17 - September 1968

As Byron and Erica waited at home, their father was rushed to the Emergency Room at Cincinnati Mercy Hospital. Robert Johnson lay in the back of the ambulance, staring at the ceiling. He glanced over at his wife as she sat next to him. Her face was bathed in a dim blue-white fluorescent light. Her smile, as always, was a most reassuring thing, even though the pain was as unbearable as ever. He was short of breath and his nerves tingled.
“Where are the little silver slivers?”
“They’re all over, but the worst ones are in my lower legs from my knees to my toes.”
Victoria pushed Robert’s socks down to his ankles and massaged his calves as firmly as possible. It helped keep Robert’s mind off the little silver slivers of pain slicing through his lower legs.
Although medical studies wouldn’t prove it for two more decades, the kneading was possibly the best thing Victoria could do for her husband. The sickle-shaped cells, with their plasticized outer membranes and irregular shape, pushed their way through every tiny capillary.
“Alright, ma’am, we’re here,” said the paramedic as they arrived at the hospital. Victoria moved out of the way as he positioned himself at the ambulance’s back door.
The ambulance pulled alongside the emergency room entrance as a pack of doctors and nurses rushed to help. They opened the doors and extracted the gurney from the back and carted Mr. Johnson through the crowded corridor while Victoria followed closely behind.
One of the nurses held out a hand as the gurney passed through a set of double doors into surgery.
“Ma’am, could you please?”
“But that’s my husband…”
Mrs. Johnson stood indignantly between the two doors until an orderly approached.
“Ma’am, this is a restricted area.”
Mrs. Johnson pulled away as the orderly grabbed her by the arm. Another hand came from behind and Mrs. Johnson jerked away again. This time, though, it was the County Sheriff. Reluctantly, she obliged as the Sheriff escorted her to the waiting area.
He led her to a chair, but she picked one at the far end of the hall. She reclined uneasily in the small plastic chair, resting her head on the cold concrete wall behind her.
“I’m sure he’ll be alright,” said the Sheriff. She ignored him as she stared straight ahead at the small metal sink inside the bathroom across the hall. It would be the one view she’d have for the next two to three hours.
Meanwhile, in surgery, a nurse took a blood sample and handed the small vial of blood to the nurse behind her. Then, she fed an intravenous line into Robert’s right arm (his pitching arm). Robert couldn’t help but concentrate on the little prick of pain where the needle entered his arm. He imagined digging at it with his fingernails until his arm was raw. That seemed to help take his mind off the burning itch, even if only temporarily. Meanwhile, the second nurse returned with a cart filled with bags of chilled blood.
“O Positive,” she said as she wheeled the cart into position at Robert’s left side.
The phlebotomist stepped in and prepped Robert’s left arm for the first of a series of blood transfusions. She swabbed the inside of his elbow with iodine and immediately followed with the wide-gauge needle. It stung a little, and then a little more as she intubated the needle and attached the blood supply. This is where he’d be for the next two to three hours.
Unlike Victoria’s innocent kneading, however, the blood transfusions were a dangerous remedy. Although the sickle-shaped blood cells (which caused the pain) were substituted with healthier round red blood cells, the infusion of new blood triggered a few unknown responses within the body itself. These dangers would also remain unnoticed for over twenty years.
Beyond that, it was a vicious cycle.
Being of African descent, Robert’s ancestors dealt with pests carrying diseases such as malaria. To combat malaria, red blood cells evolved several defense mechanisms, such as the c-shaped red blood cells, which the malaria found hard to attack. Additionally, red blood cells became more plasticized, which also made them more impervious to malaria.
These odd-shaped cells did not flow freely through capillaries, but clogged at their bases, like an armada of cruise ships at the Mississippi delta.
The only cure for the high number of sickle cells was multiple transfusions. The transfusions reduced the number of red blood cells, but also created an iron overload in the body.
