by Pascal Marco
“I sure did—The Splendid Splinter.”
“Splendid splinter?”
The old man dismounted his radio bicycle and dropped the kickstand, resting the bike. “Ballplayers give each other nick-names. That was Williams’s—The Splendid Splinter. You see, ol’ Teddy, well, he had one of the finest swings in the game.” The old man had taken a step now onto the freshly manicured grass bordering the path. He started to take big, looping swings with an imaginary bat as he continued to speak to the boy. “Great hands with the splinter. The wood. The bat.”
James watched in fascination as the elderly gentleman took one deliberate swing after another at an imaginary ball, thrown by an equally imaginary pitcher. The man squinted his eyes, focusing, pretending to wait for the next pitch. Then he swung through with a graceful motion, watching the “ball” sail off into the air. He had a sweet, smooth motion, like a big leaguer.
“Oh, I get it. Like Dick Allen, huh? He’s great with the bat, too. Uses the biggest bat in the majors. Didjoo’ know that, mister?”
“Dick Allen. Rookie of the Year, 1964, Philadelphia Phillies. American League Most Valuable Player, 1972, Chicago White Sox. Seven-time All-Star,” the old man replied, still swinging away, yet not looking at the boy.
James raised his eyebrows, impressed with the man’s knowledge of Allen’s big league awards. The boy pushed his cap back on his head and bent down for another drink. If not in school or church, the only other time the tattered Chicago White Sox cap left his head was when he went to bed.
The old man kept swinging away. “You’re a big White Sox fan huh, young fella?”
Coming up again from his drink, James said. “Oh, yeah. For sure. Dick Allen’s still my favorite, even though he’s not on our team anymore.” James paused for a moment, looking directly at the old man. “Mister, sounds like you know a lot about baseball.”
“Oh, I’ve seen a game or two in my day.”
“I notice you ride through Burnham here a lot. Just about every day, seems to me.” James pointed up and down the lakefront with an outstretched finger. “Always headin’ south in the morning, comin’ back this way now in the afternoon.” He moved his head back toward the man, and quizzed him. “Where you go when you ride?”
The old man stopped his swings and looked at the boy.
“Well, you’re quite the observant young man, aren’t you? And inquisitive, too. But since you asked, I work part-time, south of here, down at Hyde Park Foods.” The old man placed both hands on his hips and stretched his wiry frame, thrusting his chest forward. “Helps me keep in shape, riding my bike.”
James eyeballed him, bent down for another sip of water, and said, “Just watch out. There’s a big, tall dude called Pick who hangs out right around here with his gang. He doesn’t like nobody ridin’ through his park too much, ‘specially white folks. You dig?”
“What do you mean his park? This park belongs to everyone.” The man’s voice rose to a high pitch.
James hadn’t meant to upset the old guy but he also knew to speak the truth. His daddy had preached to him as long as he could remember, You’ll never go wrong, James, if you always tell the truth.
James nervously began cracking his knuckles and stammered on, barely coming up for air. “Well, that may be, but they’s Rangers and they’re pretty bad dudes. Most of ‘em come from over there.” James stopped his knuckle cracking and pointed across Lake Shore Drive to a housing project about two blocks away. “But they usually hang out here all day, mostly jumpin’ people comin’ through, protectin’ their turf, stealin’ their stuff. They’d like nothin’ more than that cherry Huffy of yours.” James motioned his head to the man’s bike. “Me and my best friend, Clayton, we just stay as far away from them as we can.”
The old man pulled a crisp, white handkerchief from his back pocket and began wiping the chrome fenders of his immaculate bicycle. “Well, thank you for your concern, young man. But I can take care of myself. I’ve handled quite a few pretty bad dudes in my day.”
James shrugged his shoulders and mumbled, “Whatever.” He wondered if the man even listened to his warning. About to hop back on his bike, the old man stopped the boy.
“Hey. I didn’t get your name, young man.”
“James. James Overstreet.”
“Well, my name is Manny. Manny Fleischman.” He stuck out his hand and made a quick shake. “Nice to meet you, James Over-street.”
