by Alan Gratz
The colored man blinked in surprise. He looked like he might ask why, but swallowed his question and bid Walter follow him. They went through a set of double doors that led to a long hallway. Farther along, waiters came with empty platters and emerged with full ones.
“You wait right here, young sir, and I’ll see if Cyclone is about.”
Walter waited for what felt like a long time, and when Cyclone Joe didn’t appear he snuck down the hall and peeked in through the round windows on the swinging doors. It was a vast kitchen, hazy with the smoke and steam of food being cooked for five thousand people. Walter pushed his way inside.
One or two of the colored cooks near the door gave him a second glance, but they were too busy to do anything about him being there. The stream of waiters coming in with new food orders was never-ending, and Walter found a place in the corner out of the way of the constant traffic.
Until he saw Cyclone Joe Williams come through the door. Walter jumped out at the big pitcher, who was so startled he juggled his tray. Luckily it was empty.
“Dang, you liked to scare the bejeezus out of me, son! What are you doing here?”
“I got you a tryout, Cyclone! I wired the manager of the Superbas on my parents’ hotel account and got you a tryout with the team when they get back to Brooklyn this afternoon!”
It seemed like the entire kitchen got quiet all at once. Cooks and waiters all down the line stopped what they were doing and listened in on the conversation. Cyclone swallowed hard, and Walter could feel everyone’s eyes on them.
“I told you, kid. They ain’t gonna let a Negro pitch the National League.”
“They might if they don’t know you’re colored.”
Cyclone shook his head. “Son, they ain’t never gonna believe I’m no Cuban.”
“Not Cuban,” Walter told him. “Indian. You said yourself you’re half Comanche, right?”
Cyclone glanced up at the kitchen staff. They were all still watching them.
“There’s plenty of Indians that play in the National League,” Walter told him. “Bill Phyle, Chief Bender, Zack Wheat. All we have to do is tell them you’re Comanche and you can play!”
Cyclone didn’t look sold on it. “I don’t know, kid.”
“You’re light skinned enough,” one of the kitchen boys told him. “You might could pull it off.”
“Can’t hurt to try,” said another. “Not like they’s gonna lynch you right there in Washington Park.”
“Says you,” said someone else.
“They can’t say no,” Walter told him. “The Superbas need you.”
“The Brooklyn Cyclone,” one of the other kitchen boys said appreciatively.
“All right,” Cyclone said. “What time?”
Walter left the kitchen on top of the world. That afternoon he would deliver Cyclone Joe Williams to the Brooklyn Superbas—not as Cyclone Joe Williams, of course, but as Joseph Deerskin, Comanche Indian—and be a hero to an entire borough. With Cyclone Joe Williams as the team’s ace pitcher, they might even challenge the Chicago Cubs for the National League pennant.
Outside on the lawn a blue baseball cap with a large letter B caught Walter’s eye. It was his Brooklyn Superbas hat, and it was being worn by the boy who had taken it from him—the big ring leader who had called him a kike. Walter’s fists clenched.
The lawn was too open, too visible, and worse, the boy was walking with what looked like his parents. But the weekend was almost over. When would Walter have another chance to get his hat back? And how could he show up at Washington Park today without it?
Walter arranged himself on the path to meet the bully and his family face-to-face. The kid saw him coming a few yards away and grinned like Teddy Roosevelt. He thought he was safe next to his parents—not that Walter thought he could take him in a straight fight anyway.
The family walked up to Walter, who blocked their way.
“Oh, hello,” the mother said. “Are you a friend of Henry’s?”
Henry snorted.
“No,” Walter said. “But he’s been borrowing my hat.”
“This ain’t his hat,” Henry started to tell his parents. That’s when Walter popped him in the nose, while he wasn’t looking. Henry’s mother let out a tiny scream as blood spurted from the boy’s busted nose. Henry clutched at his face, wailing, and Walter snatched the hat off his head before the boy’s father could stir himself into action.
