Stealing Home (14 page)

He was trying to work up the courage to ask her if that was what she was mad about, when they turned the corner, and there, walking toward them, gloves in hand, were Grossie and Vito.

“Hey, fellas,” Joey said.

“Hey, Joey, hey, Bobbie,” Vito said. Both fell into step without the usual banter or discussion of the Dodgers. Both sets of eyes were narrowed, both pairs of lips were compressed into thin lines. Neither looked at him. They marched along, silent and grim.

They must be mad, too,
Joey thought, his heart sinking. With each step, he felt worse.

As they headed for the vacant lot, Louie and Larry joined them.

Again, the furious looks, the angry strides.

Now Joey was convinced that they were mad at him. And why not? They’d probably all gotten punished, just for going along with his bone-headed idea.

Maybe,
he thought nervously,
they’re so fed up that they don’t want to be my friends anymore. And just when I finally had some real pals, too.

Well, even if they were about to ditch him, he had to let them know how sorry he was. He gulped. “Say, listen, fellas, I’m really –”

He stopped. Eli and Tommy were in the lot, throwing a ball back and forth.

The group on the sidewalk formed a tight flank.

Eli rolled his eyes. “What is it with you guys? Do we got to pound you again? I told you, the nigger can’t play.”

No, Joey
thought with dismay. Not again. Now he’d have to fight, and then he’d get in trouble, and then he’d get punished, and Zeyde –

Vito stepped forward, hands on hips. “You’re wrong, Fishkin,” he said. “Joey
can
play. Right here. On this lot. With us.”

“You must like getting beat up, Marconi.”

Tommy flexed his fists. “Guess he didn’t get enough last time, huh, Eli?”

“Guess not.”

Before Joey understood what was happening, Louie stepped forward, too. “Yeah, Fishkin, he can.”

“Starting right now,” Larry stated, joining his twin.

Joey was stunned.

“Oh, yeah? Is that so?” Eli said. He loosened his shoulders. Tommy cracked his knuckles. They both moved toward the three boys on the sidewalk.

Joey could just picture the massacre. All of it on his conscience. “Listen, fellas, don’t be silly, you don’t have to –”

He stopped short as Grossie stepped forward. Grossie! With his hands in fists! “Yeah, you rat finks!” he shouted. “And you know what? You
two
can’t play.”

Eli and Tommy burst out laughing. “
We
can’t play?” Eli repeated. “Says who?”

“Me,” said Vito, taking a stand.

“Me!” added Larry.

“And me!” said Louie.

“ME!” It was Grossie!

Before Joey knew what was happening, all four of them had flung themselves on Eli and Tommy.

Joey could hardly believe it. They weren’t mad, they were sticking up for him! He felt a short-lived surge of joy – just before he realized that they were going to get killed. He had to stop them!

“No, you guys, don’t!” he yelled. Ignoring him, they rained punches on Fishkin and Flanagan.

Throwing off their attackers, Eli and Tommy crouched back to back in fighting stance. “Come on then, you wimps,” Eli taunted.

Joey shot a look at Bobbie. They couldn’t just stand by and watch their friends get annihilated! But then, to his astonishment, he saw that his buddies were holding their own! Eli and Tommy were bigger and stronger, but the smaller boys’ punches were coming from all directions. The bullies turned from one to another in confusion.

The four friends were actually doing some damage. Vito landed several punches while his quick feet danced him out of range of the larger boys’ jabs. Louie didn’t
throw many punches, but he made sure each one counted and managed to bloody a startled Eli’s nose. With a mighty shove, Larry pushed Tommy to the ground. Grossie, too slow and heavy to be much of a fighter, had a look of determination Joey had never seen before. He backed up, took a running start, and hurled himself through the air, plowing into Eli. Eli landed on top of Tommy, and Grossie sat down hard, straddling the two. The boys beneath him struggled in vain. Grossie lifted his bottom and bounced down.

His head thrown back, Joey laughed. “Go, Grossie! Give it to ’em!”

Grossie plopped down hard. And again.

“Unnhh! Get off, you tub!”

“Oooohh!”

“’Nuff,” Eli finally called out.