James then took off his baseball cap and scratched the top of his head. “Manny, huh? Don’t know no Mannys. Matter of fact, don’t know no Fleischmans, neither.”
Manny smiled. “Actually, my full name is Emanuel. It was my grandfather’s name. He was from Russia. And Fleischman, well, that’s a Jewish name.”
James scratched his head again. “I don’t think I know nobody Jewish, neither.”
Fleischman chuckled. “Well, now you do!”
“That’s really cool. Miss Burns, my teacher, she said that’s why we had World War II, to help the Jewish people.” The boy paused. “I think you’re the first Jew-man I ever met.”
Manny nodded. “I’ll consider that something special then.”
James thought Manny Fleischman was something special, too.
“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow then, huh?” asked James.
“You bet,” the old man replied. “I’ll be coming through here tomorrow morning ’bout nine-thirty. But you already know that, don’t you?” The old man winked at the boy.
James nodded in his typical sheepish manner, the same way he did to his teacher, Miss Burns. He realized he was beginning to feel the same way about the old man as he did her.
The next morning, James and Manny met at the same drinking fountain, as they had surmised they would. This time James was waiting at the fountain as the old man came whirring down the path. He stopped his Huffy and pulled up next to the boy.
“Hi there, James. So, no school today. Got any big plans? Are you headed anyplace special?”
“Nowhere particular. Just travlin’, Mister Fleischman.”
“Travlin’, huh? I like that word.”
“That’s what my momma calls it. She always asks me, ‘James, where you going travlin’ today?’ She says she thinks I’m goin’ to be an explorer someday when I grow up, ya’ know, travlin’ to all kinds of different places. I wanna’ be a geologist. Study rocks and stuff. Like in the Grand Canyon.” James adjusted the grips of his handlebars and then the angle of his bike’s seat. “But today, I’m just thinkin’ about travlin’ down to fifty-fifth street. Maybe go look at the Del Prado.”
“Ahh, the Del Prado Hotel. That’s some special place,” Manny said. “Did you know that lots of big league baseball players used to stay in the Del Prado and other Hyde Park hotels til those fancy Loop ones came along?”
“Sure did. My daddy told me.” They began to ride their bikes together down the path. “My daddy says Babe Ruth stayed at the Del Prado. So did Mickey Mantle and the Splendid Splinter.” James smiled over at Manny. “Even Hank Aaron. Hey, Mister Fleischman. Do you know who Bill Monbouquette is?”
“Pitcher. Boston Red Sox. If I recall correctly, he tossed a nohitter against the White Sox back in the early sixties.”
“That’s right! You knew that, too?” James shook his head. “He no-hit them the same day I was born—August first, nineteen sixty-two. Him and my daddy were best friends.”
Manny stopped his bike with a jolt to his break pedal. When he did, James stopped, too. “Your father played big league ball?”
“Well, almost. He was a minor leaguer with the Red Sox. Says he woulda’ been Boston’s first black ballplayer in the big leagues, but he hurt his knee. He got replaced by Pumpsie Green.”
“You don’t say. So your dad’s injury opened the door for Pumpsie. Well I’ll be. You know, Pumpsie went on to become Boston’s first black player. Did you know they were the last big league team to have a black ballplayer?”
James shook his head.
“Th
at’s too bad, James. Sounds like you’re still very proud of your daddy, though.”
“Yes, sir. Best daddy a boy could have. I’m just glad to have a daddy. My best friend, Clayton, he doesn’t.”
They walked their bikes down a side path that ended at the limestone rock steps just above the water. Manny pushed down the kickstand on his bike and the Huffy rested at a gentle angle. James did the same with his Ted Williams. Manny took a seat on the top rock step and James sat beside him. They both looked out at the glistening morning water to the east.
“You sure do know a lot about baseball, Mister Fleischman.”
“I guess you can say that,” Manny replied, cracking a wry smile. “But, it’s really more like I know a little bit about a lot of things.”
