By the time June rolled around, things were sort of

back to normal at school. The school had replaced the

police officers with security guards. School was pretty darn

boring, and with Jonathan still in mourning or whatever

it was, things were boring in all my classes. Jonathan

still wasn’t talking to me or, as much as I could tell,

anybody who was white. We had made plans way back in

March to go to a twi-night doubleheader at the stadium,

between the Yanks and the California Angels. We were

pretty much stuck on doubleheaders because one game

just wasn’t enough, and we thought a twi-nighter would

be neat, so as soon as the new 1968 Yankee schedule had

come out, I’d sent away for four tickets. Boy, how things

had changed.

Phil, Frankie, and Jonathan had agreed to go, and

they had all paid their money way back when I’d sent for

the tickets. Now Frankie was spending his Friday nights

at Murray’s stupid parties, Phil was spending all his time

studying, and Jonathan wasn’t even talking to me.

Well, it wasn’t too much trouble to get Frankie’s

assurance that he would go once I reminded him that

he’d paid for the ticket. Frankie wasn’t one to throw

away money, and he figured there would be plenty more

parties at Murray’s. Phil was easier to convince than I

expected. In fact, he had never forgotten about the games

and was looking forward to a chance to put down the

books. Jonathan was another story. He still didn’t want

anything to do with me, so I figured there was no way

he’d want to go.

The Tuesday before the Yankee twi-nighter, we had

a game at home against Ridgeway. We lost 5–4. I didn’t

care that much. Darrell played a typical game for him.

He hit two long doubles and struck out twice. The trouble

was, the two times he struck out, he left men in scoring

position. The coach wasn’t too happy about that. I sat on

the bench for the entire game. Jonathan sat on the bench

too but down at the other end. After the game, I was one

of the first to leave the locker room. There wasn’t any need

for me to take a stupid shower. Back home, I followed

my same old routine: eat supper, do some homework,

and then, at eight o’clock, put on the Yankees game. The

Yanks looked totally pathetic losing to the Minnesota

Twins, and the Mick was feeble—hitless in four at bats.

What a waste. I hit the sack early, and I kind of wished I’d

never gotten up that morning.

When I got up the next morning, as soon as I went

downstairs, I could see that something was wrong. I

heard the television, and my first thought was about the

astronauts. My father always liked to turn on the TV in

the morning when there was going to be a launch. I always

thought they were pretty boring. Back when I was a little

squirt in grammar school, when NASA would send up a

rocket, the teachers would bring all the classes into the

gym, and we would watch the takeoff on one of the two

big TVs. However, the launch would always be delayed,

 and we’d get bored while sitting around waiting. When

 the rocket took off, we could hardly see anything more

than a speck on the screen, but we could always hear old

Walter Cronkite going on and on about how great the

takeoff was and everything. It seemed like a waste to

watch it, and I thought the teachers had us watch it so

they could get out of teaching for a few hours.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that what was on

the TV wasn’t a dopey space launch, and how I wished

it was.

My father was sitting on the couch in his work clothes,

rubbing his forehead like he did when he was upset. On

the TV, some guy was giving a news report outside a

hospital, talking about somebody who had been shot. My

father shook his head and said, “They got another one.

Somebody always gets the good ones.”

Then the newsman started talking about Bobby

Kennedy, and I felt a chill go down my spine. I heard

the newsman say, “Senator Robert Kennedy lies gravely

wounded, shot in the head by an unnamed gunman.”

I said, “Oh no!” or something lame like that. Then

my father started going on about how they always got the

good ones, and he let out a long sigh, all while he kept

rubbing his forehead.

My mother came in, holding back tears. “Don’t say

that. He’ll be all right. We just have to pray.” Then she

said, “T. J., go eat your breakfast,” but I wasn’t really

listening.

