THE rest of that July was a whirlwind. McGraw put Skip back in the Giants’ lineup and he excelled, hitting the ball more often than not and earning a batting average close to .400. He was pretty good in the field too, making a key play against the Cubs one week and another the next week against the Cardinals. Walt kept saying he couldn’t understand why none of the other papers had picked up on what a phenomenon Skip Littlefield was, but the Yankees’ Murderers’ Row was still dominating the headlines, and even Skip couldn’t save the Giants from losing spectacularly a few times in the same period. Skip was overshadowed again when Ty Cobb got his four thousandth hit and that was all anyone could talk about for a few days.
Skip didn’t mind. It gave him some freedom to behave how he wanted, to play baseball for the love of the game instead of to win, and to spend as much free time as he could with Walt. They went to clubs and speakeasies, they went to shows on Broadway, and they made love passionately in Walt’s apartment whenever Skip was in town.
Skip’s roommates started teasing him about all the nights away. Skip just shrugged and said he had a sweetheart who lived in the Village—technically true—and he didn’t want to jinx a good thing by introducing said sweetheart to his friends just yet. Joe seemed to get that, since he’d been secretive about his girl Estelle when they’d first gotten together. Mickey had made a joke about how he didn’t think Skip had it in him to be spending the night with a young lady—to which Skip had replied without thinking, “It’s not what you think”—and then a lot of ribbing had ensued. The teasing made Skip uncomfortable, but it seemed mostly harmless.
One night, Walt took him up to the Cotton Club to hear Duke Ellington play. Skip had never seen anything like it. The floor show was a stage full of chorus girls with skin much darker than Skip’s, who twirled around in a choreographed dance wilder and racier than anything Skip had ever seen before. When the audience was invited to dance, a pretty white girl asked Skip to go with her, and he obliged, although he would have rather danced with Walt. Still, he’d never heard jazz like this, and he’d never seen such marvelous dancing.
He was feeling giddy and overwhelmed as he sat with Walt at a table in the corner. “This is fantastic!” he said.
Walt smiled broadly. “I really love the music here. I’m happy you’re enjoying yourself.”
Skip sighed happily and sat back in his chair. He reached over and squeezed Walt’s hand briefly before letting it go. The last week had been beyond belief, with Skip still wondering what Walt saw in him, why Walt wanted to spend so much time together. Not that Skip was complaining; he liked Walt a great deal and he was having a lot of fun.
“Did you see the Mirror today?” Walt asked.
“No.” Skip laughed, because he knew Walt knew better.
“Oh, there was a story about the National League I enjoyed. A lot of predictions for the season. I thought it might be interesting to get your take on some of them.”
“What were the predictions?”
“Pirates, Cardinals, Giants. Any of those could win the pennant. The Cubs are maybe in there, but probably not.”
“Seems about right.” Skip didn’t think much of the Cubs’ chances, but they were definitely a tough team to beat.
“You do know that the main reason the Giants are even in it is you.”
Skip scoffed. “That’s hardly true. There’s Hornsby and Bill Terry and….” He let it go and looked at Walt. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
“I’m apparently the only one who does. You’ve really got something, though. You’ll go far. People will remember you.”
Skip sipped his drink and shook his head.
“This reading thing,” Walt said. “I’ve been thinking about it. You can tell me to buzz off, but I thought maybe…. I mean, you said the words jump around on the page sometimes, right?”
Skip wondered what that had to do with anything. He shrugged. “Sometimes.” He decided to play like this situation didn’t bother him, though he did not want to discuss reading with Walt.
“There are disorders, real problems in the brain that can cause that. That is, there’s nothing wrong with you. Over time, you could learn to read better. You’re not stupid. You’re just… built a little differently.”
This conversation was making Skip nervous. He looked around the room. Everyone seemed to be intent on their own conversations or the band or the flurry of activity on the dance floor. Skip lowered his voice. “How can you say that? I’m broken. Never amounted to anything. I can’t fix things. I have trouble reading. I couldn’t finish school. I want… the wrong things.” And that was how he felt, deep in his soul.
Walt smiled. “You’re not broken. I still believe now what I believed that first night we talked. You’re a genius in some ways. Do you think I’m smart?”
“Of course.”
“I can’t fix a car. I’ve never even driven a car. Who needs one when you’ve got the subway?”
“Oh.”
