Henry jolted awake as acrid fumes filled his nostrils. He looked down. Saw a little green bottle of tiny crystals held in a dark hand the size of a baseball mitt. Veins trailing up a forearm like thick vines climbing a tree trunk. Henry lifted his head, swatted the bottle out of Big Willy's paw, and slowly sat up.

"I hate smelling salts," Henry said.

"You don't need to get ornery about it," Willy said. His voice sounded faint and muffled.

Henry's ears felt like they'd been stuffed with cotton balls. Like they felt sometimes jogging up Mount Washington to the overlook above Downtown Pittsburgh.

Even through eyes blurred by tears, Henry recognized Willy's six-foot-seven frame. He was an ox of a young man, a bull neck set between colossal shoulders. They were best friends from childhood. Baseball teammates since fifth grade. And Good Lord, how Willy had changed from the plump kid that every neighbor bully liked to pick on. Even the colored ones.

Henry stood up and stumbled forward. Willy caught him and wrapped a steel-pipe arm around his back.

"I gotcha," Willy said. "You gonna be okay."

Henry groaned. As he wiped the tears from his eyes, an intense pain throbbed above his left ear. A warm liquid streamed down the side of his head, over his cheek, and dripped onto his soiled jersey. Blood.

Someone unleashed a flood of cuss words. Henry saw players from both benches at the mound now. They were yelling. Pushing. Shoving. Punching. It looked more like a ring of professional wrestlers than baseball players. Then Reggie Blake, the Rooks' catcher, planted a right hook at the side of Jake Westin's head. The Cowboy snarled and tackled the thick black man to the ground and proceeded to pummel him with alternating lefts and rights. The white second baseman with lanky arms rushed over to pull Westin off. A huge bloom of dust mushroomed around the players and started to float across the field along a stirring wind.

Coach Brown and Coach Elliot tried to pull players away from the melee while screaming sharp accusations at one another. Their words were buried by the commotion rising from the stands, where every few feet or so, men of opposite color clashed or quarreled. The smarter ones, and there were hundreds of them, pushed towards and through the white and colored exits.

Henry took a step toward the brawl at the mound before Willy seized his arm in a grip like an iron vice.

Willy shook his head. "Ain't no way I'm letting you get near that mess."

Henry pulled away from the grasp and aimed a shaky index finger up at Willy, his chin the size of an anvil. "Listen–"

"There he is!" The self-righteous voice sounded hoarse and familiar.

Henry turned to his left. Pointing at him, the head umpire was flanked by two security guards. One was a scrawny fellow with chalk-white skin, eyes the size of silver dollars, and lines along his nose like a ventriloquist's puppet. The other guard looked like the ventriloquist with his even demeanor and brown eyes revealing restraint or charisma, Henry wasn't sure which. Both wore matching gray uniforms with black billy clubs dangling from their belt holsters.

"Arrest Henry Louis," the umpire said, his curly mustache vibrating anger. "He started this—this anarchy—when he made it a point to antagonize the entire Pioneers team."

"You know that's not what went down," Henry said. "The white players started this. Westin. Ryan. Hayes. This is their doing."

Twitching with agitation, the scrawny man's eyes grew large as horseshoes, and he wrenched the billy club from his belt holster, a sequence that looked comical in light of the situation. "Shut your fat lips, Negro. You can either come along peaceful, or we'll gladly take you in with force."

Henry still had trouble hearing. Words sounded distant...fleeting.

The charismatic guard looked at his scrawny buddy, sighed, and then looked at Henry. "Mr. Louis, how 'bout you come with us, and we'll straighten this all out."

Henry and Willy exchanged nervous glances. Growing up black in Hester teaches you a lot of hard lessons. What to do when threatened by bullies. Or big white grownups. Or cops who want to do you wrong. The pride inside you tells you to fight for what you believe is right. A fist for a fist. But as you grow older, you get a little bit wiser. Or so you hope.

The two guards advanced towards them. The umpire folded his arms across a wide chest, a smug smile over a smug expression.

Henry started to count in his head.

Three.

Henry arched an eyebrow at his big friend. Willy gave a knowing nod. In that moment, Henry knew they were far wiser than their twenty years a piece let on.

Two.

Outside the ballpark, the sound of a mob rumbled and hissed like a gathering storm. Henry balled his hands into rock-hard fists.

The guards were almost upon them. The scrawny one raised his billy club, ready to strike.

Henry and Willy did what all wise men would do in a situation like this.

One.

They ran for the dugout.

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.

Btw, in the next several chapters, Henry will come to face an uncertain future, and his life will never ever be the same.

And now without further ado, let's meet Big Willy. In the scene below, Willy has been arrested after being wrongly accused of stealing an apple from a white peddler's cart. Notice the shoulder of the policeman by his side. Willy is a giant with a giant heart!