06 - June 1968

The ever-present smell of freshly mown lawn filled the air sweeping across the baseball diamonds at Bond Hill Elementary. Undaunted by the events that led up to the first day of regular season, two lawyers drove separate riding mowers around the playground, making sure everything was in order.

Byron was there. Andy St. Pierre was there, too. They stretched a taut-line from home plate to each of the foul poles. Then, they drew chalk lines along the base paths.

When they were finished, the fathers and sons stepped back and admired their work before heading their separate ways. Mr. Johnson thought a day of lawn care just might be the best way to get Byron’s mind off the impending Bond Hill-Roselawn Council Meeting later that night.

“Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

“It’s been a long day. Maybe we could stop and get a hot dog or hamburger at Twin Kiss.

“No, but a Twin Kiss might be nice,” said Byron.

“Then two Twin Kisses it is.”

Mr. Johnson pulled his car onto the gravel lot behind the tiny Twin Kiss roadside stand. Picnic tables were filled with kids and parents enjoying ice cream cones. The familiar chocolate-vanilla swirl on the wafer cone was everyone’s favorite – it was the same type of cone mounted atop the roof, alongside the Twin Kiss Dairy Shop sign. Both the sign and the flat rooftop were enrobed in a pink neon border. It cast a dull pink glow on the whitewashed picnic tables below.

Byron followed his father to the front of Twin Kiss and waited in line.

“What do you think will happen?” asked Byron.

“With?”

“Tonight’s meeting.”

“I know as much as you do. We’ll just have to be on our best behavior until we find out.”

“I hope it all works out.”

“Me too, son. Me too.”

There was some tranquility in sitting there amidst the chaos of kids running back and forth on the concrete slab, shouting into the order window, and the sound of the machine churning out whipped ice cream.

“Whatever happens, you’ll have a place to play baseball.”

They headed home after dessert. Mr. Johnson sat at his desk and looked over the long list of past due accounts for St. Pierre and Maddux. He organized them in order, from most likely to pay to possible write-offs.

More often than not, managing past due accounts was a delicate balance. Some of the most delinquent accounts were also some of the oldest – clients that hired Andy St. Pierre fresh out of law school. Still, a hundred dollars in 1968 could be the difference between feast and famine.

While Mr. Johnson hit the books, Byron hit the pavement. He returned to the elementary school. A group of kids were hanging out in the schoolyard, playing basketball or riding the merry-go-round. Byron continued past the playground.

His normal routine in Bond Hill never included baseball. Back in those days, there just wasn’t enough interest for even a small pick-up game. Instead it was football or basketball. Usually, though, he just tried to stay out of trouble.

A couple of bicycles pulled up beside hm. It was Richie, a kid from school, and a couple of Richie’s friends Byron didn’t know.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing much.”

“Where you headed?”

“I’m just walking around, looking for something to do.”

“We’re headed up to the school. Want to go with us?”

“Sure,” said Byron with a shrug.

Richie made space for Byron to piggyback on his bike. When they arrived at the playground, it was deserted.

Byron hopped off and Richie threw his bike on the ground with the others. Richie reached into the inside pocket of his jeans jacket and pulled out a handful of candy bars.

“Want one?”

“Sure.”

Richie’s friend Bobby had pockets full of candy, too. He opened a packet and spilled it into his hand. Everyone snatched a handful and popped the candy into their mouths.

“Where’d you get all this stuff?”

“We got it at the convenience store.”

“It must’ve cost a lot.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it.”

Richie’s friends laughed as they devoured the rest of the candy. After they were done, they headed toward the school building. A fire escape snaked up the back wall. Richie reached up and grabbed the fire ladder. He pulled it into place and climbed upwards. Everyone else, including Byron, followed him to the top.

Richie waited on the landing until the rest joined him. He locked his fingers into a cup. Then, he motioned to Bobby, who stepped into Richie’s cupped hands. Bobby lifted himself onto to the roof and stretched a hand down to the boys. One after another, they climbed onto the roof until it was just Richie and Byron.

“C’mon,” motioned Richie.

Byron looked across the playground to the surrounding houses. Nobody seemed to be watching. He placed his sneaker in Richie’s hands and quickly made his way to the roof. Richie simply jumped up and grabbed the ledge. He pulled himself up and joined his buddies on the roof.

“What now?”

Richie shrugged. He walked across the asphalt towards the center of the building. Byron had never been on the roof before. He kept his eyes peeled as he followed the others.

Richie reached an opening in the roof, which led to a small courtyard at the center of school. He turned onto his belly and shimmied off the ledge until he just hung by his hands. Then, he let go. He landed solidly on the grass and motioned for the others again. They followed, one a time. Byron was the last one left.

