Better than average? What was I supposed to do, catch everything?
“Your range and mechanics are good. You show tremendous potential as a fielder. I like the way you use your feet and your glove. You have been well trained and coached.”
By myself, mostly.
“You are a fine hitter, very strong for your size and age. Power will come with growth. You have a little boy’s immaturity, and I would wonder about team spirit and attitude.”
I wanted to tell Mr. Villagrande that I had always been a team player, but the coach kept talking.
“You are full of yourself, that is clear. I say this not because you nearly hit me with batted balls. It is seen in your face, your walk, everything. You know how good you are, and I fear you will be satisfied to remain at the level you are now. That would be a tragedy, for you have unlimited potential.”
I wanted to argue, but I had learned not to interrupt. I wanted to tell the coach that too.
“I do not have a place for you on my team,” Hector said.
I felt paralyzed. My head buzzed; my breath came in short gasps.
“I know this is a disappointment to you, and I know also that you may not be able to play ball at all this summer. That is not good but not all bad either.”
I was barely listening. How could this be? How could this fool have watched me and not realize what I could do for this team? Surely I was better than half the players I had seen that day.
“Continue working out. Look for a league that will accept you. I know Mr. Lincoln was impressed enough that he would be willing to pitch to you. I would work on humility. You are not the best ballplayer who ever lived.”
Not yet, maybe.
“You did not see anyone congratulate himself on this field today, no matter what he did. My players encourage each other, but there is no self-aggrandizement. Do you know what that means?”
I nodded.
“Many a player has come to me the best on his high school team. Each has his sights set on American Legion and the pros. One player every five years gets a contract. But each comes to me thinking he is the best. Those who learn quickly what it means to be a humble team player are the ones I keep. The others go elsewhere, and I have never seen one succeed. You have a great advantage because of your youth, but let me warn you. You may plateau while everyone else catches up to you. If you keep improving, you will be something special.”
I’m something special now. It was like he could read my mind.
“If you are convinced you are already something special, you will probably be a good high school player someday. Then, because you are not better, you will be more interested in cars and girls and money, and you will drift from the game.”
“Never,” I said. “No way, ever. I may have a lot to learn, but I will never drift from the game.”
“Well, good for you,” Villagrande said, slapping my knee and rising. “I wish you the best, and I invite you to try out for me again next year.”
“But what if I—?”
“That’s all I can offer, muchacho. I am sorry.”
Sobs were dammed up in my throat. I wanted to scream, to threaten, to accuse. Who was this man who thought he knew so much? I moved stiff-legged to the field where I picked up my glove and found my bat in the third-base dugout. I was suddenly weak and tired. I pressed my back against the end of the dugout and slid to the ground. Without meaning to, I had hidden myself from Hector and Neil as they chatted by their car.
As I sat there, letting the tears come, the coaches’ low tones grew louder.
“Where would Michaels have left the mask?” Neil said.
“I thought I saw it near the dugout.”
They approached.
“There it is.”
They stood on the other side of the dugout wall, apparently unaware that I was right there.
Hector sighed. “Was that kid something today, or what?”
“Good, huh?”
“Good? Neil, that was the most unbelievable hitting exhibition I’ve ever seen, especially for a kid that age.”
“Who you tellin? Almost cost me my head.”
I took my time opening the FedEx package, which bore Chaplain Wallace’s return address.
Re: Neal Lofert Woodell (092349)
Dear Mrs. Woodell:
I thought for the sake of your son that you would want to be informed of your former husband’s condition. He has suffered acutely from a new attack of delirium tremens, apparently brought about by yet another difficult withdrawal from alcohol. I know this comes as a shock to you, because he was not assumed by anyone, myself included, to have access to alcohol here.
As you can imagine, such substances can be smuggled in, unfortunately only by prison employees. He was supplied with vodka, which could not be detected on his breath, though it was detected in blood and urine samples. He denied knowing how his system could evidence signs of the same.
Apparently he ran out of whatever mode of payment he had been making, and his supply was cut off. An investigation continues here to determine who was bringing in the liquor. Meanwhile, his condition is not good. For several days he suffered the typical hallucinations. He now tells me they were more vivid and terrifying even than last time, which was the worst I had seen anyone endure. He may wish to inform you of the details, but I will spare you that for now.
More important, according to the physician here, Neal suffered from profound perspiration leading to dehydration, a dangerously elevated heart rate during convulsions, and a blood pressure reading in the critical danger zone. He has suffered two heart attacks, one severe and the other not so severe except for a man in his condition, and also kidney failure.
He is on heavy medication to sedate the central nervous system, is on IVs for constant hydration, along with whatever fluids they can get him to take orally, electrolytes for salt, multivitamins, and a strict diet. Of course, his strict avoidance of alcohol is key, but I fear he has no self-control in that area and would eagerly take a drink if he could get one.
The doctor is most concerned with the kidney and heart failures and, I must tell you, is pessimistic about Neal’s survival regardless. Were you to elect that your son see his father again, the doctor urges that you consider a trip within the next thirty days.
