---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108-page perfect-bound ISSN#/ISBN# issue/paperback book “Down and Inside” cc&d, v315 (the November 2021 issue) Order the 6"x9" paperback book:

Order this writing in the book The World Outside the cc&d Sep.-Dec. 2021 magazine issues collection book		get the 424 page Sep.-Dec. 2021 cc&d magazine 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Down and Inside

Jeff Loeb

    Sundays were best. Mama and Daddy wouldn’t have to work. At church, we’d be scrunched up in tight clothes listening to the minister and choir call out to each other. The woman singer was my favorite. Her voice would go higher and higher till everybody felt blessed. After, we’d change into our hanging-around clothes and meet up for fun.
    Folks would go to each other’s houses, and the boys went out to play sports. In summer we went to River Park, a sandy place down from the Memphis railroad bridge. Nice, big shady trees. So much food – slaw, beans, roast hog most times, pie so sweet and nice you’d remember back to it all week. Sometimes we’d swim, but we mostly played in a low field where they couldn’t plant. Football was fun, but I liked baseball better. It let you think, trick people, try stuff. Gave things a chance to come into your mind.
    Daddy was always in the middle of everything. You could hear his big laugh and loud voice from all the way down on the water. He’d sit on the tallest stump and talk about funny stuff at work, silly things men did. He was straw boss of the gin, so he got to work every day even when it wasn’t cotton time. Most Negroes didn’t, only when it was planting or crop time. Negro or white – didn’t matter – he’d tell jokes on either one, but the white field boss was his favorite. Everybody knew him for a fool cause of Daddy’s funny stories. They’d get to drinking whiskey and guitars would come out and singing would start. Lasted till after dark, even in summer when it was long hours and hard work the next day.
    It was on a Sunday Daddy got drowned. Hot summer and everybody was done with food. Hooting at the stories, when some younger kids come running up from the bank, said little Winifred had gone under and didn’t come up. Everybody ran for the river. Winifred’s mother was screaming for somebody to save him. Daddy jumped in and took a big breath and dived down. Other people got in the water too, up to their waists, but Daddy was the only one out in the current. He stayed down a long time, then he came up hair all dripping and sucked in air. People were praying and crying all around.
    Daddy went down again, and he was there a long time. A real long time. I got scared, and Mama screamed to help him. A couple men went farther out, but they couldn’t find Daddy. Somebody got a rope with big hooks and threw it out and pulled it in. It was a long time. Mama was crying. I stood next to her. She kept hugging me, saying, “Pray, Cary, pray.” I was wet from her tears, holding on to her hand and dress.
    Then someone shouted. The men pulled hard on the rope, and when the hooks came up, Daddy was there. They pushed and pushed on him, but he wouldn’t start breathing again. I was crying too. Everything was different, I knew, just like that. I was eleven.
    Last year I finally got to ride the trains. Mama sent the money from her new job up North, and Granny put me on over in Memphis. I switched in St. Louis. After Kansas City, there wasn’t no more Negro car. We sat with the white people. Mama met me at the station in Junction City.
    I miss Daddy every day. I want him to be proud of me.

 
Junction City, Kansas
May 15, 1953

    “Man, where’s he at?” asked Hill. “You say he gonna be here at two, Benoit.”
    “I said he’d be here when he gets here, Hill. He’s a businessman and probably worked late last night.”
    “Yeah, I know what work, and why he still asleep. Better hurry his businessman ass up, wants me on his team. He’s your uncle. Go get him.”
    Cary Benoit’s temper flared at this challenge. Today was his first chance to make friends with anyone his age, but he’d discovered that Hill got on his nerves. “Ease up, somabitch. I’ll go get him if I want to, not cause your ass says so.”
    The rest of the boys, a dozen or so of them, gathered in a rough semicircle in the shadow of the stone grandstand. Before the argument, they’d been busy punching their fists into their gloves, chucking rocks across the parking lot, and kicking gravel at each other. Now they just looked on.
