The Youngest Hero (4 page)

I didn’t know whether to ask Momma if she knew more than she was telling me about Daddy. All I knew was that I missed him.
He always clapped me on the back, looked me in the eye, and told me I was “gonna be a great one someday.”

Every night in bed I prayed my dad would come back. I wanted him to keep teaching me baseball, to touch me, to live in the
trailer, to be Momma’s husband again, to make us a family. Other kids had dads. I wanted mine.

W
hen Elgin first started asking when he would see his dad again, I said, “I’m not sure exactly where he is.” It was true. I
didn’t know which wing, which cell block.

“Well, am I supposed to meet him at the park this week?”

“We won’t know till he calls,” I said. Now that was a lie. Neal wasn’t ever going to see that park again.

It didn’t take long for Elgin to figure out that his father was no longer bagging groceries, racing cars, or even playing
local baseball.

“Has he moved, Momma?”

“I expect he has,” I said. “You know I don’t care.”

“Well,
I
care! What am I supposed to do? I’m just starting to get good at baseball!”

“You can keep playing.”

“Yeah, but not with anybody who knows what he’s doing! You know our gym teacher was trying to get everybody to throw off their
right foot the other day? Right-handers! He was having right-handers step with their right foot and throw!”

“Is that wrong?”

“Is that wrong! Mom, look!”

He went through the motion. I smiled. “You look like me when I try to throw,” I said.

“I flat out wouldn’t do it. I told him if this was some sort of a drill, then maybe, but if he thought that’s really the
way you’re supposed to throw, he was wrong. You know I usually don’t talk back, and I called him sir and everything, but there
was no way I was gonna throw a ball stepping with my right foot.”

“What did he say?”

“He said you get more power that way, and I asked him how come then that big leaguers don’t do that. He said he was sure they
did. I asked him to show me how a pitcher would do it, if it would give him more power. He tried to do it and then he said,
‘Well, I think outfielders do it on the big throws.’ It was crazy. That’s the kind of coaching I’m getting without Daddy.”

I couldn’t believe the prices of aluminum bats. The salesman told me I would be ahead “in the long run, because it will never
break.”

I told him how tall Elgin was and asked for a bat he wouldn’t grow out of too quickly. The man went on about length and weight
and thickness and made me wish I’d brought Elgin with me and forgotten about surprising him for his birthday that April. How
different could bats be? I only hoped Elgin would like it.

He did and he didn’t. He’d never had his own bat before, but he had always talked about having a wood one. This one was a
little too long, a little too heavy, but I could see in his eyes he didn’t want to say anything bad about it.

I was desperate. Elgin was my life. I lied again. “El, your dad sent me the money for that bat and had me pick it out for
you. He probably could have done better himself, or maybe I could have with you there, but we wanted it to be a surprise.”

Elgin’s eyes shone. “Dad hates aluminum bats, but he probably knew I’d break a wood one.”

I nodded, hating myself. I was going to feel bad in church again Sunday. That night I wrote Neal: “I told Elgin his birthday
gift, a metal bat, was from you. If you talk to him, cover me. Neal, I would rather a man like you have no influence on my
son, but I don’t think he could handle never hearing from you again. Don’t do that to him. Sincerely, Miriam.”

A little more than a week later a card came for Elgin with a lockbox number as the return address. I had no idea whether Elgin
would be able to figure out anything from it, but to be safe I gave him only the card, not the envelope.

Crafty as ever, even though he had clearly forgotten Elgin’s birthday until he heard from me, Neal had dated the card the
day before Elgin’s birthday. It was a silly card with a cartoon ballplayer on it. It read, “Today is special in every way,
swing for the fences and Happy Birthday!”

On the back, Neal had written, “Hope this reaches you in time. Hope you liked the bat. Had to follow work to Alabama. I’ll
come see you when I can. Love, Dad (#16).”

“He put his old uniform number on here, Mom.”

“Did he?” I said, trying to hide that I wasn’t impressed.

“I was starting to feel real bad about not hearing from him,” Elgin said.

“I don’t blame you.”

“I mean, it was my birthday! He never forgot my birthday. The card must have got lost in the mail.”

“Must have.”

For Christmas I made Elgin a sweater but couldn’t afford anything more besides two rubber-coated baseballs. I figured they
would stand up to the weather better than regular baseballs. I told him they were from his father, but I forgot to inform
Neal. He called the day after Christmas.

“Oh, I’m so glad you picked up, Mir,” he said. “I was afraid Elgin would answer and thank me for some gift and I wouldn’t
know what I got him. What did I get him?”

“He’s right here, Neal. He wants to thank you for the two rubber-coated baseballs.”

“Rubber-coated? Miriam!”

“Here he is.”

“Dad?… Yeah!… Great! How are you?… Yeah, they were nice. I’ve already played catch, but it’s been cold out. Hurt my
arm a little…. No, it’s okay. When are you coming to see me?… Well, let me know when you get a vacation or something…. Yeah,
here’s Mom.”

I took the phone.

“Good-bye, Neal.”

“Wait a minute, Miriam. Just tell me why you went and bought—”

“Good-bye, Neal.”

“Miriam!”

I covered the mouthpiece. “El, could you give me a minute?” He hurried to his little room at the back of the trailer, and
I feared I saw hope in his eyes. I didn’t want him to think there was some hope of our getting back together just because
I wanted to talk to Neal alone. But I didn’t want Elgin knowing yet that his dad was in prison, and especially why.