“Help! Someone help! That boy just attacked my son!” Walter heard the man cry. He was already off to the races though, and the ladies and gentlemen out for their Sunday walks parted for him rather than try to stop him. At the last moment a Pinkerton man appeared out of the crowd, but Walter slid around him like a runner avoiding a catcher’s tag, tumbled another yard or so, and then picked himself back up to run before the detective could lay a hand on him. Laughing, he ran for the train station that would take him north to Park Slope and glory.
The reaction to Joseph Deerskin was not what Walter had anticipated. The Brooklyn players made no move to welcome him to the clubhouse, standing stiff and staring at him like he was something poisonous. Old Patsy Donovan, the Superba’s Irish manager and sometime right fielder, chomped on his cigar.
“‘Joseph Deerskin,’ eh?” he said.
“Just wait ’til you see his tommyhawk pitch,” Walter said.
Cyclone glanced at him, but Walter focused on the manager. He knew he was the one he had to convince.
“Where’d ye play last season, Deerskin?” Donovan asked.
“The San Antonio Black—” Cyclone said, catching himself. “The San Antonio Broncos, sir.”
“San Antonio, eh? Down to Texas? You’re a long way from home, laddie.”
One of the players gave a short, hard laugh. Donovan looked up at the team as if gauging them.
“I’m sorry. We’ve no openings at pitcher this season,” he said.
“But we need a pitcher,” Walter argued. “Last season you brought in three new pitchers. How can there not be any room?”
“Look here, lad, I took you on as batboy because you came in here talking about King Kelly—hell, because you even knew who King Kelly was. That means a lot to an old Irishman like me, but this . . .”
“Don’t worry yourself, Walter,” Cyclone said. He nodded to Donovan. “Thank you for your time, sir.”
“No, wait! You’ve got to see him pitch, Mr. Donovan. He’d be the best pitcher in the National League.”
Behind him, one of the Superba players coughed.
“We just don’t have the money, Walter,” Donovan told him. “I’m sorry.”
“No, let’s see him pitch,” one of the players said. Walter turned. It was one of the boys from Georgia. “I want to see this ‘tommyhawk.’”
Walter beamed. “You won’t be disappointed. I guarantee it.”
The team took the field at Washington Park for practice, splitting up to play an intra-squad game. It was a warm spring afternoon, the clouds high in the bright blue sky over the long low grandstand behind home plate.
Cyclone hung back before taking the field.
“They know, Walter. We ain’t fooling anybody. I should just go.”
“No! They’re going to give you a tryout. When they see how good you are they’ll have to take you on the team. And you are Indian. That’s not a lie.”
“It ain’t the whole truth neither.”
“Are we going to see some pitching today, or are you just gonna stand around jawing with the batboy?” one of the players called from the field.
Walter stepped back from the field and Cyclone took the mound. The broad-shouldered giant worked the ball in his hands, then slipped on his glove and went into his windup.
Fap! The ball smacked into the catcher’s mitt as the first batter took a swing and a miss. Walter jumped and clapped, glancing around to see the team’s reaction. Their faces were as stony as they were in the clubhouse, and he stopped cheering.
Fap! Another fastball the batter
couldn’t catch up to. Walter had to keep himself from cheering.
Cyclone kicked his leg for a third pitch and fired, but this time the batter turned his bat down and bunted the fastball into the ground in front of the plate. The catcher sprang from his crouch and pounced on the ball, then threw down to first—and well over the first baseman, who didn’t even jump to try and catch it. The ball went into right field, and the runner was on second before the ball made it back in to the pitcher.
“That’s a two-base bunt,” one of the players said.
Walter didn’t understand. That was no hit, it was an error, clear and simple.
Cyclone took a deep breath on the mound and worked the ball over in his hands before pitching again. This time the batter got a piece of it, knocking an easy ground ball down to the shortstop . . . who let it go right between his legs. Walter was furious. It was a play any kid on any street in Brooklyn could have made with his eyes closed. The runner scored and the hitter was safe at first.
