I stood there transfixed, watching the ball edge along as if it would take forever to move even five feet. From the corner of my left eye I saw Bengough chugging down the first base line and I was aware that I had not started for the ball. I thought I saw Ruth smiling—but it was Johnson’s laugh I heard, deep and raspy. I saw the game dissolving, yet I could not move. Bingo had torn his mask off, but Bengough, a right-handed hitter, had blocked his view, and Bingo was only now—as Bengough must have been halfway down the line—seeing where the ball was, trickling slowly along the basepath, some eight or nine feet from the plate. I thought I heard myself scream, and I could feel the scream tearing through my throat and up through my eyes, but my mouth was not open. The ball rolled along, inch by inch, too far away for me to get it in time. I thought I screamed again, but realized—in the din the crowd was making—that it was somebody else’s scream I was hearing. The boy was on our dugout, jumping up and down in a tantrum, and the crowd, on its feet, screamed madly. But the scream I heard, I suddenly realized, came from Little Johnny Jones. Like a mad cat he streaked into view to my right, yelling at me, I now understood, to get my fool head down. I ducked and saw Jones flash by, scooping up the ball barehanded and, in the same incredibly swift motion, firing across the infield, directly above my head, to first base. Were I to pitch a thousand games and strike out every man in every game, I do not believe I would ever see a more perfect and beautiful play: to fly at full speed and scoop up a small piece of leather—to let that ball fly in a direction opposite from your body’s motion, with that body, all the while, low to the ground, the back curved forward, the body’s balance impossibly maintained so that the ball moves like white lightning to its mark—oh but that was the miracle! Bengough was out by a half-step, and as the umpire gestured, the crowd’s noise stopped for an instant, and then returned, cresting and crashing upon me. I turned to Jones and his smile went from ear to ear, filling his dark face. He tipped his cap to me. “All of them,” he said. “All of them, honey.”
“Ooo-eee!” Barton called from behind, as the ball was whipped around the infield. “That’s pretty. Oh yes. That’s pretty.”
Jones tossed the ball to me. “Nothin’ to be scared of, honey—Little Johnny gone to get them all. I get them all—you throw the ball.”
He lifted his cap and wiped his hand across his forehead, across the scar in whose groove his perspiration was collecting. The play, of course, had been his, since my follow-through was toward first base, and yet, even if I had had no chance for the play—it had never, as I now saw, been mine—I knew that I had frozen, and had been saved. I would not receive another chance. I threw harder than I had to, and struck out the pitcher, Moore, on three straight pitches.
Kelly doubled to lead off the bottom of the sixth inning, but he was left stranded at second base as Kinnard, Johnson, and Dell made out. I walked to the mound, knowing that, in their half of the seventh inning, I would face him for what I hoped would be the last time. I told myself not to think about him, for that was the surest way to have the two men who preceded him make easy prey of me. But with the ball in my hand and the sun on my back, I was in no danger. Dugan swung late and popped the ball, in foul territory, behind the plate, where Bingo gathered it in for the first out. I put two quick strikes on Koenig, the next batter, and then—as Ruth waited calmly in the on-deck circle—I threw again and Koenig, who had not yet struck out that day, drilled the ball to straightaway center field. My heart dropped. I turned and saw Kinnard moving backward so easily that the ball appeared to slow down—as if it were waiting until he could catch up with it. He caught it in full stride, over his left shoulder. With the crowd, I heard myself sigh, relieved.
“Last time, honey,” Jones called, as Ruth waved his bat at me. “You just blow the ball by, like always.”
I leaned forward, as if to take a sign from Bingo—Ruth stood there, wanting me to pitch so that he could hit. I took my time, picked up the rosin bag, hitched my belt, then turned to face my team, as if to assure myself that they were in position. Ruth did not move. “Don’t fool us, poor nigger man,” Barton cried. “Don’t fool us with nothing.”
