It was the eighth inning, and the Yankees had what the sportswriters call a comfortable lead. It was comfortable for them, all right. Unless a miracle happened, they had the ball game locked up and put away. They would not be coming to bat again, and Mr. Hart didn’t like that any more than he was liking his thoughts, the thoughts he had been thinking ever since the fifth inning, when the Yanks had made their five runs. From the fifth inning on, Mr. Hart had been troubled with his conscience.
Mr. Hart was a car-washer, and what colored help at the Elbee Garage got paid was not much. It had to house, feed, and clothe all the Harts, which meant Mr. Hart himself; his wife, Lolly Hart; his son, Booker Hart; and his three daughters, Carrie, Linda, and the infant, Brenda Hart. The day before, Mr. Ginsburg, the bookkeeper who ran the shop pool, had come to him and said, “Well, Willie, you win the sawbuck.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Ginsburg, I sure do. I was watchin’ them newspapers all week,” said Mr. Hart. He dried his hands with the chamois and extended the right.
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, anduh tenner. Ten bucks, Willie,” said Mr. Ginsburg. “Well, what are you gonna do with all that dough? I’ll bet you don’t tell your wife about it.”
“Well, I don’t know, Mr. Ginsburg. She don’t follow the scores, so she don’t know I win. I don’t know what to do,” said Mr. Hart. “But say, ain’t I suppose to give you your cut? I understand it right, I oughta buy you a drink or a cigar or something.”
“That’s the custom, Willie, but thinking it over, you weren’t winners all year.”
“No sir, that’s right,” said Mr. Hart.
“So I tell you, if you win another pool, you buy me two drinks or two cigars. Are you going in this week’s pool?”
“Sure am. It don’t seem fair, though. Ain’t much of the season left and maybe I won’t win again. Sure you don’t want a drink or a cigar or something?”
“That’s all right, Willie,” said Mr. Ginsburg.
On the way home, Mr. Hart was a troubled man. That money belonged in the sugar bowl. A lot could come out of that money: a steak, stockings, a lot of stuff. But a man was entitled to a little pleasure in this life, the only life he ever had. Mr. Hart had not been to a ball game since about fifteen or twenty years ago, and the dime with which he bought his ticket in the pool every week was his own money, carfare money. He made it up by getting rides home, or pretty near home, when a truck-driver or private chauffeur friend was going Harlem-ward; and if he got a free ride, or two free rides, to somewhere near home every week, then he certainly was entitled to use the dime for the pool. And this was the first time he had won. Then there was the other matter of who won it for him: the Yankees. He had had the Yankees and the Browns in the pool, the first time all season he had picked the Yanks, and it was they who made the runs that had made him the winner of the ten dollars. If it wasn’t for those Yankees, he wouldn’t have won. He owed it to them to go and buy tickets and show his gratitude. By the time he got home his mind was made up. He had the next afternoon off, and, by God, he was going to see the Yankees play.
There was, of course, only one person to take; that was Booker, the strange boy of thirteen who was Mr. Hart’s only son. Booker was a quiet boy, good in school, and took after his mother, who was quite a little lighter complected than Mr. Hart. And so that night after supper he simply announced, “Tomorrow me and Booker’s going over to see the New York Yankees play. A friend of mine happened to give me a choice pair of seats, so me and Booker’s taking in the game.” There had been a lot of talk, and naturally Booker was the most surprised of all—so surprised that Mr. Hart was not sure his son was even pleased. Booker was a very hard one to understand. Fortunately, Lolly believed right away that someone had really given Mr. Hart the tickets to the game; he had handed over his pay as usual, nothing missing, and that made her believe his story.
But that did not keep Mr. Hart from having an increasingly bad time from the fifth inning on. And Booker didn’t help him to forget. Booker leaned forward and he followed the game all right but never said anything much. He seemed to know the game and to recognize the players, but never talked. He got up and yelled in the fifth inning when the Yanks were making their runs, but so did everybody else. Mr. Hart wished the game was over.
DiMaggio came to bat. Ball one. Strike one, called. Ball two. Mr. Hart wasn’t watching with his heart in it. He had his eyes on DiMaggio, but it was the crack of the bat that made Mr. Hart realize that DiMaggio had taken a poke at one, and the ball was in the air, high in the air. Everybody around Mr. Hart stood up and tried to watch the ball. Mr. Hart stood up too. Booker sort of got up off the seat, watching the ball but not standing up. The ball hung in the air and then began to drop. Mr. Hart was judging it and could tell it was going to hit about four rows behind him. Then it did hit, falling the last few yards as though it had been thrown down from the sky, and smacko! it hit the seats four rows behind the Harts, bounced high but sort of crooked, and dropped again to the row directly behind Mr. Hart and Booker.
There was a scramble of men and kids, men hitting kids and kids darting and shoving men out of the way, trying to get the ball. Mr. Hart drew away, not wanting any trouble, and then he remembered Booker. He turned to look at Booker, and Booker was sitting hunched up, holding his arms so’s to protect his head and face.
“Where the hell’s the ball? Where’s the ball?” Men and kids were yelling and cursing, pushing and kicking each other, but nobody could find the ball. Two boys began to fight because one accused the other of pushing him when he almost had his hand on the ball. The fuss lasted until the end of the inning. Mr. Hart was nervous. He didn’t want any trouble, so he concentrated on the game again. Booker had the right idea. He was concentrating on the game. They both concentrated like hell. All they could hear was a mystified murmur among the men and kids. “Well, somebody must of got the god-damn thing.” In two minutes the Yanks retired the side and the ball game was over.
“Let’s wait till the crowd gets started going, Pop,” said Booker.
“O.K.,” said Mr. Hart. He was in no hurry to get home, with the things he had on his mind and how sore Lolly would be. He’d give her what was left of the ten bucks, but she’d be sore anyhow. He lit a cigarette and let it hang on his lip. He didn’t feel so good sitting there with his elbow on his knee, his chin on his fist.
“Hey, Pop,” said Booker.
“Huh?”
“Here,” said Booker.
“What?” said Mr. Hart. He looked at his son. His son reached inside his shirt, looked back of him, and then from the inside of the shirt he brought out the ball. “Present for you,” said Booker.
Mr. Hart looked down at it. “Lemme see that!” he said. He did not reach for it. Booker handed it to him.
“Go ahead, take it. It’s a present for you,” said Booker.
Suddenly Mr. Hart threw back his head and laughed. “I’ll be god-damn holy son of a bitch. You got it? The ball?”
“Sure. It’s for you,” said Booker.
Mr. Hart threw back his head again and slapped his knees. “I’ll be damn—boy, some Booker!” He put his arm around his son’s shoulders and hugged him. “Boy, some Booker, huh? You givin’ it to me? Some Booker!”
(1939)