Beware of Cat (14 page)

A Nod and a Grin

Jackson was a quiet young man on my route who grew up in a house full of girls. He had a modest nature, but his sisters were not shy at all. Every day in the summer the girls argued over who would get the mail from me to hand deliver to their mother, grandmother, or one of their aunts. The matrons lined up chairs across the front porch and read magazines or knitted while keeping an eye on the children playing in the yard. I suspected that in summertime, with all those bodies residing under one roof, the front yard was welcomed as another room to spread out in. While he often took part in their fun and games, it seemed to me that Jackson more often stood on the sidelines, quietly observing his sisters, sometimes smiling at their boisterous antics.

The family claimed a Dakota Indian heritage, and I think Jackson was the second oldest among his siblings, but there were cousins who lived with them from time to time so it was difficult to place him in the group of children. He always watched me as I delivered their mail, and something in his intense gaze made me wonder if he saw in me a role model. After all, there had been no father figure in the household for all the years I had known them.

An uncle moved in and out of the house several times over the years. He was a decent fellow, but down on his luck in the job department. The entire family was courteous and polite. The young girls always said please and thank you when I gave them the mail, and the adult women usually had a friendly greeting or comment for me as I passed. I never heard a bad word or a voice raised in anger.

I’m sure they struggled financially. They didn’t own a car, and they all went shopping together, trooping down the sidewalk to the bus stop like a family of ducks. Over the years I noticed several articles of clothing passed along from child to child, and they received government checks. Even so, every year during the Letter Carrier’s Food Drive, I picked up a full bag of groceries from their front porch for the food shelf.

Their yard was always littered with toys and tricycles and discarded clothing. They had an ancient rotary lawn mower that the children teamed up to push over the grass, but it didn’t help the constant clutter or bare spots that erupted each summer under the children’s play. I overheard a neighbor refer to them as “that trash down the block,” but I didn’t see them that way. The mother, aunts, and grandmother were committed to and involved in every aspect of the children’s lives; they played together and took care of each other better than many of the “neatest” families on my route.

One day I came upon Jackson playing football in the street with his uncle and older sister. He was about twelve years old, wearing an extra-large Minnesota Vikings jersey that hung to his knees. He was nearing that gangly age, not a child anymore but not quite grown up yet, either. I was impressed with his speed. His uncle was faster, of course, but Jack was beginning to show his stuff. On a whim I joined them.

“Hey, Jackson,” I called. “You know how to run pass patterns?”

He nodded, flipping the ball to me when I held my hands up for it.

“Think you can beat your uncle?”

Dropping his eyes to his feet, he meekly shook his head.

“I bet you can,” I said. Turning to look at his tall, rangy uncle, I called, “How about it? One play. I’ll be quarterback, you cover Jack.”

“You’re on,” he answered, grinning. “Bring it on, Little Jack!”

I set the football in the middle of the street and laid my mail satchel near the curb. When I pulled Jackson back into a huddle, his sister followed. “What do I do?” she asked.

“You’re the hiker,” I said. She wrinkled her nose so I quickly added, “It’s a really important job. If the hike is no good, I won’t be able to pass it to your brother, and we only get one chance.”

That seemed to mollify her. She nodded at me, and then aimed a grimace of determination at her brother. “You better catch the ball, Jackson.”

I held my hand out in front of them in the time-honored tradition of diagramming a pass play on the palm of my hand. “You know what a buttonhook is?” I asked him.

He shook his head. His eyes were glued to my hand. I could see his excitement as his tongue flicked over his lips while he rocked from foot to foot. “How about a fly pattern?”

Another shake of the head. Again the darting tongue and pacing in place.

“Okay, then this is how it works. Your sister hikes the ball
to me. You run as fast as you can for five steps. Count them as you go. On the fifth step turn around and yell for me to throw the ball.”

I drew all this with an index finger on my palm. The children watched my finger move, as if hypnotized by the sequence of wriggles and waggles.

“I’ll fake a pass to you,” I continued, “then you take off down the street as fast as you can run.” My finger drew a straight line off the end of my fingertips. “Just run, Jackson, for all you’re worth. The next time you look back, I’ll be launching a long bomb to you. Got it? It’s called a buttonhook and fly. It’ll work, Jackson, if you sell the fake.”

He nodded, but when we broke huddle he started out the wrong way down the street. He turned around when his sister called him. Holding the ball and laughing, she said, “Where are you going?”

A drop of doubt entered my thoughts then, but I decided he was just concentrating too hard on the route he had to run.

“Come on, little boy,” his uncle taunted. Jackson ignored the remark and took his place next to his sister. I had a notion he was doing some growing up right there in the middle of the street. The other children lined up at the curb to watch the play, while the older women sat forward on their porch chairs, leaning on the railing to see what the mailman was up to. Jackson snuck a peek at the house to be sure they were watching.

“Hike!” I called, and the ball sailed high over my head.

I backtracked enough to grab it, but by the time I looked up, Jackson’s sister was already yelling, “Throw the ball!” As I stepped forward into my fake pass, Jackson shouted, “Throw it!” His uncle charged forward to block the pass. On his final lunge he bellowed at his nephew to intimidate him, but by then it was too late. Jackson turned on his heel and flew down the street. My bomb floated high and deep, spiraling between the branches of overhanging boulevard trees. The uncle gave chase and quickly closed the gap. I held my breath while Jackson ran all out. When he caught the ball and safely tucked it away, a chorus of cheers erupted from the front yard. His mother and grandmother jumped off the porch, high-fiving each other while screaming like we’d just won the Super Bowl.

