There was some doubt up to sailing time if Jimmie Foxx would make the trip at all.
Despite everyone else’s lukewarm reaction to my Jimmie Foxx encounter, for weeks I am still floating on air. I know they don’t think it will work, but I have a feeling about him.
“Jimmy! Jimmy!” I hear one morning, followed by an excited knock on the door.
“Hello, dear,” Ma welcomes Lola as she rushes past her to the kitchen.
“Hi, Mrs. Frances! Jimmy, did you see the news?”
“What news?” Jimmy asked.
“Jimmie Foxx is in the hospital!”
“What?”
She scans the newspaper in her hands. “It’s right here. Barney Brown, some lefty in Canada, hit him square in the head. Knocked him out cold!”
“Let me see that!” I grab it from her and look at each page for more information. “Oh no. He’s in the hospital.”
“Sorry, kid.” Pop slaps my back and starts to clear the breakfast dishes.
“Oh no,” I say over and over again. “He just has to be okay.”
“You won’t hear much news from Canada. Or Japan,” Pop says. “The players aren’t due back until the end of December.”
“I’m sure he’s okay, sweetheart,” Ma says. “Now let’s not become too distracted. Don’t forget it’s inventory day.”
“What?” I look up. “Oh, right. Lola, come with me. Let’s check the other papers first.”
She nods, and we rush out the door, practically knocking the milkman down along the way.
“Foxx never gets hit by pitches,” I pout. None of the other papers had anything to add. “Now he has more important things on his mind.”
“If he got hit as hard as they say, he might not have anything on his mind,” Lola says.
“Right. Maybe he’s asking the nurse to warm up his peach pie,” I say sarcastically. “What a stupid idea anyway. I bet he forgot about me as soon as I walked out of the clubhouse.”
“Well, we can’t control anything about it,” she says.
“That’s the problem. We can’t control anything about it.”
“We can control finishing this inventory so we can get to the park faster.”
An hour later, we are deep into the inventory, counting boxes of nails and hammers and hoses and bolts.
“Two Disston D-12 hand saws,” I yell down to Lola from high on the ladder.
“24- or 26-inch?” she yells back up, checking the clipboard.
“Um, 26. One Philadelphia Tool Company broad axe,” I yell back down.
“Did you say one, Jimmy?” Pop calls, turning down the radio. Bing Crosby is crooning “Just One More Chance.”
“Yes, Pop. And one Peck, Stow & Wilcox 6-inch monkey wrench, Cleveland,” I reply. Pop is at the front with Mr. Fletcher, and I hear him say that he’ll run down to Fishtown to pick up a few broad axes, but he’ll let the Peck wrenches sell out.
“Desperate times, Fletch,” Pop says. “We can’t be shipping in things from Ohio anymore.”
A few more guys come in to talk while Lola and I continue the work. One of them mentions the other big headline in today’s paper.
“Babe Ruth? Manage the A’s?”
“It’ll never happen,” Pop says. “Mack will never leave. And Babe will never come, no matter what the headline says.”
“Babe Ruth,” I whisper to Lola. “I could meet him next year, you know.”
“You are going to meet a lot of great players,” she whispers back.
“Except Jimmie Foxx, if his head isn’t fixed.”
“Well you already met him, anyway,” she says. “You know he might have already said something to Connie Mack. Before he got beaned in the head.”
“You think?”
“Why not? They’ve been traveling a lot already.”
“I sure hope so. All the players will thank me next year when they learn that I stopped the wall from being built.” I grin at the thought.
“The pitchers won’t thank you.”
“Good point,” I laugh.
“Hey Jimmy, what’s so funny up on that top shelf?” Mr. Fletcher says.
I clear my throat, “Nothing, Mr. Fletcher.” Quickly, I get back to work. I much prefer it when they don’t even realize we’re here. I hear one of them call me a “wide-eyed daydreamer” from below. Two aisles later and the men are still in the store.
“Sure would go faster if they did some work!” Lola says in a huff.
With each beer, their conversation becomes louder. In between inventory numbers, I hear bits and pieces:
… seven daughters!
… lost two big orders this week alone …
… Eagles will never be as good as the Frankford Yellow Jackets …
… arrested some guy named Hauptmann. Bruno Hauptmann …
… Bing Miller released …
I jerk and the ladder shakes a bit under me. Lola grabs and steadies it. We look at each other, eyes wide and straining to hear. I whisper no, no, no, and Lola covers her mouth in disbelief. Not Bing Miller. Not our right fielder. Not my lucky fish.
“I don’t believe it.” Pop sounds just as shocked as us.
“It’s in last night’s Evening Bulletin. Released and taking a manager role with some minor league team in Richmond.”
“Virginia?”
“Yeah, Virginia,” Mr. Fletcher says. There is a swoosh that sounds a lot like a newspaper hitting the back of someone’s head.
“He’s better off. With that Spite Fence coming,” Pop says.
“Say, when’s that hearing?”
“The end of November. That’ll settle it all, Fletch. No more appeals, no more fights. By noon on the thirtieth, we’ll know if the wall will be built or not.” There is a long pause. “That lawyer Dilworth is one slick character.”
“Tryin’ to make a name for himself,” Mr. Fletcher says in agreement. “So, we’ll know on the thirtieth. The day after Thanksgiving, no less.”
“Hey, let’s invite Dilworth to Kilroy’s Tap Room and pour some liquor in him for the holiday. Throw him off his game the next day,” Pop jabs.
“Nah.” Mr. Fletcher doesn’t see the humor. “As long as he shows up, we don’t stand a chance.”
As long as he shows up. The words ring in my head over and over. As long as he shows up. As long as he shows up.
“Lola!” I say in an urgent whisper. “I got it!” I scramble down the ladder. Lola follows.
“You got what?”
“A new idea. A way to save our view. And this one is going to work.”