“No!” Ernie shouted. “Leave it alone!”
Everybody froze. Ernie walked through the crowd and knelt beside the stunned bird. Cooing softly, as if he could speak its language, he gently picked up the pigeon. At first the bird pecked his hand, but calmed as Ernie stroked its chest and checked to make sure its wings weren’t broken. The other kids watched dumbfounded as he stood up with the bird in his open palm, then walked across the room and slipped out the window onto the fire escape. The pigeon stretched its neck and chirped, as if thanking Ernie, then flapped its wings, taking off. He watched the pigeon catch a draft between the buildings and soar toward the roof. He wished he could fly away, too.
“Ernie Banks—get off that fire escape!”
As soon as he heard that voice, he knew he wasn’t going to Wrigley.
This latest transgression put him on hands and knees scrubbing the toilets on the fifth floor. From the bathroom window, Ernie watched the Lakesiders merging with fans young and old, migrating toward the ballpark. In a way he couldn’t explain, he felt more desperate than he’d ever felt before.
Tortured by the happy sounds of the crowd on their way to Wrigley, he noticed a drip-drip-drip coming from a nearby sink. He inspected the leaky faucet, but instead of trying to stop it, he stuffed paper towels into the drain and turned the water on full blast. He hustled from sink to sink, clogging each drain and cranking all the faucets. The basins filled with water, spilling onto the floor. Soon water was flowing into the hall and cascading down the stairway.
Mrs. McGinty was working in her first-floor office when a puddle swirled around her feet. Horrified, she followed the stream into the hall and looked up the stairs, where water poured from step to step in a series of waterfalls.
By the time the incensed McGinty hauled herself to the fifth floor, she found out-of-control boys splashing in ankle-deep water and a flooded corridor transformed into a water slide. With a running start, Ernie Banks slid headfirst the length of the hall, a plume of water flaring behind. Unable to stop, he skidded between McGinty’s legs, upending her. She tried to grab him, but he was already gone.
Ernie raced down the stairs, taking the steps two and three at a time. When he reached the third floor, he hopped onto the railing and deftly slid from landing to landing.
Four stories above, the soaked McGinty looked over the banister and spotted Ernie as he reached the first floor.
“Ernie Baaaaaaannks!” she screamed. “You stop right there!”
But he was out the front door and didn’t hear her, though he wouldn’t have stopped even if he had.
Ernie didn’t stop running until he stood in the shadow of Wrigley Field. Still wet and out of breath, he watched enviously as fans entered the stadium. More than anything, he needed to get inside. He hovered near the turnstile, waiting for the moment to make a preemptive strike. When the ticket taker turned his head, he leapt the gate, then juked past the lunging security chief.
“Hey, you! Get back here!” the man shouted.
Ernie disappeared into a throng of fans, darting left then right. The barrel-chested chief grabbed his walkie-talkie from his holster. “Look alive, people, we got a jumper headin’ straight up the concourse,” he said with irritation in his voice. “Maybe eleven, twelve years old, a blue-and-white T-shirt with a Cubbies cap. Oh, and he’s soaking wet.”
Ernie was threading through the crowd when he noticed two security guards up ahead scanning the concourse. He checked over his shoulder and saw more security jogging toward him and closing fast. Putting on the brakes, he disappeared into the midst of a Boy Scout troop gathered around a concession stand. He slipped a scout cap from the pocket of an unsuspecting troop member, switched out his Cubs cap, then crouched down behind a pudgy scout who was licking an ice cream. After the guards hustled past, he returned the scout cap to its owner, then merged with other fans making their way to the field box level.
As Ernie walked out of the darkened tunnel into the daylight, his jaw dropped and his heart skipped a beat. He gazed in awe at the field’s diamond geometry, its rich velvety grass, and perfectly raked infield. Never had he seen grass so green or sky so blue. Like the pull of the ocean’s tides by the moon, he was drawn down the aisle toward the field, where major leaguers stretched, played catch, and took batting practice. When he arrived at the rail just above the Cubs dugout, home run king Rocky Harmon emerged to swing a bat just in front of him. He stared for a minute, wondering if his voice had deserted him. Finally summoning his courage, he called, “Mr. Harmon? Can I have your autograph?”
