There’s this remarkable little kid in my reading-writing group. His name is Darryl Potter. He’s seven, he’s black, and I swear if he works really hard he could be another Henry Aaron. I mean it. You should see this kid hit.
He bats righthanded but I’m trying to turn him into a switch-hitter. He’s a little resistant, though. I keep explaining the advantage it will give him later on, but he doesn’t care about later on, he just wants to have fun. I’m trying to break that attitude, but he’s very stubborn. He also has a little temper. When he gets mad he calls me a butthead. Otherwise he addresses me as Mister Butthead.
In our staff meeting this morning this girl Peggy asked me about that, about Darryl calling me Mister Butthead.
I explained that a couple weeks ago he started calling me a butthead—just trying out a funny new insult—and I said to him, making light of it, “That’s Mister Butthead to you.” And he took me seriously.
Joel removed his unlit pipe from his mouth. “It’s clear the boy doesn’t intend any real disrespect. In fact, it may even be a term of genuine affection. Still, he is calling you a butthead, ‘Mister’ or otherwise.”
Sarah wanted to know what exactly is a butthead, anyway. “I mean, what are you saying about a person when you call him that?”
“Well, anatomically speaking,” Eric said, “if you have a butt for a head, you obviously don’t have a whole lot of brains. In fact you’d have, well, let’s face it, shit for brains.”
Stan wasn’t sure he agreed. He felt the term had less to do with being stupid than with being foolish.
Jeremy said it meant both: “When you call someone a butthead you’re saying the person is basically a stupid fool.”
Everyone looked over at me, I guess to see how it fit.
I played with my pen.
Miriam finally spoke. She’s the executive director here, a handsome black woman in her fifties with beautiful hands and this elegant serenity that bugs me a little. She said the question is simply this: by allowing Darryl to call me a butthead, what kind of message are we sending him and the other children?
So that went around the table for a while.
Conclusion: a bad message.
We moved on to a discussion of upcoming Black Awareness Week.
This afternoon I take Darryl aside after our reading-writing group and squat down on my haunches, put my hands on his shoulders, look him in the eye and tell him, “I don’t want you to call me Mister Butthead anymore, Darryl. All right?”
“Why not?”
“Because it sends a message that you think I’m a stupid fool. Is that the message you want to send?”
He nods.
“But what if it hurts my feelings, Darryl?”
He shrugs.
“All right, look. Just don’t use it in front of any grownups, okay?”
“Why not?”
“Because it makes me look bad, letting a kid call me a butthead.”
“Mister Butthead.”
“Right. Tell you what. Let’s make it simple. Don’t call me a butthead or Mister Butthead any more—anywhere, anytime. Otherwise, you and I are all through hitting baseballs.” I don’t mean it, but how is he to know? “All right? Clear enough?”
Tears appear in his big brown eyes.
So I tell him I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, he can call me anything he likes, and give him a hug.
He locks his arms around my neck.
“Still buddies,” I tell him, “right?”
“Would you pitch to me?”
“Not right now. A little later.”
“No. Now.”
“Darryl…”
“You’re choking me.”
“Please?”
“Let go, Darryl. I can’t breathe.
“Will you pitch to me?”
“Darryl …”
“Will you?”
“Yes.”
“Right now?”
“Yes!”
He lets go.
Powerful little arms on him.
We’ve got a large plastic bucket full of rubber balls and a nice little twenty-eight-inch Louisville Slugger. That’s what started it all, when I found the bucket and bat in a closet in the gym. I was with Darryl looking for some stupid action-figure he’d lost. He was all upset about it, so I said let’s go hit some balls and we went out behind the Settlement House where I scratched in his strike zone with a stone against the brick wall and started lobbing pitches to him, underhand. He was terrible, missing the ball by a foot. That was a month ago. Now I’m standing forty-five measured feet away, throwing overhand, hard, and he’s belting them one after another. The kid’s amazing.
Today though, he seems a little unfocused, falling back into some bad habits.
“Darryl, what’d I tell you about your front shoulder?”
“First answer my question.”
“What.”
“Your front shoulder. Where are you supposed to keep it?”
“Pointed at you.”
“All right, then.”
I throw … and duck just in time.
“Attaboy,” I tell him. “Take my head off.”
“Your butthead.”
“Okay. Now I want you to switch,” meaning I want him to bat lefthanded for a while.
“I don’t wanna” he says.
“Don’t give me a hard time. Let’s go. Other side.”
“Why can’t I just do it this way?”
“I already told you, Darryl. I already explained. Against a right-handed pitcher a lefthanded batter has a much better chance than a righthanded batter, and against a lefthanded pitcher a righthanded batter—are you listening?”
“Uh-huh.”
“The point is, the batter who can hit both ways always has a much better chance. And that’s what you’re gonna have, Darryl.”
“Can’t I just—”
“Listen. Someday you’ll thank me. When that pro scout comes walking up after your high school game and says, ‘Darryl, would you please sign your name on this contract?’—you’re gonna say to yourself, ‘Thank you, Mister Butthead, thank you.’ I only wish someone made me bat from both sides, Darryl.”
I might not be here throwing rubber balls to a seven year old.
“I don’t wanna do lefty,” he says.
“Okay. Well, I guess we’re all through here. Help me round up the balls.”
“I’ll do lefty.”
“Attaboy.”