Very truly yours,
Rev. Alton Wallace, Chaplain
Alabama State Penitentiary
41
A week from the following Monday, Momma and I sat on a train in Chicago that would take us all the way to Birmingham, Alabama.
“Bet you don’t like wasting your vacation like this,” I said.
My mother shrugged. “It’s for you. It’s okay.”
“Am I still going to be able to go to college?”
Momma smiled. “I didn’t take all your college money, El. I just borrowed it and will be paying it back, okay?”
“I’ll put money in that fund someday,” I said. “Soon as I get my motor paid off, maybe Mr. Harkness will start paying me.”
I had walked all the way home from Lane Tech, hiding my tears from passersby. With every step I determined to work harder than ever to show Hector Villagrande and anyone else that I could play with anybody.
“I hate to say it,” Momma had told me, “but I have seen the same things in you lately. You used to be the sweetest, most selfless child, but you’ve become impressed with yourself.”
“I’m impressive,” I said.
“But only until people know you’re aware of it, El. Then it’s obnoxious, and it’s only going to get you what you got today. Let people discover you.”
From now on I would let my play do my talking. It had taken that shot between the eyes from Hector Villagrande to make me see the light. Maybe I would still like to play for Hector some day.
At the secondhand shop a few days before my mother and I left for Alabama, Lucky’s electrician friend showed up. We sat in the back room, just me and the tall, skinny man with a bobbing Adam’s apple. “This here is a
good motor,” he said. “It’s not new. Fact, they hardly make ‘em this good anymore for less than several hundred dollars. My question is, what’s it from and how did you burn it up?”
“I can’t tell you what it’s from,” I began.
“Because you don’t know, or because it’s somethin illegal?”
“Neither. I just don’t wanna tell.”
“Well, were you jammin the thing somehow?”
“Yeah.”
“With what?”
“Plastic.”
“Why?”
“I can’t say.”
“Give me a general idea what you were trying to get it to do.”
“Start and stop at different speeds without turning it off.”
“That’s all I needed to know. You probably put your resistance out here, am I right?” He pointed to the end of the spinning shaft.
“Actually, I put it out at the axle that’s driven by a belt.”
“Even worse. Puts too much torque on the—well, you don’t need to know all that. So what you want is a heavy-duty motor, this size, that you can turn on, get warmed up and running, and then have it change speeds, what, sort of at random?”
I nodded.
“You want a different animal,” the man said. “It’s got a clutch in it, and a cooling system, and I can build right into it your random, spring-loaded, metal resistor. It shouldn’t ever jam or overheat or break down, as long as you let it warm up before you start askin it to change speeds.”
“Sounds fantastic.”
“Well, it is. Industry has some uses for motors like that, mostly for mixing food and such, needing those unpredictable changes of speed, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what a kid would need one for. I’d sure like to see your contraption.”
“Maybe someday,” I said. “How long before I can have this one?”
“I’d say two weeks and a hundred dollars. It’ll be rebuilt, but almost indestructible.”
Now, on the train, I said, “Wouldn’t it be something if that thing was ready when we got back home?”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” my mother said, looking out the window.
I may never get my hopes up again. I couldn’t wait to get back to the pitching machine and see what the new gizmo would add to my workouts. But the rest of the way, all I could think about was seeing Daddy again and all we would talk about.
I phoned Chaplain Wallace from the train depot near the taxi stand.
“Get yourself a room nearby,” he said, “and I’ll come get you. You may see Neal at four this afternoon. You’ll be happy to know he is ambulatory and will be able to walk into the visitors’ picnic area to greet you.”
I was grateful Elgin wouldn’t have to see his daddy in a hospital bed with needles and tubes running in and out of him, but the chaplain didn’t say the prognosis was any better.
Elgin and I showered. He dressed up. I dressed down. There would be no encouraging Neal on this visit, though it felt strange to think I might be seeing the last of him.
Reverend Wallace was a kind-looking man, perhaps softer and plumper than I expected. He had fleshy hands and wore thick glasses. When he picked us up, he spoke to me in code. “The incarcerated individual,” he began, looking at me over the top of his glasses to see whether I was following, “remains in a negative prognosive state. He must be very careful, however, to avoid anything that would exacerbate his hypertension or threaten his cardiovascular system.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s so good of you to come, ma’am,” he said. “Have you thought more about that of which we corresponded?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m not prepared to reconcile, if that’s what you mean. I don’t plan to be nasty, but I’m here for the boy. I don’t mind seeing Neal again, but I will not be encouraging him.”
“Ma’am, I think he knows what’s happening here, and I doubt he’s looking for any romantic encouragement.”
“I know what he’s looking for, sir,” I said. “He’s not going to get absolution from me.”
The chaplain showed his card to the guard and began the process of getting himself and his guests inside the maximum-security facility.
“A little mercy or grace to a terminal patient is an inexpensive but precious commodity.”
I took that as a rebuke and fell silent. Wallace turned his attention to Elgin. “I’ll bet you’ll be glad to see your dad after all this time.”
