I met Paul the day my family moved in across the street from his. I was leaning into the truck for a box, and heard someone skipping up behind me. I turned around and saw a boy about my age, maybe a bit younger. Old Red Sox tee shirt, tattered dungarees and a crooked grin. He said, “Hi, I’m Paul,” and stuck out his hand. I shook his hand, said “Hi…” He reached past me and grabbed the box. “I’ll give you hand,” he said and went skipping into the house. That’s when I noticed the metal leg brace attached to his right shoe. I grabbed the next box and followed him into the house. Paul skipped past me in the hallway on his way back out. On my way back to the truck he passed me again with another box in his arms. The same crooked grin on his face.
Our neighborhood bordered an industrial section of Boston with no nearby parks or playgrounds. Certainly no baseball field. But we loved the game. Paul had a bat, and I had a ball and a glove. We spent summer days in a vacant lot beyond a stretch of railroad tracks, taking turns batting the ball to one another fungo style.
Paul and I found the lot one day while cutting school. We spent the afternoon clearing old bricks and chunks of concrete to make a more-or-less level playing field. Paul threw himself into the task, doing more of the work than I. I told him to slow down. “There’s no rush,” I said. “Take it easy.” That was the only time I ever saw Paul angry. “Don’t tell me to take it easy. I can do everything anyone else can do. I’m not a cripple.”
On some days a long freight train would be lumbering loud and slow along the tracks, separating us from our playing field. The first time this happened, we stood by the side of the tracks watching the endless line of rumbling boxcars. I said, “Looks like we’ll have to skip it today. It’s a really long train. You can’t even see the end of it yet.” Paul looked down at the slowly rolling wheels. Without a word, he tossed his bat across the tracks under a passing boxcar. I yelled, “What are you doing?” Paul just grinned at me until the front wheels of the next car rolled by, then he hit the ground and rolled under it.
I bent to look under the train. Paul grinned at me from beyond the tracks. I yelled over the rumble of the train, “Are you crazy?” “No,” he yelled back. “The train’s hardly moving. Toss me the ball and glove and come on over.”
I was terrified. I thought of going home, but I couldn’t just leave Paul alone on the other side. The end of the train was still nowhere in sight. What if he tried to come back and failed? I took a deep breath and tossed my glove and ball across. As soon as the front wheels of the next car passed, I rolled as fast as I could to the other side. Coarse gravel gouged my knees and elbows. The opposite rail bruised my ribs. And I was on my back at Paul’s feet.
He looked down at me. Showed me that grin. Grabbed my hand and pulled me up. Tossed me the glove and skipped off with the bat and ball. “I got first ups,” he said over his shoulder. “Get out there. I’m gonna hit some hard grounders.”
By the second Summer other kids discovered our playing field. Paul and I didn’t mind sharing. After all, baseball’s a team sport. And sometimes we had enough kids for a real game. We used chunks of rubble for home plate and bases. It was great choosing sides and having a pitcher, a catcher and a few fielders on each team. But that also caused a lot of arguments, which took some of the fun out of the game.
The freight train still rumbled through every week or so. On those days none of the other kids showed up, and Paul and I had our baseball field to ourselves.
E J Barron
E J Barron 