The Babe Ruth Deception Read Online Free Page B

Lincoln Giants, had started badly. An uncertain navigator in the best of circumstances, he had stopped several times for directions to this Bronx outpost. It didn’t help that Speed Cook’s team, the Atlantic City Bacharach Giants, was visiting the Bronx from its home field in Brooklyn. In Negro baseball, Fraser concluded, geography was a fluid concept.
    Settling in on the plank seat, Fraser started on the peanuts and wondered at the design flaw in the ball field before him. The baseball diamond had been imposed on the center of a rectangular piece of land, not nestled in the corner. Rather than have home plate at the tip of the classic pie-slice shape, here home plate bisected the bottom boundary of the field and faced a distorted outfield. Straightaway center field was foreshortened. Both right- and left-field foul lines ended shortly past the infield. Left-center and right-center fields would be graveyards for well-struck balls.
    Fraser closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face. He felt his spirit begin to unwind. It was good to be away from the lab, its claustrophobic smells and its formulaic conversations. How was your weekend? Your test results? Plans for next weekend? Nice weather, eh? When the fans around him broke into a cheer, his eyes fluttered open. A batter was trudging back to the dugout, glaring over his shoulder at a dark-skinned, thickly built pitcher for the Bacharach Giants. The first pitch to the next batter smacked into the catcher’s mitt with such a pop that Fraser decided the pitcher must be Cannonball Dick Redding. They said he was faster than Walter Johnson.
    â€œDamn, they’ll let anyone in here these days.”
    Fraser swiveled toward that deep voice. Speed Cook stood at the end of the row, smiling broadly. He looked a bit heavier than last time, just as tall and imposing. His hairline was still in retreat, the remaining curls gray. “No trick to it,” Fraser said. “Just show up at the ticket booth with two bits.” Cook took his hand in a two-handed grip, then sat down next to him. Fraser nodded at the players on the field. “So this is Redding?”
    â€œThe Cannonball his own self. Still fast, but not as fast as he used to be.”
    â€œTrue for all of us.”
    â€œBad for pitchers. And for the man who pays him.” Cook gripped Fraser by the shoulder and gave a low laugh. “No justice in this world. I get balder and fatter and you get better looking. What’s going on in your world?”
    They exchanged family news, the innocuous kind. Fraser’s daughter was starting at Barnard College that fall. A society-type young man was buzzing around her, someone her mother approved of. Cook’s daughter was working at the NAACP for Doctor Du Bois, but Cook had stopped working there, weary of the great man’s pretensions. Still, he said, she’d learn a lot. He was proud that his daughter was part of the campaign for Negro rights.
    â€œWhat about your boy, Joshua?” Fraser asked. “I feel like I got to know him over in France.”
    Cook took a few peanuts from the bag Fraser offered. As he shelled one, the batter mashed one of Redding’s pitches over the left fielder’s head, a triple that brought home two runs. Cook groaned and pointed at the pitcher. “See? Not near fast enough.”
    â€œJoshua?”
    Cook reached for more peanuts. “Not much to say. He hasn’t really found his way, not since the war.”
    â€œHe went through a lot over there.”
    â€œSure, sure. And there’s not much for him here, not much that’s, you know, worthy.”
    Fraser nodded.
    â€œHe’s impatient. You might call it a family trait. Just can’t find his place. Maybe another family trait. Tell you what—there’s too many people trying to put him in his place.” The batter struck out, allowing the Bacharach Giants to leave the field.
    â€œWhat’s he trying? What’s he