James shrugged, wondering what other things the old Jew, Manny Fleischman, might know. Before he could finish his thought, Manny spoke.
“You know, I’ve known a lot of black folks who have been the first at something very important. A lot of them became very famous.”
“Really? What did you do when you were young, Mister Fleischman? I mean, what kind a job you have?”
“I was a high school teacher right here in Bronzeville. Forty-seven years. Taught over at DuSable, not far from here. Used to be called Phillips. Did you know that Phillips was the first high school in the United States to have a one hundred percent black student body?”
James raised his eyebrows and shook his head.
“I had a student there way back when by the name of Nathaniel Cole. Everyone used to call him ‘Nat’ for short. Later, some folks added ‘King’ to his name. Do you know who he was?”
Again, James shook his head.
“That’s okay. You just ask your momma. I’ll bet she’ll know. And then ask your daddy about the Harlem Globetrotters. Four of them boys that started that team, well, I taught them all in history class.”
“The Harlem who?”
“Your daddy will know who I’m talking about. And speaking of firsts, tell your folks I also taught the first African-American to attend our nation’s military academy—West Point.” As they sat, Manny went on for several more minutes, telling James about other important black folks, some famous, some forgotten, that came from the Bronzeville neighborhood where they both now lived. “You see, James. I’ve known lots of black folks who’d been first at things and I wish your daddy could have been one of them, too.”
“Well, my daddy’s first in my book.” James bent over and picked up a few loose stones scattered at his feet. He began tossing them one-by-one into the blue water below.
“Hey, James. Hyde Park Foods is going to be looking for a delivery boy once school’s out. You think you might like a job like that?”
James continued tossing the stones. “Maybe.” He took a moment before he went on. “Would I get paid?”
“Of course you would! You’d get paid for every delivery you make and if you’re real good you might even make some tips. Why don’t you talk to your parents about it and then let me know. I’m sure I’ll see you in the park here again.”
“You got that right. Got to do my travlin’ every day, fo’ sure.” The boy tossed the last of the pebbles in his hand down into the lake.
Manny stood up. “I’d really like to talk more but I need to skedaddle now. Got to get to work.” Manny held out his hand. “Nice to see you again, Mister James Overstreet.”
They shook hands again and smiled.
“And, James. Thank you for your advice about that gang yesterday. But don’t worry about me. Okay, son?”
Manny popped up his kickstand and effortlessly hopped on his shiny bicycle with its spotless, over-sized, white-walled tires. The wheels’ polished spokes shimmered as they trapped the glow of sun’s morning reflection off the glimmering lake behind them. As Manny turned and headed off south down the bike path, James watched him until he no longer could see him or the red Huffy.
Later that day as he sat at his family’s kitchen table after dinner, James told his mother and father all about the conversation he had with his new friend who rode the shiny red Huffy bicycle.
“And this Mister Fleischman says there’s a job for me this summer deliverin’ groceries and stuff to the rich folks in Hyde Park. He said I can make a lot of money, Momma.” He turned to his father. “Really, Daddy. He’s a pretty cool ol’ man. Knows a whole lot about baseball. And, he says he knows a lot of famous black people, too.”
“Is that right?” his father said. James could only see the top of his daddy’s head as his father continued to read his newspaper. “Jus’ what kinda famous black people does he know?”
“He told me about the first doctor in the world to operate on a man’s heart while he was still alive,” James sputtered. “He was a black man, Daddy, and lived right here in Bronzeville, right near our house, a long time ago. Mister Fleischman says that very same doctor became the first black man in the country to start a hospital just so he could teach black folks how to become doctors and nurses.”
“He said that, huh?” his father said, still not coming out from behind the paper.
James spoke nonstop, pausing only so he could catch his breath. “Daddy, did you know that during the Civil War there used to be a prisoner of war camp right here near our house. Right on the corner of our street?”
“You don’t say.” His father remained behind the newspaper.
“Yes, sir. There really was. And another thing Mister Fleischman told me was that he taught some famous black basketball players who go around the world to play hoops and stuff. He called them the Globetrappers or something.”
