Lennie’s shoulders slumped as he saw Satch trudge out of the dugout. Satch didn’t look upset; he was smiling, as he did during these games, knowing he’d walk away from this off-season a rich man. Satch could smile; he had it better than some of the white players. He was business-savvy like that, and also thoroughly ruthless when it came to self-promotion.
But Satch loved his boys, and when he took the ball from Lennie’s hand, he looked the young pitcher in the eye and said, “Good lord, son, you can strike ‘em out like ain’t nobody’s bizness. I’ll get Goldy in here to hold it for ya.”
Lennie smiled, even though they were losing. Satch always made him smile.
The Black team ended up coming back to win, because the best of the white players didn’t play very long, and other than Lennie and a couple of other kids, the Negro Leagues were well-represented. Black men in their prime beat white men who had yet to reach or had already left theirs. Lennie sat in the dugout, staring at his right hand, moving his fingers around, trying different grips. The ball felt better now that he wasn’t holding it.
After the game, Lennie was one of the first to head to the bus that Satch had gotten for them. An actual bus. Not a fancy one, it leaked exhaust that was only filtered by windows that didn’t lower all the way and a few old bullet holes, but at least they weren’t all crammed in a few cars, sitting on each other’s laps like Lennie had done during the season. The bus was a downright luxury.
Lennie clenched and unclenched his right fingers as he walked. Imagined a ball there, imagined himself squeezing it until it burst. That’s how he liked to grip a baseball. Like he owned the damn thing. It was his until it was taken from him. Tonight, he hadn’t owned the ball, it had owned him.
A voice interrupted his anger: “Hey, kid.”
He froze. A white man’s voice—casual, unafraid. A man in control at all times.
Lennie turned slowly, his eyes slowly latching onto the tall, lanky figure that approached him. He moved with a confident swagger, and it was only because of Lennie’s memories of his father’s stories that he didn’t see the uniform at first, or recognize the face that constantly graced the newspapers.