Sophomore Campaign by Frank; Nappi

looking for some more petting.” Lester tossed the log he was carrying onto a pile and started for them. He was a lean yet muscular young man, with a thick nose, small eyes, and a sociable smile that belied all the hardship he had endured.
    â€œCan I help you fellas?” he asked, his surprise at their presence largely diminished now.
    â€œMorning, Mr. Sledge,” Murph said. “My name’s Arthur Murphy. From the Milwaukee Brewers? And this here is—”
    The young man released a hearty laugh. “Are you kidding me?” Sledge said eyeballing the cap on Mickey’s head. “I ain’t living under no rock, Mr. Murphy. I know who he is.” The exchange held a trace of affection. But Murph stood there, like a suitor about to drop to one knee, the sickening qualms of doubt hammering his insides.
    â€œWe won’t take up too much of your time here, Lester,” Murph explained. “I just want to talk to you about an idea I have.”
    Lester leaned for a while against the broken metal gate. He was remembering the words his mama taught him when he was just a child.
God loves the black folks, Lester, but he helps the whites. Ya hear? You best be looking out for yourself now.
    â€œHow is it you know my name anyhow?” Lester asked. “We met somewhere before?”
    â€œMurph thinks you’re a swell baseball player, Mr. Lester Sledge,” Mickey said, his eyes still fixed on the tiny cat, who he now cradled in his massive arms. “Swell.”
    Lester looked all at once thoughtful, his eyes lit by some realization flickering behind them. He stood with arms folded, studying their faces. “Oh, I see now. And here I thought you just come ’round this mornin’ to play with Milo.”
    Murph proceeded to unveil his plan, once or twice calling on Mickey, who was now wholly distracted by the whimsical antics of Milo, for assistance in selling the idea. Lester listened intently. He thought of himself and his place in the baseball world of 1949; skilled enough to be playing the nation’s favorite game, but not quite white enough to be considered a serious player. Sure, he could play with the Bears. No one said boo about that. “Monkey ball” they called it. It was harmless, and kept them all out of trouble. He also saw, stacked behind him like a row of weathered books, the myriad tragedies and failures that had befallen him in his twenty-two years. He often thought that he would, in years to come, look back on his life, and see nothing more than a painful succession of opportunities that were never really opportunities at all. Doors that were all ajar, just enough to let the light of hope through but nothing else. He hadn’t been at Rayfield Grammar School more than two weeks, not even long enough to know what a grammar school was, when his father was stricken with a deadly illness that claimed his life just two months later, leaving young Lester and his mama to fend for themselves.
    She went to work cleaning in some of the wealthier homes around Rayfield and Lester pitched in as well, taking any odd job he could find just so they could put food on the table. It worked fora while, until his mother fell ill too, leaving Lester, at the tender age of thirteen, to a world unwilling to open its arms to someone like him. He tramped around from place to place but never really found a home. It was baseball—the hitting of chestnuts or bottle caps or anything else he could find to whack with the whittled wooden stick he had made—that kept him alive. No matter where he went, he always found two or three kids to play with. He was the best. Wowed everyone who had ever seen him with his raw ability. He found it was easy to win over a kid, white or black, when you could do the kinds of things he could. But it always ended the same way—with Lester having to move on in search of work that could fill his stomach.
    â€œWith all due respect, Mr.