All-American (11 page)

In between classes later on it was the same thing. Boys he hardly knew, girls he had hardly seen, came up to welcome him back, to say they were glad he was well and with them again. They greeted him on the narrow stairs, in the long corridors, in the library, in the cafeteria. At lunch Jim slouched over with his tray and sat down next to Ronny.

“Now look here, Ronald, what are we going to do about this-here kid, Brewster?”

“I know. I was thinking about that. I’ve been thinking about him a whole lot. He sticks closer than a Scotch uncle; in fact he got so on my nerves last month...”

“Same here. After you... after, I mean while you were in the hospital he changed over to me, and I had him all day—morning, noon, and night.”

“You telling me! Well, I have an idea, or sort of an idea, about that kid. What do you say to this, Jim? It would take up some time and do him lots of good, too, if, now, we went to work and made him...”

“Hullo, Ronny. Hullo, Jim. Mind if I sit opposite you guys?”

“Why, hullo, Gordon. No, of course not. Sit down.”

“Sure, sure, sit right down, Gordon. About that thing, Jim, I’ll talk to you and tell you my ideas after the next period.”

When school was over, Ronald walked upstairs to his locker. This time Gordon was not waiting; on the contrary, he had to go to Gordon’s locker down the hall to find him. As usual that energetic student was piling up a Mount Everest of books to carry home.

“Hi there, Ronny! You don’t have to wait. I don’t need to ride home with you anymore; me and Jim are friends now.”

“I know all that; but justa same, Gordon...”

“Jim’s swell to me now; we get on all right. You don’t need to wait, Ronny, honest you don’t.”

“Yes, I know that, Gordon. But Jim and I want to ride a ways home with you. If you don’t mind, that is, Gordon.”

“No. Of course not.” At the bottom of the stairs Jim was waiting. They left the building, got their bikes, and started down Harrison. Into West Avenue. They were nearing Gordon’s usual turn.

“Well, s’long, you fellas. I’ll see you tomorrow.

“Hold on, wait a minute, Gordon; we’d like you to come along with us a piece.”

“Where? Which way? What for?”

“To the Y,” said Jim and Ronny together.

“To the Y!” Gordon nearly fell off his bike.

There was a trace of alarm in his voice. “To the Y! What for?” He looked at them with concern. “What do you want me to go to the Y for?”

“You’ll see.” They rode on in silence. Down West Avenue into South Main to the traffic light and then up North Main. The brick Y loomed ahead. They yanked their bikes into the basement entrance.

“This is where we want to go, down here,” said Jim. “Come on, Gordon.” They passed through a small office, down a passageway, and opening a door entered a gymnasium. A man in white trousers and a white undershirt was pounding a bag.

Rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat-tat-tat...

“Hey there, Jake.” The man turned quickly, saw them, stopped, pulling off one glove.

“Hullo, kid.” He shook hands with Jim.

“This is Ronny. Ronald Perry. He’s a football halfback and a darn good one, and he packs a mean left, too. And this is Gordon Brewster, boy I spoke to you about over the phone.”

“Say, what is this anyhow?” Gordon looked worried.

“Boxing. Boxing, see? Ronny and I, we figured what you needed was a little toughening up. So we arranged with Jake here...”

“But I don’t want to box. I don’t know how to box, I...”

“That’s just it.”

“And I don’t want to know how. Besides, I’ve got to work. A history paper due tomorrow. And a book report for Thursday. I haven’t cracked that book yet.”

“Do you good, young fella,” said the man called Jake, not in a reassuring tone.

“He’ll take it. And like it. Now...”

“Tomorrow! Tomorrow!” cried the unhappy Gordon. “Not today, please, not today. I have too much work today, honest I have.”

“Gordon, you’ve got to begin and you might just as well make up your mind to begin now. Three times a week you’re to report down here at three in the afternoon to Jake, understand? It’s only for half an hour, but we aren’t afraid you’ll be getting any detentions to keep you in, so be sure you come on the button.”

“Another thing, Gordon.” Stacey towered over him. “No sloping off, get me? If he doesn’t show up regular, Jake, you just let one of us know. We’ll get him if we have to leave a ball game in the middle of the eighth. Hey, Ronny?”

“That’s correct. Take your coat off and roll up your sleeves, Gordon. And get to work. Goodbye, Jake. Be sure and treat him rough. So long, Gordon; don’t hurt the Professor, whatever you do. Remember, three o’clock three times a week, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. If he misses out one single day, we’ll hear from you, Jake.”

