11 - August 1968

Byron spent the first few days of his sentence doing chores for his mother: vacuuming the carpet, washing dishes, and cooking.Early in the afternoon, the Chesapeake and Ohio blew its whistle and rumbled along behind the row houses where the Johnsons lived.

“Byron, will you please fetch the laundry from the washing machine and pile it into a clothes basket for me?”

"Sure thing, ma."
Timing was crucial for using clotheslines in Bond Hill. One had to wait for about thirty minutes after the train came over the hill and steamed through town. This gave the smoke time to settle. This way, plain white cotton sheets wouldn’t be spotted in train soot, which meant the sheets would stay white longer. Still, most of the bedspreads in Bond Hill eventually became dingy and gray, no matter how much bleach a person used.

After the train passed through, Byron waited for the smoke to settle. Then, he went to the backyard with a basket full of clothes and an apron full of clothespins. He stretched cotton sheets over the clothesline and pinned each one into place.

“What are you doing?” came a voice. It was his father.

“Chores for mother, just like you said.”

“You’re doing laundry? Doesn’t she have anything else?”

Byron shrugged.

“Here, let me have that basket.”

Mr. Johnson took the clothesbasket inside and placed it on top of the washing machine. Then, he motioned Byron to come with him to the car.

“Where are we going?”

“To the hardware store to buy some locks and chains.”

Byron’s eyes grew wide as he imagined himself chained to the old Sycamore tree in the backyard as freight trains passed by. They’d toot their whistle and blow large black clouds of soot into the air. It would hang perilously over his head for a short while, slowly falling to earth and coating his light brown body with dingy black soot.

Luckily, this was 1968. Whenever Byron tells me this story, he reminds me that he had the benefit of not yet seeing the TV miniseries “Roots”. Who knows what would have gone through his mind if he’d seen the enslavement of Kunta Kinte?

Roots didn’t happen for almost another decade. It portrayed the struggle of the African-American from slave days until their emancipation.

Kunta Kinte was hunted and captured in the African wilderness like wild game. Slave ships tugged him across the Atlantic and those chains bound him when he still wanted to be free. He escaped the chains, only to be hunted down by a pack of hunting hounds and huntsmen. Then, he was dragged to the whipping post in wrist and ankle shackles and whipped into submission.

“Your name is Toby. I want to hear you say it. Your name is Toby. You’re going to learn to say it. What’s your name?”

“Kunta Kinte…”

The hardware store was filled with all variations of farm implements and tools of destruction. Mr. Johnson led Byron to the back of the store. Various sizes of rope and chain were coiled on spindles, waiting to be reeled out and cut to size. The old man cut six long pieces of heavy chain as Mr. Johnson instructed. Then, Mr. Johnson purchased six heavy locks and took them to the counter.

Byron’s thoughts drifted as he rode beside his father, only to by brought out of his daydream when they arrived at home.

“Grab the locks and chains,” ordered his father.

Byron did as told, following his father through the house. Mr. Johnson twirled his keys on the tip of one finger as he proceeded to the small tool shack at the back of the house. Byron’s imagination began to churn.

“Put the chains there,” said his father.

He opened the door and stepped into the shack. It was mostly empty, with only a lawn mower and a large two-wheeled machine sitting on its side.

“Help me with this.”

Byron stepped into the shack and reached down to help his father. The machine was awkward and heavy. Mr. Johnson tipped it onto its two wheels and pulled it through the door.

“What is it?”

“It’s a Jugs Machine.”

Byron watched as his father rolled it to one end of the yard and positioned it just right.

“Plug it in for me.”

Byron ran the power cord to the outlet just inside the back door and returned to his father. When Mr. Johnson turned it on, it whirred to life.

“Stay right here.”

Mr. Johnson fetched baseballs from inside and fed them into the hopper, one at a time. The balls made the familiar WOHnk sound he’d eventually hear in his sleep.

“Go fetch your catcher’s gear.”

Byron went inside and put on his cleats, chest protector and catcher’s mask. As he clicked through the kitchen, his mother stopped him.

“What are you doing?”

