“You throw a mean fastball, kid.”
Lennie stuttered. “Mr. Feller, sir.”
Bob Feller smiled that winning country smile he was known for. “Between you me, kid, you threw better than Satchel tonight. A heck of a lot better.”
Lennie dipped his head slightly, still feeling an imaginary ball in his hand. “Ball didn’t feel right, sir. Eight home runs. Never thrown like that in my life, sir.”
Feller watched him for a second, the smile fading slightly but not in an unfriendly manner. His eyes, in the afterglow of the stadium lights, were inquisitive. “Where are you from?”
“Baltimore, sir.”
“Ever play down here before? Against a white team?”
“No, sir.”
Feller nodded. “I’m from Iowa, myself. We do it a bit differently up there, kid. We do it fairly, if you get my meaning.”
Lennie looked at him. Turned the not-there ball over in his hand. Remembered every ball he’d ever thrown before that. In doing so, he felt some of his confidence come back. Along with an upswell of anger.
Feller noticed and shrugged. “This is Alabama. For what it’s worth, weren’t my idea. Didn’t even know until I saw how good you threw and how good they hit the ball.”
“We still won, sir.”
Feller nodded again. “Yes, you darn well did, son. You still won.” He tipped his cap. “Keep on throwing. You’ve got a heck of an arm. You remind me of myself when I came up.” He winked. “I might’ve been a bit more wild, though.”
The white man walked away. Lennie stood still for a minute, thinking it over. We still won. Well, yes they did. And got paid. Lennie let the imaginary ball drop from his hand. He’d soon fill that hand with cold hard cash. He didn’t need that damn ball any more, not tonight.