A’s scout declared that Connie Mack is building up another great team and that he will not sell any more of his stars.
The sidewalk near the employee entrance to Shibe Park is busier than we expect. The streets are not clear. We set up next to the employee door and try to look busy by building a snowman, waiting for everyone to clear out, or at least look the other way.
“Keep your eye out for the Polinskis,” I say, shooting looks up and down the street.
“Don’t worry—they won’t come around with me here,” Lola says. I do believe she truly thinks she can take them on.
We did not expect the snowman itself to draw attention. All of the neighborhood kids are stopping by to lend a hand. Kids come and go, but Ralph, Matty, and Santa stay close to help finish.
“He looks naked,” Santa says.
“I’ll go find a hat,” Ralph says, pointing to the snowman’s head.
“He’ll still look naked. I’ll go find rocks for buttons,” Santa says, walking toward Reyburn Park.
“Nobody has come in or out of Shibe for an hour,” I whisper to Lola.
“Golly, my fingers are gonna fall off.” Matty holds up red, uncovered hands. Ralph slaps the back of his head and calls him an idiot. They both start to walk away in search of hats and mittens.
It’s the first time the street has been deserted all day. We make a dash for the door. I fumble for the key in my pocket, and my cold hands have trouble sliding it into the lock.
“Come on,” Lola urges, and I shoot her an I’m trying look.
The door unlocks and opens easily, and we sneak in. Lola wipes away some of our footprints from outside the door just before I close it.
It’s dark inside the Shibe Park hallway. I fumble in my bag and find my flashlight. We shake off our gloves and shove them in our pockets, making our way toward the stairs.
“It feels so damp and cold,” Lola says through chattering teeth. I realize that I am shaking too, and I’m not sure if it’s the weather or my nerves. But it’s more than that. The normally warm and welcoming Shibe Park feeling is missing.
We creep along the wall, and I motion with my hand at the stairs on the right. We make it to the second floor, and it’s even darker than the first. The flashlight is a help, and we turn the corner to find ourselves in front of the two office doors.
I unlock the same door Mr. Pott showed me a few weeks ago. We hear a loud creeeeeak as the door swings open. Lola’s eyebrows rise, and I grab the door before it can make any more noise. We rush in and close it behind us.
We stand flat against the door breathing heavily.
Lola motions with her chin to the desk, where there are a pile of papers and stacks of folders. No tubes, and nothing that looks like what Mr. Pott and I carried upstairs. They have to be here somewhere.
We first open the closet and spy a raincoat and some boxes of papers. I point to a safe in the corner and nudge her.
“I hope they aren’t in there,” I whisper.
We make our way to the desk and look through everything. There are timecards from employees, newspaper clippings of A’s headlines, and letters that look like they are waiting for Shibe’s signature. Yesterday’s Sporting News article is cut out and sits in the middle of the desktop.
“This is to Fox Movietone News,” I say, holding a letter from John Shibe. “He’s telling them that they won’t be able to gain news footage from the rooftops next season.”
“And look at this! The Yankees offered $250,000 for Pinky Higgins and Eric McNair. It’s from someone named Ira Thomas.”
“He’s the A’s scout. That’s an awful lot of money.”
“How can anyone have that much money in the whole wide world?”
“These are like the purchase orders at Pop’s store.” We continue to look through the pile. There are orders for grass seed and cleaning supplies. That’s when I notice it.
The top of the invoice says Warner Central Mix & Concrete Construction Company. The materials are listed for an “Iron Wall, 20th Street side,” with payment due by December 31, 1934. Lola and I stare at each other. About halfway down is a red stamp that says “Invoice,” and below that in block letters: “MATERIALS DELIVERED UPON RECEIPT OF PAYMENT.”
We both hear a click and lock eyes. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.
I barely have time to think before Lola grabs my arm, shoves me around the desk and pulls me underneath, and then slides the chair in as far as it will go. We cram in the cubby hole, pressing ourselves as far back into the desk’s back panel as we possibly can.
The now-familiar creeeeeak echoes as the door opens. We stare at each other as our eyes adjust in the small dark space under the desk. I shove the invoice into my coat pocket and quietly fumble with my flashlight to click it off.
I realize she’s holding her breath, and I nudge her foot. I overexaggerate letting out some air, which prompts her to do the same. We are careful not to move an inch, careful not to make a peep. There is a shuffling of footsteps, followed by a couple of grunts.
I can’t see who is in the office, but I still know. John Shibe is walking toward the desk.
Lola squeezes her eyes tight and mouths the word no, and I brace myself. There is sweat dripping down the sides of my temples. I wish I could peel off every layer right now. Only ten minutes ago, I was freezing from the cold.
We both silently try to squeeze back into the desk as far as possible. I pray for more space to magically appear. But there is no place to go. If Shibe walks around and tries to sit down, he will definitely find us. I’ll be out as batboy. Pop’s store will lose any future orders. The Sheridans will lose their uniform contract. And the Spite Fence will definitely go up.
John Shibe is now standing in front of the desk, exactly where we were only seconds before. He is inches from our heads, and we are hidden only by the back desk panel—a thin piece of wood. We can hear pages shuffle and a couple more grunts. Lola’s eyes widen, and I know she’s thinking about how messy we left those papers.
I hear a fizz that sounds like a bottle of pop opening, and a hard knock on the table as he sets it down.
“Dammit!” Shibe grunts, before we hear him rearrange a few more pages and let out a huge belch. Even with all of the boys in the neighborhood farting and burping all day long, I have no idea how someone can burp that loud, or sound so disgusting.
My head brushes something taped underneath the desk drawer, and a tiny piece of paper, the size of a quarter, falls on my lap. I put it in my pocket and take Lola’s hands to keep them from shaking.
We continue to huddle close, tensely looking at one another. Even under this dark wooden desk, I can see that she is white as a ghost. What have I done?
A couple of grunts later, John Shibe shuffles his way out of the room and slams the door behind him. I wonder if he’s looking for the invoice in my pocket.
Lola and I don’t say a word to each other. We carefully creep out from under the desk, leave everything as it is, and move toward the door. I pause and wonder if he knows we are inside the room. Maybe he’s waiting outside the door, ready to pounce. But there is really nothing else we can do. It’s our only chance to escape.
I open the door and go first, see that the coast is clear, and wave for her to follow. She carefully closes the door and doesn’t bother locking it. We hustle through the hall and down the steps and rush outside. Lola doesn’t even check to see if the street is clear before she pulls me out. We look at each other as the door closes behind us.
“Hey! Where’d you guys come from?” A confused Santa looks up with his eyebrows raised. I smile, relieved.
“Dipping into your father’s whisky again?” Lola says.
Santa looks at us like we are the crazy ones, which it’s obvious that we are. The snowman now has a top hat, twigs for arms, and rocks for the nose and eyes. Santa pulls a pipe from his pocket and adds it as a finishing touch. We both try to act as calm as possible.
“Doesn’t he look great,” I say.
“Perfect,” she replies.
There are a thousand things running through my head and an invoice in my pocket.
We need to get home, and we need to get home now.