“Come on,” said Richie.

Byron stood there.

“What are you, chicken?” asked Bobby.

“I’m not chicken.”

Byron lay on the roof just as all the others had done. The button on his jeans pressed into the hard metal ledge and cut into his belly. He quickly pushed himself up and over until the ledge sat right below his upper chest.

“You gotta do it in one move. Just put your hands on the ledge and push backward. You’ll flip right off the edge.”

Byron did just that.

Unlike the others, however, his drop didn’t go so well. He hung there until his fingertips snapped off the ledge. The other boys quickly moved out of the way as Byron crashed to the ground. He landed on his heels first. Then, he rolled onto his back. He quickly jumped to his feet. The nerves in his feet and legs prickled.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Byron looked at his arms. Long scratches led from his elbows to his wrists where they rubbed against the ledge on his way down. He wiped the grit off his forearms and joined the boys on a bench in the courtyard.

Bobby pulled a joint out of his coat pocket and lit it.

Byron knew the smell all too well., but he had never been this close to actual marijuana. He watched as the joint moved from person-to-person. Soon, it would be his turn.

“Hey, I really gotta be going.”

“You’re gonna be a chicken on this, too?”

Byron stood there quietly, staring down Bobby and the joint in his hand.

“I’m not chicken.”

“Prove it.”

“I don’t have to prove anything,” said Byron, “but I’ll show you. Then I gotta leave.”

Byron took it awkwardly into his hand. He rolled it to the end of two fingers and tried inhaling the same way as the others. He immediately choked on the heavy smoke. Then, he quickly passed it back to Bobby.

Byron looked around nervously as Bobby took another hit. The other boys laughed and nodded affirmatively. Byron glanced around the courtyard until he saw an air conditioning unit along the wall. He jumped on top of the unit and then climbed back to the roof.

“Hey, Byron.”

“Yeah?”

“It was pretty cool of you to come with us.”

“Yeah. See you later.”

Byron climbed onto the roof and headed to the other side. There were kids playing on the diamond. He ignored them as he leapt off the edge. His legs tingled as his feet pounded against the ground. He quickly ran to the front of the school building and took the long way home.

When he arrived, his father was standing in the doorway, looking at his watch.

“Where have you been? We’re late.”

“I was at the playground.”

Mr. Johnson tugged Byron by the arm and led him to the car. They got in and sped off, returning to the elementary school.

As Byron rode beside his father, he noticed a familiar odor. It was the marijuana. Byron quickly rolled down his window and hung his arm out the car. Wind billowed up his short sleeve shirt and buffeted across his chest. Luckily, he had not been around Richie’s friends that long.

When they arrived in the parking lot, they were not the only ones there. Two police cars stood at one end of the lot. Mr. Latimer was standing beside them, talking to two police officers. Byron’s father approached them. Byron walked two paces behind.

He stood there for a moment while Byron skulked in the background. After an inaudible discussion between the men, Mr. Johnson spoke up.

“What happened?”

“Nothing really,” said an officer, “we got a report that there were some kids vandalizing the school. We caught these four hiding on the rooftop.”

“Anything get damaged?”

The officer shook his head. Mr. Latimer looked at the kids sitting in the back seat of the cruiser. While he did, Mr. Johnson glanced back at Byron. Byron looked at the ground.

The policemen shook everyone’s hands and got into their cruisers.

“Let’s get to our meeting,” said Mr. Latimer.

“Yes, let’s,” said Mr. Johnson.

Byron followed quietly as they moved to the front of the gymnasium. Mr. St. Pierre was not there, but a crowd of attorneys and parents were gathered in the tiny gym.

Byron followed his father, taking a seat near the front. His father sat down next to Byron. He placed his legal pad on the chair on his opposite side and tugged at the fabric of his dress slacks. Byron watched him. Mr. Johnson was much too large for the metal folding chair. His breadth of his legs spanned all three chairs. Byron scooted his chair to the side. It screeched as it skidded across the gymnasium floor. Mr. Johnson leaned over and wrapped his long arm around Byron’s shoulders.

“Do you know those boys?”

Byron squirmed uncomfortably in his seat.

“I know them a little.”

“Did you see them when you were here earlier today?”

“No…yeah…not really. I mean…”

Mr. Latimer approached the dais as other council members took their seats. The sound of Mr. Latimer pounding the gavel echoed through the gymnasium. Mr. Johnson turned his attention away from Byron. For that, Byron was grateful.

“I call the Bond Hill-Roselawn Council meeting of June Third, 1968 to order. Since my thoughts were elsewhere during the May meeting, I ask for a moment of silence for Reverend King’s untimely death.”