Tommy’s muffled cry of “Uncle!” ended it. Brushing off his hands like a western sheriff, Grossie rolled off.

Eli and Tommy struggled to their feet. A trail of dust-caked blood ran from Eli’s nose.

“You get the message, you rat finks?” Larry said. “Now, get lost.”

“And don’t come back,” Vito snapped. “Ever.”

Eli and Tommy picked up their gloves, darting nervous looks over their shoulders. They edged between the twins, started running, and disappeared around the corner.

As his friends brushed themselves off and put their Brooklyn caps back on, Joey looked from one to another. Seeing their blood and bruises and rips and welts, he suddenly felt himself choking up. “Thanks, fellas,” he said in a husky voice. “I thought … oh, never mind.” He swallowed. “Thanks.”

“That’s okay,” Vito said. “It was the least we could do.”

“Yeah,” Grossie said. “It wasn’t just for you. It was for us, too. Should’ve done it long ago.” He patted his middle. “Finally found my secret weapon,” he said proudly, and everyone laughed.

Joey studied his friends again. “Hey, what are we standing around for? The field’s ours. Let’s play ball!”

Everyone jumped into action.

“Choose ’em up!”

“Joey!” the cry rang out.

“Joey!”

“Joey…”

J
oey was the first one downstairs the next morning. The newspaper was still on the doormat. He brought it into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of milk, and pulled out the sports section.

Automatically he started turning to the Yankees’ news, but his eye was caught by the front page headline.

Boy, that Robinson!
Joey thought. In spite of himself, he kept reading.

Footsteps.

Quickly, Joey tried to turn the page but the sheets were stuck together. He wet his finger. Come on!

“Hiya,” Bobbie said, coming into the kitchen. “We win?”

“How should I know? I don’t read Dodgers’ news.”

“Looks like that’s exactly what you were doing.”

“Was not. The pages’re stuck, that’s all.”

“I bet.”

“They are!” Joey put his finger between the pages and ripped a shred of newspaper at the corner. “See? Told you. They were stuck. I just couldn’t turn the page.”

Her nose in the refrigerator, Bobbie said, “So, did we win?”

“Four-three.”

She pulled her head out, grinning triumphantly. “See? You
were
reading it.”

Joey blushed. “I just happened to notice the headline.”

She sniffed loudly. “I smell a Dodgers fan.”

“You’re cracked.”

“Sniff, sniff.”

“Aw, get lost.” Joey pushed the sports section at her. “Here, take the stupid paper. See if I care.” He left the kitchen before she could make any more smart remarks.

On his way upstairs, he stopped. Shoot! He still didn’t know if the Yankees had won.

A couple of days later, Joey was in the kitchen clipping an article, when Bobbie walked in.

“What’re you cutting?” she asked.

“Oh, just another Yankees win for a change,” he said, pretending to be bored. “Nine-six over the Red Sox. Fifth in a row.”

“Who cares?” She nudged him with her shoulder. “Out of the way, I can’t see the Dodgers’ score. Hey, look!” She pointed at the opposite page. “‘Dodgers Win Fourth Straight, Doubling Cards, 6-3,’” she read aloud. “Ha-ha, you think you’re so great.”

“We got a better record.”

“We’re coming on strong. Four in a row. And look at this.” She pointed to a second article. There was a picture of Jackie Robinson, and above it the headline read, “Robinson in Line for Rookie of the Year Honors.” Bobbie rolled her eyes. “What do they mean, in line for?
Of course
he’s rookie of the year.”

Joey’s eyes darted to the article. It began:

He tore his eyes away. “Yeah, well, talk to me when you’ve got a record of 77 and 40.” He touched a finger to his temple. “Oh, wait. You can’t. You’ve already got 46 losses. Too bad.”

“Stuff it,” Bobbie said, leaning over Joey’s shoulder to read the article.

With great fanfare, Joey finished cutting out the Yankees article, then put away the scissors. He poured cereal into bowls for himself and Bobbie and brought them to the table.

“Thanks,” she said, still reading about Robinson.

Joey sat across from her and tried to read the article upside down. Finally Bobbie finished eating and folded the paper. “We’re going to win the pennant, I can feel it.”

“
Brooklyn?
Dream on.”

