School ends, finally. I walk slowly and stop to tie my shoe, letting everyone else go ahead of me.
I try to walk casually toward Shibe and the doubleheader, but the excitement quickens my steps and I have to consciously slow myself down. I say hello to some of the grandparents sitting on their porches on 23rd Street, and turn at Santa’s old corner store, now boarded up. A block later, I finally give in and run the rest of the way to Shibe Park, hopping over curbs and faintly hearing a where you goin’ in such a rush? from someone to my left.
I arrive just in time to see the groups of kids walk up. Lola is heading toward me, and Operation Knothole Gang is ready to go. We both study the crowd.
“Just like any other Knothole Gang day,” she says. “We’ll blend right in. Time for Rule #15: Watch games from inside the ballpark on Knothole Gang days.”
“Yep. They’re wearing red today.” I rummage through my bag, searching through the colored badges left on the ground after games. Over the years we’ve collected them all—blue, yellow, green. I pull out two red badges looking good as new.
“Where are they from today?” she wonders aloud.
“I don’t know. Maybe West Philly? Or the suburbs? Sure is a big crowd.”
“I wonder who paid for all their tickets. That’s got to be an awful lot of money.”
“And our ticket,” I grin, handing her the badge and chain. She slides it over her head.
“Well whoever it is, I bet they’d help us stop that wall from being built. We’ll all have to watch games through the knotholes in the fence if it goes up.”
“That’s not going to happen. Not after our plan works,” I say and motion for us to join the crowd.
We lag a little behind the group as they head inside, and I scan the turnstile for a ticket-taker who doesn’t already know me. Normally, this is all a breeze, but today there is more at stake. My heart thumps a few times, and I stop for a minute to catch my breath.
“Over here,” Lola says, looking back and resting her hand on my arm. “It’s easy-peasy. We’ve done this before.” I nod.
We choose the ticket-taker on the right, and slide in line behind two ladies chatting over what concession food to eat first. They decide on Wilbur’s Famous Chocolate. That sounds pretty good to me.
The first lady quickly enters the ballpark, but the second one is having trouble with the turnstile, an old, rusty piece of junk with black paint chipping off the top. It jams and traps her as she tries to push it forward.
“Hold on, Miss. I’ll help.” I take the metal section behind her and place my hands on top of the bar, ready to push. The ticket-taker slips his hand into the section in front of her, ready to pull.
“One, two, three,” I say. Together we push–pull. The turnstile jerks, lurching the lady forward and into the ballpark corridor. I follow with a stumble, and I hear her cry out in pain. A small blood trail reveals a tiny cut on her leg, thanks to what looks like a broken, rusty pedal at the turnstile base.
“That doesn’t look too good, Miss,” I say. “We can show you to the first aid station.”
Lola comes through the turnstile next, and we brush the rust and dirt off our clothes. The line begins to back up, and the ticket-taker gives us a grateful nod and points in the direction of the first aid station. I assure him that I know the way, and together we disappear into the Shibe Park crowd.
“That was easy,” I whisper. Lola nods in agreement.
Lola and I take the two women to the first aid station and say goodbye, walking swiftly to where Ronny the Clubhouse Boy usually hangs out before games. It’s about ten minutes before we spot him near the door, where all the players are getting ready.
“Hey Ronny, over here.” Ronny looks up and smiles. He is much taller than me, skinny, and almost frail-looking in the A’s uniform. He makes his way over. Lola turns to a concession sign and pretends to study the menu.
“Jimmy Frank, what brings you inside?”
“I need to see Jimmie Foxx. I have to ask him a question. Can I bring his meal today?”
“Too late.” Ronny holds out a dirty plate and a greasy brown bag that has all the earmarks of Nick’s Restaurant from around the corner. My shoulders sink. “Besides, his tip is too big for me to pass it up. What’s so urgent?”
“Just a question. Any other time I can catch him?”
“He asked me to bring him peach pie between games,” he says pulling out a one-dollar bill.
“Wow, he’s a big tipper!”
“Yep. But it’s for the whole doubleheader,” he says, examining the bill.
“So if you already have the money, what does it matter?”
This is not ideal. The clubhouse between a doubleheader is always more hectic than beforehand. But at least I’ll have a reason to be in there.
“Alright.” He’s eyeing me up. “But if you get yourself caught, you didn’t see me today—you did this all on your own.”
I agree, and we shake on it. I spot Lola and shrug my shoulders. No sense in being upset. We have a plan. Now there is nothing we can do but find a seat, enjoy the first game, and practice how I am going to approach a two-time MVP.
The game is fast, and it feels a little like the guys on the field want to finish this one quickly. I bet the players hate doubleheaders during the last week of a losing season, when both teams are out of contention for the pennant.