Monday’s the beginning of Black Awareness Week. On Friday each of the Settlement House groups will give a little presentation on the gymnasium stage for members of the community. I’ve got the kids in my reading-writing group doing historical figures. Latisha’s going to be George Washington Carver; Allen will be Frederick Douglas; Gregory is W.E.B. Dubois; Jonella is Harriet Tubman; Erica is Rosa Parks; James is Martin Luther King; and I want Darryl to be Jackie Robinson, but he’s giving me trouble. He wants to be King.
I tell him after class he can’t be King because James is going to be King.”
“You said we could choose.”
“I know but you can’t both be King.”
“Let James be Jackie Robinson. He don’t even care. He tole me.”
“Darryl, I’m really surprised. I thought you’d wanna be Jackie Robinson. You know, if it wasn’t for him—”
“I wanna be King.”
“Then I don’t wanna be in it.”
I shrug. “That’s up to you.”
“You’re a ugly butthead.”
I sadly shake my head. “And you want to be Martin Luther King?”
“You’re Martin Luther Butthead!” he yells, and runs crying from the room.
Next morning Miriam wants to see me in her office. She’s just had a long conversation over the phone with Darryl’s grandmother.
“Why won’t you let Darryl be Martin Luther King?”
She’s sitting behind her desk with this intense calmness, or this calm intensity. She offered me a chair but I said my back’s bothering me. I want the height advantage.
“James Davenport is doing King,” I explain.
“According to Darryl, James doesn’t care who he plays. So why not—”
“I just think Jackie Robinson would make an excellent role model for Darryl, that’s all.”
“Whereas King wouldn’t?”
“Jackie Robinson would be more appropriate.”
“Because?”
“Okay. You’re aware that I’ve been pitching to Darryl in back of the building, right?”
“Yes, and I think it’s wonderful.”
“I have never seen a kid his age swing a bat the way he does. And he learned it like that,” snapping my fingers. “He couldn’t even make contact with the ball a month ago and now he’s like a—like a machine.”
“A machine.”
“No. Look. He begs me to pitch to him. You should come watch. That’s a very happy kid out there. And I’m tellin’ ya, he’s a natural.”
“Now, that word makes me very nervous.”
“All I’m saying is, the kid was born with a gift, with tremendous hitting instinct.”
“Instinct. I see.”
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“Do you?”
“Instinct versus intelligence, all that. But hey, Jackie Robinson was a very intelligent man. And what better role model for a kid who wants to be a ballplayer, you know?”
“Did Darryl tell you that? That he wants to be a ballplayer?”
“Not in so many words. But all you gotta do is see him out there. He loves it.”
“I loved playing baseball at his age, too. And I also loved playing nurse. And reading books.”
“With all due respect, Miriam—”
She holds up her hand. “Keep your respect. The point is, it’s up to Darryl what he wants to be, and I think you’re trying to make that decision for him. So. Here’s the deal. You let him play Martin Luther King. Give Jackie Robinson to James.”
I’m not sure why I’m being so stubborn. I guess I don’t trust Darryl to decide on his own to be a ballplayer. He needs guidance. And anyway I don’t like Miriam telling me what to do with him. He’s my project.
“Sorry,” I tell her.
“I see,” she says. “Well. In that case, I’m afraid you can no longer work here.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I assure you, I’m not.”
“You’re firing me?”
“That’s correct.”
“I’m a volunteer”
“No longer.”
“Fine. I was quitting anyway. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I might be willing to stay, under one condition: Darryl plays Jackie Robinson.”
“Sorry.”
“Then I’m afraid I can no longer work here.”
“Your resignation is accepted.”
On my way to the Greyhound Bus depot, I go up an extra block to Lambert Road so I can walk with my two suitcases and sad face past the school playground. The day is turning cool, the sun going in and out. A little drizzle, of course, would be perfect.
As usual the place is crawling with kids. I don’t look for him. I just walk by very slowly, head lowered, suitcases almost skimming the sidewalk.
Sure enough, before I reach the end of the block I hear behind me, “Mister Butthead!”
I slowly set down my suitcases and slowly turn around.
“Where you going?” he says, standing there about ten yards aways, arms at his sides.
“I’m going home, Darryl. To Chicago. Where I’m from. Goodbye.”
I want to break his little heart.
“Whaddaya got in there?” he says, pointing at the suitcases, sounding not at all heartbroken.
“Clothes,” I tell him. “And my baseball glove,” I add.
“You were gonna get me one.”
“I know I was. But I can’t now.”
“Why not?”
“Because Miriam said I have to leave.” I hold back from adding Thanks to you, and pick up my suitcases and walk slowly away.
“Hey!”
I keep walking.
“Mister Butthead!”
I suddenly realize I’ll never see Darryl again.
I turn around and tell him to come here.
He walks up, a little cautiously, and stands before me. I get down and put my hands on his shoulders: “Darryl, listen to me, okay?”
But I’m not sure what I want to tell him, what I want him to know. I ask him to give me a hug and he puts his strong little arms around my neck. “I’m gonna miss you,” I tell him. Thafs what I want him to know.
“Will you pitch to me?”
“I wish I could, Darryl.”
“Please?”
“I can’t. I’m sorry. I really am.”
“Please, Mister Butthead?”
“Darryl …”
“Pleeease?”
“Darryl, you’re choking me.”
As I sit there staring out the window on the bus trip home, it occurs to me that I’m turning out to be kind of a failure. Kind of a butthead, in fact.