MOMENTS AGO

Spring arrived early in Hester bringing hope that the harsh winter had come to an end. Union Steel Ballpark overflowed with energized fans, waving paper flags, jubilant fists, and clanging cow bells. The smell of freshly roasted peanuts and hot dogs drifted along a breeze of burning coal and molten pig iron from the steel mill next door.

In the box seats behind the home dugout, Frank Bell clapped another round of encouragement for his team. At forty-five, hair lightly peppered, he was the youngest general manager of the eight-team steel mill league. He wore a casual navy suit, matching waistcoat and trousers. Squinting deep brown eyes into the glare of the sun, he shouted with pride, "Come on, Pioneers!"

On the field, Jake Westin, the Pioneers' ace, stepped into the batter's box and leveled a couple practice swings. Even from this distance, Frank could tell something was missing in those old blues, something that made Jake's eyes look like cold stones of unfulfilled promise.

Frank had played baseball at Western University, and he hated to admit, in the previous century. On a full athletic scholarship, he hit .380 over four years while pulling all-nighters towards a business degree. In his senior year, he was defending second base when a runner slid into him, metal spikes impaling his left ankle. Pain. Blood. Fear. Teammates carried Frank off the field, loaded him into a horse-drawn beer wagon, and rushed him to Mayview Hospital. The doctor, a mousy man with off-centered pupils, patched up the gash with twenty stitches. "Crutches for two months," the doctor ordered. In time, Frank would walk again, but hindered by a recurring pain and limp, his dream to play professional baseball withered away like a house plant deprived of water.

"This game is an embarrassment." The gruff voice came from behind.

Frank managed a slight smile as he turned to his father. "I didn't think you'd show up."

Richard Bell was short in every sense of the word—short face, short frame, and short-tempered—a complete opposite of Frank, who at six-foot-two, looked like he could still play ball. And while Richard was loathed by his steel mill employees, Frank was held in the highest regard by everyone in Hester.

"Why wouldn't I show up?" Richard said with a thin scowl hedged by a neatly trimmed beard. He took a seat beside Frank and withdrew a Cuban cigar from inside his suit jacket.

Frank returned a quizzical look. "When I was growing up, how many Pirates games did you take me to?"

Richard grumbled. "I don't care for petty games. But I do care about the company."

Frank sighed. The company. As far as Richard Bell was concerned, Union Steel was the sole reason for everything in Hester. Like the mill's two thousand employees who collected their paychecks after a hard week's work. Like the dozens of mom-and-pop shop owners in downtown Hester who counted on those workers and their families to patronize their stores. Like the fans of this baseball game, rooting for their home team, that team being the Pioneers, a team owned by the company.

"Look at them," Richard said, jutting his chin at the Negro players. "We gave them their freedom, and now they're playing on our field." He placed the cigar to his lips and lit it with a match. He took a few heavy puffs until the end burned orange. "It would be a shame if the company team loses to a bunch of monkeys in uniform."

"They're people," Frank said muttered, the thought of having this conversation again draining the breath from his lungs.

Richard furrowed his brow. "What did you say?"

"They're people, too," Frank said louder, "like everyone else in this town." It sure sounded like a universal truth, but a truth only accepted by the few. The many held fast to a self-righteous view of white superiority, tight grips around twisted logic aimed at defending a group mindset of intolerant egos. Defended at any cost...even with violence.

"Bah! Just like your mother, God rest her soul. You have lofty ideals for these Negroes, but they lack any common sense." Richard exhaled a veil of smoke, concealing for a moment the arrogance in his expression.

Frank opened his mouth, ready to return fire when the crowd erupted to their feet. He stood up amid the cries of elation.

Jake had just clubbed a deep fly ball over the third base line.

The white fans' cheers turned into groans as the home plate umpire signaled foul left.

"Don't blow this one, Pioneers!" someone shouted from the center field stands, his voice filled with mock fear.

Cries of real fear were not uncommon at a ballpark. Just last April in Vernon, California, two gunmen exchanged fire at a ballgame between two semi-professional teams, one white and one black. Police later discovered the two men were fighting over a lousy bet. That sparked a nationwide debate: Should whites and blacks be allowed to play baseball together?

Richard shook his head. "No, they're nothing but animals. Even a child in the fifth grade knows there's a natural order to living things that cannot be altered. You wouldn't invite wild coyotes to your house, would you? So why would you invite Negroes into your home as equals? They don't deserve a seat at the table. And the fact that these so-called Pioneers have failed to score more than two runs against those black curs is a disgrace to what this game stands for."

Frank didn't respond. He thought about his father's words...what this game stands for. Frank's attention shifted to the scoreboard: three balls and one strike. It jumped to Jake; swing and a miss. It drifted back to the scoreboard and to the operator on the platform swapping magnetic numbers; two strikes. Then his gaze trailed down.

Under the scoreboard, a red, white, and blue banner swayed gently against a light wind.

TODAY'S EXHIBITION GAME

SATURDAY, MARCH 2, 1918

THE HESTER "NEGRO" ROOKS

VS.

  OUR UNION STEEL PIONEERS

HONORING OUR BRAVE SOLDIERS

LEAVING TO FIGHT IN THE GREAT WAR

Frank met his father's eyes and for several breaths it felt like they might be sharing the same sad thought.

Richard pointed his stogie at the adjacent box where four youths in army uniforms were sitting, laughing, and carrying on without a care. He steadied the glowing end of the cigar on the nearest soldier. Richard released a quiet sigh, his expression turning wistful. "In only eight weeks, my grandson leaves for France."

My God, Frank thought, reality setting in like a bucket of ice water poured over his head. Peter is heading to a World War.

Frank looked over to Peter, a sandy-blond crew cut atop an ivory face, a stick-slim build in a loose army uniform. Frank followed his son's gaze out to the shortstop – a young black man, maybe twenty, almond-brown face brimming with intensity, hand and glove on his knees in a ready position.

When Frank turned to his son again, Peter was looking at him, eyes as blue as the sea and as distant as the war itself. He nodded with a half-smile and turned back to the game. The crowd started to get louder again.

That seemed to send Richard into a rant – this time about how the Pioneers were losing him money. Only half-listening, Frank smiled and nodded along. He took a deep breath to try to shake the nerves that had overcome him, but he just couldn't. It was surreal watching baseball knowing his only child would be leaving in only two months.

Frank's heart plunged to his gut as a grim thought occurred to him.

My son might not return.

Frank imagined troops under fire, charging across a smoke-laden battlefield. An American unit trying to storm an enemy trench against a gray band of sky. Peter dashing off to take an unmanned machine gun set on large wooden wheels. A German soldier tackling Peter on his blind side, scrambling to his feet, and firing his Kaiser sidearm point blank at the center of Peter's forehead.

The faraway bang in Frank's mind was muted by a sharp crack on the field and the entire ballpark erupted – people cheering, clapping and shouting at the tops of their lungs.

Frank scanned the field: Jake gunning to first. Ball climbing as if it had wings. Even though it hadn't reached the top of the arc, Frank knew where it would land. From the edge of his vision, he saw him running. That black shortstop was racing out to left field, to that impossible spot, chasing that catch, running so fast that he might just have a shot at it.

The crowd roared with anticipation.

And Frank wondered if he might be on the verge of witnessing something special.

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter of "Color", please consider leaving a vote or a comment. I add a new chapter, sometimes two, every Sunday. I live in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania so that's EST.

Also, please don't be shy.

Questions? I love 'em!

Grammar bugs? You point 'em out, I'll swat 'em!!

Lastly, here's my picture of Frank Bell: