We never figured out what happened to the baseball that
landed in Mr. Levak’s porch awning. We did, however, wonder about it for a
long, long time.
After a long morning of snowball fights one day, we sat on
the picnic bench behind Byron’s house and made our own speculations.
“I bet it’s sitting up there right now, water-logged under a
pile of snow.”
“There’s no way it’s up there. It’s been a couple of months
now.”
“You wanna bet?” I said.
“How much?”
“Your Frank Robinson card versus my Duke Snider.”
“Are you kidding me? Frank Robinson is a lot better than
Duke Snider.”
“Are you kidding? The Duke’s gonna be in the Hall of Fame
one of these days.”
“And Robinson’s not? He’s won Most Valuable Player in both
leagues. Besides that, the Duke’s too old. If he was so good, he’d already be
in the Hall.”
“How do we settle it?”
“Someone’s gotta go up there.”
“Maybe we could get Lee to go up there for us. You know
he’ll do anything we ask.”
“That’s not very cool,” said Byron, “It should be one of
us.”
“Alright, I’ll go.”
So I hopped the fence and edged towards Mr. Levak’s back
porch. Between the thought of angry Samoyed Huskies with their angry snouts and
curled lips and bared fangs chopping at me or Mr. Levak snapping angrily at me
for trespassing on his lawn (he had two ‘NO TRESPASSING’ signs posted in his
front yard and another in the back), it was always scary walking through his
yard.
I crouched down as I neared the porch. The only way of
getting to the awning would either be climbing onto one of his cheap aluminum
lawn chairs or climbing up the gothic scrollwork that wound through the
aluminum uprights.
I chose the aluminum uprights.
My tennis shoes squeezed into the scrollwork as I used it
for a ladder. I slowly moved from step to step until I could peer over the
edge.
“It’s all covered in snow.”
“Clear it away.”
I climbed just until I was about waist-high with the awning
and cleared away a small patch of snow.
“Nothing here.”
“I guess I get your Snider card.”
“There’s still more.”
I jumped off that upright and moved to the center one. I
confidently climbed it just until I made it to the top. The rusted welds where
the scrollwork met the uprights, however, weren’t fixed tightly at all. With a
sudden snap, the scrollwork tore free. My shoe went through the middle and I
grabbed onto the uprights. They tore free from the awning and everything fell
to the ground, including me.
It happened in that sort of slow motion that occurs whenever
shit is about to hit the fan.
“Dammit!” I screamed as a heap of aluminum poles collapsed
on top of me.
Luckily, my fall was cushioned by a thick snow pack. I threw
the poles aside and raced back to the Johnson’s yard.
“Oh man, are you alright?”
“Yeah.”
“What are we going to do now?”
“I don’t know.”
We hid inside Byron’s house for a short while. Then, I just
decided to go home. It wasn’t long, of course, until Mr. Levak arrived at my
front door with an armload of twisted aluminum.
“Mr. Jolley,” he said, “do you know what this is?”
“It looks like a piece of fence.”
“Not quite. It is my back porch. I have heard it along the
grapevine that your son has made it broken.”
My father stood there for a split second, absorbing things.
Then, he called to me.
“Jake, did you do this?”
I nodded.
“Could you please apologize to Mr. Levak?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? That is all you can say? You must pay for my porch.”
“Mr. Levak, the entire porch is not broken. I will contact
my insurance company and make sure whatever is broken is fixed.”
“That will take weeks or months. It is not enough. Jacob
should pay. He is the vandal who broke my porch.”
“We’ll make sure everything’s fixed, Mr. Levak. I promise
you.”
“Promises, promises,” he said to us with a dismissive wave
of the hand. Then, he turned and headed home without another word.
“Jake, you gotta make this right.”
“I know.”
“I’ll talk to Mr. Levak and we’ll agree on a fair
punishment. Now head to your room for a bit.”
Meanwhile, Byron was getting his father’s version of
punishment, which was never as lenient as my father’s.
“Son, I can’t believe you. You’ve embarrassed me with Mr.