“Doctor,” whispered Mrs. Barrett.

“Yes, Doctor.”

Mr. Latimer glanced over at her as he adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses. Then, he bowed his head.

Chairs and tables squeaked and settled to the standard gymnasium silence: coughs and sniffles intermingled with the sounds of people moving gently in their seats.

“That brings us to our first order of business. Elsie, can you read May’s minutes?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Elsie approached the dais with a walking cane in one hand and a steno pad in the other. Will Graves, one of the council members-at-large, rushed to her side and helped her to the dais. He adjusted the microphone while she flipped through her notes. Meanwhile, Mr. Latimer stood behind both of them, waiting for his turn at the microphone again.

“First, we talked about the old grain silo atop Bond Hill. Mr. Graves and Mr. Robertson made motions and we were to hear from both of them regarding any necessary clearances from Cincinnati City Council. Then, we talked about replacing the right-of-way signal at the Bond Hill station…”

“Thank you, Elsie,” interrupted Mr. Latimer, “we’ll go from there.”

Mr. Johnson quickly cleared his throat as he rose to his feet.

“Yes, Mr. Johnson,” muttered Mr. Latimer, “we will get to the Bond Hill-Youth Baseball League, too.”

Mr. Johnson eased back into his seat.

The council lumbered through their agenda, mostly held up by discussions surrounding the railroad right-of-way signal. Members of the railroad company had requested a very specific set of signals – all of which cost four to five times more than the simple light pole designs proposed by the council.

Mr. Litle,” said councilman Wright, “we only have a limited amount of funds for this right-of-way.”

Mr. Little shielded the microphone and whispered in his colleague’s ear. Then, he addressed the council.

“Up to this point, both Bond Hill and Indiana & Ohio Rail have been lucky. This right-of-way has been the site of several near collisions. With the blind approach, it’s only a matter of time until we see a catastrophe at that intersection.”

Mr. Latimer looked at his watch.

“Mr. Litle, being a member of this community, I fully comprehend Indiana & Ohio’s concerns. However, we only have limited funds available at this time. I suggest we table this discussion until we have a chance to speak with government officials on both the state and national level.

“I’ll go ahead and make a motion to table the right-of-way issue until we gather all the necessary information.”

“Second.”

“So, we’re agreed. Thank you for your time, Mr. Litle. We’ll meet again next month. Elsie, do we have any other pertinent matters?”

“Just Bond Hill Youth Baseball…”

“Okay, let’s put it to a vote. All in favor of the creation of a Youth Baseball League in Bond Hill…”

“Aye,” announced the entire council.

“None opposed?”

Mr. Latimer nodded as he struck the gavel against the dais.

“Mr. Johnson, you’ve got yourself a baseball league. Let’s hope it goes more smoothly next time I visit.”

“You won’t be disappointed, Mr. Latimer.”

“Let’s open the discussion to the floor. Are there any other pertinent matters?”

He quickly scanned the crowd.

“I see none. Motion to adjourn; are we agreed?”

The council nodded in agreement and Mr. Latimer struck the gavel.

“Alright, I’ll see everyone next month.”

A whoop went up in the crowd. Then, everyone applauded as Mr. Johnson rose to his feet. Hands stretched toward him as parents strained to shake his hand. Mr. Johnson was overwhelmed, but relieved. He stretched his free arm around Byron and hugged him by the top of the shoulders. Byron reached both arms around his father as the two of them cut through the crowd.

“That’s it?” he asked his father.

“That’s it for now.”

“What else?”

“Now we get to play baseball until something or somebody else gets in the way.”

When they arrived at home, Mrs. Johnson was preparing dinner.

“How did it go?”

“It couldn’t have gone better. It looks like we’ve got a baseball league in Bond Hill!”

“Oh honey, that’s fantastic!”

After a long embrace, Mr. Johnson went straight for the phone. He made all the necessary phone calls and advised coaches of the outcome. Most had already heard the news. Regular season would start early on Tuesday evening.

Afterwards, he joined his wife and son at the kitchen table for dinner. Bowls of smashed potatoes and collared greens accompanied a large platter of fried pork chops.

“This is some feast,” he exclaimed.

“It’s my way of congratulating you.”

“What if we hadn’t won?”

“I had faith.”

They ate all they could and Mrs. Johnson saved the leftovers for the following day.

On Tuesday afternoon, Byron waited anxiously for his father to arrive home from work. By four o’clock, he’d put on his uniform. At 4:30, he lugged the duffel bag full of gear to the front porch and sat next to it. At five p.m., his mother appeared at the front door.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“I’m just sitting here waiting for dad.”