The all-star first baseman was busy applying pine tar to the handle of his bat. “No kid’s called me mister in a while. Got a pen? Paper?” asked Rocky.
Ernie shook his head.
“You got to be prepared, son,” Rocky explained, then turned to a batboy. “Randy, you got a pen?”
The batboy tossed him a pen, then Rocky grabbed a ball from the ground. He turned to Ernie. “Okay, what’s your name?”
“Ernie Banks.”
Rocky gave him a look, suppressing a laugh. “You’re kidding me.”
Ernie shook his head and Rocky broke into a broad grin. “Yo, guys, catch this.” Nearby players emerged from the dugout to gather around Rocky.
“Meet the man, Ernie Banks, Mr. Cub himself,” he announced to his teammates. When the others saw the diminutive Caucasian kid bearing the name of their great Hall of Fame shortstop, they began to laugh.
“If he can hit like Ernie Banks, let’s sign him,” suggested one player.
“You got your spikes?” questioned another.
Rocky smiled. “Hey, Ernie, it’s a beautiful day—what say we play two?”
Ernie wasn’t sure what to make of their laughter, but the smile never left his face. Mesmerized, he couldn’t believe that half a dozen major league ballplayers were actually paying attention to him. And because of that he didn’t notice the security guards swarming down the aisle. His reverie was shattered when they clamped him in their grip from behind.
“Hey, people, not too rough. What’s the problem?” asked Rocky.
The security chief arrived, angry and out of breath. “This kid’s the problem. Jumped the gate without a ticket.”
On the chief’s command, the guards began to drag Ernie up the aisle, and none too gently. Fans near the dugout began to boo loudly.
“Hey, hold up!” shouted Rocky. Not willing to defy the great ballplayer, the guards waited. “Ernie Banks—keep your eye on the prize,” he said, then tossed the autographed baseball to the youngster.
One of the guards tried to intercept it, but Ernie was quicker and he snagged the ball, to the crowd’s delight. As security hauled Ernie up the aisle, the fans booed even louder. Before they disappeared into the tunnel, the entire stadium was thundering its disapproval. The Lakesiders in the right field bleachers swore it was Ernie, but their chaperones said that was impossible.
The beefy security guys lifted Ernie by his armpits and marched him along the concourse. When they reached the gate, the chief wrenched the autographed ball from his grip. “You’re not taking this with you, that’s for sure.”
“I didn’t want it anyways,” Ernie blurted.
Outside the park, the goons manhandled him into the custody of two Chicago police officers. The cops tossed him up against their car and frisked him like he was Al Capone himself.
It wasn’t the first time Ernie had been in the backseat of a police car. He didn’t care about that, or even the McGinty punishment he knew was coming, but he did care about being thrown out of Wrigley on his very first visit. And that jerk had stolen his autographed baseball.
The police car made its way slowly against the flow of Cubs fans still arriving at Wrigley. Ernie stared out the window at a father and son walking side by side. The kid was about his age and wore an authentic Cubs baseball jersey with Rocky Harmon’s number on the back. He said something to his dad, and whatever it was, it made them both laugh. Ernie wondered what it would
be like to have a dad who appreciated the smart stuff you might say, or even the stupid stuff, or just anything at all.
The police car pulled to the curb in front of the Lakeside Home for Boys. The cops hustled him up the steps. To Ernie, they might as well have been walking him straight into the Cook County jail. He’d already been to the precinct station, where they got his fingerprints and took his picture. When they’d called Mrs. McGinty to come and get him, she’d refused.
The officer rang the bell and waited. Ernie could hear her heavy footsteps approaching the door. This is going to be bad. The door flew open and McGinty loomed on the threshold. The officer offered a crooked smile and handed her a clipboard. “Got a customer here for you, Mrs. McGinty.”
