Where Have You Gone, Joe Dimaggio? - Part II

There were more fans at afternoon's game than had ever been there before. Doc Schumacher was watching from his kitchen window, Mrs. Laney was bringing lemonade between innings, and several of the cute girls from the cheerleading corps were there, too. Come to see the execution, I figured.

Things were going well for me when Roger finally stepped to the plate. We were up 5-1 and I'd only allowed two hits and struck out four in the first two innings. But when he dug his cleats into the batter's box and gave me that look of contempt, it was easy to crank up the chin music in his honor. I wasn't about to waste any time in getting to the point.

Sweat started to form on my upper lip and my hand started to shake when I looked in for the sign. When the ball started whistling toward its final destination, there was no fooling around. It was a fastball, down and dirty.

Usually the sound of a good heater plunking the hitter is enough to make a person sick, especially if it's a good head shot. But today, that noise was enough to kill me. You see, the ball hit Roger Lewis in the shoulder, not the head.

As I look back now, I see the next ten seconds or so in super-slow-motion. Roger rushed the mound, teeth gritted, and eyes blazing. After that, I don't remmeber much but pain and darkness. It was like someone had just turned out the lights.

"Look, he's coming around, honey."

My mom was a saint. Florence Nightengale, Donna Reed and June Cleaver all wrapped up into one five foot two inch package. "You just relax, sweetheart. Doctor Shumacher said that you'd be find once the swelling went down."

"Uhhhhhh!!"" was the most intelligent response I could give at the time. My head felt like I'd been run over by a train, dragged behind a horse, and then kicked by a mule. I only had vision in one eye. The other was a mass of black and blue puffiness.

"I'll get you some aspirin," she said. "You just lie still and get a little rest."

I laid there in the bed for most of that afternoon groaning, aching and generally plotting an extermination. Loads of people came by to see me and my eye that day. I guess word had spread around the school pretty quickly. Lisa came over to comfort me the best she could. Kevin came and tried to swipe my Mickey Mantle rookie card. Of course, Bob stopped by and tried to poke my swollen socket.

"Bob, just leave me alone, will ya?" I was growling more than pleading.

"Listen, I don't know if you remember this or not, but after Roger clubbed you, he looked down at you and promised that this wasn't the end. He said he'd get you again and again and again. I guess he didn't appreciate getting tagged with that fast ball very much."

"He said that?" I asked. I lay musing for just a few seconds when I realized Roger was right. This was not the end of it. But the next time, I would not make any mistakes.

Several days later in gym glass, Coach Waterson asked me if I wanted to sit out awhile. We were playing dodgeball and I guess he figured I looked banged up enough already. But dodgeball was one of my favorite games, especially when Bob was on the other side. And today, a bonus. So was Roger.

"I guess I can rest easy today, can't I?" Bob said. "I mean, I know who you're going to be gunning for, right?"

An evil sneer crossed my face.

"Yea," I said. "I guess you do."

When the balls started flying wildly around the gym, I kept my good eye on them and my swollen one on Roger. I think he was purposely staying away from me, throwing at all of the other guys on my team.

"Ha!" I thought. "He's so afraid of me he can hardly stand it."

Now, I wasn't the greatest dodgeball player in the world, but at the end of the game, there were two players left: Roger and me. And each of us had a ball.

We stood about ten feet apart for what seemed like ten minutes, glaring into each others angry eyes. My heart raced wildly and my hands started to quake noticeably. I squeezed the ball as hard as I could and mustered up the courage to heave it at Roger's head. But just as I was about to let loose, Roger rolled his ball toward me and smiled.

"What is this?" I wondered. "A challenge? Is he calling me out? Calling my bluff?"

Holding my ball in front of me, I scrunched up my face and looked at him. The other guys were yelling at me to hit him, but I held back. There was something different this time. Something I didn't understand. What I did understand was that I couldn't hit him. It wouldn't be fair. Besides, I had the feeling that Roger wanted to bury the hatchet somewhere other than in my forehead.

So, I rolled my ball toward him and smiled. The next thing I knew, I was walking off the floor amid a shower of boos.

That night, I didn't get much sleep. I tossed and turned for a long time before the sandman even knocked on my door. What were these things I was feeling? Yesterday, I hated Roger more than anything. Today, I wasn't sure. What was the difference?

Mom opened the door to my room and poked her head inside. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yea, mom, I'm fine. Thanks. I'm just not very tired yet."

Mom opened the door a little wider and stepped in. "Did I tell you I ran into Mrs. Lewis at the store this evening?" she asked. "She told me that Roger talks about you all the time. She said she's glad her son has a friend that's as nice as you."

I looked at her there in the half-lighted doorway. The hallway light was on and illuminated the back of her head. I always thought mom was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen.

"She said that?" I asked inquisitively.

"Yea, she thinks you're a pretty terrific kid. And evidently, so does Roger. I told her she was right."

I smiled. Mom always knew just what to say to make me feel better.

"It's getting pretty late," she said. You'd better try to get some sleep. It's a school day tomorrow."

"Ok, mom," I replied.

"Goodnight, son. I love you."

"I love you, too, mom. And mom? Thanks."

Mom smiled and closed the door.

-------

"You're going to what?" Bob cried incredulously.

"I'm going to give Roger my Joe DiMaggio card."

Bob looked at me as if I had just grown a wart on my nose the size of a bowling ball. "Do you know how much that card is worth?" he asked.

Of course I knew how much it was worth. Fourteen dollars and seventy-two cents and counting. It was my prize card. I'd had it ever since I was three years old And it was old then.

"I thought you hate him!"

"Well," I said as I slipped the card through the grates in the door of Roger's locker, "I just figured he needs a friend, and nobody else seems to care a whole lot for him. So I thought I'd give it a try."

Bob shook his head and closed his locker, which was two down from Roger's. "Hey, if you want to give your cards away so badly, you could give them to me! You know how I've been trying to get my hands on your Lou Brock."

I chuckled. "Bob, you're already my friend. What else could you want?"

He looked at me and grinned. "How about a million bucks? I think that would compensate me for all the crap you give me, don't you?" he said as we both walked down the hall to class.

Coming soon - Part III (Conclusion)