I shared a room with my two older brothers. My tiny space was decorated with drawings of grasshoppers, hollyhocks and cowboys like Ward Bond, star of the TV show Wagon Train, and James Garner of Maverick. From the ceiling hung two dozen model airplanes, my brother Mike had assembled from kits while recovering from Polio. Aircraft carriers, destroyers and battleships sat atop the cedar chest where mom kept her linens she saved from Grandma Schen. I loved the smell of that chest. My other brother Francis, who was very religious, had pictures of Saints and Popes around the room. Cathy, my little sister, decorated her half of the girls room with golf & tennis trophies, and basketball medals and ribbons she had collected over the years.
Dad said I invited bullying with my constant drawing of flowers and bugs. Baseball was what I needed in my life, and so came a trip to Crosby's Sporting Goods Store. Monday I was to go to Garfield Park with my friend Donny, and sister Cathy, to test our baseball skills and maybe find a game we could join in. With Donny's bat and ball and my brand new baseball glove, we took turns fielding, hitting and pitching while waiting for other kids to show up. Cathy, at 11, was already showing signs of being the athletic one. Cathy was pitching when Bobby Hearst showed up. White, tight t-shirt with a pack of cigarettes rolled in the one sleeve, Bobby was the typical teen back then, and nearly twenty years old, at least ten years older than Cathy. I was twelve, a big twelve. Donny, eleven I guess. Donny and I were both intimidated by Bobby picking up the bat and demanding a turn. My sister Cathy had no problem telling Bobby where to get off. I told her to pitch one to him which she did and he sent it down the third baseline screaming at me. Much to my surprise I snared it with my bare hand. Tossed the ball back to Cathy, like what I had just done was nothing. My hand stung like all hell, but I acted like it was nothing.
Bobby demanded another pitch. Cathy refused him. He was out because I had caught the ball on the fly. Both Donny and I yelled to Cathy to just pitch him another one. Now Cathy, at 11, was just starting her baseball career. Her next pitch was right at Bobby's head and he knew it was on purpose and charged the mound with bat in hand. I charged Bobby full speed, catching him off balance just as he was about to reach Cathy who was ready to swing at him. Driving him off the field into the home team's dugout we both tumbled with the dugout, over turning it as we went. The dugout seemed to fall apart as it toppled over with us inside. Bobby tangled in the broken dugout was yelling what he was going to do to us as he pushed free of the loose boards. Scrambling free, I yelled for Donny and Cathy to run. Scooping up the ball and bat, Donny and Cathy were at full speed, as I grabbed the glove. Running across two baseball fields and full speed through peoples yards - for two blocks we just ran. When I could not run any farther I stopped and turned ready to take my beating. No Bobby. Had I killed him? Cathy and Donny, still running, were a full block ahead. Lungs burning, dragging myself onward, I was thinking up a story to tell my folks over dinner about what had happened at the park. I stumbled the rest of the way home. That night was collection night for the paper route. Bobby's house was on my route. Would he turn his two pit bulls loose on me? I was sure death was waiting for me… or would the police come and take me away for murder?