“And a truer embarrassment you will not find,” she seethed. She signed the paper that acknowledged his arrest. “Unfortunately, this little delinquent simply refuses to accept authority.” She turned her attention to Ernie. “Next time I won’t be signing anything, and they can take you straight to the Youth Authority,” she threatened. “How’d you like that?”
Ernie stared right back.
She pinched his cheek and gave it a good shake. “And don’t be giving me that look.”
Shrugging her off, he slipped past her and down the hall. She shouted after him, “Ernie Banks, you wait in my office. In-my-office! Do you hear me?!”
He didn’t answer. McGinty struggled to control her temper as she turned back to the officers. “Any property damage?”
In the dim corridor, Ernie paused beside her office. He looked inside. The room was intimidating and cold, just like McGinty. Ernie decided he couldn’t bear to hear another lecture, especially after all he’d been through with the police.
He started quickly up the stairs, nearly colliding with Kathryn, the social worker. “Oops, Ernie, hi,” she said, smiling. “They miss you at the pool. Mr. Alvarez asked about you today. He hopes they let you come back this winter.”
Ernie was afraid if he opened his mouth he might start to cry.
“Hey, I thought you were going to the game. What’s up? You okay?” she asked sympathetically. She reached out to put her hand on his shoulder, but he turned and fled up the stairs.
Ernie entered the fifth-floor dormitory on a mission. He knew his dorm would be locked, with everybody still at the game. The younger boys stopped what they were doing as he flung open a window and jumped out. They rushed over to get a look. The number one rule in the dorm was to never go out onto the fire escape, and now Ernie Banks was doing it twice on the same day.
He stepped off the metal grating. With his back pressed against the building, Ernie shuffled along the ledge, then shinnied up the drainpipe toward the roof. Halfway up, he stopped to acknowledge his fellow orphans by thrusting a defiant fist in the air. Twenty fists answered, along with shouts of encouragement.
Mrs. McGinty burst into the dorm. “Get away from those windows!” she screamed as she shoved away a clutch of boys and bellied up to the sill.
Ernie hoisted himself onto the roof. He could hear sounds from the elevated train and a roar from Wrigley Field, but McGinty’s voice cut through it all.
“Ernie Baaaaanks!” she thundered.
Ernie looked down to see McGinty screaming through cupped hands. Every window was crowded with excited boys.
“If I have to call the fire department again, you’ll be one sorry boy! Do you hear me?! Now get down from there!”
Ignoring her, Ernie sprinted across the roof to leap the chasm onto the adjacent building. He tumbled on the hard surface but jumped up running. He could barely hear McGinty’s voice. “Ernie Banks! Don’t make me come up there!”
Out of sight, he ran to his hideaway in the abandoned water tank. He pulled back the sheet metal, crawled inside, and found his portable radio. It was right where it was supposed to be, hidden inside an old milk carton.
Ernie crawled back out and sat on the parapet overlooking the street. Wrigley’s infield grass was visible three blocks away. From his vantage point, the Tigers third baseman looked like an ant, but it was better than nothing. He turned on his radio. First static, then the announcer’s voice squawked from the speaker, “Rocky Harmon calls for time as he digs in at the plate. Now he’s ready.”
“Get a hit, Rocky,” Ernie whispered to himself.
The announcer rattled on. “The big left-hander looks in for the sign. Here’s the windup, the pitch, and it’s a weakly hit ground ball to the second baseman. He scoops it up and tosses to first. Another one-two-three inning for the Cubs. After seven innings in the not-so-friendly confines, it’s Tigers three, Cubs nothing.”
Ernie clicked off the radio with a weary sigh. He removed a loose brick from the facade, reached into his secret stash, and withdrew a single baseball card. He deftly snapped it faceup. It was the original Ernie Banks card, his most cherished possession—that and the Crystal Acorn he still wore around his neck. Those were the two things that proved he really did belong to somebody, somewhere.