“Oh, shush.” She took the two bowls to the sink. “Want to go out and practice pitching?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. I’ve got to go upstairs for a minute. Be right down.”

“You done with the paper?” Joey asked casually.

“Yup.”

“Has … uh … Zeyde seen it yet?”

“Yeah, I think so. Why?”

“Oh… no reason.”

Bobbie gave him an odd look. Joey waited until he heard her footsteps on the upstairs landing. He retrieved the scissors and turned back to the Robinson article.

Should he?

Why not? It was no crime, after all.

But Robinson was a Dodger.

But this didn’t have anything to do with the Dodgers. The Dodgers could go hang themselves. He only cared about Robinson. ’Cause he was a rookie and he was having a terrific season. He had stood up to the jerks and kept his promise and his pride, and was proving that a Negro could play with anybody.

But
–

He wanted that article. Just like he’d wanted that baseball card in Gershon’s, the one he’d missed out on because of Bobbie’s eagle eyes. Well, she was nowhere around now….

Quickly, he snipped out the story, stuffed the rest of the newspaper in the garbage, and ran upstairs.

“You ready, Joey?” Bobbie called from her room.

“Be right with you,” he called back, closing his door.

Now what? Where was he going to put it? It had to be where nobody could see it, because if Bobbie or Aunt
Frieda or Zeyde found out he’d clipped a Jackie Robinson story, he’d never hear the end of it. Where …? His eyes darted around the room.

“Joey?”

“One minute!”

His eyes lighted on his bed. Under his pillow? No, it could fall on the floor. In the pillowcase. Yes, that was it. He slipped the article inside the pillowcase, under the pillow. Smoothed the bedding. You’d never know it was there.

“Where are you already?”

“Coming!”

Over the next week, Joey clipped more articles about Jackie Robinson. “Speedy Robinson Steals Twentieth Base.” “Robinson Homer Powers Surging Dodgers Past Phillies.” “Manager Shotten Says: ‘Rookie Has It All.’”

Each time, Joey spirited the article upstairs and stuffed it in his pillowcase.

“Jackie Goes Four for Four.”

Each time, he told himself that he was just interested in Robinson as a baseball player.

“Robinson’s Base Running Is Stellar.”

It had nothing to do with the Dodgers. He was just as devoted to the Yankees as ever. The fact that the first
thing he did in the morning was to check for news about Robinson didn’t mean a thing.

“Robinson Ignores Taunts, Clouts Winning Run in St. Louis.”

And the growing lump under his pillow was definitely, positively, absolutely not a collection.

S
everal days later, Joey came downstairs, wearing his many-times-mended T-shirt and a pair of blue shorts. It was Friday, Aunt Frieda’s day off, and she was in the kitchen, beating cake batter.

Reaching high into the cupboard for a glass, Joey felt her eyes on him. He turned to find her gazing at him thoughtfully.

“What?”

“Your shirt’s small. You’ve grown.”

Joey looked down. True enough, an inch of skin showed between his shirt and his shorts. “Guess so.”

“Put on weight, too. Got a little tummy now.”

“I do not!”

She laughed. “That’s
good,
Joey. You’re not such a scrawny little chicken, like when you first came.”

“Aunt Frieda!” he said, outraged. But he laughed with her, then bent over to tie his sneaker. As he wiggled his foot, there was a r-r-rip sound, and his big toe poked through the canvas.

Aunt Frieda frowned.

Uh-oh
, Joey thought.

Bobbie came into the kitchen, dressed in a polo shirt and shorts, baseball glove in hand. “Ready, Joey?”

“Bobbie, go get changed,” Aunt Frieda said.

“Why?”

“We’re going shopping.”

“Shopping?” A horrified look.

“Shopping,” Aunt Frieda repeated. “Joey doesn’t have a decent thing to wear, he’s bursting through his shoes, and you can both use some new school clothes.”

“School!” Bobbie wailed. “Mama! How can you even mention that word?”

But Joey’s heart leaped. He couldn’t remember ever having new school clothes.

“Go on, Bobbie, put on a skirt and blouse.”

“
Ma-ma!
”

“You heard me. Shorts are fine for playing, but I’m not taking you on Utica Avenue dressed like a boy.”