Slider’s Son

by Rebecca Fjelland Davis

  The last week of school edged up on them, and still Little Joe hadn’t returned. The first game for Grant’s team, the Larks, in the Junior American Legion League, was scheduled against McVille the night of the last day of school.

  The Meadowlarks, Slider and Neil’s team, had already launched their season with big wins over Lakota and Devils Lake. Slider threw a shut-out against Devils Lake, and Grant sat behind the plate for that home game so he could watch his dad’s pitches, especially how his dad let go of his sliders. Harley got to be bat boy, like Grant had done when he was little.

  The night before the first game, Grant only threw fifteen minutes to rest his arm. He took three aspirins before he went to bed.

  He had been so excited about the first game that he had forgotten to be excited about summer. When Racehorse Romney dismissed the class, all the boys but Grant raced toward the warm sunlight and the freedom of summer. And their first real game.

  Grant hung back. He wanted to say something to Racehorse Romney, so he waited for Lorraine Woods and her two friends to say goodbye and do a little gushing about how they would miss Miss Romney. When he was the last student in the room, Miss Romney turned to him and smiled.

  “Grant. Excited for summer?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He looked down. He couldn’t think of what he wanted to say.

  “I have certainly enjoyed having you in class, young man. I know you’ll probably go on to be a professional pitcher, but I hope you keep your reading habit for your whole life.”

  “I will, Miss Romney. I promise. Thank you.” That sounded so stupid. “Thank you, Miss Romney, for . . . for talking to me about books you like . . . and . . .” He bit his lip. “And stuff.”

  She touched him lightly on his shoulder, and the spot burned with her touch. “I believe you will make it, Grant. And I intend to take partial credit for cultivating the most literate professional baseball pitcher in history.” She smiled at him and her hand dropped to her side.

  “Thank you, Miss Romney. I just wanted to say thank you. And goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Grant. Have a wonderful summer.”

  He smiled at her, and he bolted for the door. He ran all the way home, the spot on his shoulder still tingling.

  Grant pulled on his baseball pants. He was lucky because Mamie had cut down a pair of Slider’s old ones. The only other boy on the team with real baseball pants was Frank because Frank’s dad could afford anything. Everybody else just wore school pants or everyday pants.

  Sammy warmed Grant up in the dugout. Mamie had given him an aspirin before the game today, so his elbow felt a little better than it had for ages. His dad and Uncle Neil were in the bleachers. Shirley and Harley were with them. Mamie never came to games, but half of the rest of the town had come. Big Joe was noticeably absent.

  Grant spied Suzy sitting beside her father halfway up the bleachers. When she saw Grant looking, she waved, and Grant felt his ears go pink, but he couldn’t help smiling in her direction.

  The umpire yelled, “Let’s play ball!”

  Grant walked to the mound. His stomach had always been in a knot before games, but not quite like this. He glanced at Slider, who caught his eye and nodded. Grant turned and toed the mound. Sammy squatted in position.

  Grant blew out a deep, long breath, then inhaled and wound up.

  “Strike one!” The pitch blew past the McVille boy.

  A fastball next, high and outside.

  Sammy grinned when he threw back. “Change up,” Sammy signed with a sweep of two fingers.

  Wind up. Wild, but Sammy caught it.

  Wind up. A strike, and the kid watched it go by.

  Sammy shrugged. Grant knew that meant it didn’t matter what he threw. The kid had two balls and two strikes. He’d be desperate not to get called out on strikes.

  Grant wound up and threw as hard as he could. The ball went wild. He could feel it as it left his fingers, but nothing he could do. The kid swung high and connected with the edge of his bat. The ball shot upward and Tim Sutton trotted in from first base to snag the fly foul ball.

  One out.

  Grant struck out the next batter after a full count, and his arm already ached. He needed to hurry and get this kid out to get a little rest.

  “Go, James!” The McVille dugout hollered. “Show ’em your stuff.” He wasn’t clean-up batter, but he was third on the line-up so he couldn’t be bad, either.

  Grant lobbed the first pitch to see what the kid was made of. The ball sank over home plate, but had breezed through the strike zone. “Strike one!”