His father dropped his newspaper to the table. “The Globetrotters? The Harlem Globetrotters?”
“That’s it, Daddy. The Harlem Globetrotters. He said he taught some of them boys who started that team way back when.”
His daddy cocked his head. “Well, I’ll be.”
“Says he even taught a black man named Nat, who’s a king—a king of coal or somethin’.”
“You mean Nat King Cole?” His mother hadn’t participated in the conversation but gulped her first words as she wiped her hands on her apron, moving from the kitchen sink to the table.
“That’s it. That’s his name, Momma—Nat King Cole. Mister Fleischman said he grew up not far from here. Do you know him, Momma?”
“Oh my, he’s one of my favorite singers.” His mother’s voice quavered. “I didn’t know he was from ’round here.” She stood over them at the edge of the table and turned her head to her husband. “Did you know that Earl Overstreet?”
“Can’t say’s I did,” Earl replied, raising his newspaper and lowering his head back behind it.
“What did you say this old man did for a living, son?” his mother asked.
“He was a teacher, Momma. At DuSable High School. I’m thinkin’ maybe I wanna’ go to DuSable when I graduate Jackie Robinson. Can I take that job at Hyde Park Foods? Can I? Please?”
“Well, don’t see why not. Not too soon for you to get a job and start setting aside a little savings for college,” his father said. “Every little bit helps.”
“I’m goin’ there Monday then, after school, after I go travlin’ to the park, of course.”
James rose from the table and ran toward his bedroom just off the kitchen. Three steps into his run he skidded to an abrupt stop and turned back to the kitchen.
“Oh Daddy, can I be excused from the table?”
Earl Overstreet hadn’t many rules in his house except that when done with their family meal he required all of his children to ask permission to be excused from the dinner table. That was his daddy’s rule, and his daddy’s daddy before that.
“Yes, you’re excused, son,” he replied, his back to the boy who had stood in the hallway off the kitchen, waiting for his father’s reply.
“Oh, and thank you for supper, Momma. Sure was good.”
James dashed off into his room, exhilarated by his parents’ permission to pursue Manny Fl
eischman’s job offer. As was his habit when excited about a new adventure, he began to turn the globe on the desk. Spinning it round and round, he thought of all the places he’d like to see when he grew up. In class that week, Miss Burns had lectured about the Seven Natural Wonders of the World and James remembered how she said the Grand Canyon was the only natural wonder in the United States. He ran a finger along the globe’s outer edge and then stopped it on the United States, right on top of Arizona.
Remembering his daydream during her lecture, but also thinking about being the first black person in whatever he ended up doing to do something special, he said aloud, “I want to be the first black person to discover something new about the Grand Canyon. Someday, I’m going to go to Arizona!”
CHAPTER 8
Two months into his summer vacation, James had nearly completed his eighth week working as a delivery boy for Hyde Park Foods. He worked every day of the week, except Tuesday and Sunday, arriving at the grocery store by ten in the morning and working until all the deliveries went out for the day.
One of the first things James had noticed after only a week on the job was that Manny Fleischman had his share of run-ins with kids shoplifting. Manny wasn’t afraid to chase anyone if he caught them using a five-finger discount. He seemed to be constantly on the watch for the actions of “bad apples,” as he called them, all while he bagged groceries at the small, neighborhood establishment.
Two days ago, on Saturday—the store’s busiest day—James had overheard Walter Sibley, the produce man, lecture him. “Manny ol’ boy, no use chasin’ dem typ’a kids. If ya’ catch ’em probably won’t do dem no good. Probably got no daddy at home to whoop dere behinds anyhow.”
“I’ll get them next time. Kids have got to learn there’s no future in that sort of behavior,” Manny told Walter, huffing as he walked through the produce section after another futile pursuit.
“Some kids jus’ don’ know right from wrong, Manny,” the old black man with the deep Southern accent said as he placed more tomatoes into a produce bin.
“I would have never retired from teaching if it wasn’t for those kind of kids.”
