The next day, school was back in session. Jonathan was

back, and cops were all over the place. There had been

another incident of what the stupid newspapers were

calling racial strife, but it actually had just been Ronnie

and his boys cruising through the black section, looking

for revenge. Frankie said they’d beat up some black

kids, but that was all—no fires or anything. I thought

Frankie was a little disappointed. Since Mr. Hackney’s

biology class was all burned out, biology class was in

the lunchroom. We got to sit wherever we wanted, and

it seemed Jonathan tried his best to sit as far away from

me as possible. He sat next to one of the other two black

kids, and he was real quiet throughout the entire class,

which was incredible considering old Mr. Hackney was

out recovering from his ordeal and we had a real dippy

substitute. Jonathan relished substitutes. He could wrap

them around his finger, and with all the whites so afraid of

Mickey Mantle’s Last Home Run | 147

blacks, Jonathan could have had a ball with this substitute.

But he was silent for the whole class. It was a boring class.

Most of the kids were just waiting for Jonathan to start

some kind of screwing around. When he didn’t, the class

dragged along and seemed to last for hours.

I guessed it was tough when something terrible

happened to your hero. I was sure I’d go crazy if something

happened to the Mick. But I guessed it was a lot worse

when something terrible happened to somebody millions

of people loved. The Doc was the hero of a lot more people

than just a bunch of dopey kids or baseball fans. It was

kind of like when John F. Kennedy was assassinated. I

was just a little squirt at the time, but just about the whole

country was shocked and upset. My mother was crying

away, and it was the first time I could ever remember my

father walking around shaking his head. The networks

had lots of news stories when President Kennedy was

shot—lots of boring stuff, but they showed films of JFK

playing with his kids and all, and there was a shot of the

little squirt John John saluting his father’s casket. It was

all real sad. We got a few days off from school, and I was

pretty darn happy about that. Some of the films about JFK

showed Bobby Kennedy too. I’d always thought Bobby

was a lot cooler than his brother—maybe because I was

partial to younger brothers. Jonathan said that his family

were big JFK supporters, and they were very upset when

JFK was assassinated, but I was sure this was a lot worse.

I knew firsthand how Jonathan worshipped the Doc,

and his folks did too. I knew this had to be real hard on

them. But I couldn’t understand why Jonathan wouldn’t

speak to me. He wouldn’t even look at me. I mean, what

the heck were friends for anyway? You were supposed to

be able to share your grief and all that stuff, and anyway,

I liked the Doc too. Maybe some people thought that

because I was white, I shouldn’t have cared or something.

Or maybe Jonathan blamed me because I was white.

Maybe he thought all white people were to blame.

Biology class was as boring as ever, and every time I

looked over at Jonathan, he was either looking down at

his biology book or staring out the window.

The ban on after-school activities had been lifted,

so our game that afternoon at Roosevelt Field was on.

Nobody seemed psyched about playing it. Most of the

white kids were apprehensive about going to Roosevelt

Field. Jonathan stayed as far away from me as he could, so

I stayed near most of the other white guys. When we got

to the field, I warmed up with Big Billy. When we were

done throwing, Big Billy took me aside and said, “You

stick with us, kiddo. We heard some of them coloreds are

out to get you. We’re gonna keep our eyes on you. Come

here, and look at this.” Big Billy took off his cap and

showed me that he had a razor blade in the lining. “No

Roosevelt School colored is gonna mess with me.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s great, Big Billy,” I said, and I went

over to the bat rack to check for my bat and to get away

from him.

The game started off pretty raggedly, as if both teams

were out of practice. I made a throwing error in the first

inning—what else was new?—but I made a good play on

a line drive in the second to rob a hit. Darrell, bandages

Mickey Mantle’s Last Home Run | 149

and all, and some of his buddies were over in the stands,

and I started to get a bit worried. I didn’t feel any better

when Big Billy came over and tried again to reassure me.

“Darrell’s buddies are here, but don’t worry. I heard that

Ronnie and some of his boys are going to cruise over here

to make sure everything is all right.”

I’ ll bet, I thought. They’d just be out there looking for

trouble, I figured.

In the fourth inning, I got a hanging curve and drilled

it down the left-field line for a double. It was my best hit

of the year, and to be honest, I was pretty darn surprised

I could hit a ball that well. I was a heck of a lot more

surprised when I heard somebody from the stands cheer,

“Atta boy, T. J.!” I looked over and could hardly believe it:

in the bleachers was Jonathan’s dumb little sister Lendora.

