16 - May 1959

The pale blue walls of the emergency room were bathed in dim yellow light. Robert stared at the single incandescent bulb as it hung from a single wire at the center of the ceiling while he listened to the doctor’s monotone voice.

“Robert, because you’ve got sickle cell anemia, your body has certain limitations. That includes playing professional ball. These long days and nights on the road are putting undue stress on your body and it’s just not equipped for that sort of strain. That’s why you should consider giving up baseball.”

A long and exasperated breath of air slowly escaped between Robert’s teeth. He’d known he was a sickler since he was a mere child. He’d known he was overworking his body throughout the spring. Throughout his childhood, he’d been to countless specialists in countless hospitals in countless cities. Every doctor gave him the same prescription: save your energy because your body can’t take it. You won’t be living long enough to enjoy life anyway.

His mother and father had been repeatedly told the news that their son may not survive his teens and that he should lead a more sedentary life.

Neither his mother nor his father accepted that diagnosis. Robert was swift and strong in spite of the little moon-shaped blood cells inside his body.

Plus, Robert had all the support two parents could give. As his mother always said, “love can conquer absolutely anything.”

“Doc, I’ve been playing ever since I learned to walk. I don’t see any reason to give up baseball.’

 “If you don’t give it up, it won’t be long until I see you in the operating room.”

Victoria Johnson grasped Robert’s hand and squeezed tightly. She’d never known Robert to back down, let alone quit. That word just wasn’t in his vocabulary.

“I’ll give the two of you a few moments alone,” said the doctor.

There was a moment of silence as the door quietly closed.

“Victoria?”

“Yes?”

“I just can’t.”

“I know how much you love baseball, but you heard the doctor. If you go out on the road, you’re going to wear your body thin. Maybe this is for the best.”

“I know, but there’s got to be another way.”

“Robert…”

The softness of her voice offered a stark contrast to the sterile flatness of the doctor’s office.

“…you have to look at other options. Maybe we could settle down and start a family.”

“You know how I feel about that. The risk of passing sickle cell to our children is just too great.”

Victoria relaxed her grip on Robert’s hand as she intertwined her fingers with his. She reclined in the chair until her gaze was fixed on the same single light hanging over the bed. She pursed her lips and exhaled. Her nostrils flared slightly.

“I don’t want our children to have sickle cell either, but you know how badly I want a boy and a girl.”

“I know, but…”

Robert’s voice trailed off as Victoria clenched his hand tightly.

Over the next two weeks, she spent every spare moment by Robert’s side. His daily cocktail of antibiotics and pain relievers helped the slow rehabilitation process. The steady flow of folic acid and new blood infused into his body helped, too. However, he hated the waiting.

“Hey, doc, when will I get out?”

“I expect you’ll be here for another month or so.”

“You want me here for another whole month? I’m a baseball pitcher. The summer months are my bread and butter. You can’t take that away from me.”

“You’ve only been here a few weeks. Healing takes time and you can’t rush mother nature.”

“I’m feeling much better already.”

“You need good, solid bed rest for another two weeks before I’d even consider sending you home. Still, you won’t be playing baseball, no matter what.”

Bound and determined to get out early, Robert ignored the physician’s advice completely. Instead of bed rest, he took to his feet as often as possible. He placed his bedpan aside and made his way to and from the restroom at the end of the hall on his own.

He ignored the nurse’s orders, too. It finally took encouragement from Mother Nature herself.

“Are you going to the restroom again?” asked his roommate.

Robert nodded.

“The nurse said…”

“I don’t give a damn what the nurse said.”

Robert plopped his feet onto the cold floor and shuffled towards the IV stand. He used it as a crutch to propel himself down the hallway. First, the stand moved a few inches forward; then Robert followed along behind. Progress down the hall was slow but steady.

“Mr. Johnson! What are you doing?” called the nurse.

Robert ignored her and shuffled quickly down the hall. The IV stand skittered along and pulled him along. As he rushed to keep pace, he pressed down on the tiny stand. It buckled under his weight. The nurse reached out and caught him by the arm as he fell. The stand shot across the floor and the bandages holding the intravenous tube ripped loose. Fluid spattered across his gown and the floor. Robert’s body went from hot to cold. The nurse shouted something incoherent as he closed his eyes and passed out.