In turn, iron overload created a myriad of problems. Chief among those was organ tissue damage. Iron ravaged Robert’s pancreas, liver, and heart throughout his life and the only warning signs were fatigue and join pain, symptoms common for anyone living with sickle cell. This presented him with the possible onset of other diseases, like diabetes or cancer. Today, however, it was just a mild heart attack.
Unfortunately, other genetic factors contributed to Robert’s cardiopulmonary conditions as well. The valves and muscles in his heart were born weak. Sickle cell anemia only compounded the problem.
The phlebotomist alternated between transfusions and blood letting. His body, however, became more suspicious of the foreign organisms and developed a more hostile environment for perfectly healthy blood cells. Sooner or later, it might reject the new blood altogether, leaving Robert Johnson to more drastic measures.
“On a scale of 1 to 10, what is your pain level?” asked the nurse.
Robert hated that question. The first thought that always entered his mind was to grab a ball of skin just above the elbow of the person who asked that question and twist it as hard as he could before repeating the question back to them.
“It’s a 5.”
“That’s pretty good then,” said the nurse as she prepared another bag of blood for transfusion.
Meanwhile, Victoria remained in the hallway just beyond the waiting area. She listened to wheels ticking out a busy rhythm as orderlies drove carts from one part of the hospital to the other. Pages for both staff and visitors came over the P.A. and Victoria wondered if any of the names belonged to the people taking care of Robert. Sounds blurred as Victoria faded into and out of sleep.
Several long hours passed before she was stirred from sleep by the weight of someone’s presence in front of her. It was Chick and Pauline.
“Oh my gosh! You guys must have driven straight here.”
“Detroit’s never too far away,” said Chick, “How are you holding up?”
“I’m alright, I guess.”
“How’s Robert?”
“I’m not sure. Nobody will tell me a thing.”
Chick immediately walked to the information desk and caught the clerk’s attention.
“What’s the status of Robert Johnson?”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Robert Johnson,” said Chick, “he’s one of your patients.”
“Let me check for you.”
The clerk flipped through a series of clipboards, looking for the room listing. When she found Robert’s name, she sent an orderly to check on Robert’s progress. Robert had been moved out of surgery and checked into a bed just down the hall.
“It looks like he’s in room 164,” said the nurse, “Take that corridor to the second hallway and then take a right.”
“Thanks.”
Chick delivered the good news to the girls. Together, the three of them headed to Robert’s room. The phlebotomist was still by his side, checking his vitals.
“I’ll be finished in a moment,” she said.
“No worries,” said Victoria, “go ahead and do whatever you have to do.”
“I’m just doing more blood transfusions, trying to get the sickle-cell count down. Unfortunately, his blood type makes it hard to find good matches.”
“I’m Type O Negative,” said Victoria, “I can donate if you need me to.”
“I’ll find out if there’s a room we can use.”
The phlebotomist disappeared only momentarily. She led Victoria to a room at the end of the hall while Pauline followed. As Victoria was getting prepared to make a blood donation, Pauline offered up an arm as well. The girls sat side-by-side and chatted while they donated blood.
“How are things with you?”
“Good enough,” replied Pauline, “Detroit’s Detroit and Chick is Chick.”
“Are you happy?”
“I guess so. It’s just that Detroit’s been a mess ever since that mess in Memphis.”
“Yeah, Cincy’s been just the same. People are frustrated and they’re dealing with it in strange ways.”
“What do you mean?”
“Robert just started this black youth baseball league in Bond Hill and there’s been lots of friction. Some people don’t even want a black youth league at all.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Victoria shook her head, “It’s local businessmen, mostly, but there are fights between the coaches, too, and it’s affecting the kids.”
“That’s too bad. You’d think people would be thankful for a good old-fashioned baseball game.”
“People are people,” said Victoria.
While the girls continued chatting, Chick remained behind with Robert.
“You didn’t have to come,” said Robert.
“You’re like family. When Guy called me, I knew I had to come.”
“I’m glad Pauline could make it, too. Both Victoria and I really appreciate that. How are the Tigers doing?”
“They’re definitely making a run for the pennant this year. We’ve got a great pitching staff and some solid hitters.”