“You know he won’t be home for another thirty minutes.”

“But we’re supposed to be at the diamonds at 5:30.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be here.”

Mr. Johnson arrived right on schedule. As soon as he did, he helped Byron load the car. Mrs. Johnson handed him a pair of pork chops, wrapped in aluminum foil.

“Aren’t you coming with us?”

“I suppose I could, but I’m not dressed for it.”

“Go ahead and change. We can wait.”

Bryon gave his father a sideways look.

“”Don’t worry. They’re not going to start without us.”

When they arrived, the diamonds were already buzzing with activity. Teams had taken the field and were taking batting practice. Guy was the first to greet them.

“You’re late,” he said.

“It’s mom’s fault,” said Byron.

“It’s nobody’s fault. I told you they wouldn’t start without us.”

Byron hauled the duffel bag to the backstop and dropped it near his team’s bench. Byron plopped down beside the bag and dug out the catcher’s equipment. As he began dressing, his father approached.

“Byron…”

“Yeah?”

“Go apologize to your mother.”

Byron dropped his head.

“Go on,” he urged.

Byron walked over to the stands and apologized to his mother for his rude behavior in front of all of the other parents. His mother thanked him and he returned to his spot beside the duffel bag.

“I should sit you down for a few innings, too.”

Byron’s jaw dropped.

“But I won’t. Just think about what you did and don’t let it happen again, okay?”

“Yes sir.”

Byron and the Phillies took the field first against Andy St. Pierre and the Pirates. Mr. St. Pierre and Mr. Johnson stood side-by-side behind the backstop, each coaching their respective teams. As they did, Mr. Wright from the council approached with one of his colleagues.

“Hey Robert…Guy…this is Jim Foltz. He’s a member of Cincinnati City Council.”

“Good to see you out here,” said Guy as he gave a hearty handshake to both men.

“Perfect day for a game, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Foltz.

“Sure is…sure is.”

“Look at all these kids. Who would’ve ever thought it?”

“It wouldn’t be summer without baseball,” said Mr. Johnson.

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t expect it in this neighborhood.”

The weight of the words wasn’t as important as the way councilman Foltz said it. Then again, this wasn’t his neighborhood.

“Alright, Jimmy, let’s get this guy!” Byron shouted towards the mound.

Jimmy reared back and threw a fastball. The batter swung and missed as the baseball popped in the pocket of Byron’s mitt.

“Just one more strike, Jimmy!”

Jimmy adjusted his cap and wiped the sweat from his palm. It was Andy St. Pierre at bat. Jimmy was one of the kids Byron really didn’t have faith in. Still, Jimmy gave it his all. His pitch was low and outside. However, Andy’s head wasn’t clear. His friends on the Pirates were chattering from the bench. Mark Meyer was sitting in the stands. Andy knew it, too.

“Strike three!” called the umpire. It was Bill Meyer, Andy’s dad. Still, Andy was the one who swung and missed. His head and shoulders slumped as he returned to the bench to fetch his glove.

The rest of the game went with little excitement. The Phillies managed to win 3-2. Suprising, because little Jimmy was not only the winning pitcher, but he got the winning hit, too.

After the game, all the players and coaches gathered at Twin Kiss for milkshakes and ice cream cones. While the first day of regular season appeared to be a success, Robert Johnson could not get the comments from Mr. Foltz out of his head.

“Would it ever make a difference?” he thought to himself as he watched a crowd of black boys in a rainbow of uniform colors mingle freely…happily.

“In this neighborhood,” kept repeating through his head as he lay in bed next to his wife at night. Around midnight, he rose for a glass of milk and looked over his folder labeled ‘B.H.Y.B.’

In the still of the house, he inserted a piece of carbon paper into his typewriter and created a newsletter for his league, recording standings and stats. He fed the carbon paper onto the roller and fed pieces of blank paper into the slot. With each rotation of the handle, a fresh copy flipped out the opposite side, white paper and purple print.

It mattered to Byron and Andy, so it had to matter to him.

He returned to bed and slept past the buzz of the alarm clock. He woke to the sound of sobbing. He went out to the kitchen. Mrs. Johnson sat at the kitchen table with her head i9n her hands.

“What’s wrong, dear?”

“Bobby Kennedy’s dead.”

“That’s impossible.”

“I heard it on the radio. He was shot last night just after midnight.”

“Do they know who did it?”

Mrs. Johnson shook her head. Mr. Johnson hugged her in much the same way as he hugged his son just a few days before, bracketing his wife’s shoulders with one arm. She leaned into him, resting her head against his ribs.

He just stood there next to her, wondering if the world was coming to an end.

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