Levak.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I…”
“You know there are no excuses in this house. You were
there. You made the bet with Jake. You watched him climb onto the roof. You’re
just as guilty as he is.”
“I’m sorry.”
“A simple apology is hardly enough. You’re grounded to your
room for two weeks. The only time you’ll come out of your bedroom during that
time is to use the restroom, eat food, and do all of Erica’s chores in addition
to your own. You’re also going to help Mr. Levak with any chores he can come up
with during your grounding.”
“Yessir.”
“Now go to your room. Erica will come get you when it’s
supper time.”
During the first two
weeks of Byron’s grounding, he did as much (if not more) work as I did. Even after he was free, he’d help with the
snow shoveling and putting groceries away miscellaneous indoor chores for Mr.
and Mrs. Levak. We were free just a little while after the contractors
completely fixed the awning. Still, Mr. Levak never liked the new fangled porch
at all and reminded me several times how I was the one to break his porch.
When February came, it was time for spring practice.
Unfortunately, Lee and I were still 8th graders at Mt. Adams Middle
School while Byron was a freshman at Mt. Adams High.
We practiced in the gymnasium, which also acted as the
school auditorium. A complete orchestra of wooden chairs sat next to the stage,
which had a wooden basketball floor and three retractable backboards, one on
each of the three stage walls. There were also curtains. During baseball
practice, Coach Leonard would draw the curtains so any stray baseballs would
snap against the wall of velvet curtain and hang there momentarily. One of us
would run to a spot under the ball and wait, trying to snag the ball as it
rolled down the length of red velvet curtain.
More often than not, we’d lose the ball in furls of fabric
and we’d crawl under the curtains and retrieve the baseballs from the orchestra
pit in front of the stage.
Meanwhile, Byron was introduced to the next level: High
School Baseball. Their practices were also inside, but the Mt. Adams High
gymnasium was more like an air hangar than a school gym. It had plenty of space for two multi-purpose
courts, which sat side-by-side lengthwise. During Winter practice, the baseball
and basketball teams jockeyed for court time. Either way, neither team had to
share space with the other and both got full use of the vast open space.
“Byron,” said Mr. Klein, “you’re a catcher right?”
Byron nodded.
“Crouch in front of the wall pads at the far end of the
court. I’m gonna test your skills behind the plate.”
Byron took his place and waited for Mr. Klein to fire a
pitch his way.
“Byron, are you a lefty?”
“Yeah.”
“What are you doing behind the plate?”
“My dad’s always put me here.”
“Southpaws don’t belong behind the plate. They belong on the
mound or in outfield.”
Byron popped his left fist into the pit of the catcher’s
mitt firmly planted on his right hand. He remained in his crouch behind the
rubber home plate mat, waiting for Mr. Klein to do something.
“Alright, I guess. Get ready.”
Byron was, of course, always ready whenever he was behind
home plate. Mr. Klein reared back and tossed a fastball. The baseball popped
easily as the young freshman trapped it in the soft part of his mitt. He held
it there for the briefest of moments, just as Chick Washington had shown him
and his father had drilled him on thousands of times in the backyard.
Mr. Klein reeled back and threw another fastball. This one,
however, was low and away. Byron shuffled to his right and turned his glove
upside down. The ball bounced off the hardwood floor and came up quickly.
Still, Byron squeezed his mitt closed and trapped the ball as if it was no big
deal. He plucked the baseball from the pit and fired it back to Mr. Klein. Mr.
Klein flinched as he caught the ball in his glove. It was mere muscle memory
that kept Mr. Klein from missing the tossback from Byron completely.
One of the pitchers subbed in for Mr. Klein and fired a
barrage of pitches at Byron. Byron didn’t only catch the pitches, but he did it
with the great art of the old pros like Johnny Bench or Johnny Roseboro or Yogi
Berra.
To Byron, baseball was art – and science – combined
perfectly into one great form. Byron had always inhaled and exhaled every
breath as if baseball was always near, whether it was Winter training or the
first Spring game or the dog days of Summer or the cold, crisp call of Autumn
in mid-October, when the boys of Summer donned their caps for one last time to
battle out the last game of the World Series.
