Somewhere I Belong (28 page)

On Thursday afternoon, Aunt Mayme suggested we eat an early supper then head to Glendale Park for good seats. But Uncle George wanted to hold out for hotdogs and leave even earlier. We walked the eight blocks
to avoid the traffic. Uncle George figured we wouldn't find parking
near the field anyhow.

People poured onto Hancock Street from every direction. They
crowded the sidewalks and spilled over onto the road. Motorcars crept
along, bumper-to-bumper, in the same direction. The closer we got
to Glendale Park, the more congested it grew, forcing us to inch our way along. We followed the smell of hotdogs and popcorn onto Ferry Street. Uncle George cupped a hand under Aunt Mayme's elbow and guided her. Larry, Uncle Jim, and I kept close to them, trying not to get
separated. As we approached the entrance, I thought of the rickety old bleachers and the one grassy slope where people sat to watch Little League games, and wondered where everybody was going to
sit. Uncle George handed our tickets in at the gate. We walked down a wide gravel path and rounded a corner by a large oak tree. Then I stopped and took it all in.

“Wow, look at this place!” If I hadn't come directly off Ferry Street, I would have thought I was in the wrong park.

“What do you think, boys?” Uncle George asked. “Something, huh?”

Larry and I just stood and stared.

The old bleachers were gone. Brand new ones sat on both sides
of the field and they were huge. One set even had a real press box on top of it, just like at Fenway Park. Above it flew the Stars and Stripes, the flags of Everett and the State of Massachusetts, and the pennants of the Yankees, the Red Sox, and the Everett Blues. Straight baselines replaced the crooked dirt paths we used to run on. Real sandbags sat on each base. And the pitcher's mound and home plate were just like the ones at Fenway. The large oak tree at the park entrance and the
small grove to the right of first base were the only landmarks that
anchored the place to its former self. The grassy slope next to them had been levelled to make room for the bleachers.

“Now this is a real baseball field,” Aunt Mayme said. “When the
game's over, you boys'll get to play here.”

Playing in a ball field like this one had to be the next best thing to heaven. At Granny's, all we had was the barnyard.

“Stonewall Jackson's even coming,” Uncle George said. “It'll be just like an honest-to-gosh major-league ball game. You boys'll love it. ”

I had heard Stonewall Jackson announce at the Red Sox game my dad and Uncle George took Larry and me to the previous summer. He knew the stats on every player and he caught everything, right down to the smallest play in the outfield. You wouldn't want to miss the ball with ol' Stonewall on the other end of the bullhorn. He drew fumble out into two long syllables and announced it to the whole world.

Uncle George led us midway up the bleachers and found us seats that gave us the best view of the diamond and the outfield. I sat down, watched spectators pour into the park, and searched for Babe Ruth.

“Do you see him yet?” I asked no one in particular.

“Ruth?” Uncle George said. “He's no doubt on his way.”

“I hope they can get through the traffic,” Aunt Mayme said. “By the looks of it, it's backed up clear into Boston.”

A cymbal clashed at the entrance. The crowd parted and the Everett Elks Fife and Drum Corps trooped in, blasting “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” Mayor Roche followed, leading the Everett Blues baseball team dressed in crisp royal blue jerseys and clean white knickers. I counted eighteen Red Sox players and six Yankees as they rounded the corner behind the mayor and his team. Their uniforms were crumpled and streaked with dirt from the afternoon game at Fenway. A middle-aged man in a loose summer suit and straw hat walked beside the Yankees. When the crowd stood up and roared, the ballplayers tore off their caps and waved them in the air. They sure looked happy to be there.

“There's Buddy Myer and Ira Flagstead, George,” Aunt Mayme said. “You said Boston was only playing its rookies.”

“They'll likely sit in the stands,” Uncle George said. “Bill Carrigan told me he was saving his big guns for the Sox's major-league games. They've played four games this week already, and they're likely tired.” He pointed a finger. “There's Jack Rothrock and Wally Gerber…Tait's here too. He's a rookie, but he's turned out to be one of Boston's best hitters this season. I wonder if Carrigan'll let him play.” He bobbed a finger in the air and named off the rest of the Red Sox players as they
trooped in, one by one, waving their ball caps. “Carl Sumner, Billy
Rogel, Johnnie Heving, Merle Settlemire, Pat Simmons, Charlie Berry. That's a swell line-up.”

“Where's Babe Ruth, anyhow?” Uncle Jim asked. “He's s'posed to
be here, ain't he?

Aunt Mayme perched at the edge of her seat and stared across the field. “There's Lou Gehrig.” She put a hand to her mouth and drew in a breath. “He's so handsome…such a gentleman.”

My aunt's favourite ballplayer practically floated into the park in
a rumpled white and blue striped uniform. He was followed by six
other Yankees players, ones I figured would be sitting in the stands to watch the game. Aunt Mayme fixed her eyes on Lou Gehrig the way Gen MacCormack gazed at Uncle Jim. Which made me wonder if he was the reason she had come to Glendale Park that afternoon instead of listening to the game on the radio, like she usually did. Last summer, she had refused to come to Fenway Park with us. She said the smell of hotdogs made her nauseous. She worried about sodas getting spilled over her good afternoon dress. And she didn't even want to talk about
the noise. Now she sat and rhymed off Gehrig's stats, like she had
memorized them for a grade six math quiz. And she insisted that his batting average was even higher than Babe Ruth's.