Ruth dug the heel of his right shoe deeper into the dirt. I wound up slowly, and I realized that I was smiling and that he was watching my smile. The ball was letter-high, like a bullet. He stepped and swung and I closed my eyes. Bingo’s arm, when I opened my eyes, was cocked behind his ear, the ball in his hand. My smile broadened, and I was pleased to see that it was angering Ruth. His neck was red. As much as I may have wanted to defeat him—so much did he want to please his fans. I reared back and fired again, straight for his chin. His body dipped backward, but he would not fall. The ball passed an inch or two from his face, cracking savagely into Bingo’s mitt. The crowd became hushed. He spat across the plate, his spit falling a few feet in front of the on-deck circle where Gehrig—a man he despised, as everybody knew—was waiting. I gripped the ball and thought of nothing except that invisible tunnel to Bingo’s glove. I wound up and delivered, low and outside, and he did not swing. Strike two. On top of the dugout the boy jumped up and down, then twirled around once and squatted, waiting. Ruth stepped out of the box, let his bat fall so that he was leaning upon it, holding the handle. He raised his right hand briefly, pointing toward center field, and the crowd breathed with delight. They had seen him make such promises before. I glanced behind, but Kinnard did not back up. The fans behind him were standing, waiting for the ball they now hoped would be theirs. I might, at such a moment, have had a thousand thoughts—and yet I recall having none, and can remember only the heat my body was generating, and the movements it made as I wound up, twisted sideways, kicked high with my left leg, strode forward, and pitched. He seemed to start his swing even before the pitch was released, and I was, momentarily, terrified. His arms and shoulders, despite his protruding stomach, moved gracefully and powerfully in a clean arc, waist-high. For a split second I thought the ball had stopped and that he would murder it, but then it sped on its way and I saw that I had had nothing to be worried about. I was too fast for him. His bat did not even graze the white pellet. The crowd gasped as he twisted in agony, almost falling down from his effort. I had struck him out for the third time. Jones called to him—something about the pointing he had done—but I did not hear him. I was, as any of my teammates might have put it, home free.
It did not even bother me that, hitting in our half of the seventh, and receiving a standing ovation from the crowd, I found that my desire to murder the ball was gone. With Bingo on first base—he had singled—Jack Henry, now coaching at third, gave me the hit-and-run sign. The ball was low, but Bingo was moving with the pitch and I protected him, striking at the ball and pushing it behind the runner, toward the hole between first and second. The first baseman got the ball, too late to get Bingo, but in time to toss to the pitcher covering at first base, and I was out. Moore stiffened after that, and we could not move Bingo in from second base. The seventh inning was over, we still led 1 to 0, and I had only to face six more men.
Now, with each pitch I threw, the crowd roared its approval. I had never felt stronger. I struck out Gehrig and got Meusel on an easy popup to the shortstop. Lazzeri, next up, the smartest of the Yankee players on the field, choked up on the bat as I went into my motion and tried to punch the ball to right, but he did not gauge my pitch correctly and the ball, snapping upward, hit the handle of his bat and looped harmlessly to Massaguen at second. Massaguen squeezed the ball into the pocket of his glove and ran from the field, shrieking with joy. His face had never been so beautiful, and I thought, but for an instant only, not of the supposed magnificence of his forebears, but of what the auctions for them must have been like.
The bench during our half of the eighth inning was totally silent. Nobody sat next to me, nobody spoke to me, and yet there was in their avoidance of me, I felt, not merely the custom of the game, but what I hoped was a new respect for me, a kind of friendship now, after the few years we had been togethe
r, despite the fact that we had shared little in those years other than the games themselves. I wanted them to hurry, and they did. Moore was still pitching strongly—we had a total of only six hits against him, including my home run—and he gave up no more in the bottom of that inning. Kelly, Kinnard, and Johnson went down easily, on a strikeout, a fly to left field, and a grounder to third base.
As the ninth inning began, Johnson lingered for a minute in the dugout, and I wondered if Jack Henry were going to put one of the younger utility players into the outfield for him. But I saw Jack push him gently from the dugout and I was, I found, pleased to know that he would be with me for the last inning of the game. He trotted by, looking into the sun, which was now behind the right field wall, shining into the eyes of the batters—something a pitcher could not be unhappy about. He stopped at the mound, as if he were going to say something to me, and I smiled at him, hoping he would. But he seemed to change his mind, and it was only when he had continued on that I heard him laugh ing, and the laugh made me uneasy. I shrugged and tried to pay it no mind. I was, I told myself, beyond that—free of it, also.