His six-week stay evolved into a four-month ordeal, taking him to the end of the baseball season. He wasn’t able to walk on his own until mid-September.

“Robert, if it’s okay with your wife, you’re okay to return home.”

“What does it matter? The season’s over.”

“That doesn’t mean everything’s over,” pleaded Victoria.

“I didn’t say that,” snapped Robert.

Hot, hard tears streamed down Victoria’s cheeks as she turned her face away from him.

“I think I’m going home now,” she said.

Robert did not reply, so Victoria got up and walked out the door. She kept her head down as she made her way through the hospital halls. It was a long way to the car, which just made the journey all the more frustrating.

She gripped the steering wheel tightly as she willed herself home. She could barely see through her tears. Pauline greeted her at the door.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“Everything’s wrong.”

“Come here, baby.”

Victoria collapsed against Pauline and leaned into her. The cool cotton placket covering the neckline of Pauline’s dress comforted Victoria. Pauline sat with Victoria until Chick came home later that night.

“What’s for dinner?”

The women ignored him. He stopped in the doorway and looked at Pauline.

“You have to fix Robert,” she said.

“What?”

“He was supposed to come home today, but he was a sour puss. Just look at Victoria.”

“What did he do?”

“He’s mad because the doctor told him to quit playing baseball, so he took it out on me.”

Chick nodded, “Alright, I’ll go have a talk with him.”

Chick went to the hospital to confront Robert. Robert, of course, was still as hardheaded as ever.

“I heard you could come home,” said Chick.

Robert shrugged.

“You can’t just sit here like a rotten tomato and wait to die. When the going gets tough, the tough gets going.”

“I can’t face those guys now. I was born to be a baseball player.”

“Well, you can’t play baseball sitting here on your ass.”

“I don’t think the coach will let me come back.”

“When have you ever let that stop you?”

“You’re right. How’s the team doing?”

“We’re a game and a half behind with two weeks left.”

“You guys could use my help.”

“Then, let’s see if we can get you back on the pitcher’s mound.”

Robert balled his two hands into fists and pressed them down against the mattress. He pushed with all his might, until he was sitting upright. Then, he braced his legs against the bed until he maintained balance on his own. Then, he just walked towards the door.

“Are you just going to stand there?”

“What do you want?”

“Grab that paper bag on the table. It’s got my clothes and stuff. I’m going home.”

“That’s more like it!”

Stubborn as a pack mule, Robert pushed along steadily until he arrived at the admissions desk and informed the clerk he was checking out. When she began to argue, he simply shook his head and continued on out the door.

When the boys arrived back home, the girls were already in bed. Chick walked Robert back to his bedroom and helped him with his gown. Then, Robert slipped into bed beside his wife as if nothing had happened at all.

When she woke in the middle of the night, she was startled by her husband’s shape in bed. She flipped on the light and poked him in the shoulder blade.

“Robert!”

Robert mumbled.

“What are you doing here?”

“You want me to go?”

“Of course not!”

Robert let out a sly grin as he turned to face Victoria. Just seeing her beside him was dreamlike itself, even without the fact he was only half awake and full of pain killers.

“I’m sorry for last night, but this means everything to me.”

“I know, but maybe you can go back to school and get your law degree.”

“Victoria, you don’t understand. Ever since I was a boy playing catch with my father, I knew baseball was my ticket out of Atlanta. I used to watch Josh Gibson and Rube Foster and Satchel Paige playing ball and I’d sit in my bed at night and dream about being just like them.”

“That’s not reality.”

Robert ran a hand over Victoria’s tiny shoulder. He licked his lips and pressed them firmly into the center of her forehead.

“Anything can happen,” he said with a nod and a smile. Then, he turned around and headed back to sleep. Victoria pressed her body against his back and planted a row of kisses along his shoulders. It was not very long at all until she joined him in sleep.

Robert was up bright and early. He rushed into the kitchen, where Pauline was making up a mess of flapjacks. He reached around her as he rummaged through the cabinets.

“Do we have any paper sacks?”

“There are some under the clothes wringer.”

Robert grabbed a brown paper bag and disappeared to the bedroom. When he returned, his sack was full.

“Can I get a couple of flapjacks?”

Pauline nodded, “I made them especially for you.”

