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T ERRY DELANEY took a couple of steps closer to Mick Jordan to make sure his throw wouldn’t fall short, and winged the ball. The worn, dirt-stained
sphere arced through the air and landed in Mick’s outstretched glove. A short throw didn’t bother him, but he just didn’t
have the arm for throwing a long distance.
“Who’d you play with on Long Island?” Mick asked, pushing his long black hair out of his eyes.
“The Fall City Tigers.” Terry smiled.“Know where we finished up? Next to last!”
Mick laughed. Terry had been telling him about the small town on Long Island where he had lived before moving to Forest Lake,
a suburb in eastern Pennsylvania. Terry’s father, an engineer, had taken a job with a mining concern and brought his family
here in the middle of the winter. Within weeks Mrs. Delaney had joined the Great Books Club in Forest Lake, and Connie, Terry’s
fifteen-year-old sister, had become a varsity cheerleader. The family settled easily into the life of their new town.
Terry, himself a junior high student, had liked winter sports but was pleased that at last summer had finally rolled around,
for with it had come his favorite sport, baseball.
“You have a league here?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Mick, reaching forward to grab Terry’s soft throw. “I play with the Forest Lakers. We’re having practice
in a little while. Want to come with me?”
Terry’s eyes brightened. “You don’t have to ask me twice!” he replied happily.
Just then a voice shouted from across the street. “Hey, Mick!”
Mick held up his throw, turned, and looked at the kid who had yelled. Terry looked, too. A tall, dark-haired boy wearing a
knit sweater and bell-bottom pants came running across the street. He stopped on the sidewalk, let his gaze linger a while
on Terry, then motioned to Mick.
“Come here, will ya?” he said.
His voice was commanding. Terry felta sudden change in the atmosphere, as if it had become charged with electricity.
Mick tossed the ball to Terry. “Just a second, Terry,” he said, and trotted over to the newcomer.
“Who’s the Negro kid?” Terry heard the newcomer ask plainly.
Terry’s face grew hot, but his eyes narrowed and he stared at the boy. He didn’t hear Mick’s response, nor could he hear anymore
of what the newcomer said. He had a good idea of the gist of it, however, and that was enough. He shook his head and looked
away.
After a minute Mick’s voice was loud enough for Terry to hear. “Come on. He’s okay, I tell you.”
Terry looked at them, and noticed that the newcomer had a baseball glove and was wearing sneakers.
Terry turned and started for his house, tossing the baseball into the air and catching it as it came down. He wasn’t going
to wait around all day. He whistled in order to drown out the voices behind him.
It had happened again,
he thought, his stomach churning.
A white kid who doesn’t like a black kid. But I bet that one of his favorite baseball players, or football players, is black.
“Hey, Terry! Wait a minute!”
He paused without turning around, and heard Mick’s footsteps pounding up behind him.
“Terry.” Mick stopped before him, breathing hard. “Terry, I’m sorry.”
Terry smiled. “Oh, that’s okay. I’ve seen his kind before. He on your team?”
“He’s our shortstop.”
“Is he good?”
“Yes, he is.”
Terry looked over his shoulder, saw the kid begin to walk briskly away and then pause near a bush to look back.
“He’s waiting for you,” Terry said. “Better get going.”
“Aren’t you coming?” Mick asked.
“No.” Terry flashed a grin. “Go on, Mick. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.”
Mick shook his head. “I don’t know what to say, Terry. I wanted him to meet you. I was surprised when he said he — he didn’t
want to.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I feel funny, Terry.”
Terry chuckled. “I know. That’s
T ERRY DELANEY took a couple of steps closer to Mick Jordan to make sure his throw wouldn’t fall short, and winged the ball. The worn, dirt-stained
sphere arced through the air and landed in Mick’s outstretched glove. A short throw didn’t bother him, but he just didn’t
have the arm for throwing a long distance.
“Who’d you play with on Long Island?” Mick asked, pushing his long black hair out of his eyes.
“The Fall City Tigers.” Terry smiled.“Know where we finished up? Next to last!”
Mick laughed. Terry had been telling him about the small town on Long Island where he had lived before moving to Forest Lake,
a suburb in eastern Pennsylvania. Terry’s father, an engineer, had taken a job with a mining concern and brought his family
here in the middle of the winter. Within weeks Mrs. Delaney had joined the Great Books Club in Forest Lake, and Connie, Terry’s
fifteen-year-old sister, had become a varsity cheerleader. The family settled easily into the life of their new town.
Terry, himself a junior high student, had liked winter sports but was pleased that at last summer had finally rolled around,
for with it had come his favorite sport, baseball.
“You have a league here?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Mick, reaching forward to grab Terry’s soft throw. “I play with the Forest Lakers. We’re having practice
in a little while. Want to come with me?”
Terry’s eyes brightened. “You don’t have to ask me twice!” he replied happily.
Just then a voice shouted from across the street. “Hey, Mick!”
Mick held up his throw, turned, and looked at the kid who had yelled. Terry looked, too. A tall, dark-haired boy wearing a
knit sweater and bell-bottom pants came running across the street. He stopped on the sidewalk, let his gaze linger a while
on Terry, then motioned to Mick.
“Come here, will ya?” he said.
His voice was commanding. Terry felta sudden change in the atmosphere, as if it had become charged with electricity.
Mick tossed the ball to Terry. “Just a second, Terry,” he said, and trotted over to the newcomer.
“Who’s the Negro kid?” Terry heard the newcomer ask plainly.
Terry’s face grew hot, but his eyes narrowed and he stared at the boy. He didn’t hear Mick’s response, nor could he hear anymore
of what the newcomer said. He had a good idea of the gist of it, however, and that was enough. He shook his head and looked
away.
After a minute Mick’s voice was loud enough for Terry to hear. “Come on. He’s okay, I tell you.”
Terry looked at them, and noticed that the newcomer had a baseball glove and was wearing sneakers.
Terry turned and started for his house, tossing the baseball into the air and catching it as it came down. He wasn’t going
to wait around all day. He whistled in order to drown out the voices behind him.
It had happened again,
he thought, his stomach churning.
A white kid who doesn’t like a black kid. But I bet that one of his favorite baseball players, or football players, is black.
“Hey, Terry! Wait a minute!”
He paused without turning around, and heard Mick’s footsteps pounding up behind him.
“Terry.” Mick stopped before him, breathing hard. “Terry, I’m sorry.”
Terry smiled. “Oh, that’s okay. I’ve seen his kind before. He on your team?”
“He’s our shortstop.”
“Is he good?”
“Yes, he is.”
Terry looked over his shoulder, saw the kid begin to walk briskly away and then pause near a bush to look back.
“He’s waiting for you,” Terry said. “Better get going.”
“Aren’t you coming?” Mick asked.
“No.” Terry flashed a grin. “Go on, Mick. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.”
Mick shook his head. “I don’t know what to say, Terry. I wanted him to meet you. I was surprised when he said he — he didn’t
want to.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I feel funny, Terry.”
Terry chuckled. “I know. That’s
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