    Hill turned away with a snort and kicked the rocks himself, raising faint puffs of grayish dust that hung in the dry air. He was stocky and aggressive, evidently a fighter, but now he seemed temporarily confused by Cary’s lack of fear. Taller and lankier than the rest, even at fourteen, Cary showed an athlete’s confidence. As the only other Black player, his standing up to Hill carried no racial freight.
    Hill walked over and forearmed the green wooden gates of the main entrance, then turned and glared. Just above the locked gate, Cary noticed “Rathert Stadium WPA 1937” chiseled into the limestone. He was wondering what WPA meant when he spotted, about 30 feet down the wall, another door swing open under the looming grandstand. The narrow doorway itself was tucked back far enough in to escape notice. A thickset, balding man came out. “What you boys doing here?” he asked, still obscured by the deep shadow. “The stadium be closed till the season start, less you got permission.”
    Cary stepped closer and said, “Sir, I’m Cary Benoit. We’re waiting for my uncle, Charles Stamps. He’s our coach, said we was practicing here today.”
    The man stepped into better light. He looked at each boy in turn, squinting and rubbing his gnarled hands together. Cary noted the thick bubbles of scar tissue over his eyes, and his sloping shoulders. Though he was clearly over fifty – maybe closer to sixty – Cary could tell he wasn’t a person to be challenged. “Charlie Stamps,” the man replied finally. “I be damned. A coach. Last I heard, it weren’t baseball he’s coaching.”
    Hill walked back over and giggled loudly, earning him a hostile glance from Stamps’s nephew.
    “Yes, sir, he wants us to come here to Rathert so nobody’ll see us. The league don’t let practice start till June. He said he’d get us in here.”
    “Well, Cary Benoit, I do know your uncle. Played for the Kansas City Blues. No better hitter round here for a long while. Seen him go four-for-four against the Fort Riley All-Stars.”
    “Yes, sir. This his.” He held out a deep-black, intricately webbed glove, one clearly cared for. It carried a rich aroma of linseed oil. Unlike the brown, splay-fingered specimens of the other boys, this was a true beauty, long and tightly laced with a perfect pocket between thumb and index finger, shaped to snag hard-hit or -thrown balls.
    “Well, well, I be damned. Figure the next time I hear about Charlie Stamps, it be him getting shot by some young lady’s old man. When he supposed to be here?”
    Hill couldn’t contain himself: “Bout three days ago. Must be too busy with that young lady, I’d say.”
    Cary ignored him. “Sir, he said he’d be here at two o’clock. I was just gonna go get him when you come out. Only a few blocks down the street at Ruthie’s, picking up his girlfriend at work.”
    “Well then, Cary Benoit, if you get Charlie Stamps over here to Rathert, I might let you in to practice. That sound okay to you? Might?”
    “Yes, sir. Going right now. Thank you, sir.”
    The old man mumbled a short reply and chuckled quietly at a joke known only to himself. He turned back and squeezed through the small door, pulling it closed behind him.
    Hill wasted no time. “Sir? What the fuck’s that shit, you got to kiss an old nigger’s ass?”
    “You know who that old ?man is, Hill? Black Diamond. The stadium keeper. The one’s gonna let us in, you can keep your fat-ass mouth shut.”
    “Black Diamond? That old has-been motherfucker? Black Diamond’s a boxer. Fool there can’t but barely hold his self up.”
    “That man you calling a fool would whip your sorry ass, quick, he took a mind to. Negro middleweight champ. Sparred with Joe Louis at the Fort. My Uncle Charles say he’d be Army champ, if they’d let Negroes box ofay back then.”
    Cary and his friends had used the word freely in Arkansas, confident its meaning was lost on whites. Here, it suddenly occurred to him, he couldn’t be sure. Abruptly he stopped talking and glared back at Hill. The other boy finally looked away and said, “Black Diamond. Shee-it,” turning and walking off by himself again, this time down the tall green fence toward right field where the top of the scoreboard showed. Seeing that the fight was off for the moment, the other boys began hurling the chalky rocks again as far as they could across the lot. Cary looked after Hill for a few moments, then headed toward his bike.