“I can’t hit a baseball, either. Never was any good at the sport. I just like to watch it.” Walt reached under the table and squeezed Skip’s knee. “No one was put on this earth to be great at everything. Each of us has our own ability that makes us special. For you, it’s baseball. But you’re great in other ways too. You’re sweet and caring and….” Walt looked around and lowered his voice. “You’re sexy and funny and smart in your own ways. And you don’t think of me as broken, do you?”
“No, of course not.” Skip really didn’t, either.
“Maybe we’re both a little bit bruised and bent, but in similar ways, don’t you think?”
Skip gazed at Walt, his heart in his throat. How could Walt see all these things in him? Had anyone ever seen these things in him?
“I wish I could kiss you right now,” Skip whispered.
Walt smiled. “I wish that too. Maybe we should get out of here so we can go somewhere we can do that.”
Skip laughed. “Maybe we could listen a little while longer. But thank you.”
WALT brought Skip to the new Saks Fifth Avenue department store to buy a new suit. Walt offered to pay, but Skip insisted he buy it himself with his baseball salary. His rent was cheap in the shared apartment, and he was drawing a decent, although not great, salary from the Giants, so he had money squirreled away.
“Wide-leg trousers are fashionable this year,” Walt explained as they walked together. “In the magazines, they say you should wear a white carnation tucked into the top buttonhole of your jacket, but you can see how well I follow that advice.” Today, the flower vendor on Forty-Third Street had carnations in a deep violet color, so Walt had pinned one of those to his lapel before leaving Times Square to meet Skip.
“This is important to you,” Skip said as he touched the sleeve of a lovely chocolate-brown suit jacket.
“I like fashion,” Walt said. “Well, specifically, I like beautiful things. Present company included.”
Skip blushed.
“I realize that, as an athlete, you don’t have to have the nicest wardrobe. The public will forgive you if you wear that beat-up old bowler hat everywhere.” Walt flicked at the brim of the hat, setting it askew. “But humor me. Let me dress you. You look good now, but think about how great you could look.” Skip laughed and set his hat to rights.
“I don’t really care,” said Skip.
“Hmm.” Walt didn’t believe that. He did care, at any rate. “Well, it’s summer. We need lighter fabrics. Maybe this gabardine.”
And so they shopped. Walt enlisted the help of a handsome salesman who clearly knew what he was doing. They put Skip in several different suits, finally settling on a light-brown wool and a more classic black suit, both cut nicely. A tailor appeared and took Skip’s measurements. Walt picked out a few Arrow shirts, showing the sharp points on the collar to Skip. He also bought a new straw boater hat with a bright red ribbon on it for himself. That last purchase was just for fun.
It brought Walt great pleasure to put Skip in more fashionable clothes and, as predicted, Skip was even more handsome in a nice suit instead of an old, worn suit or a baseball uniform. More than that, he was still bashful, blushing whenever Walt or the salesman complimented him, which Walt found endearing.
Walt wore his new hat outside and grinned at the sunshine and his companion. They walked down Fifth Avenue, looking for a place to eat. They stumbled into a cafeteria—half the places to eat in the city seemed to be cafeterias these days, much to Walt’s chagrin—and ate a quick dinner.
It had been a nice day, Walt reflected as they rode the elevated train downtown to his apartment. Skip had been smiling through a lot of it.
“I hope you don’t mind that I’m doing all this,” Walt said. “I suppose I’m grooming you a little to be the next big it baseball star. How old is Babe Ruth now? Early thirties, I believe. And he wasn’t much of a student either, as I recall. You and the Babe have a lot in common, actually. So who knows? In five years, that could be you.”
Skip shook his head. “I’ll never be like Babe Ruth.”
“Why? You hit as well as he does.”
“No, I mean… he’s everywhere. The Sultan of Swat. That’s what they call him, right?” Skip glanced around the train car. “Remember last week when we saw him? That getup was ridiculous. Who wears a fur coat in July? And the woman he was with was not his wife.”
“True. I’ve seen photos of Helen, and that is not what she looks like.” Walt smirked. “You’re right. I can’t imagine you parading around with women who are not your wives.”
Skip laughed and shook his head. “I don’t want that kind of attention. You know that.”
“I do know that. But you could be a more quiet presence on the field, like Gehrig, and play well and get the accolades. Get stories written about you.”
Skip’s star shone so brightly. Walt understood why he didn’t want to be in the spotlight, but he deserved credit for playing the game so well, more credit than a lot of the media were giving him considering he was still being labeled a fluke.
Skip kept shaking his head. “You see things in me that nobody else does. I just don’t understand.”
Walt shrugged. “It’s a gift.”