  The kid frowned at the ump, but tapped the bat on home plate and got in position again. Grant wound up and threw. Fast, a little inside, but James swung.

  “Strike two!”

  Now James was mad. Grant could tell by how he tapped his toes with the bat when he stepped out of the batter’s box. Good time to take advantage of the anger.

  Grant shrugged his shoulders so he was ready to wind up as soon as James stepped into position. He wound up like it would be a fastball, but he let up in the middle, and the ball sailed softly above the strike zone. If his elbow had worked right, it would have been a strike, but it was high. James fouled it high back over the backstop.

  Another foul, and the next pitch, Grant wanted to fire right down the chute. As he released, he felt his elbow go, and the ball dropped so fast it bounced before it crossed home plate. Grant kicked the dirt. “Criminy,” he muttered.

  “You got him, Grant,” hollered Orland from left field.

  Calm. Be calm. He pictured his dad after Slider had thrown a bad pitch. Slider always rolled his shoulders, recollected himself, and breathed, and threw like nothing bad had happened. Grant tried it. He rolled his shoulders, wound up, and fired. A perfect fastball. Right down the chute. The kid swung, but he’d seen two bloopers, and his timing was off.

  “You’re outta there!”

  Grant had shut out the first inning, even with his elbow. He felt his eyes burn. Nothing like Bob Feller, but maybe he could do this, in spite of Big Joe, if he spread out his fastballs. On the way to the dugout, he glanced at his dad. Slider was smiling.

  By the fourth inning, the score was 4 to 0 for the Junior Larks, and Grant’s arm ached like a son-of-a-gun. If it were big leagues he’d have to pitch nine innings instead of seven. But they’d have also have a relief pitcher. No such luck on Grant’s team. Tim Sutton could pitch, but he was no great shakes, even at his best.

  His throws started going wild more and more. He threw enough strikes that the McVille kids knew they had to swing and couldn’t watch everything go by, but not having control drove Grant crazy. In the top of the fifth, three kids in a row got hits, and the bases were loaded.

  “Time out!” Orland called from left field. He came trotting in, up to the pitcher’s mound with a giant smile on his face. Frank and Sammy and Tom all trotted over to surround him. Everybody was smiling.

  “Whatta you got to smile about?” Grant asked. “My arm’s falling apart here. Tim, you want to pitch?”

  “Naw. We’re still ahead, four to zip, for starters,” said Tim.

  “But if you haven’t noticed, one homer’ll tie it up.”

  “You’re gonna be so happy,” Tommy said. Frank punched Tommy.

  “What?” Grant said.

  “Hey,” Orland said. “I know you’re tired, and I know you’re achin’. But hang in there, ’cause we’re winnin’. You can do this. You’ll see.”

  “Play ball!” The ump yelled.

  Sammy trotted back to the plate and whipped off his chest protector and his catcher’s mask.

  “What are you doin’?” Grant yelled. “We don’t even have any outs yet!”

  Sammy turned back toward Grant and grinned.

  Out of the dugout trotted Little Joe. Sammy handed him the catcher’s gear. Then Sammy took a fielder’s glove from Joe, turned, and ran out to replace Bud Sorenson at shortstop. Bud replaced Sue in right field. Sue trotted to the dugout.

/>   Grant’s mouth hung open and when he closed it, he could feel a giant grin spreading from ear to ear. He wanted to go hug Little Joe, but the ump had already called time in. Instead, Little Joe and he just grinned at each other, and Little Joe tapped his mitt and signed for a fastball.

  And Grant delivered.

  The next pitch was a strike, and on the following pitch, McVille hit a long pop-up to Orland in left field, and the third-base runner took off like a shot. Orland threw all the way home and Joe tagged the runner out. Joe snapped a throw to Tommy on third, putting out the second-base runner, who had tagged up and was sliding into third.

  “Triple play!” Grant screamed and ran home. The whole team converged on Joe in one massive pile-up hug.

  “I never even heard of a triple play!” Tom yelled, and pulled Orland into the pile.

  Grant smacked Orland with his glove. “Amazing throw.”

  In the dugout, Grant threw an arm around Little Joe. “You came back!”

  Little Joe grinned. “I had to.”

  “You’re savin’ my arm, you know that?” Grant didn’t even know how to start asking Joe questions, so they just grinned at each other and sat down side-by-side, saying nothing at all.

  Grant still struggled in the next inning. His elbow hurt like a son-of-a-gun, but every time he thought he couldn’t control the next pitch, he looked Little Joe in the eye, and thought, He came back for this game. I can’t let him down.

  In the bottom of the sixth inning, Tommy hit a line drive that brought Sammy home.

  Grant struck out three more batters in the last inning.

  The Larks won, a shut-out, 5 to 0.

  When the game was over, the whole team jumped around together and then Sammy and Orland hoisted Little Joe up on their shoulders. Grant had never seen Joe smile so big. The mass of boys carried him off the field.

  A voice boomed behind them, “Gettin’ a little big for your britches there, aren’t ya?” The clustered human tower turned toward the voice.

  Big Joe. Of course.

  He advanced on the pile of boys. “You’d better get on home to your mother this instant. She’s worried sick. The very idea that you’d run off, leave her in the lurch, and come back for a ball game is worth a thrashing.”

  The boys moved back a step together, but they didn’t let Little Joe down. Three boys, Grant included, shoved themselves between Little Joe and Big Joe.

  “I said—” Big Joe stepped nearer, reaching out as if to rip Joe from their shoulders.

  Frank, closest to Big Joe, shoved Big Joe’s hand away. “He’s a hero. Leave him alone for once.”

  “Don’t you hit me, boy.” Faster than any of them could blink, Big Joe backhanded Frank and sent him sprawling in the dirt by the dugout. “Respect your elders.”

  “Respect? You son-of-a—” Frank scrambled to his feet, lunging at Big Joe’s legs. He barreled into them and almost knocked Big Joe down. Big Joe wobbled, got his balance, and swung, like a wounded bear, and connected with Frank’s head. Frank’s neck snapped sideways, and he crumpled.

  Grant dropped to his knees in the dust. “Frank!”

  “No!” screamed Little Joe, lunging forward, and toppling Sammy and Orland forward, but they stumbled and caught their balance.

  Grant shook Frank. “Frank, can you hear me?”

  Big Joe turned from Grant and from Frank’s limp body, reached up, grabbed Little Joe’s arm, and yanked him from the boys’ shoulders. “I’ll teach you to run off and come home too big for your britches,” he growled.

  “You’ll do nothing of the kind,” a voice boomed behind Big Joe.

  Slider.

  Slider grabbed Big Joe’s arm and gave him a jerk, spinning him around, away from Little Joe.

  Slider nodded toward Frank. “Grant, is he dead?”

  “No, he’s breathing.”

  Frank’s eyes flickered and then opened. “Wha—” Then he saw Big Joe. “You son-of-a—”

  “You okay, Frank?” Slider said.

  Frank blinked and then let Grant pull him to a sit. He shook his head like a boxer shaking off a hit. “Yeah. I’m okay.” He grabbed Grant’s arm and staggered to his feet. “You son-of-a—” he said again to Big Joe. “I will . . . I will kill you someday.”

  Slider, seeing Frank wasn’t dead or knocked permanently unconscious, turned his attention back to Big Joe. “Now you’re hittin’ other kids? You gonna lay off your kid and wife, or do I have have to lock you up?”

  “You got no right to interfere in personal family business—”

  Slider tightened his grip on Big Joe’s arm. “This is public, Big Joe, and I got an obligation to maintain order. And you just assaulted Frank.”

  “That hooligan kid started it,” Big Joe protested.

  Slider, still holding Big Joe, said, “Great game, boys. Amazing play, Joe, Orland. I’ve never seen a triple play in all my born days.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff Slider.”

  “Listen, Big Joe,” Slider went on, tightening his grip. “Your son knew his responsibility—to his team, to his friends, and to his town. A promise he’d made his friends. That’s more than I can say for you. He left home ’cause he needed to. If I hear you laid so much as a finger on this boy—so help me God—in front of God and everybody here—I’ll kill you myself. Hear?”

  Big Joe shrugged off Slider’s hand. “Let’s go home, Little Joe.” He sneered at Slider. “This is family business.”