“Byron,” motioned Mr. Klein, “come here for a second.”
“Yeah, coach.”
Byron quickly strode to center court.
“Have you ever attended a training camp?”
Byron shook his head.
“I think you should seriously consider it. I have some
pamphlets in my office. I want you to show them to your parents.”
“Yessir.”
Byron trotted back to home plate and resumed his position.
By that time, Mr. Klein had completely forgotten about the fact that Byron was
a Southpaw catcher.
That, of course, was a trend that continued for the rest of
Byron Johnson’s life.
Byron went home and handed the stack of pamphlets to his
father. He also handed him a handwritten note from Mr. Klein.
Dear Mr. Johnson,
I was watching Byron’s work behind home plate and we had a
talk about him attending a training camp. I know I could get a reduced rate for
him if you’re interested.
Just let me know,
Coach Michael Klein
Mt. Adams Baseball
“Byron, do you think you would be interested in going to
Training Camp?”
“Of course I would.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but let me talk to your mother
first, okay?”
Within moments, Byron was over at my house spreading the
good news, even though it had not yet arrived. Mr. Johnson had his talk with
Mrs. Johnson, but the next step in his plan of action did not involve one of the
Training Camps Mr. Klein recommended. Instead, it involved a call to Lakeland,
Florida.
“Chick?”
“Who is this?”
“You don’t know?”
“Robert! How the hell are you, old timer?”
“I’m doing just fine.”
“Good to hear, what have you been up to?”
“Not much, just working hard and watching my boy play ball.”
“How’s he doing these days?”
“He’s great, he’s great, but…”
“But what?”
“I was reading up on these baseball training camps. Do you
know anything about them?”
“They come in a wide variety. Some are good and some are
just plain awful.”
“How do I tell the difference?”
“Word gets out and you just have to ask around.”
“Do you know of any good places I could send Byron?”
“What if he comes down to Lakeland for Spring Training with
the Tigers?”
“I don’t know…”
“Don’t worry about it. I can arrange for plane tickets and
we’ll put him up in the same motel where the team stays.”
“That’s too much, Chick.”
“What are friends for?”
Chick and Robert and Victoria worked hard behind the scenes
to pull together Byron’s trip to Lakeland. He would take an extra week off
school, but he’d still have a homework list for which he’d be responsible.
Other than that, Byron did not know a thing. The regular rule around the
Johnson house was that the children only asked for something once.
“Byron,” said Mr. Klein, “have you talked to your parents
about training camp?”
“Yessir.”
“What did they say?”
“My dad didn’t say anything.”
“What about your mother?”
Byron shrugged.
Mr. Klein saw the raw ability in Byron, and the wasted
talent, too. If only, he thought, there was a way to get through to the boy’s
parents.
“Mr. Klein, can I have another pamphlet?”
“Here, take a few.”
Byron tucked the pamphlets into his Algebra book and went
home. When he arrived, he stacked his schoolbooks neatly on the dining room
table and fanned the pamphlets across the top of his books for everyone to see.
When Mrs. Johnson
cleaned the table for dinner, she couldn’t help but notice Byron’s handiwork.
It was only confirmed when she answered the phone.
“Yes, Mr. Klein, we did see them.”
“Are you interested?”
“We are,” she said, “but my husband is working on something
bigger.”
‘Oh?”
“He used to play pro ball in the 60s and he has a friend…”
“That’s great!”
“Don’t tell him, though. We want it to be a surprise.”
“My lips are sealed, Mrs. Johnson.”
When Mr. Johnson arrived home from work, Mrs. Johnson told
him of the afternoon’s activities.
“Robert, your son is anxious to go to training camp.”
“I’m sure he is, but I’m just waiting on the plane tickets
from Chick.”
“How long will that be?”
“They should be here any day.”
“Maybe you should tell him.”
“You know that’s not how I do things.”
“Make an exception for once.”
Except for clanking silverware, the dinner table was
generally silent. Mr. Johnson didn’t break his rule and Mrs. Johnson wouldn’t
dear test his patience in front of the children.
