Call Me by My Name Read Online Free Page A

me to say grace. I made the sign of the cross and said the prayer in what felt like slow motion, knowing that if I went too fast, he’d only have me say it over again. I finished and reached for the potatoes.
    â€œTater invited me to supper,” I said.
    â€œSupper, did he?” Pops said. “Imagine that—supper with the brothers and the sisters.”
    â€œI told him I couldn’t.”
    â€œThey prefer to be called Negroes or coloreds,” Angie said.
    â€œWere you polite?” Mama asked. “Did you thank him?”
    â€œThank him?” Pops said.
    â€œIt wouldn’t have been the first time I ate black food,” I said. “I spent the night at T-Boy Bertrand’s once, and his maid cooked supper. It was fried chicken, turnip greens, smothered black-eyed peas, and cornbread.”
    â€œWas it good?” Mama asked.
    â€œIt was delicious.”
    â€œMama’s cooked all those things before,” Angie said. “What made what you ate at T-Boy’s black food?”
    â€œBecause the maid cooked it?” I answered in the form of a question, which let her know how ignorant she was.
    Then we looked at her, all three of us, in a way that must’ve had her wondering if we’d ever really noticed her before.

    More and more people started turning out for our games. Nobody said it was because there was a black guy playing in the white park, but I couldn’t think of another reason to explain it. Where in years before, you’d get one parent for every player on a team; now both parents showed up, along with siblings and grandparents, and even cousins and friends from the neighborhood. The younger people in the crowds probably came to see a special talent play, but I agreed with Pops and his theory about why so many older folks were showing up—they wanted to be there in case the Black Panthers marched on the park and the white youth needed protecting.
    The bleachers filled up early, and people ringed the field with lawn chairs. They brought metal ice coolers stamped with beer logos, and they popped their cans and drank. Their feet were propped up on the wire fence.
    We won all our games that month. Tater played center field and hit third; I was the catcher and cleanup hitter. If any of the guys on the other teams were ugly to him, I never saw it. However, I did hear that a gang of potheads jumped him one day when he was walking home. They’d been hiding behind a large brick barbecue pit in the picnic area, and Tater had to fend them off with a stick.
    â€œWasn’t nothing,” Tater said when I asked him about it.
    â€œDid they hit you?”
    â€œYeah, they hit me. But I hit them back.”
    Over the July Fourth weekend we faced the Steers. We were both undefeated and dominating all the other teams, and the winner would claim first place and the fast track to the town’s Babe Ruth League title. Curly Trussell was the Steers’ best player, and he’d already pitched a no-hitter against the league’s third-best team, mainly by throwing curveballs, sliders, and other junk of such quality that he had everybody rocking back on their heels and whiffing.
    Half an hour before our scheduled 5:00 p.m. start, the field was packed four deep along the base lines. We were taking batting practice when I heard the first heckler. Tater was at the plate. On the other side of the fence was a man with a can of Old Milwaukee in his hand. He leaned heavily against the dented chicken wire and belched.
    â€œHey, batter batter,” he said. “Hey, batter batter . . .”
    I’d heard the chant before, but then the man substituted the word “batter” with something else, and Coach Doucet immediately came running over and yelled at the man to watch his mouth.
    â€œHow you do that, Junior?” the man said. “Watch my mouth?” Now he crossed his eyes and looked down his nose. “Show me how you do