every pitch and never gave up on himself. As Timothy was running out to his right-field position for the fifth inning, patting his teammates on the back, Bill nodded in his direction and said, “John, that kid’s heart must be so big, I’ll never understand how the Lord got it inside such a tiny body.”
Two weeks of the six-week season were now on the books, and to our great joy and surprise the Angels were leading the league with a 3 and 1 record while the Yankees and Pirates were close behind, at 2 and 2 for each of them. We still had four weeks and eight games to play. Anything could happen.
After that second Yankee game Sid Marx, their manager, and I had a rather long and friendly chat as we leaned against the wire backstop behind home plate. I liked Sid. We covered every possible subject, from the huge growth of the Little League program to how the kids of today compare with those of twenty and thirty years ago in ability and attitude. Sid finally said, “John, it’s getting late, and I had better get rolling before Susie starts worrying about me. It was a good game, but we’ll get you next time, I promise.”
Driving home, I had passed through the old covered bridge and just turned right on Main Street when I saw the little guy, despite near darkness. He was moving along at a steady pace, but he stopped suddenly when Ipulled my car close to the narrow grass edging that separated the sidewalk from the street. I leaned over and pushed open the car door on the passenger’s side.
“Timothy, you’re walking home from our game?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why? Where’s your bike?”
“The chain broke this morning. My mother took everything to the bike shop in Concord on her way to work today.”
“Hop in and I’ll take you home.”
“I don’t mind walking. And I don’t want to bother you. I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”
I tried to replace the warmth in my voice with some authority. “Hop in!”
As soon as he was in the car and the door was closed, I said, “Now, show me the way.” Following Timothy’s instructions, we continued along Main Street through the center of town, turned right on Jefferson Avenue and after about two miles of bumpy asphalt we swung left on Route 67. We continued for about another two miles before I finally turned to Timothy and asked, “Did you walk all this distance to the ballpark today?”
Head bowed and clutching his new glove to his chest, he looked up at me through those long brown lashes and nodded, hesitatingly, as if he had been caught in some crime.
“Good Lord, how long did it take you to go from your house to the field?”
He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “I don’t know. I left the house around two o’clock, right after I made apeanut butter sandwich for my lunch. My mom had to go to work early today.”
Suddenly he sat upright and pointed. “See that mailbox, Mr. Harding? It’s ours. Turn right, just after we pass it, on the dirt road. Our house is only a little ways in the woods there.”
I did as I was told, driving along slowly and carefully on the narrow, rutted lane for perhaps a hundred yards before the beams of my headlights reflected off the front of a shabby wooden structure that looked like a storage area for wood or farm equipment. Many of the unpainted clapboards along the front of the shack were missing or cracked, and there was a large area, near one corner, where someone had nailed a large and unpainted square piece of plywood. A light shone from the uncurtained window to the left of the doorway, while more plywood was nailed across the window frame to the right. Off to the side, parked under several pine trees, was a rusting blue Renault sedan.
“That’s my mom’s car,” Timothy explained. “She says it runs a lot better than it looks … and it does.”
An uncovered, fly-specked light bulb shone above the front door, which opened slowly as a woman stepped out onto the landing, raising both her hands to cover her eyes. I
Two weeks of the six-week season were now on the books, and to our great joy and surprise the Angels were leading the league with a 3 and 1 record while the Yankees and Pirates were close behind, at 2 and 2 for each of them. We still had four weeks and eight games to play. Anything could happen.
After that second Yankee game Sid Marx, their manager, and I had a rather long and friendly chat as we leaned against the wire backstop behind home plate. I liked Sid. We covered every possible subject, from the huge growth of the Little League program to how the kids of today compare with those of twenty and thirty years ago in ability and attitude. Sid finally said, “John, it’s getting late, and I had better get rolling before Susie starts worrying about me. It was a good game, but we’ll get you next time, I promise.”
Driving home, I had passed through the old covered bridge and just turned right on Main Street when I saw the little guy, despite near darkness. He was moving along at a steady pace, but he stopped suddenly when Ipulled my car close to the narrow grass edging that separated the sidewalk from the street. I leaned over and pushed open the car door on the passenger’s side.
“Timothy, you’re walking home from our game?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why? Where’s your bike?”
“The chain broke this morning. My mother took everything to the bike shop in Concord on her way to work today.”
“Hop in and I’ll take you home.”
“I don’t mind walking. And I don’t want to bother you. I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”
I tried to replace the warmth in my voice with some authority. “Hop in!”
As soon as he was in the car and the door was closed, I said, “Now, show me the way.” Following Timothy’s instructions, we continued along Main Street through the center of town, turned right on Jefferson Avenue and after about two miles of bumpy asphalt we swung left on Route 67. We continued for about another two miles before I finally turned to Timothy and asked, “Did you walk all this distance to the ballpark today?”
Head bowed and clutching his new glove to his chest, he looked up at me through those long brown lashes and nodded, hesitatingly, as if he had been caught in some crime.
“Good Lord, how long did it take you to go from your house to the field?”
He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “I don’t know. I left the house around two o’clock, right after I made apeanut butter sandwich for my lunch. My mom had to go to work early today.”
Suddenly he sat upright and pointed. “See that mailbox, Mr. Harding? It’s ours. Turn right, just after we pass it, on the dirt road. Our house is only a little ways in the woods there.”
I did as I was told, driving along slowly and carefully on the narrow, rutted lane for perhaps a hundred yards before the beams of my headlights reflected off the front of a shabby wooden structure that looked like a storage area for wood or farm equipment. Many of the unpainted clapboards along the front of the shack were missing or cracked, and there was a large area, near one corner, where someone had nailed a large and unpainted square piece of plywood. A light shone from the uncurtained window to the left of the doorway, while more plywood was nailed across the window frame to the right. Off to the side, parked under several pine trees, was a rusting blue Renault sedan.
“That’s my mom’s car,” Timothy explained. “She says it runs a lot better than it looks … and it does.”
An uncovered, fly-specked light bulb shone above the front door, which opened slowly as a woman stepped out onto the landing, raising both her hands to cover her eyes. I
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