"Oh, too bad," Laverne said. "Daddy won't let me go with a ballplayer. He says they're low class."
"Low class?" I said. "Baseball players make millions of dollars a year."
"What planet are you from?" Laverne asked.
I glanced up at Laverne's father in the kitchen. He was shooting dirty looks in our direction. Laverne winked at Flip and said she had to take care of another table.
Flip and I were sipping our drinks when I noticed that the diner had suddenly grown quiet. Nobody was talking. Silverware stopped clicking against plates. Nobody was eating. Everybody was looking toward the front door.
An African American kid had just walked in. He looked like he was about my age.
I peeked out the window at the bus parked at the curb. Inside the bus windows, I could see a bunch of black guys. It looked like they were wearing baseball caps.
The kid walked up to the lady at the cash register.
"I'd like to order twenty hamburgers, please," he said.
Laverne's father rushed out of the kitchen.
"I'm sorry, sonny," he said, "but we can't help you. Ain't nothin' personal, you understand. You can use the bathrooms out back if you need 'em."
The kid lowered his head for a moment. It looked like he might cry. He was probably hungry. He just turned around without a word and walked back to the front door.
I got out of my seat and caught up with him before he could leave.
"Hey," I said. "Where's your mother?"
"Ain't got no mother," he told me. "My momma died the day I was born. Daddy takes care of me."
He pointed toward the bus, which was still outside. Then he opened the door and left the diner. When I went back, Flip was standing at the cash register.
"I'd like to order twenty hamburgers," Flip said to Laverne's father. "To go."
Everybody in the diner was staring at Flip.
Laverne's father looked at him. "What are you, a wise guy?" he asked.
"No, I'm a hungry guy," Flip said, "and I'd like twenty burgers. Are you refusing to serve me?"
Laverne's father looked disgusted. He went back to the kitchen and told somebody to put twenty burgers on the grill.
Flip and I sat down again. People were looking at us and whispering. Soon our chicken was done and Laverne came over with the platters. Outside, the engine of the bus started up again.
"Stosh!" Flip said. "Quick, go tell the driver to hold that bus a minute!"
I ran outside. The bus was starting to pull away. I banged on the door. The driver hit the brakes. The door opened.
"Wait!" I yelled.
Flip was jogging out of the diner with the two platters of chicken and the paper bag lunches my mom had packed for us. He climbed up the steps of the bus. I followed. All the guys on the bus were wearing baseball uniforms that said "Grays" across the front.
"Gentlemen," Flip said. "Anybody want some roast chicken and cornbread? Believe me, this stuff is so good, you'll feel like you died and went to heaven. And if you can wait a few minutes, I ordered those burgers you wanted."
For a moment, the ballplayers on the bus just stared at Flip, like they didn't trust him. But I guess their hunger overwhelmed any suspicions they had, because they all started grabbing the food and shouting. "Yeah! I want some! Gimme a drumstick! What's in the bag? I'll take a hunk of that cornbread." They dove into the food like they hadn't had a good meal in a long time.
The kid who had come into the diner was sitting in the seat right behind the driver. His eyes were moist with tears.
"What's your name, son?" Flip asked, giving him one of my mom's sandwiches.
"Joshua," the kid said. "Josh Gibson."
I thought Flip was going to fall over. He staggered back a step and his eyes bugged out. He looked like he was about to pass out.
"Josh Gibsonthe ballplayer?" he asked.
At that, a huge man stepped forward and stuck out his hand for Flip to shake.
"I'm Josh Gibson, the ballplayer," he said. "This is my son, Josh Junior."
The guy was like a mountain. He was about as tall as Flip, but his chest, arms, and legs were enormous. There may have been a little bit of a belly there, but mostly he was solid muscle.
"I want to thank you, mister," he said simply.
"Stosh!" Flip said, pumping the guy's hand, "This is the great Josh Gibson. The Bronzed Bambino. Prob'bly the greatest hitter in baseball history. Hey Josh, is it true you hit 84 homers in 1936? Is it true you batted .600 one year? I heard you hit line drives that tear the gloves off infielders."
"It's true," Gibson sighed. "All of it."
The greatest hitter in baseball history? I had never even heard of him. I looked at Josh Gibson more closely. His eyes looked weary. There was a sadness in them.
"Numbers don't mean nothin'," one of the other players said. "I remember this one time we were playin' in Pittsburgh and Josh hit one outta sight. Looked like it was never gonna come down. The next day we were playin' in Philly and this ball comes flying out of the sky. Somebody caught it and the ump says to Josh, 'Yer out! Yesterday, in Pitts-burgh!'"
Everybody cracked up. Josh Gibson introduced some of the other players. When he said this one guy's name was Cool Papa Bell, Flip just about fainted again. Bell was another famous player from the Negro Leagues who I hadn't heard of.
"Is Satchel Paige here?" I asked.
The players all started laughing, like I had told a joke or something.