They were in the passageway again, through the little office, and at their bikes. Up and back on the street they walked along together, laughing.

“Bet he’ll leave us alone now.”

“I’ll say. Boy, how he’ll hate the two of us.”

“Yeah. Well, it’ll do him lots of good. Do us good, too.”

“You said it. Do the school good. A swell idea of yours, Ronny.”

“The idea was ok, but the thing was I didn’t know any boxing instructor. How’d you get to know him so well he’d take on a kid like Gordon for nothing, Jim?”

“Me? Oh, well, it’s like this. He knows me, Jake does. I took lessons from him four years running.”

“You did! I never knew that.”

“Sure. I got to know him pretty well. And I love boxing. You know I was lightweight champion of the Y last two years I was under him, and now he says maybe next year he’ll enter me in the trials for the Golden Gloves. If I can only pick up ten pounds, he will.”

“Good heavens! And you’re the guy I pasted in the face. Out of that whole school, I had to pick on a fighter who’s good enough to enter the Golden Gloves. Twelve hundred students, and I had to pick on you....”

They laughed together. “’At’s all right, Ronny.” He patted him on the shoulder as they paused by a traffic light at the corner of South Main. “’At’s all right, boy. You’re the only person I can remember who got the first crack in on me, and I’m still tasting blood and teeth from that smack you handed out. So you did ok, boy, you did ok. Here’s where I leave you. We’ll keep after that kid, you and I, huh? Ok. S’long.”

“You bet. So long, Jim. And thanks a whole lot.” He walked his bike slowly down the street, smiling to himself. To think I had to pick on a Golden Gloves boxer! In all that school, with all those boys, to think I had to smack a guy who’s the lightweight champion of the Y. No wonder he knocked me out. But to think I should have jumped down a guy’s throat who turns out to be the best boxer in his class in town, and a Golden Gloves...

“Hey, Ronny...”

“Ronald!”

“Hey there, Ronald! Perry! Hey, Perry!”

He looked up. Familiar voices came through the traffic. Across the street they were waving. He saw them, waved back.

They came over, deftly dodging a line of cars and trucks. Keith in his checked jacket, Eric with a fawn-colored polo coat open at the neck, and Tommy Gilmore in a new blue suit. They all wore saddle shoes, and neckties striped blue and black. Those were the ties of Heptameron, the senior society. It meant they’d just been taken in at the spring elections. If he had stayed, he would now be wearing one of those striped blue and black neckties.

“Hi, fellas, how are you? Hullo, Eric, hi there, Keith, Tommy.” It was the first time he had seen anyone from the Academy since the morning he had walked out of Keith’s room forever. “What you people doing downtown here this time of day?”

“Baseball equipment.”

“What?”

“Baseball equipment. We came down with the truck for the new uniforms and baseballs; they’re at the express station and we need them today.”

“Boy, will we have a team this year! That young Heywood is a real pitcher.”

“You mean the kid that was right half last fall?”

“That’s right. Say, he’s a pitcher, Ronny.”

“You bet he is; got a mean sinker.”

“Yessir, we’ll sure beat you guys this time, no mistake.”

“Maybe,” said Ronald. “Maybe. How’s things on the Hill? How’s the Duke and everyone?”

“Just fine.”

“How are
you
, Ronald? We hear they beat you up pretty bad.”

“Who beat me up?”

“Those lugs down at the High School. Your buddies down there.”

“Well, they didn’t. I mean I... that is... where did you hear that? Who told you that?”

“They ganged up on you and put you in the hospital, that’s what we heard. Didn’t they?”

“Yes, and fractured your skull?”

“No! Yes. I mean, does my skull look as if it had been fractured?” He was confused and disturbed. “Why, we had an argument, that’s all. I fell and hit my head on the stone floor in the corridor.”

“An argument! Get that one! He calls it an argument. We were told a crowd ganged up on you because you came from the Academy and they thought you were a sissy.”

“Well, they didn’t, see? Here’s what happened. Remember Jim Stacey, their end...”

“Oh, that goon.”

“He’s not a goon. He’s a good guy, a real fella, and he’s my friend, too. Also, he’s the best boxer in town for his size, Keith. Well, we got into an argument—oh, all right, a fight if you like that word any better—and he knocked me out. That’s absolutely all there was to it....”