“Dad told me to suit up.”

Mrs. Johnson dug a fist into her hip.

“Did he now?”

Byron followed his mother to the screen door, where she stopped.

“Robert, what in heaven’s name do you think you’re doing?”

“He needs to keep his mind on baseball, not laundry.”

“This is his punishment?”

Mr. Johnson nodded.

“Byron, you go sit in the living room while your father and I talk this out.”

Byron returned to the living room and sat down on the couch in a full suit of catcher’s equipment. He was just out of earshot from the argument, but he knew his mother was winning. Her pace was constant and full of consternation. After a short while, both of his parents returned inside.

“Byron,” said his father, “your mother and I have been talking about your punishment and she feels that you playing baseball while she’s folding laundry is not punishment at all. I, on the other hand, believe that even though you’re grounded from the league, you should still get your practice, so we made a deal. You’ll still do all the chores she requires and after you’ve done those chores, you will practice here in the back yard for one hour. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good, now let’s talk about your practice.”

Mr. Johnson showed Byron the inner workings of the Jugs machine. He showed him how to tighten the bolts and check the wiring. He also showed him how to rub the entire machine with oil to keep the two large wheels running smoothly. Lastly, he showed him how to chain the machine to the Oak tree so nobody could steal it. He also showed him how to tow it inside and store it inside the tool shack, locked to a pair of metal uprights. Now that people would see him using it publicly, he’d have to guard it from theft.

After he taught Byron how to care for the machine, he instructed him on the first drill.

“You’ll practice your framing.”

Mr. Johnson tossed a small rubber home plate on the ground at the other end of the yard and put on his catcher’s mitt.

“Feed me a pitch.”

Byron displayed the baseball to his father before dropping it into the hopper. It spat the ball towards him. Mr. Johnson catched it, but as he did, he pulled his mitt slightly to the center of the plate.

“This is framing,” said Mr. Johnson, “as the catcher, this is one of the subtle ways you influence the game…and the umpire. Send me another pitch.”

Byron dumped a ball into the hopper. His father clamped the mitt shut as he gave a slight pivot to his arm.

“When I close the mitt, I am bringing the ball to the center of the plate with a little flick of my wrist. I don’t want to move the arm unless I absolutely have to. If an umpire sees wild arm movement, it influences his call. The only goal of a good frame is to make every pitch look like it was entirely in the strike zone.”

Mr. Johnson motioned for Byron as they switched places.

“We’ll start with the cross reach. It’s the hardest.”

Mr. Johnson adjusted the Jugs machine slightly after each pitch, moving the ball to the left side of the plate, away from Byron’s right hand. It would force Byron to reach across his body to catch.

“Keep your body quiet. If you’re moving your hips or your back to receive a pitch, the ump’s going to call it a ball every time.”

Byron kept his body as stiff as possible through every pitch, only moving from his shoulder or elbow.

“That’s right. The arm does the moving and the wrist does the framing.”

Byron twisted his arm as slightly as possible and caught the ball.

“Don’t bring it back so far. If anything, you want to stick it in place and show the umpire where the pitch landed, especially if it’s near the edges. Dragging it back across your body only emphasizes that it was a bad pitch. Just stick it.”

Byron’s arm moved out and caught the pitch, freezing it in place.

“There you go!”

It was just about that time Byron’s mother returned to the back door.

“Well, my dear boys, it’s time for dinner.”

“Already?” asked Mr. Johnson.

“Yes, already.”

Mr. Johnson helped Byron moved the Jugs to the shack and locked it away.

“You can practice this drill tomorrow.”

They ate dinner in silence. Even though his father was still coaching the Bond Hill Phillies, Byron never received any news on how the team was doing. That didn’t matter. Mark and Andy always made sure to walk along the tracks behind the Johnson house and update Byron on league news..

“Another game versus the Phillies, another win for the Yanks,” boasted Mark.

“So what? You’ve got all the best players.”

“And the Phillies have the worst. I guess that’s why your father finally had to forfeit the game yesterday.”

“He what?”

“We were beating them 20-0 at the top of the third, so he called the game.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway.”