    In a few minutes, Hill walked back. One of the boys, Snell, said to no one in particular, “Rocky Marciano’s champ now. No one can beat him.”
    Suddenly forced to defend the race, Hill completely reversed himself. “Marciano, my ass. He’s a chickenshit, Snell. Joe Louis’d clean his fucking clock. Even that old somabitch in there’d beat Marciano’s ass.”
    Snell reddened and stepped toward Hill, but before the fight could begin, they were interrupted by a loud honk and turned to see a new, bright-red Buick Skylark convertible come rolling through the gates, top-down. Its distinctive grille grimaced, the red-and-chrome exterior contrasting with immaculate, bright whitewalls and white leather interior. Behind the wheel was Charlie Stamps himself, in reflective aviator sunglasses and a small-brimmed, tan straw hat. Sitting tight against him in the middle of the seat was a tan-colored woman, her straightened reddish hair ruffled by the wind.

    Stamps eased the Buick onto the shady grass and opened his door part way. He turned and whispered something in the woman’s ear. She giggled and slapped at his hand. He pecked her on the cheek and climbed out, leaving her in the car. Stamps was tall, like his nephew, much more so than he’d first appeared since he drove slid down stylishly low in the seat. He was decked out in a bright-yellow rayon shirt with wide, brown stripes down the front, his matching brown trousers were recently pressed, and woven, tan-leather sandals partially covered his dark, thin socks – not the usual coach’s attire. He turned a radiant smile onto the boys, who had gathered around, his eyes still concealed behind the sunglasses. “Well now, my men, looking good here; you all ready to play some ball?” Noting their anxious nods, he extended a palms-up hand toward the stadium. “All right then, ball time.”
    They walked in a group toward the main entrance, but Stamps veered off and sauntered over toward the small door. He rapped lightly, and within a few seconds, it opened. Black Diamond ducked through, blinking his eyes several times rapidly, adjusting to the light. “Well, well, Mr. Charles Stamps, Esquire. How you been keeping yourself?”
    “Fat city, my man, Diamond, fat city. How’s it hanging for you?”
    “The sweet life, Charles. City pays me to watch their field, comps me a crib. What else a man be needing?”
    “Well, I hear having a mama around somewhere don’t hurt none. Bet a cat like you’s got plenty of them on the side, right, Diamond?”
    “Oh, yeah. Speaking of mamas, though, who that fine-looking lady you got in your short?”
    Well, my man, that fox is Darlene. She slaving do’s at Ruthie’s.”
    “So your nephew says. Yes, indeed, I been knowing Ruthie quite a while, though I don’t see much of her in my present circumstance. Got to be a church-going woman. Praying all the damn time. Tough to get into that shit.”
    “I can definitely dig it, Diamond, but say, I got to ask you about this here field.”
    “Oh, yeah, the field. These boys tell me you want to do a little cheating on the practice time. Why don’t that surprise me?”
    By way of answer, Stamps hung his right arm over the old man’s shoulder and gently strolled him off a few feet. His left hand was in his shirt pocket. “No, no, Diamond, my man,” he said. “You know Charlie Stamps don’t cheat. Just getting a little edge is all; nothing wrong with that now, right?”
    Black Diamond chuckled to himself again. “Same old Stamps. Wouldn’t expect nothing else, I guess. What I’m gonna tell the Man, he find out?”
    “Well now, Diamond, this a high fence, not easy to see over. Any Man coming by probably only could scope a red Skylark, belongs to a friend. Right?”
    As he spoke, he removed his hand from the pocket, holding a fat slice of bills folded in a silver money clip. He took his right arm from Black Diamond’s shoulders and removed two of these, tucking them into the older man’s breast pocket. “My boys just needing a little exercise. School makes them rusty.”