For most of the game, we sit in some open seats along the first-base side. I keep my eye on Jimmie Foxx for any sign—something I can use to convince him to help me. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I still keep a close watch. He’s a keen player, gazing toward the hitter, motioning to the rest of the infield, using his signs. No matter what place the team is in, Jimmie is out to win. That’s what makes him an MVP.
It’s the top of the eighth inning when I notice two security guards hanging around us.
“Lola.” I nod my head in their direction.
“Wanna go for a pop?” Lola says loud enough for them to hear and tugs my shirt sleeve. “Come on.”
The first guard isn’t paying attention anymore, but the second one makes eye contact with me when I stand up. I quickly look down and pretend to check my pocket for change.
“Where’s your group?” he says as we pass. We stop and slowly turn around. I open my mouth but can’t find any words. Lola takes my hand in hers.
“Just on the other side. We just wanted to sneak away for a little,” she says in a sweet, soft voice. She blushes and actually looks lovestruck and embarrassed.
“Okay, run along. No funny business. You aren’t supposed to leave the group.”
“Yes, sir,” we both say and turn away. We lose them in the crowd and find an empty seat just by third base, below the left-field stands.
“How did you do that? Your face was bright red! Just like that!” I snap my fingers.
“Maybe I’ll be a big-screen actress, or a Broadway star.” She flips her hair and poses.
“You’d be good!”
Lola is still pretending to pose when I glance at the field and see Jimmie Foxx step out of the dugout. As he approaches the plate, I overhear a father telling his son about Foxx’s home run in game one of the 1929 World Series against Chicago.
I remember listening to the radio announcer that day, when he coined the now-famous phrase, Goodbye, Mr. Spalding! It was the first game of my first A’s World Series. I was eight years old.
Every inch of our house was packed with neighbors. Lola, Santa, Ralph, Matty, and I were on the steps overlooking the living room through the spindles, watching Ma and Pop and all their friends gathered around the radio. It was the seventh inning when Jimmie Foxx hit the bomb to tie the game at one apiece. The entire house erupted when we heard the crack of the bat and the announcer yell, “GOODBYE, MR. SPALDING!”
Goodbye, Mr. Spalding! It was like the announcer was shouting to a friend who was unexpectedly leaving the ballpark. With that call, baseballs became more than just a white ball with random words and colored thread. Baseballs suddenly had a personality.
Bing Miller came through in the ninth to drive in two runs for the win. Jimmie and Bing. And Mr. Spalding. It always seems to come down to them. The memory is as clear as if it happened yesterday.
“Snap out of it!” Lola nudges my shoulder, and I come back to focus.
Foxx hasn’t been great in the batter’s box today. He’s been up three times with nothing to show for it. The game is tied 4–4. The players look lazy, and the fans seem bored.
The view from this side of the field is different than I am used to. I hear some betting from the left-field stands. You’d think two guys gambling would be a little quieter. I look up and realize I can see my whole family watching from the roof.
Pop has his friends around him. He stretches his arms out with some sort of punchline and everyone laughs. Ma is leaning on the side of the bleachers, watching the game. Nina is by herself at the top, arms crossed. Santa, Ralph, and Matty are in the usual spot, probably wondering where we are. I wave my arms above my head.
“They can’t see you, dummy!” Lola says, and I slowly bring them down.
A chorus of giggles breaks out to the right and I notice three Knothole girls. Two of them start to whisper when I look. The third looks annoyed. She reminds me of Lola.
Something beneath the left-field stands catches my eye.
“What is that thing?” I squint, not sure of what I am seeing. Something sleek and long, deep red with a white pinstripe.
“Is that a boat?” Lola exclaims.
We both lean for a better look when we hear the crack. The ball is soaring high above the field. Washington’s Fred Sington in right field is stepping back and back and back. He’s going to catch it.
The ball starts to drop as Fred leaps, using the right-field wall as a boost, and stretching his glove hand toward the top edge. He momentarily grabs the ball, which sticks out of his glove like an ice cream cone—gasp from the crowd!—before falling over the fence for a home run. It was the greatest almost-catch I have ever seen.
But he didn’t catch it.
“GOODBYE, MR. SPALDING!” I shout.
“Now that’s something you should say to Foxx today!” She shakes her head in disbelief. “What are the chances he hits a right-field home run today! Of all days! Who would have guessed!”
“I think it’s our lucky fish,” I reply. We both can’t stop smiling as he finishes rounding the bases. “That’s two, you know.”
“What’s two?”
“His last two home runs went to right field. That doesn’t happen with a Spite Fence.”
“This really could work,” Lola says.
“It will work. Jimmie Foxx will help us stop this wall.”