Cyclone struck out the next batter—despite his attempt to bunt—and struck out the next one looking. The following batter popped up into foul territory near Walter. He backed off as the first baseman came over to catch it, then stared openmouthed as the usually sure-handed Superba let it drop. The first baseman stared back like Walter’s father when Walter got in trouble at school for fighting. Like he was disappointed.
Suddenly Walter understood what was happening. The Superbas weren’t rusty. They were deliberately misplaying the ball behind Cyclone. This was their way of saying they would never play with a colored man on the field.
The Superbas booted, overthrew, and dropped ball after ball, and Cyclone endured seven unearned runs in the two innings he pitched.
“I think we’ve seen enough,” Donovan said, and Cyclone made no complaint. He tipped his hat to the manager and said nothing to Walter as he left the field. There was nothing to say.
Donovan came over to where Walter stood and they watched as the Superbas went on practicing with a new pitcher. Walter couldn’t help but notice they didn’t make an error.
“I’m sorry, lad,” Donovan said. “It never would have worked. Even if the boys took to him, the other teams would just walk off the field.”
“He would have been the best pitcher on the whole team, and you know it,” Walter said.
Patsy Donovan didn’t say anything to that. He didn’t have to.
Walter stared out the window of the train back to Coney Island without really seeing anything. It felt like there was a cloud in his brain, fogging everything up. At Coney Island he didn’t head for the West Brighton Hotel or the Brighton Beach Hotel, but instead walked along the boardwalk with his head down and his hands buried in his pockets. Coney Island flashed and danced, but he wasn’t watching. Bands played and preachers scolded, but he wasn’t listening. Walter didn’t even feel the wind off the water or the wood beneath his feet.
At the end of the pier Walter stood and stared out at the dark ocean, wondering what was at the bottom. When he was little, he had thought there was treasure there, Spanish gold or pirate plunder. Now he thought that maybe there wasn’t anything down there, that it was a great empty pit of nothingness.
Walter pulled off his beloved Brooklyn Superbas hat and flung the thing as far out into the water as he could. He watched it splash down, then bob, and then sink, settling in with the rest of the trash at the bottom of the great black sea.
Fifth Inning: The Numbers Game
Brooklyn, New York, 1926
1
“Mrs. Radowski! Mrs. Radowski, it’s Frankie!”
Frankie knocked again more loudly so Mrs. Radowski could hear her. The old lady’s hearing wasn’t so good anymore. Mrs. Radowski’s place was right next to Frankie’s house, so close that on summer nights Frankie could reach out her window and almost touch it. Most nights, summer or not, Frankie could hear Mrs. Radowski singing some low, sad song in Russian—but at least that was better than what came from the Polish house on the other side.
Mrs. Radowski opened the door all the way when she saw who it was.
“Hello, Frances! You would like to come in for a biscuit, yes?”
“Not this afternoon, Mrs. Radowski. I’m working. Do you want any numbers today?”
“Oh! Yes, please.”
Mrs. Radowski found her change purse and handed Frankie a quarter.
“Twenty-five cents today?” Mrs. Radowski usually only bet a penny.
“Yes. Today is good. I win today. I feel it. What is winning on twenty-five cents?”
“One hundred and fifty dollars,” Frankie told her.
The old lady patted Frankie’s baseball cap. “So clever, young Frances. You should go to university.”
“You sound like my pop. Same numbers, Mrs. Radowski? Four-zero-six?”
Mrs. Radowski nodded. It was always the same with her—four-zero-six. Her dead husband’s birthday. Frankie waved good-bye and knocked at Mr. Nolan’s three doors down. Mr. Nolan spent all Saturday in his undershirt and underwear, no matter the temperature. He took a nickel bet on eight-three-five. He was one of Frankie’s few regulars who liked to mix things up. The Steins across the street bought five-five-five for a penny, the same amount the McAllisters on the corner spent on three-five-seven. Three-five-seven was one of the popular ones, even though in the two years Frankie’d been running numbers it had never hit.