    Black Diamond glanced down at his pocket, checking on the bills’ amounts. “Well, Charles, since you put it that way, guess I can see my way to leaving the door slightly ajar.”
    “Well alright then, my man, Diamond. Let’s get to doing. Saturday afternoon’s wasting away, and I gotta be in Salina later, fatten up my bank some more. The dice was nice last night, but they took their time getting there.” Both men laughed.
    “Same old Stamps,” Black Diamond repeated, chuckling to himself. He turned and hobbled down the fence, away from Stamps. When he got to the gate, he removed a hefty ring of keys from his overalls and unlocked it. He turned to the boys and said, “You all put your bicycles inside while you here. Don’t want nobody stealing them, right?”
    The boys retrieved their bikes and wheeled them through the gate, while Stamps walked over to his car and said, “Darlene, baby, let’s play ball.”
    Opening the trunk, he removed two folding lawn chairs, an army duffel bag, and a small aluminum cooler. Darlene scooted under the wheel and slipped out the driver’s door. She wore a red floral dress. As she rounded the car, the soft ground made her prance slightly, to keep her heels from sinking in, and also accentuating the taut muscles in her slim calves. Stamps handed her the cooler and shouldered the rest himself. Black Diamond held the gate open for them glancing for a long moment at Darlene’s legs. As they passed through, Stamps raised the hand with the chairs and said, “Keep your guard up, Diamond, my man, and thanks.”
    Black Diamond, made sure the gate was secure and then stuck the padlock in his pocket. He hobbled back off toward his makeshift apartment, still laughing to himself.

 
    Inside the stadium, the players found the field less than game-ready – bases and pitcher’s rubber removed, infield dirt smooth from winter winds and spring moisture. City crews had recently mowed, and the green outfield invited them. They ran and rolled in the grass, working off their excitement. Stamps breathed deeply and smiled at some memory. He set up the chairs in the grandstand’s shade and gestured in a broadly gallant way for Darlene to seat herself. She smiled and curtsied, mock-daintily. He placed the metal cooler between them and removed two cans of Schlitz, putting them on the cooler top. Gripping a metal opener, he had them open with four quick wrist-turns.
    Both took long sips, and Stamps whispered something to Darlene, causing her to giggle. He straightened and assumed his coach’s voice. “Okay, men,” he shouted, strolling out onto the dirt with a round-‘em-up signal, “let’s get to it.”
    He waited until they were circled up. “Alright, only a month till the first game, so we got some work to do to. Right off, there isn’t but one boss, and that’s me. Any questions?”
    He waited for a long moment, looking from player to player. Only his nephew and Hill returned his gaze, the first out of respect and the second with a certain defiance Stamps noted. “This the way it is, we’re a running team, better shape than everybody, on base more – I don’t care how, hits or walks – moving it over every chance we get.”
    He paused for a moment. “When they bat, we’ll be jumping all the time, never lettin’ them know where the gaps are. Plus, we charge the ball – don’t wait till it comes to us. Everybody understand?”
    The boys, all now looking at him, nodded eagerly, and Stamps said, “Okay then, we’re straight. Getting in shape starts right now. See that sign out there in center, says ‘406’?” They all turned to look. “I want five laps, back and forth between here and there. Got that? Now go, 406 and back.”
    They took off, some sprinting, others struggling with heavy legs and extra weight, forming a long loop between him and the fence. Satisfied, Stamps strolled back over to Darlene and sat beside her to sip his beer. He gently patted the infield dust off his cuffs and joked about some of the laggards. Darlene giggled.
    When the last boy had finished, with most leaning, huffing, hands on knees, near the pitcher’s mound, Stamps got up and clapped. Hefting the duffel bag, he walked over to the group and set it down. There was a sound of bats knocking together. “Good job, men, good job. Gonna be plenty more of that, but it’ll pay off. Trust me.”