I felt loose. I listened to Jones and Barton and Massaguen and Dell and Bingo talking to me. I enjoyed the feel of fresh perspiration sliding down my back, under my uniform. Combs was first up and I had no trouble with him. He went down swinging on four pitches, and I was two outs away from a perfect game. Ruth slumped in the corner of his dugout, thinking, I imagined, of what he would do after the game—of drinking and whoring and eating. Gehrig studied me in his sullen way, and I almost wanted to call to Ruth, to tell him that I understood why he hated a man who was so narrow, who took and gave no pleasure in life. “Cheapest bastard I ever met,” had been Ruth’s judgment, and it was, as I knew from what other baseball men were saying, an understatement. Bengough was at the plate now, and I recalled what he had done the last time. I glanced briefly at Jones, who played even with the bag at third. The fans were silent. I felt my heart beating and I glanced down, to see if it was making my uniform flutter. I wound up and fired, and the pitch was true. Bengough swung late, however, and the ball cracked weakly against the upper side of his bat—an easy fly to right field. “You take it!” Kinnard yelled toward Johnson, and Johnson stood there, in position, and pounded his glove once as he waited for the ball to come down. I heard the scream—from which of my teammates I cannot say—a long painful “Nooooo,” even before the ball had fallen, some five feet in front of Johnson, upon the outfield grass. I could not believe my eyes. The moan from the crowd was genuine, heartsick. Johnson merely shrugged and picked up the ball, tossing it to the infield. Bengough, amazed, stood safely at first base.
My stomach turned over and there must, I know, have been tears in my eyes. Jones was at the mound and I saw that there were in his. “Oh honey, I’m so sorry,” he said. “But you still—you still…” He knew he was not allowed to finish the sentence. I had not, of course, given up a true hit, but it did not matter. There was nothing to say, or to do. I did not look to the Yankee dugout, for I did not, really, care what he was doing, or whether or not he was happy at my fate. An unknown player—not even a Yankee player—was pinch-hitting for the pitcher Moore, and I worked as swiftly as I knew how. Three pitches to him, and then three more to Dugan and the game was over. We had won, 1 to 0, I had hit the winning home run, I had struck out Babe Ruth three times, I had struck out eighteen men in all, I had proven everything I had ever dreamt of proving, and yet…
The players ran by me to the locker room. I stood at the mound. Some boys were on the field, pulling at my glove. One of them leapt up and snatched my hat, running off with it. They asked me questions and spoke to me in Spanish and pigeon-English, but I heard nothing. I stood there, letting them touch me until they had had enough.
It is impossible to say how much time had passed, but when the stands were empty and the field was clear, I saw that Ruth was still sitting in his dugout, watching me. The playing field, without the fans and the players, seemed excessively quiet. I stepped down into the dugout and he stood. I wondered what it was that I had had to say to him. “You pitched good,” he said. “I always said you were the fastest pitcher I ever faced.” He smiled, and I felt something stir in me; I remembered what he had said to me the night before, about coming when he called, and I tried to wake myself. “But you’re a real idiot, playing in your league. I told ya that a long time ago.” I was breathing hard. “Ya know how much money I got?” I said nothing. My glove dropped to the ground. “C ’mon—take a guess. I mean, a guy’s got to have real brains, with an arm and a face like yours, to spend his life with a bunch of niggers.” He smiled, to see if he were reaching me, provoking me. He laughed then, in his choir boy’s voice, and said what I wish to God he had never said. “You’re just a make-believe nigger anyway. Everybody knows that—”
I swung and felt the bone of his chin against my knuckles. My blow had moved so quickly that I had not seen him react. He flopped sideways, his stomach banging into the bench, and his head knocking against it before he fell to the floor.