Luckily, that lasted only one more night. The delivery truck
arrived early the next morning.
As soon as Mrs. Johnson signed for the package, she ripped
the envelope open and plucked an envelope out of its gut. Then, she tore a
strip off the end and blew into the envelope like a fortune teller revealing a
fortune. Two round-trip plane tickets from Ohio to Florida and a hand-written
note from Chick sat inside.
Mrs. Johnson took those two tickets and the letter and
arranged them carefully on the dining room table, just as her son had the day
before. When it came time for him to arrive home from school, she waited
expectantly at the window.
Throughout practice, Mr. Klein didn’t say a word to Byron
about training camp. Byron’s head hung low as he headed home.
“Good afternoon, my dear son!” greeted Mrs. Johnson.
“Yeah,” he mumbled.
“Why so low? You should be happy!”
Byron heaved a sigh at his mother. Mrs. Johnson held up two
ticket stubs. Byron investigated them for a few seconds.
“What are these?”
“They’re round-trip plane tickets to Lakeland, Florida.”
Byron looked at her blankly.
“You’re going to Detroit Tigers Spring Training!”
“Really? When do I leave?”
“We’re taking you to the airport on Friday right after
school. There’s an old duffel bag on your bed.”
It wasn’t so much a duffel bag as an oversized denim bag.
Byron laid out his goods and took an inventory before stuffing his bag with all
he’d need.
The two-day wait for Friday was excruciating for Byron, but
he survived. When Mrs. Johnson kissed
her son on the forehead and watched him board the small jet, it was
excruciating for her, too.
Byron was so anxious to see his first Spring Training, he
peered out his window during the entire flight. Neither turbulence nor bumpy
landing bothered him bit.
The busy airport terminal was a bit overwhelming, but not
for long.
“Byron!” shouted a
voice. It was Chick.
“Hey!”
“Follow me to baggage claim.”
Chick helped Byron navigate his way through the airport and
then to the Tiger’s motel.
“Here’s your room.”
“All mine?”
Chick nodded, “I’m right next door. Just knock on the wall
if you need me.”
Byron chuckled as he dumped his duffel on the bed and
scouted out the room.
“We’ve got dinner at the field house. The bus will pick us
up at 6. Don’t be late.”
“Yes, Mr. Washington.”
“My father’s name is Mr. Washington. Just call me Chick.”
“Okay, sir…Chick.”
It was time to leave before Byron finished getting settle. A
large white bus waited in the motel parking lot, along with a crowd of baseball
fans, all wearing Detroit Tiger paraphernalia and seeking autographs.
“Byron!” shouted Chick.
They ran through the crowd and up the steps. Some of the
fans followed the large white bus the whole way to the gate. The outside gate
opened and the bus entered the field house alone.
A long buffet table with an large spread waited for the
team. It was unlike anything Byron had ever imagined. All sorts of meats and
vegetables filled the buffet, along with a complete serving line full of steam
dishes. Byron loaded his plate and ate to his heart’s desire.
“Pace yourself buddy,” said a player, “it’s not going
anywhere.”
Byron recognized the
player. It was all-star catcher Bill Freehan. Byron followed him to the table
and sat next to him.
“You’re the kid Chick invited, right?”
Byron nodded.
“Nice to meet you, kid, I’m Bill Freehan.”
“I know who you are, Mr. Freehan.”
“You’re a catcher, too?”
Byron nodded again.
“Hang with me, kid. I’ll show you the ropes.”
“Okay, Mr. Freehan.”
When they finished eating, they gathered for the first
meeting of the year. Mr. Houk, the Tigers coach, went through introductions.
“Boys, welcome back to Spring Training. Most of you know me
well enough that I don’t have to tell you not much has changed since last time
I saw you. You all know Chick Washington. I’ll let him make the introductions.”
“Byron, stand up for a moment. Let everyone see you.”
Byron looked around meekly as he rose from his seat.
“Byron will be our bat boy for the next week or two. I want
you guys to make him feel at home.”