“It never does when you’re losing.”

Byron balled his hand into a fist as he held it at his side. Although he really wanted to sock Mark in the mouth, he kept his cool. Instead, he’d discuss the game with his father at dinner that night.

“Dad…”

“Yes, Byron?”

“Why don’t you tell me what happens with the Phillies?”

“I didn’t think you cared.”

“Of course I care. It’s my team…”

“They’re doing okay.”

“Mark told me you forfeited the game yesterday.”

“The Yankees were beating us 20-0.”

“Hmph.”

“You wanted to say something?”

“Not really.”

“Then why did you scoff?”

“I’m surprised you quit.”

“We didn’t quit. The boys were no longer having fun.”

Byron didn’t respond. He didn’t agree, but he decided against starting an argument with his father. Instead, he just returned to eating.

“How did your drills go today? Did you get your framing down?”

Byron nodded.

“Good,” replied his father, “I got you something else.”

“Mr. Johnson fetched a box from the trunk of his car and returned to the living room.

“What is it?”

“Take a look.”

The outside of the box was labeled pitch-and-catch.

“I was thinking of a very specific drill for you to practice your hand-eye coordination today at work so I got you this.”

Mrs. Johnson cleared her throat, “Isn’t he supposed to be grounded?”

“He still is, but…”

“Robert…may I have a word?”

Byron’s mother motioned her husband back to the bedroom. Meanwhile, Byron and his sister Erica sat at the table in silence.

“He’s supposed to be on punishment.”

“He needs to work on his baseball drills.”

“It’s not that. It’s Erica. She’s watching you treat this punishment like it’s his Christmas Vacation.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know, but come up with something.”

Mr. Johnson stood there for a moment. Then, a light went off in his head. He returned to the kitchen and Mrs. Johnson followed.

“We’re going to go set the pitch-and-catch up right now, but afterwards, we’re going to do some work around the house, too.”

Mrs. Johnson shot her husband a dubious look. He simply winked and went outside with Byron. As they walked into the backyard, Mr. Johnson dropped the box on the ground and placed a hand on Byron’s shoulder.

“Son, while you’re grounded, I want you to look for chores to do around the house. For example, you could tighten all the nuts on furniture legs or you could pull weeds in the flower garden. I bet your mom would like that.”

Mr. Johnson assembled the pitch-and-catch and leaned it on one side. Then, he anchored the legs with a pile of cement blocks.

“This is a passed ball drill. Rapidly toss the ball into different parts of the net and trap it as it bounces on the ground. It’ll help you field wild pitches. Remember, you have two goals: you want to keep the ball in front of you and you want to control the ball. Sometimes, the best way to settle the ball is to trap it in the dirt.”

Mr. Johnson went inside, leaving Byron in the backyard to practice his drill. As he returned to the kitchen table, Mrs. Johnson cleared her throat. Erica grabbed her dish, placed it in the sink, and went to her room.

“Robert! What are you doing?”

“Hmm?”

“I just told you…”

“And I said he needs to do his baseball drills, whether he’s grounded or not. I’ll make sure he attends to all his chores and then some.”

Byron’s mother heaved a sigh. Mr. Johnson returned to the backyard and observed Byron as he went through his drills.

“It’s too bad you don’t have Andy or Mark to feed pitches to you. It would help more with your hand-eye coordination.”

“Daddy?” called a voice. It was Erica, who had been watching Byron from her bedroom window.

“Yes dear?”

“I could help.”

In only moments, Erica was out in the backyard with her father and brother. Mr. Robinson fetched a bucket of baseballs from the tool shack and placed it next to her.

“Grab these with your left hand and feed them into your right hand. With your right hand, toss them as fast as you can towards the ground in front of Byron. He’ll try to catch every one. After you’re finished, collect the loose balls and start over again.”

Mr. Johnson supervised Erica running the drill with her brother. A little ways after sunset, they gathered the baseballs and put the pitch-and-catch into the tool shack next to the Jugs machine.

“Good workout,” he said to them, “did you have fun?”

Erica nodded.