“If you make friends with lugs like that, you must expect brawls....”

The traffic light was changing. What was the use? He planked his bike with force down beside the curb and jumped on. “I’m going uptown. So long, you fellas.”

“So long, Ronny.”

“Take it easy, Ronny.”

“Hey, Ronald, tell ’em we got a real pitcher this year, with a sinker and everything.”

He rode down South Main. Faster, faster. He was glad he wasn’t wearing a blue and black Heptameron necktie.

Nine more outs. Only nine more outs and they would go against the Academy for the final game of the year, an undefeated team. Nine more outs, Mike, nine more outs, Chester, nine more outs, Jim. That’s what everyone thought to himself when they dashed out for the end of the seventh. While the Bannister batter, tapping the dirt from his spikes, came to the plate.

“Nice and loose there, Jim.”

“Cool and nervous, Jim-boy.”

“Ok, Jim, let’s us get this first man.”

As Ronny trotted back toward his place near second, he could hear the coach yelling at them from the bench through cupped hands. Almost he sounded like a professional ballplayer.

“Lotsa pep out there, boys; lotsa pep alla time, Jim, alla time, Mike; talk her up, Bob....”

“Ok, Jim, old boy, here’s the easy man. This the one we want.”

“Cool and nervous, Jim, alla time, Jim-old-boy-old-kid-old-boy...”

The tall Irishman in the box drew himself up and burned the ball into Mike Fronzak’s mitt. The batter swung clean around, almost hitting the dirt, and drawing a barrage of noise from the entire field. Stacey watched as Mike leaned over, pulling up the tip of his chest protector to his stomach and giving the signals. Then he threw again. This time the batter caught it and hit a slow, dragging roller toward short, a hit that would have been safe on anyone but a fast shortstop with a sure arm. Ned LeRoy came in, perfectly balanced. With one movement he stopped the ball and without pause or hesitation shot it across to Bob Patterson on first. The umpire, still clutching his mask in his hand, ran down the path behind the batsman. Up shot his hand. A howl rose from the Bannister bench, but the man was clearly out.

In several minutes more they were trooping in toward the bench before the start of the eighth. Only six more outs now; six outs, Jim, six outs, Dave, six outs more, Bobby. They didn’t say that because the coach wouldn’t permit it; however, that’s what everyone thought to himself. Only six more outs. While that one-run lead looked bigger than ever. Usually their scores ran into two figures. That day the pitchers were good and the fielding better, so the score was low.

Ronald squeezed in beside the coach on the bench. “No, no, move down one, Ronny. I want LeRoy to sit next to me. And whatever you do, don’t cross your legs.”

Tom Quinn, the coach, was superstitious. He believed it was bad luck to talk about future games, to cross your legs while on the bench, and good luck to sit next to a Negro. When there was no Negro boy on the team, he always picked one in school to act as bat boy. This amused Ronny very much. At the Academy where there were separate coaches for every sport, baseball was coached by Mr. Spencer who taught ancient history. He had no superstitions, but instead a Harvard accent and a college background in baseball. No one ever got familiar with him.

At Abraham Lincoln one man coached baseball, football and basketball. Tom Quinn, a former all-American end at Indiana University, was tall, well built, and with his peaked cap down over his eyes looked exactly like a big leaguer. No wonder, for after leaving college he had played baseball with the Syracuse team of the International League. You wouldn’t call the former center fielder of the Chiefs, Mr. Quinn. Naturally not. So you just called him Coach. That’s what everybody called him.

Bud Talbot, the center fielder, popped up and then Ned drew a base on balls. Ronny leaned over for his bat.

“Watch me on every pitch, Ronald. And take the first one.”

“Ok, Coach.” His cap stuffed in his hip pocket, he stepped to the plate, hearing the cries from the field and the shout from the bench of the Bannister coach to his pitcher.

“Up and around his ears, Ike.” Ronny was used to this one. Everyone threw high balls at him, figuring that because he wore no cap the glare of the sun would prevent his seeing them when they were high. It hadn’t prevented his making the only extra-base hit of the game, nor kept him from standing third in the team batting average for the season.

The first pitch which he took was a ball. He turned, looking toward the coach on the bench. Hit it! Ok, I’ll hit. He got a good hold and smacked a sizzling roller between first and second. The fielder made a stab for the ball, held it, and tossed quickly underhand to the shortstop on second who shot it in time to first. One out! Two out! The side retired.