“Sure now, you got real brains.” I turned around and saw that Johnson was standing in the dugout, at the far end. He walked toward me. He was still in his uniform, which meant, I thought, that he had not dared—after his misplay—to go into the locker room. He looked down at Ruth, over my shoulder, and he laughed. “Dumb nigger,” he said. His chin almost touched my shoulder. I glared at him, remembering what he’d done. “Sure now,” he said, shuffling backward. “Old Brick lost the ball in the sun.” Then he howled with laughter, finding his remark so funny that, a second later, he was doubled up, sitting on the Yankee bench, and clutching at his stomach. “Oh, I seen your face, fair ass. I seen it. Old Brick just went and lost the ball in the sun. But I seen your face—” He glanced down at Ruth, lying there like a sleeping child, his head to one side, his right arm caught under it. “Better not get caught here, though—he’s still the big boy, no matter what.” He chuckled to himself and started to stand, as if he were finished with what he had come for. “He told the truth, though. You’re a make-believe nigger all right. I been watching. Only you ain’t just a make-believe nigger—” He was laughing at me. “That’s what been shown to you today.” His voice shifted, and he did not smile: “You just plain make-believe, from start to finish. I seen that.”
I saw the ball drop from the sky, and I saw him standing there, hands on his hips, pounding his glove once, and then letting the white spot fall in front of him. I had his head pressed against the concrete wall, and my fingers were locked on his throat. His huge chest swelled and his hands were on my forearms, but I was, for once, too strong for him. He gagged, and I thought I heard him apologize to me, but I could not let go. I heard his voice, telling me what he had waited to tell me. I had mattered enough to him for that—and for what he had done on the field. There was no more. I squeezed and would not look at his face, though I believed, at the time, that I could feel his blackness seeping into my fingertips. His chest collapsed, and he stopped struggling.
I looked around to see if anybody had seen me. Ruth was still unconscious, snoring now, his body rising and falling in the trench of the dugout. Johnson did not move. My own body was slack, but I had not yet released all my hatred. “Oh honey,” I heard Jones say, “he was a bad man, but he wasn’t that bad.”
I looked at Jones. “I just come out here to see if you was okay,” he said, standing on the grass. “—where you was, that was all.” He was dressed in street clothes, a jacket and a tie. He came forward and bent over Johnson, listened at the man’s chest. “Oh honey, he was a bad man, but he wasn’t that bad. You got to get out of here.” He pushed me, but I could not move. “Everybody’s gone, in our place.” Ruth moaned. “Don’t just stand there, honey. I’ll take care of this.” Kneeling, between Ruth and Johnson, he looked up at me. “You got the money?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“We’ll get you out of this place—I mean back to America, or somewhere—you
wait for me outside. Ain’t nobody gone to come back here for a while.” I stared into Johnson’s face, and it seemed wildly absurd to me suddenly to have dressed this old black man in a boy’s costume. Jones was trying to pull me away. “You got to move, honey. You got to get out.”
I felt tired. I thought that I felt as old as Johnson must have felt, still running and throwing with boys half his age. But I had no will—I let Jones tell me what to do. I returned to our locker room and put on my street clothes. I went with Jones, in a taxi, to our hotel, where I picked up my valise and my money. He made sense. He had, he told me, been through similar things before. Nobody was much interested when one nigger killed another.
He found somebody at the waterfront who took me into a boat, below deck. He gave me advice—he told me to change my name, to lay low, not to play baseball again. In a few years, he said, it -would—except among players in the Negro American Baseball League—all be forgotten. Thanks to me, he hoped to own his house in Flatbush by the end of the next season. He wished me luck and kissed me good-bye, and I went below deck, not talking to the men who carried me across the water. I slept. When I awoke it was night. I was transferred from the boat I had been in to a rowboat. I gave more money. At the pier—I was told that I was in a town called Naples, Florida, some seventy miles up the western coast—I gave away more money, and was driven to a hotel where all my meals were brought to me; I stayed for three weeks. I did not look in the newspapers to see if there had been any report. I tried, during those weeks, to consider what had happened, but it was difficult to feel anything, either for what I had done to Johnson, or for what I had done to myself.
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