Color: Special Edition

4. Dilemma

Trotting off the field, Henry could feel the burning stares from the Pioneers players as the teams switched sides. Boos erupted from the white stands, spreading like wildfire from one section to the next, until the entire stadium buzzed like thousands of angry hornets.

"It's just an exhibition game," Coach had said earlier. "We pay our respects to those draftees. We get us a scrimmage before the season. It'll all be fine."

Fine, my foot.

True, the opening ceremony had gone without a hitch. A megaphone man announced each army cadet by name before Mayor Dunlop delivered a fiery speech. "I have no doubt these young cadets will make Hester and our fine country proud as they journey abroad to fight and defeat the Kaiser and his evil empire." On that dramatic note, the fans cheered as did both teams, the umpires, vendors, and security guards throughout the stadium.

Before the opening pitch, opposing dugouts traded some good-natured banter, ranging from who had the best arm to who could run the fastest. Then Coach Brown and Coach Elliot from the Pioneers met halfway between the dugouts and shook hands, a moment captured by a young, sandy-haired photographer armed with a box camera set on a tripod.

The game underway, the Pioneers struck first with a solo home run in the first inning. They punched in another run in the second. Finally, Henry answered with a monster homer in the top of the fourth. With momentum in their favor, the Rooks almost tied the game, and that probably gave the Pioneers one heck of a scare.

In the bottom of the fourth, the Pioneers switched their strategy, started sliding into the bases feet first, aiming spikes like bayonets. Coach Brown hollered, "This supposed to be an exhibition!" The head umpire laugh at that, his cheeks glowing a mocking red.

In the span of four innings, the colored players got gashed in the shins, shoulder-checked trying to tag out runners, sucker-punched, shoved off the bases, and beaned four times by fast balls. Not to mention the insults and slurs. Some folks even covered their children's ears.

But Henry heard everything. Endured everything. He had collected every verbal and physical abuse in a mental piggy bank that was going to get smashed open with his next big hit.

Now in the dugout, Coach Brown belted a different tune. "Watch your backsides out there. They done turned this show into a fight." Outside, the crowd was deafening, and a chant repeated over and over: Rooks are done, Pioneers have won.

Henry turned his gaze beyond the dugout. To the outfield. To the Pioneers, warming up, like a cocky bunch on a school yard waiting for the next victim to pick on. He knew most of the Pioneers players' names, but three stood out: Jake Westin, the pitcher; Rusty Ryan, catcher; and first baseman Garrett Hayes. They had dealt him and the Rooks the most vicious attacks.

Along the first base line, a hunched backed announcer, wearing a black tuxedo and bow tie, shuffled around like a four-foot-two penguin. The fans quieted as he raised a huge silver megaphone to his lips and shouted, "Ladies and Gentleman! For the Rooks, Charles Parks up, Maurice Jones on deck, and Henry Louis in the hole."

Henry leaned against the dugout wall. He studied the wooden scoreboard in left field, wanting to get the situation straight in his head: Top of the ninth, 1–2, Pioneers on top. This was the Rook's last shot to win the game.

And so the ninth inning started with Old Man Charles, knocking a looping fly ball that fell to its death in the glove of the second baseman. A new guy, Henry thought, one with lanky arms and enough facial hair for a two-pound wig.

Next up was Maurice "Flash" Jones, five-foot-four of rail-thin muscle and lightning speed. No lie, he could run the bases in 14.7 seconds. And as fast as Henry was, he had only bested Maurice once in a one-hundred yard dash and only after the speedster tripped near the end.

Henry stepped up from the visiting dugout and gave Maurice an expectant nod. Boy, you get on base, and I'll bring us home. Maurice returned a tense look.

After the windup, Jake delivered a red-hot fastball, and Maurice belted a beautiful shot to left-center field. The ball pinged off the wall, but by the time the center fielder recovered it, Maurice was already on his way to third. That center fielder might have had a cannon in his arm, because he fired the ball on a line all the way to the third baseman, though Maurice won the race and didn't even have to slide.

As the megaphone man announced his name, Henry reached for his bat. As was custom, it lay on the ground outside the dugout in a uniform row with the other bats, resembling a flotilla of submarines heading out to sea. He picked up his bat and allowed his gaze to follow the heads of those submarines, and they were pointing to the Pioneers players in the outfield.

From the bleacher seats behind, voices rose in fevered spurts. A man with a sandpapery voice yelled, "I got five on a two bagger, Louis!" Then a girl shouted in sing-song fashion, "I'm a ready for my ring, handsome!" Henry's cheeks flushed with warmth and it took all his will to keep from turning around.

In the stands along first base way, heated cries rose above the chatter in sporadic bursts. Henry heard chimpanzee sounds. He heard "nigra" and "coon" and "blackie." He had heard worse...much worse. But he'd never seen so many angry white faces in one place. Daggered noses, crossed brows, and faces red from liquor. He didn't like how they looked at you like they had some God-given right to tear you down. A knot settled in Henry's throat as he wondered if this gathering of people might turn into a mob.

"Go back to the plantation!" a man shouted.

Henry turned to the white kranks in the stands over first base way. He scanned a moving river of faces, but before he could find that fool and give him a piece of his free mind, Henry heard uneven footfalls coming his way.

"Time out!" shouted the home plate umpire, an old timer with a handlebar mustache.

Marching over with a hitch in his stride, wearing a Rooks uniform and a beat-up ball cap with a "C" in the front, Coach Brown had a freckled face that reminded Henry of a chocolate chip cookie. Despite the warm look on the outside, the creases in his face meant he was weighing something on the inside. Probably something Henry wasn't going to like.

Coach cupped his hand firmly on Henry's broad shoulder, drawing him close. His breath held a pungent stench as his jaw worked a golf ball-sized wad of chewing tobacco.

Henry tried not to gag.

"Squeeze play," Coach Brown said, almost a whisper.

The knot in Henry's throat dislodged and dropped to his stomach. Coach was asking him to knock a surprise bunt to get Maurice home, but that meant he might get thrown out at first.

"Coach, a squeeze play, even if it works, only ties the game. Why not go for the win?"

Coach Brown let out a sigh. "They'll be expecting a big hit. We got a chance to catch them with their pants around their ankles. We get the tie. Then we see our options."

"But Coach, I'm telling you, I can hit against Westin."

Irritation set into Coach Brown's face. "Who's the coach?" he said evenly.

Henry gritted his teeth. Baseball was a simple game. Throw a smart pitch. Try to smash the ball with a stick. Dash around the bases without getting tagged. Why turn it into a cat and mouse game?

"Boy, I'm not hearing an answer."

"You the coach," Henry said in monotone.

"Squeeze play," Coach Brown repeated. "And get it right, if you want to keep playing for this team...or any team for that matter."

"Yes, sir," Henry grumbled.

"Now get over there," Coach Brown said, pointing over to the batter's box. "Umpire's giving me the stink eye."

Coach Brown nodded at the umpire before flashing a wry smile.

"Play ball!" the umpire shouted, stink eye still in full force.

Henry couldn't help thinking this was their last chance to come out on top. And after all the disrespect he had endured, this was his last chance to stick it to the Pioneers—to show them he was better than any white player on their team.

Blowing out a long breath, Henry trudged towards the batter's box.