“Momma says he’s sick.”
“He might not look like what you remembered, but you’ll recognize him.”
The chaplain led Elgin and me to a picnic table beneath a huge tree. “I am happy to stay,” he said, “but will be just as happy to make myself scarce.”
“Thank you,” I said. “We prefer to see him alone. But would you mind staying within sight in case I let Elgin and Neal spend some time together? I don’t know what to do with myself here.”
“After I have pointed you out to him, I will be over there.” He gestured to an area where several tables had been pushed together.
I found myself nervous and curious. It wasn’t that I wanted to see Neal, but I had long wondered what age and illness and prison had done to him. Surely he wouldn’t be the vision of athletic prowess he had once been.
Elgin said something I didn’t hear. I had watched the chaplain until he disappeared. Now I watched wives and children embracing men and laughing and crying. I planned to do neither, and I certainly would not touch the man.
“What?” I asked Elgin.
“There’s Mr. Wallace,” he said. “Where’s Daddy?”
The chaplain now stood where he said he would wait. He waved at me with a small flick of his hand and smiled politely. Several prisoners milled about, looking for people. I did not see Neal.
I raised my palms at the chaplain in a question. He pointed past me to the corner of a building. I saw no one I recognized. It would be too much for Elgin if Neal could not join us. It wouldn’t be fair to make him wait another day.
I scanned the grounds again and told Elgin to wait as I hurried to the chaplain. “Where is he?” I said.
Reverend Wallace pointed back toward Elgin. “Right over there,” he said. I looked. “Right there.”
Past a group of families and about twenty feet from Elgin, slowly, carefully making his way toward his son, was Neal Lofert Woodell, number 092349. Over his prison blue dungarees he had wrapped a drab green woolen blanket around his shoulders.
My knees buckled and the chaplain caught me as I sank to the bench.
42
There had never been one clue that I could ever lose my resolve to hold against Neal the loss of my unborn daughter. The man had cost me a child, my dignity, my security, a normal family life, my childhood dreams. He had lied as a matter of course, even when lying benefited him nothing. He was evil and worthless.
But now as I saw the broken husk of the boy I had fallen in love with in high school, I was overcome with pity. Perhaps he deserved this. Perhaps I should be glad he finally got his due. But what a sad and sorry price! I had not even recognized him, had looked right through him.
Barely into his thirties, he was wan and frail. His gait was deliberate, his step unsure. He clutched the blanket around his shoulders as a wisp of a ninety-year-old would. I felt the warm, soft hand of the chaplain on my shoulder and fought to control myself. I needed to make sure Elgin didn’t bolt from his father. It would be no good for either of them.
I dabbed at my eyes and forced myself to watch. Elgin stiffened and stared as his father approached, prison-issue hat mocking the baseball caps that had looked so smart on him in his youth.
Elgin stood, and I felt myself rising too. I pulled away from Chaplain Wallace, insisting I was all right, and moved a few feet behind my son. Neal glanced at me.
“Dad?” Elgin said, his voice thick.
“El,” Neal said, and the boy rushed to him, embracing him. Neal put one arm around his son and held the blanket up with his other
hand. “How ya doin, boy?”
His voice was weak, his face dark and shadowy. He looked as if he had lost more than thirty pounds. His eyes were sunken and dark, his teeth bad, and thin strands of hair poked out under the cap. I was impressed when Elgin helped his father get one leg under the table so he could straddle the bench. The boy hurried around to the other side and leaned forward.
“Did we surprise you, Dad?”
Neal hesitated, thinking. “I believe the chaplain told me you might come.” A flicker of amusement came to his eyes. “I never was much for bench sittin.”
“Me either,” Elgin said, and went into a long explanation of why he was not playing on a team yet this summer.
“That’s a crime,” Neal managed. “I oughta write somebody and tell em I’m gonna sue em if they don’t let you play.”
“It’s all right, Daddy,” Elgin said. “If I don’t get to play till next summer, I’m gonna be something because of that pitching machine,” and he proceeded rapid-fire to bring him up to date on that. Neal, whose attention seemed to flag, merely smiled and nodded occasionally.
What I felt for the man was compassion and sympathy, not love. Still I wanted to embrace him. What would be the harm? There would be no false encouragement in it. The man was clearly dying. Anything and everything he had ever done had caught up with him, and now he was in an irreversible spiral, years before his time.
“El,” he whispered, “there’s things I got to tell you, and then I want to talk to your momma. Listen to me. Remember me for the good things, you hear? For what I could do on the ball field when I was healthy, for teachin you all that stuff. Know what I mean?”
Elgin nodded. “I inherited my baseball from you, Daddy.”
“Sounds like you’re already better than me at your age. But let me tell you somethin, boy. I been a liar all my life. I two-timed your momma from the day we started dating. You know what that means?”
“You had another girlfriend?”
Neal nodded miserably. “She wasn’t someone you’d marry, just have fun with. Bad news. Bad thing to do. I even had other girlfriends after we was married.”
The Youngest Hero Page 22