Frankie finished her street and worked her way up and down the next couple of blocks. When she’d collected all the numbers for her territory she ran up Flatbush Avenue past the big ticker-tape board at Prospect Park Plaza that showed the sports scores, and then over to the blind pig on Sterling where they ran the policy bank. The front entrance was a dry cleaner’s, but the service door led to the saloon in the basement.
Frankie rapped three times, waited, then rapped again. The peephole slid open.
Frankie waved. “Heya Amos!”
The door plinked and clanked as it was unlocked, and Frankie slipped inside.
“Heya Frankie,” Amos said, his deep voice booming. Amos was huge—the biggest man Frankie had ever seen, colored or not, but he was a real softy at heart. Amos smiled. “No notes again today?”
Frankie tapped her noggin through her cap. “Got it all right here, Amos.”
He shook his head as he bolted the door. “I don’t know how you do it, Frankie. Me, I got trouble remembering my telephone exchange.”
“Greenwood 3-6420,” Frankie told him.
“That’s right! But how did you—”
“I heard the barkeep ask for it one day when you were late and they called around looking for you.”
Amos shook his head again. “Too smart for your own good, girl. Best get on in to Mr. Jerome. He’ll be waiting for you.”
The only two customers in the place sat at the bar hunched over their drinks as Frankie passed through the blind pig. She only ever came on afternoons, when the crowds were light. Her pop told her blind pigs were just places to go and have a drink anyway, joints that would have been dive bars before the Anti-Saloon League types had pushed Prohibition through. It was the speakeasies that were supposed to have singing and dancing too. Frankie would love to see that, but she supposed her father would tan her hide for it.
Billy Sparks was running through his numbers with Mr. Jerome when Frankie got to the counting room. She stood in the corner and figured up the combined earned run averages of the Brooklyn Robins pitchers while she waited. Billy always took a while. He had to write everything down, and it took him and Mr. Jerome the better part of half an hour to decipher his pigeon scratch.
When Frankie’s turn came she gave Mr. Jerome the numbers and the bets as fast as he could record them. Mr. Jerome never said anything, but Frankie could tell he liked having someone who could give it to him straight, the way the men at the bank liked it when she worked everything out on her father’s deposit slips before he got up to the counter.
Frankie was halfway through the numbers when the doo
r opened and Mickey Fist stepped inside. Mickey Fist owned the blind pig and ran the local numbers game. He had a flat nose and a square head, and he looked like a gorilla stuffed into his big monkey suit. Mickey Fist was about the same size as Frankie’s father, but all his weight was in his thick shoulders and arms. Frankie heard he got his name by putting his fist through a door and knocking a guy out cold on the other side, and she believed it.
“This the kid?” Mickey Fist asked.
Mr. Jerome nodded. “Keep going, Frankie.”
Frankie didn’t know if she was in some kind of trouble or not, but she gave the rest of her take to Mr. Jerome as usual while Mickey Fist listened in. When she was finished she handed over the pocketful of money she’d collected and waited while Mr. Jerome did the count. When he was finished he nodded at his boss.
“She ever get one wrong?” Mickey asked.
“Never.”
“What’s eight times eighteen?” Mickey asked her.
“One forty-four.”
“A hundred and fifty-six times seven?”
“One thousand ninety-two.”
“Divided by twelve?”
“Ninety-one.”
Mickey Fist looked to Mr. Jerome, who was scribbling with his pencil. He looked up and nodded.
The boss looked Frankie up and down.
“How old are you, kid?”
“Eleven.”
“You play it straight, a coupla years we could find a place for you in the organization. You like that?”
“Yessir,” Frankie said.
Mickey Fist nodded and left. Frankie let out her breath, and Mr. Jerome did the same. He straightened his glasses.
“You did good, Frankie. Real good.”
Mr. Jerome paid Frankie her cut and she went back out into the blind pig. Mickey Fist was talking to another man at the bar.
“I’m telling you, I was there,” the other man said. He slapped a newspaper down on the counter and pointed to it. “The numbers in the Times and the numbers at the park don’t match up. I bet the numbers that came up at Belmont. That means I oughta get paid.”