“He's shy two homers, Mayme,” Uncle George said. “And Ruth makes way more money. Otherwise, you're right—it's a tie.”

Aunt Mayme ignored Uncle George, leaned toward me, and lifted a hand slightly, trying not to point. “That's Johnnie Heving, Pius James. You know Heving, don't you? He's the fellow right behind Buddy Myers.” Uncle George had upset her and now she was showing off.

I followed her hand and searched among the players. I had never heard of Johnnie Heving and couldn't separate him from the others.

“Heving's a flash in the pan,” Uncle George said. “This is his second time around with the Sox and he hasn't done a thing all season. I reckon he'll be sent back to the minors this fall.”

“Maybe Mr. Carrigan wants to give our team a chance,” Aunt Mayme said. “Maybe he's just trying to even things out.”

“It's hardly even with that kinda line-up,” Uncle George said.

Sixteen Boston players found their dugout, which was really just a bench. Half the Everett Blues spread out on the diamond and over the field; the rest of them sat on their bench. Bill Carrigan moved behind home plate, strapped on his shin guards and a chest pad, grabbed his catcher's mitt, and waited. Lou Gehrig took his position on first base. An umpire, dressed in navy blue, walked past first base and stood behind the foul line. The other two Boston players and the rest of the Yankees moved toward the bleachers. I sat there, hoping they would climb up to where we were, like Uncle George had said. But they stepped up several steps, spread out, and found seats in the lower section. I looked out on the field—the pitcher's mound was empty.

“I thought Babe Ruth was pitching,” I said.

“So did I,” Aunt Mayme said.

Larry adjusted his glasses and stared at the entrance. “He's coming, isn't he?”

“Held up at the gate, no doubt,” Uncle George said. “Signing autographs or something.” The way his voice trailed off said he was worried.

“The man can't go anywhere and he gets mobbed,” Aunt Mayme said.

In the press box above us, Stonewall Jackson raised his bullhorn. “It appears the Everett Blues are without a pitcher. Would there be any volunteers?”

We all knew what he was getting at—Babe Ruth's conspicuous
absence. We scanned the entrance, the ball field, and the bleachers, hoping to catch a glimpse of America's most famous ballplayer. Hoping we would be lucky enough to find him sitting nearby, joking and signing autographs.

The man I had seen enter with the Yankees players strode across the park toward the entrance. Someone behind me said, “That's Miller Huggins—he'll find him.” The crowd hushed and waited. Sure enough, several minutes later, Mr. Huggins returned, the Babe sauntering beside him. When we stood and cheered, he tore off his ball cap and bowed in several directions. He strutted toward the pitcher's mound and stood with his arms crossed and a grin on his face. He reminded me of some of the smart-aleck boys in grade nine. I sat there, trying to figure out what it was about him that made him seem so different from the other players. And I wondered at my luck at being there. He seemed bigger and grander, despite the rumpled uniform. His grin lit up the whole park. Someone jogged across the field and delivered a ball and glove to him. The band struck up the opening bars of “The Star Spangled Banner.” We all stood, and the men removed their hats.

Larry and I joined in with Uncle George as his deep baritone rose
above the crowd. I watched the ballplayers on the diamond, in the outfield, and by their benches, holding their caps to their chests. I scanned the crowd that filled the bleachers and stood in the shade
of the big oak tree and saw my friend Jimmy O'Connor and some of the other boys Larry and I had played baseball with the day before. I thought about Jimmy O'Connor's insult. This wasn't the same Jimmy O'Connor I had played ball with in this very park, not so long ago. I shrugged it off and concentrated on the ball field.

Being there felt strange and familiar all at the same time. Think
ing how all those people had turned out to help our family stirred
something in me. Singing the familiar words to our national anthem was a comfort somehow. It grounded me to the place; it made me feel proud. I took in the happy faces around me and caught a glimpse of the Stars and Stripes that waved overhead. As we belted out the final stanza, Uncle George draped an arm over my shoulder and pulled me toward him. I looked up at his strong, familiar face and listened to his deep, comforting voice—the same voice as my dad's. Listening to Uncle George and having his arm around me made me feel more secure than I had in a long time. Made me feel like I belonged.

The music stopped and we all sat down. Mayor Roche ascended to the press box and picked up the bullhorn.

“Of course, the speeches,” Aunt Mayme said. “I suppose the mayor will take all the credit.”

“Give him more than that, Mayme,” Uncle George said. “You know the man's a team player.”

Mayor Roche thanked the governor for coming. He thanked the
Boston Red Sox, the New York Yankees, and Everett's own home team for playing. He thanked Bill Carrigan and Miller Huggins for volunteering their best players. He ran through a list of the mayors of Everett's surrounding boroughs and the managers of the local businesses and
banks that had sponsored the game. He thanked us all for coming.
Then he turned his attention to the diamond.

“No one has a bigger heart than that fellow standing right out there
on the mound,” Mayor Roche said. “He knew men had died in that
terrible accident at Northeastern…”

“Accident, my eye,” Aunt Mayme piped in. “It was negligence—
everybody knows that.”

“Forget about it for today, would you, Mayme?” Uncle George said. “It makes my blood boil too, you know.”

“…he knew women and children had been left behind with no one to support them,” Mayor Roche continued. “We only had to ask, and he came. So, on behalf of the Town of Everett and the City of Boston, I would like to extend my deepest appreciation to our own Babe Ruth for coming home.”

We all stood and cheered. Aunt Mayme covered her ears.

“That was short,” Uncle Jim said.