"Satchel Paige don't play for the Homestead Grays," the boy said. "He plays for the Kansas City Monarchs. Everybody knows that."
Well, I didn't know that.
"Tell me," Flip asked, "is Paige as fast as they say he is?"
"Fast?" Josh Gibson said. "Me and Satch used to be teammates on the Pittsburgh Crawfords. I was his catcher for five years. And believe me, nobody can fish like Satch, nobody can flap his gums like Satch, and nobody is faster than Satch. Greatest pitcher I ever seen."
"Satch throws fire, that's what he throws!" added Cool Papa Bell.
"It's like he winds up with a pumpkin and he throws you a pea," somebody else added.
Cool Papa Bell "Oh, I'm gonna take care of Satch and his big mouth when we meet up in Pittsburgh, believe you me," Josh said. "I'm gonna shut him up."
"You're playin' the Monarchs in Pittsburgh soon?" asked Flip, throwing me a look.
"You got that right, mister," Cool Papa Bell said. "We're on our way there now."
Laverne came out of the diner with a big platter piled high with burgers. The players looked at her like they'd never seen a pretty girl before. She seemed hesitant to step inside the bus, so Flip took the platter from her.
"Daddy says these fellas are welcome to eat here," she told Flip, "so long as they don't come in the restaurant."
"Thank you kindly, miss," Flip said.
The players started pulling out money to give to Flip, but he wouldn't take it. "Lunch is on me, guys," he said, passing out the burgers. Grateful hands reached out to grab them.
Flip signaled for me that we should go, but Josh Gibson invited us to stay until they had to get back on the road. The seats were all filled, so we stood.
"Hey, I'm sorry about what happened in there," Flip told them.
"Ain't your fault," Josh said, biting into a burger. "Ain't nobody's fault."
In school I had learned a little bit about the prejudice and discrimination that took place in America before the civil rights movement. I had also taken a time travel trip to see Jackie Robinson become the first black major leaguer in sixty years. Seeing bigotry with my own eyes made it more real. It was so unfair. I couldn't imagine how anybody, black or white, could put up with it.
"Aren't you mad?" I asked.
"What's the use?" Gibson said. "Ain't nothin' we can do about people who don't like us. What are we gonna do? Write to our congressmen?"
"Son, we're just tryin' to survive," said Cool Papa Bell. "Put food on the table."
"I heard the Red Sox are gonna hold tryouts for Negro players," one of the other players said.
"Oh, that's just talk," said Gibson.
"Someday there'll be black players in the big leagues," I told them. I didn't want to tell them I was from the future, but I wanted to give them hope.
"Yeah, well, someday ain't today," said Bell.
"I'll believe it when I see it," somebody else added.
"In a few years-," I started.
"Son, I'm thirty years old," interrupted Josh Gibson. "Cool Papa here is thirty-nine. In a few years, it'll be too late for us."
"Where are you staying tonight?" Flip asked, changing the subject.
"There's a hotel an hour or so north of here," Gibson said. "We hear they take in colored folks. If not, we'll have to sleep on the bus, like last night."
What a rotten life. They can't just walk into any restaurant and sit at a table, like I can. They can't just pull into a hotel and expect to get a room. They have to sleep and eat and ride all day on a crummy bus.
"Why do you do it?" I asked Josh Gibson.
"I guess we just love playin' ball," he said.
Flip motioned again that we should go. We got off the bus and the driver gunned the engine. Before the bus pulled away, Josh Gibson came out and shook Flip's hand again.
"Thank you kindly for the food," he said.
"Fuhgetaboutit," Flip replied. "Hey, you think Satch and the Monarchs will be passing through this way?"
"Sooner or later," Josh said, "most everybody comes this way."
He climbed back inside the bus and it pulled away.
Flip and I watched until the bus disappeared down the road.
"I guess we've got to get to Pittsburgh," I said.
"I'll get my suitcase."
When we walked back in the diner, Laverne's father was behind the cash register. He looked at us with disgust and handed something to Flip. It was a bill. All the food we ordered only came to seventeen dollars. Flip patted his pockets until he found his wallet. He opened it up.
Flip's wallet was empty.
"Uh, Stosh, you got any money on you?"
8.
Thumbing a Ride SEVENTEEN DOLLARS.
It really doesn't sound like that much money. I guess if you happen to have a thousand dollars in your pocket, seventeen isn't very much at all. But when you have nothing in your pocket and you're in a different century and there's this mean-looking guy holding his hand out and demanding money, it's another story.
Suddenly, seventeen dollars seemed like a fortune.
"You don't have any money?" I whispered to Flip.
"I forgot all about bringing money," Flip said, panic creeping into his voice. "I didn't think I'd need any."
"What's your name, boy?" Laverne's father suddenly asked.
"Stosh," I said. "Joe Stoshack."
"Not you!" he said. "The big guy. What's your name?"
"Flip Valentini, sir. We're just, uh"