprint. “Say, Pop? You think I could take off a little early today? The fellas are playing ball.”
“The fellas, they’re always playing ball,” answered Pop, making room on the worktable.
“It’s quiet today. I even dusted the tops of the shelves, where no one can see.”
“Good boy,” said Pop, without looking up. “You know the rules, Nicky. Saturday, it’s a working day. We are open until five o’clock.”
“But, Pop—”
He held up a finger, which meant the discussion was over.
It wasn’t fair. Nobody else had a Saturday job. Well, Charlie had a weekend paper route, but he was always finished by breakfast. It’s not that I hated working in the shop, exactly. I got decent tips, and it was better than getting up when it was still dark and trudging around with a sack of newspapers slung over your shoulder. But who wants to be cooped up when it’s Saturday afternoon and the sun is shining and the grass is smelling sweet?
Pop inspected the pair of oxfords he’d been working on. They weren’t new shoes, but no one needed to bring new shoes to the Elegant Shoe Repair and Hat Shop. This pair had new soles and new laces, and they’d been buffed to a soft sheen. “I tell you what,” Pop said, lining the shoe box with the newsprint. “If nobody comes in before three o’clock, you can go. Just this once.”
The clock on the wall read two forty-five. It was a snowball’s chance, but it was a chance.
Pop nestled the shoes into the box as carefully as if they were eggs. Then he tucked the newsprint over them and fitted the lid on top.
He held out the box. “Write.”
This part was my job. I pulled a laundry marker from behind my ear and wrote “J. Watson” on the end of the box, and then the date: “5/8/48.” I stacked the box on a shelf with the others that were waiting to be picked up.
“I don’t mind doing it, Pop, but why not write on the boxes yourself?”
“You have the nice school handwriting,” he said, patting my cheek like I was a little kid. (I hate that.) “My handwriting, it looks . . . like the immigrant’s.”
“So what if you’re an immigrant? Your customers don’t mind. Do they?”
Pop scribbled on the job ticket and added it to the spindle on his worktable. “Mind? Lots of them, they’re the immigrants too. But we are all Americans now. My customers, they could go to any hat shop in town. But I want them to come to my shop. Your handwriting looks . . . what? Spiffy, neh? American.” He reached out to pat my cheek again, but I dodged out of the way just in time.
The bell jingled on the door.
“Customer,” said Pop, pulling the next pair of shoes off the shelf.
But it wasn’t a customer. It was only Ace.
“Well?” he said. “Did you get sprung?”
“Three o’clock, okay? If no one comes in.”
“Then hurry up and lock the door.” If you knew Ace like I do, you’d know he wasn’t kidding.
Just then, the bell jingled again. A man stood in the doorway, wearing an overcoat and hat.
“Too late,” I told Ace. I nudged past him to greet the customer, just like Pop taught me. “How can I help you, sir?”
“Well, son, I need a pair of shoelaces toot sweet,” said the man as he stepped into the quiet of the shop. He wasn’t a regular customer. I’d never seen him before. He limped a little—as if an invisible small dog had latched on to his ankle and wouldn’t let go.
“Sure thing. What color?” I reached behind the counter and pulled out a box of assorted laces.
“I suppose they ought to be brown, seeing as my shoes are brown.” He leaned on the counter, wiggled his eyebrows, and grinned.
It was a corny thing to say, but I couldn’t help smiling. I found a pair of waxed brown laces. “That’ll be five cents.”
The customer fished in a pocket and handed me a nickel. “Nice place you got here,” he said, looking around.
“Thanks.” But the shop was nothing fancy. A long, narrow room. Glass-fronted cases filled with men’s hats for sale. Fedoras and homburgs, mostly. Some panamas. Even a few straw boaters. Behind the cases stood tall, open shelves of dark wood, stacked with boxes. Just inside the door, across from the cash register, was the shoe-shine stand, with three leather chairs on a raised platform. Right now, Ace was sprawled in one of them, digging dirt from under his fingernails. At the back of the shop, my pop was still bent over his worktable.
“I say, son, how much?”
“Huh?”
“A shoe shine,” said the customer. “How much?”
“Oh. Twenty cents.”
“Sign me up!”
“Sure thing. Pop! Shine!” Shining shoes was another one of my jobs, but Pop liked to meet the new customers and wait on them personally.
He got up from his workbench, smiling. Pop always has a smile on his face, even while he’s sleeping. I’ve checked.
“Welcome, sir, good afternoon,” said Pop, motioning toward the shoe-shine chairs with one hand and shooing Ace off with the other. The customer dropped his coat and hat on Ace’s chair and settled in to the middle one.
Ace tugged at my elbow and tilted his head toward the door. “The fellas are waiting,” he hissed.
I shook my head, but he yanked on my arm again, so I tried one more time. “Hey, Pop? You don’t suppose . . .”
But Pop was already deep in conversation and shoe polish.
I wasn’t going anywhere. As usual.
CHAPTER
4
SEEMS LIKE A NICE TOWN,” said the customer. He planted his feet on the brass footrests and extended a hand. “The name’s Joe Daggett.”
“Nice to meet you, Mister Daggett,” said Pop. “I’m George Spirakis, and this is my son, Nikko.”
“Nick.” I stepped forward to shake Mr. Daggett’s hand. And that’s when I noticed that he was wearing only one sock. And that the ankle without a sock was made of wood.
But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to be impolite.
“You can call me Ace,” said Ace, pushing his way into the group. Then he said, “Holy cow,
a wooden leg!”
Pop and I both glared at him. But Mr. Daggett said, “It’s all right, I don’t mind. Take a look, fellas.” He hitched up his trouser leg to just below his knee. The wooden part had leather straps that disappeared into his pant leg.
“You were in the war,” said Pop. It was an easy guess. Lots of fellas had been in the war.
Mr. Daggett nodded. “Gunnery private in the Pacific. Not too good at it, though. Shot myself in the foot.”
Pop shook his shoe-shine brush at him. “You joke, but you should be proud. You are a hero.”
“Oh, I’m a lucky guy, I know that. Every pair of argyles lasts twice as long, for one thing.” He grinned and wiggled his eyebrows, and I relaxed.
“So, Mister Daggett,” said Pop, “you are in town on business?”
“That’s right,” said Joe Daggett, rolling down his trouser leg. “I’m in sales, you might say. Joining a little enterprise over at Eighth and Chalmers.”
“Eighth and Chalmers,” repeated Pop. “That’s near the ballpark, neh?”
“Spittin’ distance,” said Joe Daggett. “Looking forward to taking in a game or two when I have the chance. You a Mudpuppies fan, George?”
“Everybody likes the baseball,” said Pop, dipping a stiff brush into a tin of shoe polish. “My wife and I used to go. But Orchard Field, it’s falling down. No place for a lady anymore. I read in the newspaper that the team is for sale. Going to fold up their tent stakes and leave town.” Pop never could quite get the hang of American slang.
“For sale?” said Joe Daggett. “Is that right?” He turned to me and Ace. “How about you fellas? Do you follow the Pups?”
“Not really,” I said. I hated to disappoint him, because he seemed really excited about seeing some baseball. But the Mudpuppies had finished in the cellar of the Great Lakes League the last three seasons, and so far this year, they weren’t looking any better.
“The Pups? They stink!” said Ace. “Not a single one of ’em is good enough to be a batboy, much less a ballplayer. Heck, even Nick here is a better right fielder than . . . what’s his name?”
“Eddie . . . something,” I said.
The Rhino in Right Field Page 1