Jake entered Coach Taylor's office, fists clenched, ready for a fight.
Taylor's office was a twenty-by-twenty square with an oak desk, two birch office chairs, and one tall walnut bookcase. Without those furnishings, the room would have made a perfect boxing ring which only seemed fitting. Coach Taylor was a two-time heavyweight boxing champion at the Naval Academy.
Jake sat in the guest chair, folding his arms into a defiant shield.
Coach leveled an even gaze at the Cowboy. "Why are you giving the new boy such a hard time?"
Jake rolled his eyes. "Hell, I was trying to make a play, and that Negro got in my way. It's not my fault he took a tumble."
"Bullshit," Coach Taylor said, his voice calm. "You put him on his keister on purpose."
"That Nigra deserved it!" Jake rose from his seat and made his way to the window. Outside, a lone white tumbleweed cloud rolled underneath a gray sky towards the ballpark. God, he loved the game. But he didn't love the idea of a Negro tarnishing the tradition of baseball.
Jake turned to Coach Taylor, his expression a mix of frustration and disappointment. "It just ain't right. You're giving him the shortstop position."
"What're you talking about?" Coach said. "I haven't given Henry anything."
"Then why'd you try that black sonofabitch at shortstop more than any other position today?"
A muscle pulsed in Coach Taylor's neck. "How I run my practice is my business! Stop trying to play fortune teller, and just play ball. I'll decide where I put Henry, you, and everyone else when I'm good and ready."
Jake blew out a heavy breath. "Blacks are taking over everything in Hester. If you give a colored a spot on the roster, ten more will show up on your doorstep tomorrow."
Coach stood up and met Jake's glare. "It's just a matter of time before blacks and whites play on the same team ... everywhere."
The Cowboy shook his head, his stomach knotted in disgust. "I'm done here." He spun on his heel and headed for the door, a bitterness gnawing at his insides. He hated the idea of playing on the same team with a colored. More than that, he hated being treated as if they were equals.
Jake gave the knob a twist and opened the door. He turned back to Coach Taylor.
"At the end of last season, you said shortstop would be mine."
Coach replied with a wistful look, because it was true. He didn't say a word as Jake left.
Outside, Jake snatched his duffel bag from the dirt ground beside a stack of wooden rail ties. He started to march across the work yard, located behind the mill, back towards the ballpark.
Across the yard, Rusty, Garrett, and Marshall were waiting for him, chatting it up, but Jake was in no mood to talk.
Jake's thoughts fled back to his youth. He thought about his father's loyal work horses on their ranch in Montana. Two particular horses came to mind: Clay, a large sandy-colored stallion with white socks; and Mary, a mare with a silver coat that shimmered in the sun. Jake remembered the day they were pulling the plow when Clay came across a piece of loose ground. The horse lost his footing and sprained his right front leg.
Over the next few weeks, Clay struggled to keep up with the workload. That's when Jake's father bought a new stallion as black as midnight and stronger than an ox.
After that, Clay became slow and withdrawn. He no longer raised his head in search of apples. He no longer whinnied and trotted around. He only plodded along, his head hung low and nose always pointing to the ground. Clay's once-shimmering coat became dull and patchy as if a reflection of being replaced. It wasn't long before the horse could no longer pull a plow, and he was retired to the stables. Or put out to pasture, as his father liked to call it.
Jake watched that worn-out old horse, who had once looked so strong and vibrant, wither away to nothing, hobbling from one patch of dry grass to the next.
With this blackie now on the team, Jake wondered to himself ...
Was he being put out to pasture too?