“We never get to see them down here. You know how it is: different leagues, different markets and all.”
“How’s your boy doing?”
“He’s great. You ought to drop by the house and pay him a visit.”
“I could make a special trip,” said Chick.
“Byron would love that.”
Just then, the physician approached.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, could I have a moment alone with Mr. Johnson?”
“It’s okay. He can stay,” said Robert.
 “We ran some blood tests and there were some things that concerned us. We need to run further tests to see if everything’s okay internally. That’s going to require a biopsy of your heart and liver.”
“That means surgery, right?”
The doctor nodded.
“Let me tell the girls myself,” said Chick.
As soon as the doctor left, he went directly to the room at the end of the hall, where the girls were just finishing up.
“Robert wants you to come down to his room as soon as possible.” His voice cracked as he spoke.
“What’s wrong?” asked Victoria.
“He’s got to go to surgery.”
Victoria led the way as all three of them returned to Robert’s room.
“Robert?”
“They’re just doing a couple of biopsies.”
“You’re getting more than one biopsy? What kind are they?”
“They’re checking for fibroid damage.”
Victoria let out a long hot breath. She’d been through this routine before. The diagnosis always seemed to be the same: “It may get worse and it may not. You just have to keep a steady watch over his diet and stress levels.”
Robert returned to the care of the staff at Cincinnati Mercy as soon as the internist entered the cardiology wing. The internist washed up as Robert was wheeled into place in the middle of the operating theater.
The internist thumped on Robert’s abdomen and listened to the hollow echoes as he located Robert’s liver. An X marked the spot where he’d perform the biopsy.
Three quick shots of anesthesia numbed the local area. The internist made a small incision and followed it with a wide-gauge needle. He extracted a small amount of liver with the needle and deposited it into a container of saline. With a few stitches, he was completely finished.
The heart biopsy, however, wasn’t nearly as simple. It would involve steering guide wires and the catheter through an artery towards Robert’s aorta. The catheter would enter the ventricle and scrape the interior of the aorta. It was a simple operation that could face lots of serious complications if anything went wrong.
Robert, however, would not rest between the two biopsies, as the internist made way for the head cardiologist at Cincinnati Mercy.
The cardiologist made one small slit next to Robert’s groin, re-carving a hole other doctors had taken before. It took nearly two hours to steer the catheter through the narrow artery leading towards Robert’s heart. The specialist stopped momentarily at Robert’s left ventricle before he moved the catheter into place and snagged a miniscule slice of tissue from Robert’s body, careful not to tear any part of Robert’s fragile heart before extracting the catheter and sewing things back together again.
A second set of three small stitches marked the spot where several members of Cincinnati Mercy spent the evening. Robert collected scar tissue like some boys had collected trading cards. Not long into his marriage to Victoria, she lay in bed next to him and traced the lines that snaked across his soft black belly. In the confines of their bedroom, he’d tell her the story of each one.
Chick, Pauline, and Victoria finally returned to the house on Bond Hill, where Byron and Erica awaited the news.
“Where’s daddy?” asked Erica.
“He’s still at the hospital,” said Mrs. Johnson.
“Oh.”
Victoria placed a hand across the back of Erica’s head as she planted a kiss at the very top of her forehead. Erica and Byron both knew the routine all too well. They’d both been to the hospital and had most of the same operations. They’d listened to the same diagnoses and nodded as pediatricians, cardiologists, specialists, internists, nurses, and phlebotomists educated and re-educated them about things they’d already come to know by rote. At only eight and seven years old, they’d heard it all before.
The kids went to bed while the grown-ups stayed up for a good part of the night. Victoria delivered the news to Guy, who would then deliver a sanitized version of the news to Robert’s colleagues at the law firm. Robert had never shared this part of his personal life with anyone at work except Guy. He preferred to keep those struggles private.
“Guy,” said Pauline, “if you’d like, we can watch the kids so you can get back to the office.”
“What about you guys?”
“We’re fine,” replied Chick.
“It would be good to get back to the old routine. That means a lot.”
