After running laps, Henry came into the clubhouse by way of the dugout. The locker room banter had echoed in the hallway, and it sounded loud, loose, and playful. A lot like the old Rooks' locker room. But when the players noticed Henry, all talking stopped.

Henry strode past the benches and stools, hurrying straight to his locker, and the players' chatter resumed under hushed whispers and guarded conversations. The lockers stood side-by-side like six foot soldiers with wire-mesh doors, each no wider than a phone booth.

Henry wasted no time, peeling off his uniform and throwing on his street clothes. Pulling his duffel from the locker, he spun around and came face-to-nose with third baseman Cletus "Red Dog" Barker. The man was an all-beef patty of lean muscle. Cletus gave an evil-eyed look and a growl, refusing to budge.

Henry scooted around Cletus, weaved past the other players, and made his way out of the clubhouse. He stepped outside into the fresh air and released a sigh of relief.

But that relief was short-lived. Henry felt a twinge of worry, and he looked around. Concerned that someone might be following him. Or looking to jump him while his guard was down. It had happened before. But in the past, Henry had always had Willy by his side. Willy's size and imposing presence was usually enough to send any potential attacker running along. Henry couldn't help but think how vulnerable he felt without his big friend.

Henry walked briskly along the pavement around towards the front of the ballpark.

"Henry! Wait up!"

Henry's entire body tensed as the voice rang from behind. He turned around, warily.

It was Dale, jogging over to him with a grin and an easy wave.

"Hold up!" Dale called. "I'll walk with you."

Henry smiled, glad for the company. Glad that it was Dale and not Jake or Cletus or any of the other Pioneers for that matter. Henry and Dale rounded the corner of the ballpark, coming to an abrupt halt when they saw what awaited them only several yards ahead.

A dozen reporters and photographers from the white press.

Henry's eyes widened. "What's going on?"

Dale shook his head. "I don't know."

"I'll tell you what they're doing here!" This came from Jake, who with his three cohorts, had come from the work yard. "They're here to see a star," he said, his expression smug as he led his posse up to the journalists.

Jake and his lackeys marched up to the crowd. The photographers were about to snap his picture when one of the reporters looked over and shouted, "Henry Louis!"

The journalists pulled away. Jake's mouth hung open as he watched the group flow past him, like a stream around a stone. They rushed toward Henry. Shouts rang out and cameras flashed. The wave of journalists swelled as it converged around Henry, surrounding him in a frenzy of questions, camera clicks, and flashbulb pops.

One of the reporters rushed over to Henry. He was a tall man in a gray suit with slicked-back gray hair and large front teeth. He stood so close that Henry nearly gagged from the overwhelming gush of cheap cologne.

Henry took a step back, and several of the other journalists immediately swarmed around him, shoving Dale off to the side. Henry blinked rapidly as cameras flashed. Pop. Pop. Pop.

Henry felt dumbstruck. He knew that he must look like an absolute fool, staring around like a deer about to be run over. Everything around him seemed to slow down. The lights popped and reporters called out his name. Henry had never received such attention before. Even in the Negro league, the black press had never converged on him like this. They'd never chased him down like he was some sort of a celebrity. Henry had no idea what he should do or say. He was more out of his element than he had ever been before.

"Henry Louis!" the tall reporter said in a deep voice. "Why'd you pick a fight with Jake Westin?"

Henry flinched at the question. For one thing, he didn't pick a fight with Jake. For another thing, no matter how he responded to the question, this tall reporter would probably paint him out to be the bad guy. Besides, how did this reporter even know what had happened during practice?

"Why did I pick a fight with Jake?" Henry repeated, emphasizing the "I."

"That's right," the reporter said. "Was it the pressure? Or are you having trouble fitting in with a white team? And why do you think the Pioneers can be successful with a black player?"

"I ... I don't know," Henry said.

He had no idea how to react to all this attention or what he was expected to say. He wasn't even sure how he would answer if he felt comfortable speaking his mind. He didn't really know where his mind was yet. He didn't know how he felt about joining a white team, or whether any of it was going to work out.

Henry looked past the throng of journalists. He could see Jake and his buddies glaring at him, much in the same way they had glared at him from across the ballfield during practice. Henry could tell Jake was upset he was getting all the attention. This was only going to make things that much worse between the two of them

Henry scanned the mob in front of him, looking for a break in the crowd to squeeze through so he could escape. He wasn't comfortable being in the spotlight, and all he wanted to do was get away from it as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, that seemed unlikely. All eyes were on him. Henry didn't think he'd be able to break away when he was the focus of everyone's attention.

The reporters began to bark out more questions, their voices overlapping. Henry could barely make out what they were asking him.

"Henry, how would you say your first practice went?"

"Coach yelled at you a lot. How'd you let that ball get past you?"

"What do you think of the rumor this is all part of a big publicity stunt?"

"What do you have to do to make shortstop?"

Pop, pop. Henry blinked a few times, waiting for the blurring in his eyes to fade.

"I don't know," Henry said. "Guess I'll just have to hope for the best ..."

"Hope for the best?" the tall reporter said, grinning. He smirked and looked around at the other journalists. "You boys hear that?" he said, having a good laugh. "He's gonna hope for the best?"

The other journalists burst into laughter, and Henry's face burned with embarrassment.

"Alright, that's enough!" Dale said, shoving his way through the crowd, throwing elbows to make his way over to Henry. He came up to Henry's side and took hold of his elbow, raising his other hand to shield his eyes from the assault of flashes.

"Get out of here and take your flashbulbs with you," Dale shouted. "This guy's just trying to walk home. Leave him be!"

Dale began pushing through the journalists, guiding Henry along with him as he went. Henry followed along behind, grateful to Dale for his help in handling the mob. Henry kept his gaze on Dale's back as they left the crowds behind.

Dale looked back over his shoulder, shooting Henry a smile.

"Glad we were able to get out of there," Dale said. "That whole situation was making me feel way too claustrophobic."

Henry nodded, studying Dale's expression. He wondered if he was seeing genuine concern reflected in Dale's eyes. He felt an overwhelming gratitude for this man who was willing to be his friend so easily. Despite their differences. Despite the way the rest of the team was treating him.

And yet Henry still wondered with guilt ...

Was Dale really the friend he seemed to be?

Author's Note

I've decided to release chapters mid-week while still releasing at least one chapter every Saturday or Sunday, EST (i.e New York time).

My ultimate goal is to publish "Color." So the sooner I can wrap up this second draft, the sooner I can do a final revision to wrap it up.

Your reads, votes, and comments have meant so much to me. Helping me to get through those tough writing times. And helping me to overcome my mistakes and shortcomings as a writer. For that, you have my deepest gratitude.

I will think of a way to show my appreciation in the published version of the book.

All the Best!

Tom