“Good, now you two wash up and get to bed.”

As the children went their way, Mr. Johnson sat next to his wife on the sofa. She, however, got up and went to bed, too. He watched the nightly news without a second thought. Byt the time he went to bed, she’d fallen asleep.

The next morning, there was no exchange of conversation as Mr. Johnson got ready for work. Late in the afternoon, Erica helped her brother with catcher drills. Meanwhile, Mrs. Johnson stewed about it until her husband came home.

“I cannot believe you recruited your daughter to run drills with Byron.”

“It looks like she’s having a good time.”

“That’s not the point.”

“That’s the point exactly. If she is having a good time, let her be.”

Mr. Johnson snagged a quick bite before his wife could say another word. Then, he went to the elementary school for that night’s baseball game.

Tonight, the Phillies played the Reds and the Pirates played the Yankees. For Mr. Johnson, it would only be a matter of time before his team had to forfeit. The night’s excitement wouldn’t come until the late innings of the second game.

“Top of the sixth,” announced the scorekeeper, “Yankees lead 6-4. Pirates up: St. Pierre, Maddux, Anderson.”

Mark Meyer watched Andy approach the batter’s box as he stood atop the pitching rubber. Mark reeled back and let a fastball fly. Andy swung and connected. With a crack, the ball flew straight up and curled over the backstop.

Andy stepped out of the batter’s box and rubbed the sweat from his hands. Even before Mark put the baseball into his right hand, Andy knew what to expect. Mark couldn’t resist the fastball, especially when it came to his ego and he was pitching against those who he desperately wanted to strike out. Even when they were in T-Ball together in Babe Ruth leagues, there was always a rivalry between the two. Andy waited for the second pitch. It was a fastball, just as he thought.

Andy swung away, but he was in front of it. He pulled it far into foul territory.

“Go ahead, Mark, let’s see you throw another fastball.”

That was an offer Mark couldn’t refuse. His third fastball, however, wasn’t aimed for the strike zone, but Andy’s torso.

It rose slightly as it neared the plate and Andy turned away. It struck him squarely at the top of his shoulder and grazed his batting helmet. Andy collapsed to the ground immediately.

“Andy, take your base.”

Andy brushed the dirt from his uniform and trotted to first.  Mark dropped his hands to his side and just stood there.

“That was on purpose!” shouted one of Andy’s teammates.

Mark stared flatly at the Pirate’s bench. Mr. Johnson, who was umpire, removed his umpire’s mask and took a couple steps towards the mound. Mark looked at him unflinchingly as their gazes met.

“Mark! You’re out of the game!”

Mark shrugged at him and just stood there. Mr. Meyer jumped from his position behind the backstop and strode to home plate.

“Now Tom,” cautioned Mr. Johnson.

“You can’t throw him out. He didn’t do anything.”

“He threw at Andy’s head.”

“The pitch was too low for that. It was the way Andy ducked.”

Mr. Meyer motioned Mark towards home plate. Mark walked off the mound.

“Tell Mr. Johnson you didn’t throw a bean ball.” 

“He crowded the plate,” said Mark.

Mr. Johnson glanced toward Mr. Meyer. Mr. Meyer simply shrugged. It was as if he’d taken the exact same stance as his son. Then again, the little bit I knew of Mark Meyer and his dad was that they believed in winning at all costs.

“Find your reliever,” said Mr. Johnson as he returned to his position behind home plate.

Mr. Meyer motioned for another pitcher and went to his position behind the fence. Everything returned to business as usual as the Yankees beat the Pirates 7-6.

However, it was far from business as usual at St. Pierre and Maddux. Just like Mark, Mr. Meyer was not good at letting things go. His stubbornness was only outdone by his pettiness. This came to a head during a partner’s meeting at the firm.

“Tom,” said Guy, “What happened with the Hudepohl Bottling account? We haven’t heard from them in over two months and it’s one of our bigger accounts.”

“They haven’t had work for us,” said Mr. Meyer.

“I just saw this motion for judgment in The Court Reporter.”

Guy slid the paper across the table. It was opened to the motions and pleadings page. The Hudepohl Bottling vs. Burer Lager Company was circled in black.

“I’ll check into that right away.”

Mr. St. Pierre nodded.

“Is there anything else on the agenda?”

“Yeah,” said Mr. Johnson, “I received a letter in today’s mail and since we’re all involved in Bond Hill baseball, I wanted to read it to the group. Is that okay?”

“Sure.”

“Mr. Johnson,

I’m contacting you in regards to recent incidents involving the Bond Hill Youth Baseball League. I’ve had numerous complaints about the competitive and unbalanced nature of your league. Several of the parents are unhappy with your organization and several complaints were lodged at the Bond Hill-Roselawn Council Meeting in August. Your baseball league presents an image for our entire community and we will be discussing this at the September meeting.

Sincerely,

Walt Latimer

President

Bond Hill-Roselawn Community Council.”

“It’s not my fault,” interjected Mr. Meyer.

“I didn’t say it was anybody’s fault.”

“But you implied it.”

“What?”

“You were just looking for an opportunity to pile on.”

“Come on, Tom…”

“No. There’s always been friction with me and the rest of you at this firm.”

“Tom,” urged Guy, “let’s discuss this privately.”

“We can talk about it right here.”

“Tom…my office.”

Mr. St. Pierre led Mr. Meyer and Mr. Johnson into the confines of his office. Within minutes, it became evident Mr. Meyer wasn’t only unhappy, he wanted out.

“I’ve been offered a position at another firm across town.”

“That’s fine, if that’s what you want, but we do still consider you a part of our team.”

“I’ve always felt uncomfortable here. It just doesn’t fit.”

Mr. St. Pierre got up to shake Mr. Meyer’s hand and bid farewell, but Mr. Meyer simply rose from his chair, went to his office and packed his things. The mood at St. Pierre and Maddux was both shaken and stirred for the remainder of day; Mr. St. Pierre sent everyone home early.

When Mr. Johnson arrived at home, the mood was no more mellow than the office.

“Robert, I want you to tell Byron he’s no longer grounded.”

“You just said you wanted me to be more strict.”

“I’m being punished the most. Byron and Erica are fighting all the time and they’re just about driving me nuts.”

“Consider it done.”

“You go tell him,” she said, “but remind him he still has chores, it’s just that he can’t stay cooped up here all day long.”

Mr. Johnson went to the backyard and delivered the good news.

“Your mother decided you’re no longer grounded.”

“You’re un-grounding him already?”

“He’s still going to do all your chores for the next two weeks.”

“But dad…”

“Erica, our decision very is very where…we…our decision is final…final.”

Both children stared at their father blankly. Mr. Johnson collapsed onto his right knee. Then, he placed his right hand on the ground and fell to his hip.

“Get your mother,” he said.

“Mom!” shouted Erica.

“What is it now?” called her mother.

Mrs. Johnson appeared at the back door, only to see Mr. Johnson sitting in front of the children.

“Oh my God, Robert! Are you okay?”

“Call an ambulance…now.”

Mrs. Johnson ran to the phone and made the call. It was a long five minutes until the ambulance arrived. While she waited, Mrs. Johnson called Mr. St. Pierre.

“Robert has an emergency and needs to go to the hospital. I need you or Trixie to watch the kids. Robert has to go to the hospital.”

“I’ll be right over.”

Mr. St. Pierre arrived just as the paramedics loaded the gurney into the ambulance.

“Oh, Guy! Thank you so much.”

“You know it’s no problem at all.”

“Thank you…thank you…thank you.”

Mrs. Johnson climbed into the back and was whisked towards the hospital. Meanwhile, Mr. St. Pierre watched with the children.

“What’s wrong with my daddy?” asked Erica.

“I’m not sure. The doctors will take a look at him and make sure everything’s in working order.”

Erica leaned her head up against Mr. St. Pierre's side.

Meanwhile, Byron just stood and watched as the ambulance turned at the end of the street. He listened until he couldn't hear the siren. Then, he went inside with Mr. St. Pierre and his sister and waited.

.