“It means a lot to me, too,” added Victoria.
“No problem at all.”
While Chick and Pauline stayed in Bond Hill, they took the opportunity to enjoy the kids. Pauline played pretend with Erica while Chick went over the finer points of being a catcher with Byron. Although both Byron and Erica missed their parents, they were glad to have Chick and Pauline breathe new life into them.
Meanwhile, St. Pierre and Maddux was suffering more setbacks from Tom Meyer’s sudden departure. It only got worse as two more lawyers also jumped ship. When Mr. Johnson made his unexpected trip to the hospital, things really began to look bleak for the remaining lawyers at St. Pierre and Maddux. The firm had been stripped to the bare bones.
Bond Hill Youth Baseball also lost a coach as Mr. Meyer withdrew mark and himself from the league. Still, morale remained high as Chick stopped by Bond Hill Elementary and helped fill the void left by Mr. Johnson.
“Hey, Guy. I can coach the Yankees for the last two weeks of the season.”
“That would be great.”
That Wednesday, Chick’s new Yankees took the field and it didn’t take long at all to get a true sense of what baseball really meant to both the kids and Chick himself. It came to light in the first inning of his first game as coach. He was coaching against Mr. Johnson’s Bond Hill Phillies – Byron’s team – as well as the worst team in the league.
The Yankees pitcher was by far the best in the league. Not one of the Phillies even got a hit in the first. The Yankees scored five runs in the bottom of the first. The Phillies also went down 1-2-3 in the second. By the time the Phillies managed to post their first out in the second inning, the Yankees had made their way through the entire batting order. The Yankees had a 12-0 lead.
 Chick turned toward the bench and looked at the younger kids.
“Morrie,” he said to the scrawny kid at the end of the bench.
Morrie, who had not fielded a single inning for Mr. Meyer’s team, was hunkered over with his right cleat clenched in both hands. He’d used the cleat to dig a trench around a small castle of rocks he’d constructed beneath the bench. He was just about to pour a Dixie cup full of orange punch into the moat when Chick called his name.
“Huh?”
“What position do you want to play?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“I’m always the catcher.”
The catcher was usually played by the smallest kids – the ones who either couldn’t or wouldn’t field.
“That’s nto what I asked. What position do you want to play?”
“Ummm…pitcher.”
Chick looked over Yankee roster. He then motioned to Marcus Abrams. Although Marcus was just eight years old, he looked like a teenager. He was a foot taller than most of the other kids.
“Marcus, you’re out. Morrie, you’re in.”
“Are you kidding?” said Marcus.
“Grab some pine,” said Chick.
Marcus reluctantly agreed as Chick continued through the roster. He put every benchwarmer into whatever position they wanted to play. This, of course, had some parents up in arms. Others, however, were tickled pink.
Byron’s Phillies were among the happiest. They’d suffered through a long and humiliating one-win season. Truly, most of their games were over the first time the other team finished their first at-bat.
Today, however, it was different.
Although the Phillies still lost 23-17, it wasn’t nearly as bad as being down 12-0 with no hopes of coming back. Everyone from both teams got a chance to play, from Byron Johnson to “Snotnose” Jimmy Witherspoon to the future architectural engineer Morrie Parker.
When Byron and Chick got arrived in the Johnson’s driveway, it was just before dark.
“Wanna play catch?” asked Byron.
“Now?”
Byron nodded.
“Sure thing,” said Chick.
They tossed the ball back and forth long past dark. All the while, Chick offered pointers to Byron as Byron was an eager student.
“I noticed you were deep in the crouch,” said Chick.
“It helps rest my legs.”
“If you’re too deep in the crouch, you can’t put out base runners. Plus, more rest for your legs means more work for your knees. A good set of knees is the most important tool a catcher has.”
Byron nodded affirmatively.
“It’s getting too dark to see. What do you say we go inside and listen to the game?”
“I’m tired anyway.”
“I never thought I’d wear you out,” said Chick with a laugh. Then, they went inside and listened to end of the Reds’ game on the radio to cap a good night of baseball.