I could feel my stupid face quivering, and all of a

sudden, I had to tear upstairs to my room. I felt like a

jerk, but I started crying and couldn’t stop. I cried like

I was some dim-witted little squirt. I just couldn’t stand

the thought of Bobby Kennedy being shot—just like his

brother. I tried to imagine what it would be like to be

shot. People were always getting shot up on stupid TV

shows, but they never showed much blood or anything,

except maybe in the movies. In Bonnie and Clyde, there

was blood all over when they got shot. But this was a real

live person, a person lots of people really cared about—a

guy who wanted to be president and help people out. He

wanted to help fix things between blacks and whites and

stop all the violence and rioting, and now he’d been shot.

He wanted to stop the stupid war in Vietnam so young

soldiers would stop getting killed, and people wouldn’t

have to spend so much time arguing about it. Bobby was

a good guy. He was good looking and even had his hair

kind of long like my brother’s. But now Bobby had been

shot in the head and gravely wounded. It didn’t make

any sense.

I turned on the radio by my bed and switched to a

station with the news. The reporter said Bobby was in

stable but critical condition, and the doctors didn’t know

if he could pull through. He said that people all over the

country were praying for the senator, so I said a quick

prayer, and I figured maybe there was still hope after all.

I eventually got up. I had a glass of juice to please my

mother and went to school.

Things seemed a little quieter than normal, and some

of the kids were whispering about the shooting. Our

history teacher canceled his regular lesson and devoted

 the entire class to a discussion about violence in America.

 It was a really good discussion because our town had

already had its share of violence. I didn’t say much because

I was still pretty darn upset, but the discussion was good.

We talked about how there were loads of guns in our

country, and despite the fact that JFK and the Doc had

been gunned down, there were still no gun-control laws.

The class thought that was pretty lame. Our teacher, Mr.

Fisher, said even after this assassination attempt, there still

probably wouldn’t be any meaningful gun-control laws.

We all thought Mr. Fisher was being kind of cynical, and

then I had to open my big mouth by saying that when

Bobby Kennedy got better, he’d make sure some laws

were passed.

Mr. Fisher wasn’t so sure. “Ah, the idealism of youth,”

he said. “And maybe you’re right. But have you ever heard

of the National Rifle Association?” He went on about that

group of people, who thought everybody should be able

to have a gun. Then Mr. Fisher said something that really

made me feel sick.

“But you know, T. J.,” he said, “the ironic part of it

all—and the most tragic aspect of the youthful idealism

you expressed—is that the only leader with enough of

that youthful idealism, energy, and dedication to do

something about it is lying flat on his back in a hospital

in Los Angeles with a gunshot wound in his head. And

frankly, T. J., even if Bobby Kennedy survives, he’ll never

be the same person. The brain damage he suffered has

been so extensive that even if he lives, it will probably be

as nothing more than a vegetable.”

I felt I was about to start crying again, but I also

felt nauseated. Fortunately, the class ended, and I made

an emergency trip to the bathroom. I couldn’t get the

thought out of my mind. Bobby Kennedy—a vegetable.

I really felt sick. Somehow, I made it through the day

okay, but I cut baseball practice. It was the first time I had

missed practice all year, but I didn’t feel up to running

around and playing baseball. I went home and listened

to the radio in the backyard because it was too hot up

in my room. Around suppertime, there was a report that

Bobby was in critical condition, but his heart was still

pumping. Bobby had undergone a three-hour operation,

and the bullets had been removed. There would be no

more reports until the morning, so I turned off the radio.

My parents were both kind of subdued, so they didn’t

bother me much with idle chitchat, which was just as

well. I watched a little of the news reported by good

old Walter Cronkite, who looked solemn and seemed

positively depressed as he talked about the shooting.

Walter looked a whole lot better when he announced

those space launches. It was all too depressing, so I went

upstairs, where I watched the Yanks on TV and then

went to bed. I said as many dopey prayers for Bobby as I

could think of.

When I woke up the next morning, I turned on my

radio. I was anxious to hear the latest news, but then I

thought, What if it’s bad? It was bad. Early that morning,

Bobby Kennedy had died.