“I’m back, Neal.”

“I wanna know—”

“Listen to me, Neal. I don’t have to tell you anything. If you want to get Elgin somethin for his birthday or Christmas, then
you better remember and save your money and buy him something right. How do you think I feel trying to buy him the right stuff
and not knowing and not having enough money? Who do you think you are, scolding me for doing the best I can? I’m not giving
you the credit for any gifts anymore, so you better plan ahead next time.”

“I don’t have any money, Mir! How’m I s’posed to do that?”

“Well, you should’ve thought of that a long time ago.”

“Well, lemme just tell you this, Mir: If you think about gettin him a glove, and you don’t hafta say it’s from me, make sure
it’s a Wilson A-2000. Got it?”

“Neal! Where do you think I’m going to get the money for a ball glove? You have any idea what those run these days? Cheap
ones are over fifty dollars!”

Neal laughed. “Fifty dollars! It’d be just like you to get him a vinyl glove. You’re lookin at three times that for a good
one.”

“Well, you can forget that. He’s using your old glove.”

“That’s old, all right. And dry. And too big for him.”

“Neal, I am through talking.”

“My time’s up anyway, Miriam. I’ll call you sometime soon.”

“Don’t bother.”

“Well, I can call the boy, can’t I?”

“I wish you wouldn’t. I haven’t told him where you are.”

“I’m getting out soon.”

“Oh, Neal, don’t start playing games with me, and quit promising Elgin that you’re coming to see him.”

“I was framed, Miriam. I’m gonna get outa here soon, and I
will
come see him. I wanna talk to you, too.”

“No.”

“I’m telling you I was framed, well, not framed, but railroaded.”

Mr. Thatcher had given me the details. “You weren’t driving with a suspended license?”

“Well, yeah, but I was going to work and—”

“You weren’t drunk?”

“I was officially under the influence, but only a hundredth of a—”

“And so, what, someone pushed that man out in front of you?”

“It was dusk, Miriam, and I should have sued his family for letting their dad ride that three-wheeler that late in the evening.”

“He was on a three-wheeler?”

“And just pokin along! I couldn’t stop. I honked and he panicked and stopped.”

“He didn’t swerve out in front of you?”

“No, but if he’d swerved the other way, I wouldn’t have hit him when I slid onto the shoulder.”

“Oh, Neal! You’re never gonna get off from a charge like that!”

“You just watch!”

“I’d rather not.”

I wanted to come up with a great closing line that would put Neal in his place. But words weren’t my game. I would not be
calling or writing him again, I decided. The last thing he needed was encouragement from me. I hung up.

The next day I asked Billy Ray Thatcher to see if Neal had filed an appeal on his sentence. He called back that evening.

“He doesn’t even have a lawyer, Miriam. And the case was so open and shut that there would be no hope. He was driving while
his license was suspended. Witnesses saw him get thrown out of a bar for being too rowdy. They say he was laughing and crying
as he staggered to his car. A friend offered to drive him home and Neal took a swing at him. He laid rubber screeching out
of the parking lot, then flew through radar at over sixty in a thirty zone. The officer saw Neal’s car weaving as he pulled
out to pursue him, and just as he was turning on his flashing lights, he saw the accident. Neal appeared to have not even
seen the old gentleman on the bike. It was lucky no one else was on the sidewalk.”

“The sidewalk?”

“Neal drove off the road, between two trees, and up on the sidewalk where he hit the man. The old guy was hardly moving.”

“Neal said something about the man being in his way.”

Mr. Thatcher sighed. “Neal was a born liar.” He paused. “Open and shut, Miriam. He’s in there forever.”

When Momma told me we would be moving to Chicago that summer, I worried about Dad. “Won’t it be harder for him to find me
and get there?”

“Might be,” Momma said. “That’s
his
problem.”

“It’s my problem too,” I said. “You gonna let me play in a league up there?”

“The summer after we get there.”

“A league with uniforms and all?”

“I don’t know what they have.”

“I want to play in a league with real uniforms. I can’t stand this playing with just a team T-shirt. I’m ready.”

“I know you are. But we’ll be getting there too late to try to join one right away.”

I played in just five games before we took off for Chicago. If I’d have known how I would do in those five games, I’d have
fought harder against leaving.

T
he children’s baseball program in Hattiesburg had one league for nine- and ten-year-olds, one for eleven- and twelve-year-olds,
and another for thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds. I was hoping Momma would handle signing me up, but she seemed as shy as
I was when we walked in. I finally went up to one of the tables and a woman shoved a sign-up sheet toward me. A man leaned
over and looked me up and down.

“Before you tell me your age,” he said, “I guess. I’m within a year ninety percent of the time.”

A man and woman at the cash box smiled and nodded. “He’s been especially accurate today.”

I was taller than most older boys, so when the man guessed thirteen—“Am I right, huh, am I right?”—I wasn’t surprised.

“I’m ten,” I said.

The man roared. “Well, we’ll see what your momma puts down for date of birth, and if it comes out to ten, we’re gonna hafta
see what Matt wants to do about it.”

“Who?” I said.

“League rep. He can ask you for a birth certificate.”

That got Momma’s attention. ‘The boy is ten,” she said. “And I didn’t bring any papers. I’m sorry.”

Somebody went and got Matt, a huge fat man with an unlit cigar at the corner of his mouth.

“Trouble?” he said.