She was there with one of her other little girlfriends, and

I had to admit it made me feel good to have a few fans

rooting for me. I was sure Darrell and his buddies were

hoping I would drop dead. I came around to score on a

hit by Gorski, and the game was tied 3–3. Lendora let

out another cheer as I crossed the plate. I wondered what

my various adversaries were thinking when they saw a

little black kid cheering for me. Racial strife could really

complicate things.

Unfortunately, that hit was the last thing my fans had

to cheer about. The other team went on to score four runs

and build up a 7–3 lead, but then we started to rally in the

bottom of the seventh. I was due up fifth in the inning,

and I worried about making the last out of the game. I

was one for three, but the only time I’d hit the ball hard

was on my double. I wasn’t exactly a picture of confidence

at the plate. So even though I was kind of rooting for the

team to get a rally going, deep down, I was just hoping

I wouldn’t have to get up with two out. It was the worst

feeling in the world for a player to make the last out in a

game. I hated it.

Well, sure enough, we got a rally going. The first guy

walked. Then there was an error and then a base hit. One

run scored, and Pitman, the guy before me, was up with

first and second, no outs, and a score of 7–4. We were

getting excited on the bench, but then ole Pitman popped

out for the first out. When I got up, I was as nervous as

heck. I heard Lendora cheering for me, but that made

me even more nervous. Sometimes it was better not to

have any fans around so there was nobody around to

see you when you screwed up. I was hoping for another

hanging curve because this guy knew curveballs were

my weakness. Sure enough, the first pitch was a big, fat

curveball hanging right out there where I liked it, so I

swung as hard as I could—and missed the pitch by a mile.

It curved. The next pitch was the same thing, but it didn’t

curve, and I hit a hot smash down the third-base line.

Unfortunately, the third baseman made a backhanded

stab just like old Clete Boyer of the Yanks. Then he

stepped on third base for the force out and fired across

the diamond, where I was hardly even halfway to first.

Double play! Unbelievable. I had made not only the last

out but the last two outs—Depression City. I felt awful as

I walked slowly back to the bench, and everybody started

packing up. I sat down alone on the end. I heard Lendora

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say from over in the bleachers, “Nice wood anyway, T. J.” I

looked over, and she and her little girlfriend were heading

out toward the street. She gave a little goodbye wave.

As I was sitting there by myself, Big Billy came

by. I thought he was going to offer me some words of

consolation, but instead, he told me I’d better get going

because Darrell and his boys were still waiting around,

and Big Billy didn’t think it would be safe for me to leave

Roosevelt Field alone. I was still upset about the game,

and I got pissed off about what Big Billy was saying.

“Hey, look, Billy,” I said. “Don’t you think you’re

carrying this thing a little too far? Christ sakes. There

ain’t nobody after me.”

“Yeah?” Big Billy said. “Well, look, buddy boy. I’m

only trying to help you. You know we got to take care of

our own.”

“What do you mean ‘our own’?” I asked. “White kids

got to take care of white kids because all the blacks are

out to get us?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean,” Big Billy said. He

was starting to get mad.

“Well, look, Billy. I can darn well take care of myself

without you and your buddies looking after me and trying

to stir up trouble.”

“Stir up trouble? What the heck are you talking

about? The coloreds are the ones stirring up the trouble.”

“Oh, come on, Billy,” I said. “I heard about Ronnie

and his boys beating up an innocent black kid just last

night.” I was really getting pissed.

“Innocent? Who cares if the kid was innocent? He

was a colored, wasn’t he? Ronnie just wants revenge,” Big

Billy said.

“Yeah, revenge,” I said sarcastically.

“So what’s with you, T. J., anyway? Why are you

always defending these coloreds?” Big Billy was starting

to get pretty darn mad now.

“Yeah, well, look,” I said. “I know why that fight

started in school. It started because somebody was

cursing out the Doc.” I didn’t mean to say the Doc, but

it slipped out.

“The Doc? Who the hell is the Doc?” Big Billy didn’t

know what I meant, and I was glad. “The fight started,

buddy boy, because Darrell and his boys wanted to get

even with you for just about knocking Darrell’s block

off with a baseball, something that a lot of us white kids

would love to have the opportunity to do. And if you’ll

just lookee yonder, you’ll see Darrell’s boys still hanging

around like a bunch of vultures, just waiting to get a crack

at you.”

“You’re crazy, Billy!” I was really upset. I got up and

headed out toward the outfield to head back to the field

house. I did not want to believe what Big Billy was saying.

I was still not sure if it was true , and I sure didn’t want

to believe it.

“Well, suit yourself, buddy,” Big Billy said. “Oh, and

good luck. You’ll need it.”