  “Not if you break the law,” Slider said.

  Little Joe followed his dad, but he turned and lifted his glove in a salute to the team, and he grinned at Grant. The whole team cheered.

  “Welcome home, Little Joe,” Grant said.

  Frank came up beside Grant, brushing off the seat of his pants. He touched his jaw. “Gosh darn, that hurt.”

  “Think how Little Joe feels. All the time.”

  “I hate that son-of-a-gun, Grant. I want to kill him.”

  Thirty-Three

  Surprise Spectators

  Grant watched Little Joe disappear down the road with his dad. “You aren’t alone, you know,” he said to Frank. “I hate him, too. But don’t do anything stupid. Big Joe is strong as two oxes.”

  Grant turned to look where Slider had gone.

  He spied him in the shade by the bleachers, talking to a small group of people Grant didn’t know—three men and five boys, two who looked to be close to Grant’s age. Harley and Shirley were there, too, talking to the youngest boy. Shirley was using elaborate hand signals as if the boys didn’t understand her.

  Grant walked over, and then he recognized one of the men.

  “Hello, Grant,” the man extended his hand.

  “Dr. Bronstein! What are you doing here?”

  “I’d like you to meet my brothers-in-law. Axel. Kristof. This is Grant O’Grady. And my nephews. This is Lars, Jens, Hans, Henry, and Clarence.”

  “Hello.”

  Lars, Jens, and Hans chorused, “Hello,” and shook Grant’s hand. “Guten tag,” Henry and Clarence said.

  “They all vant to play baseball, so since school is out, I told dem I’d bring dem to a game to see da best young pitcher I know.”

  Grant felt his face turn scarlet. “I’m not—”

  Dr. Bronstein interrupted. “And you did not disappoint us. I see vhy your father said vhat he did. How’s da elbow?”

  “Getting better. Still hurts. And I don’t have control—but better, I guess.”

  “So very glad to hear that. It vill keep getting better and better. You vere impressive today. And you know how to throw change-ups. To give da arm some rest.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  They talked about Joe DiMaggio’s batting and Carl Hubbell, who pitched for the Giants and was famous for his screwball.

  “Can you throw dis screwball?” Axel asked Grant.

  “No, I sure can’t. A screwball is really tricky. I’m working on my slider right now,” Grant answered. He looked at his dad. “But maybe we�
�ll start working on a screwball.”

  The older boys spoke halting English. The other uncles only knew a few words. Henry and Clarence said nothing.

  “Did you see about da Hindenberg? Dat big dirgible? Dat it blew up? Exploded and burned up yesterday in New Jersey. Even the United States is not all safe.”

  “Darn shame. It was an exciting idea, but maybe a little foolhardy.”

  “And the news on Hitler. Keeps getting vorse, I am afraid,” Dr. Bronstein said. He vas in on bombing dat Spanish city, Guernica, a few veeks ago. To Slider, he said, “You vere right, my friend. Dankeschön, Mr. O’Grady, for da goot advice.”

  They talked until Slider pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. He invited the whole crew to come home—and said that Mamie would be disappointed if they didn’t come—but Dr. Bronstein refused. “Too much to feed eight men vithout varning,” and here he smiled at the boys. “Perhaps another time. We must get driving to get back to Grand Forks by night. I have to do operation in da morning. Grant, Jens here says he vants to be a catcher. He vants to be in the action. I vanted him to see how tough catching a good pitcher is. Maybe sometime we come back or you come to Grand Forks and you two can throw a ball together?”

  “Sure!” Grant said. “I’d be glad to.”

  “And his father, Axel, is a blacksmith by trade. A very good one. He gave up a very . . . how do you say—lucrative—blacksmith shop to leave Germany. Dey all arrived last month, and are looking for vork. Not so good in dese times, but maybe better in a small town than in Grand Forks. Anyvay, I vanted dem to see you pitch and to see the countryside. See vhat small town is like besides just a city. I know times are tough, but if you know of jobs, maybe you let us know.”

  “Will do,” Slider promised. “I’m very glad you’re safely in the United States. Congratulations on a very brave move,” he said to the two men. “And, I think, a very wise one.”