Color: Special Edition

5. Infamy

Author's Note

The image above is my picture of Henry Louis.

Henry stepped into the batter's box and shook his head at all those ivory fists, punching at the air like they wanted to hit somebody. All the while, the deluge of crude insults continued to pour down from the bleachers, especially from behind home plate.

He'd seen them earlier. Five white fellas in baseball jerseys and tan knickers, pushing out their lips, making grunting noises, and scratching their sides like chimps. Henry knew their kind, the ones born with gold spoons in their mouths as if silver wasn't good enough. He wanted to turn around. Tell those chumps with slicked hair and shiny watches to shut their traps and show a little dignity for those boys shoving off to war.

But Henry resisted the urge to say something he might regret. No, he'd shut them up alright...shut them up by taking the game from their darling Pioneers.

Henry took a deep breath, filling his lungs until his stomach swelled. He exhaled slow and steady and that's when he noticed Westin staring at him from the pitcher's mound, toying with the ball in his glove like a helpless white mouse caught in a trap.

Westin's eyes gleamed like twin moons as he flashed a tight grin, the corners of his mouth barely curling up.

Henry recognized that smug expression from the papers, remembering the article and how it made his heart sink at the time. Westin was just a week away from signing a contract with the Pittsburgh Pirates when he got into a fight at Kelley's Tavern on the South Side. According to an eyewitness, three coal miners confronted Westin, calling him a showboat who didn't fit the mold of the Pirates' working class fans. Westin got into an argument with them, and the three men beat him up so bad, he couldn't see out of his left eye for a week. During the fray, one of the miners pulled out a hammer and took several swipes at his chest and shoulders. The miner connected when Westin raised his arm in self-defense, and the claw of the hammer cut a gorge into his elbow. The bartender grabbed his hunting rifle from behind the bar and fired off a couple warning shots into the ceiling before the attackers took off.

Westin's elbow was never right again, marred by a permanent crook at the joint. But that didn't stop him from playing ball. He bounced around factory leagues before joining the Pioneers in the team's first year in '14. Known for his toughness on and off the field, Westin quickly became the darling to Union Steel baseball fans, especially women, because he was also a ladies' man and rode a black stallion to the ballpark. The stallion's name was Scout, and Westin's nickname became "Cowboy."

Throughout the game, Henry had studied Westin like a school boy cramming for a test. He knew the Cowboy's tiniest facial expressions before every pitch, and he was pretty sure the man didn't even realize he was giving away his throws. Henry watched...waited...a barely perceptible twitch of the lip. Henry readied himself for a fast ball, swirling the bat, finally finding a solid grip.

Out of the windup, Westin fired the ball like a rock from a sling.

Gotta bunt! Henry squared the bat, but the ball ricocheted off the top of the wood and fouled into the stands.

Boos and protests erupted throughout the white sections of the ballpark.

Westin cut his eyes into Henry. "That's not how we do things around here." His southern drawl gave no hint of anger, only calm, like the calm before a twister touches down. "You know that, don't you?"

Henry remained silent. He stepped out of the batter's box and looked to the dugout.

Coach Brown's eyebrows shot up: bunt or else.

Henry let out a quiet groan.

"Enough with the gimmicks, boy. Just hit the damn ball." That came from behind. It was Rusty Ryan, the catcher, a touch of Irish in his tone.

Henry didn't look at Ryan as he stepped back into the batter's box. He could picture the Irishman: After innings, he would prop his catcher's mask atop sweat-soaked red curls, rip into the closest Negro player, and then dare a fight with his fiery hazel eyes. Between innings, Ryan was a crude chatter box with an endless stream of condescending insults.

Henry clenched his fingers around the bat, his knuckles turning light, the blood draining from his hands and flooding anger through his veins. Explosive anger.

"We have a right to win this game too," Henry said, and it came out louder than he expected.

Westin chuckled. "You got no rights here. I don't care if you act like a bunch of uncivilized animals on your own field. But in our house, you play by our rules."

Henry clamped his teeth like a vise. The whites had all sorts of rules. Rules on when you can hit. When you can bunt. Never show up players. Don't play tricky baseball. Good Lawd, it was just a game, but it was a game Henry wanted to win, exhibition or not.

They weren't breaking the rules; they were playing them like a hand in a poker game.

"Hit the damn ball," Ryan said, "like a real ballplayer. Or is that too hard for a bunch of classless coloreds to understand?"

The umpire jabbed an index finger at Henry. "You and your lowly kind are an absolute disgrace to this game."

Henry huffed at that as he watched Westin tap the ball ever so slightly against his hip. Two barely noticeable taps. A signal to Ryan? If it was, Henry didn't recognize this one.

Westin shouted, "Boy, I'm gonna give you my best shot. You better give me yours."

Henry swirled the bat, ready for the pitch. Gotta bunt.

"You must think I'm stupid," Westin said. "I can see you're going to bunt."

Henry pretended not to hear him, forcing down a fresh wave of anger.

"Hell, you probably got no choice but to bunt," Ryan said. "Only damn swing you banana-eating sissies know."

Ryan broke into a low, mocking laugh, and it seared a mark inside Henry's head. Heart racing, hands trembling, Henry blurted, "Screw you!"

Silence from behind. Henry's body snapped rigid as a steel pillar. He half-expected a fight to break out. But nothing happened.

Henry watched as Westin snapped off a quick set of head nods and shakes, obviously signing with Ryan.

What were they signaling to each other?

Finally, Westin's eyes locked onto a space under Henry's shoulder. No smile. This was different. He was going to throw a pitch he hadn't thrown yet?

Knuckleball? Screwball?

Concentration cut into the Cowboy's gaze like a sharp blade, and he fired the ball so hard it looked like it could sail all the way to Kansas or maybe even Oz.

Henry swung with all his strength and missed. Too early.

Oh no!

The ball slammed into the side of Henry's forehead. Explosions of white lights popped and fizzled in his vision. His legs buckled, and the world turned sideways.

Then with a hollow thud, everything went dark.

Author's Notes

Rest in piece, Chadwick Boseman, a great actor and an inspirational role model who embodies the heart, soul, and spirit of Henry Louis.