A peal of thunder lifted his gaze to the sky. Huge black clouds were sweeping across the lake, accompanied by sheets of driving rain. It looked like the biggest storm he’d seen in a while. This is going to be good. He returned his Ernie Banks card to the stash and replaced the brick, then stuffed the radio under his shirt. At Wrigley, the ground crew was running onto the field with a big white tarp. It billowed up behind them like an ocean wave as they covered the infield. Ernie stood up on the ledge, preparing to meet the storm, and waited. Soon the rain pounded down, drenching him, while thunder and lightning cracked the sky with an awesome light. He felt like shouting, but didn’t know what to say.
In the distance, he could hear the approaching sirens.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Good-bye, Ernie Banks
FOR ONLY THE THIRD time ever, Mrs. McGinty demanded a meeting at the downtown corporate office of the Lakeside Home for Boys. Unfortunately, the first and second meeting had also been about Ernie Banks.
“I swear that boy will be the death of me! It took three firemen on a hook and ladder to get him off the roof. By God, I can’t tolerate a boy who won’t abide by the rules,” Mrs. McGinty fumed.
Ernie sat wedged between his accuser and Kathryn Moss, the social worker, who was usually smiling, but not this morning. McGinty had been ranting for what seemed like forever and she wasn’t losing any steam. On the other side of the desk was the person who would decide his fate, the Lakeside director, Antonio Vellani. A debonair sixty-year-old with a soft Italian accent, Mr. Vellani was a patient man with a natural sense of fairness, but the name Ernie Banks had come to his attention three too many times.
Vellani finally stopped McGinty’s tirade with a raised hand. “All right, Annie, just a moment,” he said, then turned calmly to Ernie. “Do you hear what Mrs. McGinty is saying?”
Ernie nodded.
Vellani tapped his pen on the desk. “And what do you think I should do?”
He thought about begging for one last chance, but figured it didn’t matter anymore.
“If you won’t talk, I can’t help you,” cautioned Vellani. “Do you realize what this could mean?”
Ernie felt like his chest was about to explode, but he just stared defiantly.
Vellani closed the Ernie Banks folder with a weary sigh. “Then you leave me no choice. I’m going to recommend you be placed under the supervision of the Illinois Youth Authority.”
Ernie felt the floor go out from under him. He’d heard the stories from other kids about the Youth Authority. It was a prison for juvenile delinquents. Bad things happened there. Real bad things. He closed his eyes for a moment. I might as well be dead. He knew everyone was watching him, especially her, so when he opened his eyes, he looked straight at Mrs. McGinty and simply muttered, “Whatever.”
“Okay, then. Wait outside,” Vellani instructed.
Ernie shuffled out of the room. When the door closed, Mrs. McGinty nodded with satisfaction. “Thank you, Tony, thank you. And g
ood riddance to him.”
Vellani looked at his hands and sighed. “That’s too bad. I can’t help but feel like we’ve failed when a boy goes to the Y.A.”
Kathryn sensed her opportunity. “Mr. Vellani, couldn’t we try to place him in another foster home—just one last time?”
McGinty countered before Vellani could answer. “He’s had more chances than most, and frankly, no family would even consider a boy his age, not with his record.”
“Over the hill at thirteen?” asked Vellani, smiling ruefully.
“If we send that boy to the Y.A., he’ll get crushed. He needs our help, not a prison,” Kathryn pleaded.
“Maybe if you spent more time in the dormitory you’d be singing a different tune,” snarled McGinty.
“Folks, folks, please,” said Vellani, trying to keep the peace.
Kathryn suddenly had an idea. “What about the Summer Farm Program? Don’t we still need to fill Doug McQuaid’s spot?”
McGinty groaned. Every summer a few lucky orphans from Lakeside were chosen to spend some time on a working farm. The program had been running for several years and was a big success. Orphans from all over the state had benefited from the kindness of the Illinois farming community.
“You really think a few weeks in the country will make a difference?” asked Vellani.
“Honestly, I don’t know. But it might give him something to feel good about, something to hope for,” reasoned Kathryn.
Vellani turned to McGinty. “Annie, what about it?”
She was outraged. “Right now I could give you the names of fifty boys far more deserving than that hooligan.”
“Maybe so, but I doubt you could name one who needs this chance more than Ernie Banks,” appealed Kathryn.
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