Applause filled the field house as the team cheered for
Byron. He quickly sat down and looked over to Bill. Bill just nodded.
“Now you’re in the big time, kid.”
Byron spent most of his first night in his room alone
watching television. The next morning, it was back to business as the team
started practice. Chick showed Byron his locker, which included a complete set
of practice uniforms.
“Are these for me?”
“Now you look like a real big leaguer. Get geared up and
join us out on the field.”
Chick’s cleats clicked on the concrete walkway leading to
the spring diamond. Byron looked around at the lockers, painted in black and
white and the slate gray floor with the Olde English D scribed in white over a
circular black background. It was the same Olde English D monogrammed his white
pinstripe jersey and black stirrups. Byron laced up his cleats and trotted up
the walkway.
There were a thousand tiny sounds that he had temporarily
forgotten over the cold, cold winter: metal cleats scraping across concrete as
Byron climbed the short set of steps to the dugout and infielders chattering
and laughing about days gone past and the bats cracking baseballs from one part
of the field to the other and the echoes of those sounds in the seats of the
empty stadiums..
Above and beyond all those sounds, Byron listened to the
singular sound of leather popping as the catcher’s mitt trapped fastballs deep
within its well. Of all the sounds a baseball diamond made, that was, by far,
Byron’s favorite.
“Byron!” shouted Chick, “Get over here!”
“Yessir!”
Byron trotted down the first base line towards the
bullpen. Chick stood near the Jugs
machines, feeding baseballs into the hoppers while the catching squad took
turns warming up for practice.
“I assume you know how this works.”
Byron nodded.
“Okay, start feeding baseballs into the hoppers and whatever
the catchers need, you’ll get.”
“Yessir.”
Byron stood between the two machines and took turns feeding
the hoppers. Most likely, it was utterly boring work. For Byron, however, it
was totally exciting.
“Hey Byron. We need you to do us a favor.”
“Anything you say, sir.”
“My name’s Andy. Just call me Andy.”
Byron nodded.
“The Jugs machine isn’t working properly.”
“It isn’t?”
Andy shook his head, “We need you to fetch a special wrench
from the equipment manager. It’s called a ‘henway’. Can you remember that?”
Byron nodded.
“What’s it called?”
“A henway.”
“Good,” said Andy, “now find us one quick.”
Byron scouted around, looking for the equipment manager. He
also asked everyone if they knew where he could find the henway. Everyone
seemed to have a different answer until Chick saw Byron criss-crossing the
diamond and stopped the boy.
“What in earth are you doing?”
“Looking for a henway.”
Chick crinkled his nose as he looked his namesake up and
down.
“Byron, have you ever heard of a henway?”
Byron shook his head.
“Have you ever seen a henway?”
“What’s a henway?”
“I figure a good-sized hen weights 8 or 9 pounds.”
“What?”
“Byron, you are being led on a wild goose chase by these
guys. There’s no such thing as a henway. It’s a practical joke.”
Byron frowned.
“Don’t worry, all the rookies get a good hazing. Now you’re
just one of the guys.”
“Oh.”
Byron smiled as Chick gave him a pat on the head.
“Why don’t you go see if Mr. Freehan needs anything.”
Byron jogged to home plate and watched as Mr. Freehan took
pitches.
“Do you need anything, Mr. Freehan?”
“I just need you to call me Bill.”
“Yessir.”
Byron fetched the baseballs strewn about the batting cage
and delivered them to the pitcher’s mound. After practice, he helped move the
netting towards the bullpen where they were chained and locked into place.
“Hey kid,” said Andy, “did you get that henway?”
“Yeah, but I had to leave it inside the dugout.”
“What?”
“It was so heavy. I couldn’t carry it up the stairs.”
Andy shook his head. Bill Freehan was sitting on the bench
as Andy strode towards the dugout. Bill watched as Andy searched the dugout.
“What ‘cha lookin’ for, Drew?”
“Byron said he left something here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I sent him looking for a henway and he said he left it at
the bottom of the dugout steps.”
Bill kept a straight face for the longest time possible.