    He noted that Hill was one of the players panting most rapidly, while Cary and Snell had been at the front of the pack; neither was breathing especially hard.
    “All right now, we’ll split up and do a little throwing and hitting. I want this group right here” – he designated about half of them with a sweeping motion – “in the outfield getting your arms warmed up. Set yourself about where you’d be in a game. Take these here.” He dumped several balls out of the bag and tossed them around. “The rest of you stay with me in the infield. We’re gonna do some hitting. Least I hope we are.” The boys chuckled at this and Stamps motioned them into action.
    “Cary, you take the mound,” he stated, tossing his nephew a ball. “Just guess about the rubber. Rest of you are playing infield and batting.” He counted off four of them and said, “First. Second. Short. Third. Go to it.” The boys trotted toward their positions. “Grab that duffel bag, son,” he said to one of the remaining youngsters, “and bring it over here by me.” He turned and walked to where home plate would have been. He noted Hill was among the five or so boys who trailed behind him.
    “Need a catcher too.” He turned to Hill. “What’s your name, son?” he asked.
    “Vonn,” the boy replied sullenly.
    “Vonn what?” Stamps said, though he already knew the answer.
    “Hill.”
    “Well, Mr. Hill, you’re my catcher. Looks like you got some beef on you, stop balls with. Get these here shin pads and chest protector on. Everybody else take some practice swings.”
    Not giving Hill a chance to reply, Stamps dug the catcher’s mitt out of the bag and knelt facing toward Cary, some sixty feet away on the mound. “Okay, son,” he called. “Chuck me some balls while our man Hill’s getting ready.”
    Carefully loosening the knees of his slacks, Stamps squatted behind the imaginary home plate and held up the mitt in front of him.
    Cary planted his left foot slightly in front and bent toward Stamps, holding the ball next to his right knee, fingering it lightly. He stared intently at the distant mitt. After a moment, eyes never leaving the target, he straightened, bringing his hands together chest-high, the ball now concealed behind the black glove. Gracefully – almost balletically – hoisting his left leg, foot almost as high as his chin, at the same time extending his hands up above his head and twisting his upper body to the right, he paused briefly before exploding forward, right arm catapulting the ball toward the waiting mitt, his momentum carrying him several feet off the mound until the glove’s tip nearly grazed the infield dirt. The white blur was followed by a sharp smack, as dust flew off the mitt. Stamps had not moved it even an inch.
    “Damn!” one of the boys said, eyes wide. He looked at his companion. “You see that?”
    Standing, Stamps said, “Not bad, huh? You can hit that there pitch in practice, won’t have no trouble in games.”
    He tossed the ball back to his nephew. “Nice pitch, Cary,” he called to him. “How you coming with that gear, Mister Hill?”
    He looked over at the boy. Hill had not yet picked up the first piece of equipment. “I ain’t gonna be no catcher,” he said. “I always been the pitcher.”
    “Well, son,” Stamps replied patiently, “like I say, we all do our part on this team. I’ll try you out pitching, but you got to do whatever’s needed, when I say, and right now I need a catcher. You got that?”
    “No, I ain’t got that, and I ain’t gonna get it neither.”
    Stamps held his anger. “Let me explain, just so you understand. If every man can’t do his bit, he ain’t on the team. Now if you want to catch a while, then you can hit some, and after, I’ll let you pitch. You do that?”
    Hill held back the angry tears clouding his eyes. After a moment he said, “Yeah, all right, I’ll do it.”
    He turned and reached for the shin pads. Stamps stared at him a few more seconds, then squatted in the catcher’s position and called out, “Cary, chuck me nother one in here.”
    A few seconds later the ball arrived, with another loud whack and a small puff of dust. Still squatting, the ball in his mitt, Stamps took a moment to glance out over the expanse of field. On the grass, several games of catch were going on, and tiny white baseballs flew from hand to glove all across his vision. Floodlights towered above the wide green fence, silhouetted by spring’s white-and-azure hues. The sight was beautiful, he thought.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...