Jackson tried to act nonchalant about it, but it was impossible for him to keep the huge grin off his face. Trotting back to us, he modestly looked down at the street or off to the side, secretly stealing a glance at his mother. The joy on his face made the sixty seconds I had spent in the street well worth the time. After that, whenever I encountered the family in the front yard, Jackson and I exchanged conspiratorial nods and grins.

AS THE YEARS PASSED
I watched Jackson grow into a handsome young man, through the awkward voice-changing and acne years. He was small for his age, but very fast, and it was hard to miss the glint of self-awareness and intelligence in his pitch-black eyes.

His uncle came and went a few more times before finally moving out for good. I had a few short conversations with Jackson over the years, mostly to ask him about school, and to encourage him to work hard at it. I don’t believe my urgings were necessary, however, as his mother and grandmother kept a pretty tight rein on the kids.

He played baseball for the high school team. I asked him about it one time when I came upon him in his baseball uniform playing catch with his sister. “We’re not very good,” was his comment on the team.

“Oh, come on, I bet you’re better than that.”

“No, really, we always lose.”

His sister interjected, “His stupid coach won’t let him play.”

“Shut up,” Jackson ordered.

“Well, it’s true,” she persisted. “And it’s not fair. You lose every game anyway, what difference does it make? He should let you play.”

Jackson ignored her. I was stuck for something to say. My thoughts were torn between the warmth of his sister’s loyalty, and the cold shadow of an injustice that I could only guess at. Was he on the bench because of his size? Was it a racial thing? It certainly couldn’t be poor academics, not with the way his mother rode herd on him.

“Do you make it to all the practices?” I asked.

Jackson nodded, but again it was his sister who replied. “Oh, yeah, he goes to practice. I should know, too, because I go to all of them with him.”

“That’s only because Jeremy is there,” Jackson said, rolling his eyes at his sister.

“Shut up!” she yelled, throwing the ball at him.

“Practices are important,” I said in my best adult fashion. The notion of being a mentor came back to me. “That’s where you learn. Even if you’re not playing, practice hard. Use the time to develop your own skills. Especially in batting practice. Learn all you can. If you work hard at it, the coach is bound
to notice you. The playing time will come if you keep working at it.”

The baseball fields where Jackson’s team practiced and played their home games that summer were near the neighborhood. Sometimes in the evening, when I was out riding my bicycle, I swung by to see if the team was out there. When they practiced, I stopped for a few minutes to watch, but when they played games, I usually hung around for a couple innings. It brought back memories of when our own children were young and my wife and I lugged lawn chairs around to all the ballparks in South Minneapolis to watch their games.

I never saw Jackson in a game. Instead, he would put on a catcher’s mitt and warm up the pitcher, or keep the infielders loose by playing catch with them on the sidelines. He was the only player on the team that didn’t get playing time—at least, for the several innings that I witnessed, he never played.

The impressive thing about it, however, was that his whole family came out for every game. I even saw his uncle there one night. They took up most of a row in the short stand of bleachers. The younger children ran around playing in the park with friends while the older ones cheered on the team. I found their devotion to be amazing considering that what Jackson had told me was true: the team never won a game. The outcome usually wasn’t even close.

When the players came in from the field to sit on the bench, Jackson often walked up and down the line high-fiving each kid. Even though he never played, he showed more team spirit than anyone else. I noticed his mother and grandmother laughing and cheering enthusiastically for the team’s few good plays. Was I the only one having a problem with this?

Late in the season Jackson met me in his yard. “Are you coming to my game tonight? It’s the last one of the season.”

It’s nearly impossible to say no to a kid who extends an invitation like that. Especially when it’s a child I’ve watched grow up, one who is usually very quiet and unassuming. “Of course I’ll be there,” I replied. “Are you playing tonight?”

“I don’t know,” he said softly, looking at the toe of his shoe. “Coach doesn’t announce the line-up until game time.”

I looked up at the sunny, clear sky. It was hard to tell if he was lying about the line-up out of a false sense of optimism, or simply protecting his coach to avoid controversy. In either case, it would be a nice evening for a bike ride. “I’ll be there,” I promised.

The first two innings were completed by the time I arrived. The team was already several runs down, and Jackson sat on the bench. I locked up my bike and joined his family in the bleachers. For three more innings I watched the team fall further behind. Jackson continued his spirited efforts on the bench, however, cheering and encouraging his losing teammates. It was the last game of the season, with no doubt as to the outcome. Come on coach, I ranted silently. Get everyone in the game!

As much as I disapprove of meddling adults at sporting events, I had finally seen enough. If I truly wanted to be a mentor, then my actions would have to speak louder than my words. In the sixth inning, when Jackson’s team took the field, I quietly walked down to take a seat on the bench near the coach. Jackson was rounding up bats from the previous half-inning, lining them up by weight behind the backstop. The coach gave me a short once-over, then called out some adjustments to his outfielders.