Robert ate as if flapjacks were going out of style, gobbling everything on his plate. Meanwhile, the water pipes creaked overhead. Someone was showering in the back. With today being an off-day for the team, Robert knew there were be an early morning practice. That mean it must’ve been Chick in the shower. Robert quickly finished his plate and put it in the sink. He waited anxiously for Chick to join them.

“I swear, Robert, you’re like a cat on a hot tin roof.”

Robert ignored her as Chick entered the kitchen.

“Hey Chick, how about I go to the field with you?”

“Sure thing, buddy.”

As they headed to the stadium, Robert realized he’d really missed the rides through the back streets of Rochester with Chick. This sleepy little New York town was the perfect escape whenever they needed something new to do. Their road trips often ended up at an old bar or tavern they’d never seen before. Living in Rochester wasn’t anything like living in the south. It was an odd mix of small town and big city. This city, however, seemed both liberated and liberating. The freedoms were something neither of them ever took for granted.

Red Wing Stadium wasn’t even that glamorous by minor league standards. The bleachers, arranged in a vee, extended from first to third by way of backstop. The awning was an old corrugated tin fabrication that did little to keep anyone sitting below it from getting soaked. Mostly it rattled in high winds and pattered like an old snare drum whenever a downpour erupted overhead. Still, it was the boys’ home away from home.

Chick parked right next to the fence behind the home stands. Robert got out and headed for the player entrance.

“You need help?” asked Chick.

Robert ignored him as he went inside.

“Where’s the coach?” Robert immediately asked a maintenance man working behind the bleachers. The man pointed down the walkway towards the field.

“Hey coach!”

“What are you doing out here?”

“I’ve come to get my spot in the rotation back.”

“I heard you were in no shape to return this year.”

“What does that doctor know? I’ve had this disease my whole life. I’m good to go.”

“We’ll have the doctor take a look at you.”

“I’m sure he will say I’m fine.”

“Okay, Robert. We’ll see.”

Chick had stopped at the dugout to talk to some of the other players. When he came out to the field, Robert quickly turned the conversation towards another subject.

“What do you think our chances are this year?”

“Pretty good,” said coach, “especially if we can get you back into the lineup.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Chick.

“Robert says he’s good to go.”

“Robert just came out of the hospital. The doctor even said baseball life was no life for him.”

“I’m sure I can do it,” insisted Robert.

“It’s not up to you…”

“Guys,” interrupted coach, “let’s see what the team doctor says. If it’s okay with him, then it’s okay with me.”

“I think Robert should worry more about Victoria.”

Robert shrugged Chick off and went to the dugout. The team greeted him as if he’d never left. He sat there for only a short while before heading to the trainer’s room.

“Hey, Robert, how are you feeling?”

“I feel great. I hope to pitch by the end of the season.”

“I’m not so sure of that.”

“Check me out anyway,” said Robert.

Robert looked at the trainer with great indignity. How could he dare tell Robert about his limitations? The trainer really didn’t have any way of checking Robert. These were the days when Sickle Cell was still some mysterious killer

The trainer warned Robert and the Rochester coach about the dangers of strenuous activity and Sickle Cell. Robert sought a second opinion, but the answer was much the same.

With nowhere else to turn, Robert looked to Victoria.

“It’s not the end of the world. You can still coach baseball or something.”

“I don’t want to be a coach. I’m a pitcher.”

“Robert…”

“I just don’t see myself doing anything else.”

“You could finish your law degree.”

“I suppose I could do that.”

“Maybe we should think about settling down. We were going to wait a little while before having children. We could focus on that.”

Robert’s reluctance to have children wasn’t about settling down, but passing on the sickle cell genes to his own children. He knew the days he could hardly run from home plate to first base without being worn out. He knew the sweltering summer heat when he was five years old and his mom feeding him popsicles or forcing him to relax in a bathtub full of cold water. He also he knew the countless visits to the hospital for blood transfusions and bed rest. He was intimate with the daily dosages of penicillin and folic acid.

He’d been lucky. He’d seen the kids who were stuck in the Atlanta clinic one year but were gone by the next. A young black boy with sickle cell had about a fifty-fifty chance of seeing his eighteenth birthday. Back then, most of the people who had Sickle Cell Anemia died before they reached thirty.

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