Then, he glanced over to the bullpen, where a group of players lined the fence.
Each and every one of them was laughing hysterically.
Bill smirked and smiled and snickered and burst out into
laughter. When Andy turned towards him, Bill pointed to the bullpen.
“Aw shit!” said Andy as he tossed his catcher’s mitt against
the wall. He’d been had. On top of
that, he was had by his own joke. He picked up the mitt and flung it out onto
the diamond. Then, he kicked the dugout steps. The knuckles of his big right
toe cracked as he sprained his foot. A string of obscenities so loud and so
crude came from Andy’s mouth that it grabbed Coach Houk’s attention. The old
coach ran over to see what Andy was up to; then, he called the team manager.
Andy would be laid up with a broken toe until the second week of April.
The next day, Byron was the most popular guy on the diamond.
All the guys high-fived the fifteen year old and told him their best dirty
jokes. Byron was one of the guys.
“Why don’t you come up to the bullpen and hang with us?”
said Rico, one of the other catchers.
“Sure thing.”
Byron picked up stray baseballs and placed the buckets next
to the pitcher’s mounds in the bullpen.
“Byron,” said Rico, “you’re a catcher, right?”
“Yessir.”
“Why don’t you fetch your mitt and take your turn behind the
plate?”
“Okay!”
Byron ran the whole way to his locker. He was out of breath
by the time he returned to the bullpen. Still, he clipped himself into the
smallest chest protector and catcher’s mask and settled in behind home plate.
He took a few pitches before Rico uttered a word.
“Southpaw, huh?”
Byron nodded.
“Let me see that mitt.”
Rico fit it over his own hand. The stitches were frayed and
the leather strap across the back of his hand was torn.
“You need a new one.”
“We’ve been looking for awhile. Nobody seems to make
catcher’s mitts for lefties.”
“I bet,” said Rico.
Nobody said anything to Byron for a couple of days until the
sales representative from Spalding Gloves showed up in Lakeland, all the way
from the rolling hills of Bowling Green, Kentucky.
“Are you Byron Johnson?”
“Yessir.”
“Can I borrow you for a second?”
Byron looked over to Rico. Rico nodded. Byron followed the
sales rep to the dugout where Bill Freehan and Coach Houk were sitting with a
couple of the other players.
“How would you like a brand new catcher’s mitt, made
especially for you?”
Byron’s eyes grew as big as saucers.
“I take that as a yes. Lay your hand on this board and
spread the fingers as far apart as you can.”
The man made a tracing of Byron’s hand with a wax pencil.
Then, he squeezed Byron’s fingers and made a second tracing. After that, he
measured the distance from the base of Byron’s hand to his elbow and had the
boy try on several types of mitts.
“Give me a week.”
“I’ll be gone in a week,” said Byron.
“Don’t worry, I’ll come up with something.”
Byron finished out the week with the Tigers and Chick loaded
him onto a DC-9 and shipped him back to Cincinnati.
Byron arrived at the airport dressed head-to-toe in his new
Detroit Tigers gear. He was greeted to the fanfare of his biggest fans: his
father, his mother, his sister, my father, and me.
“Wow! Look at all this stuff!”
“I know!”
“How was your trip, son?”
“It was just like the big leagues. Is that how it was for
you in Birmingham?”
“Not quite,” chuckled Mr. Johnson.
When he settled back into his role at Mt. Adams High, Byron
had all but forgotten about the sales rep.
“Byron,” said Mr. Klein, “a package addressed to you arrived
in the mail today.”
“I wonder what it could be.”
That was answered as soon as Byron saw the tiny red postmark
circle on the outside: Bowling Green, KY 42101.
He tore into the box like a kid on Christmas morning, making
a shredded mess of the cardboard box. A shiny black glove with embossed gold
letters and white leather laces came complete with the Olde English D embroidered
onto a small white patch and Bill Freehan’s actual signature in silver
permanent marker – not the imitations all the right-handed gloves had. Byron’s
mitt was unique, one-of-a-kind, a timeless classic that Byron would wear for
another dozen-or-so years.
.
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