Always October. C. E. Edmonson

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СКАЧАТЬ out, the terror that seized me as I took a seat on the wide bench was groundless. The height didn’t bother me at all, and the view of Chicago’s skyline on one side and Lake Michigan on the other was beyond impressive. The whole of the park sprawled below us. The miniature railway, the chutes, Midget City, the Wild Animal Show, the great ballroom, the shooting galleries, the vaudeville theater. Eddie and I were sitting between Momma and Annie, with Annie to my right. She was gripping the iron restraint with both hands, her knuckles white. When the wheel stopped with us on top, she just closed her eyes and moaned.

      CHAPTER 5

      That night, Eddie, Dad, and I shared a big bed that had four thick pillows, snow-white sheets, and a down comforter. The comforter was light as air and soft enough to be a cocoon. Though exhausted, Eddie and I remained awake for a long time, recounting the sights we’d seen, including two Chicago policemen arresting a man on State Street. When the man had resisted, they’d clubbed him to the ground. Momma had rushed us past the scene, giving us no opportunity to determine what the man had done. That didn’t prevent us from speculating. Eddie, if I recall, insisted the man was a cold-blooded murderer.

      “Did you see that scar on his face?”

      I hadn’t noticed any scar, but I was certain he was a bank robber because he carried a bulging paper bag. Bulging, naturally, with the loot.

      “Good night, boys,” my dad finally whispered. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

      * * *

      The next morning, Annie and Momma left for their shopping expedition after breakfast. Eddie, Dad, and I wandered about the city for a time, with me and Eddie naturally becoming more restless as time passed, until we finally headed off to Weeghman Park—which later changed its name to Wrigley Field. We traveled aboard a bewildering array of trolley cars, switching routes three times—a system Dad navigated with seeming ease. Eddie and I kept our faces pressed to the windows. According to my father, the tallest buildings were called skyscrapers, a name that seemed right to me and Eddie. We argued over which was the tallest, trying to count the stories before the trolley passed. The furthest we got, if I remember correctly, was twenty-three.

      Before long, the skyscrapers gave way to three- and four-story buildings, apartment buildings my dad explained. I had a tough time with the concept. Except for a few railroad workers who boarded near the train station, folks in Bear County lived in their own homes.

      “Why don’t they live in houses?”

      “They don’t have enough money.”

      “Are they poor?”

      “Average, more like. Why?”

      “Seems pretty crowded to me.”

      Somehow, when I was a youngster, I had a way of making my dad laugh without myself getting the joke. He laughed then, before patting my knee. “Crowds? Son, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

      We didn’t get much farther before I noticed a pattern. Whereas the traffic along the streets had been pretty much divided between those coming at us and those going with us, now almost all the cars were headed the same way. That went double for the pedestrians. The sidewalks, too, were becoming more and more crowded as though we all—cars, passengers, and pedestrians—were scraps of iron drawn to Pete Wegner’s horseshoe magnet. When we came within view of the ball field I forgot all about the traffic.

      “My, oh my,” Eddie said. “Ain’t she grand, Lucas? Ain’t she the grandest thing you’ve ever seen?”

      To my little mind, she was all that and more. To my mind, Weeghman Park was pure magic. Twenty-five years later, when I returned to Wrigley Field, I found the stadium to be rather homely. There was nothing in its architecture to indicate more than the builder’s determination to minimize the cost of construction. But on that day, my jaw dropped open at the sight and my little heart soared. We might have been approaching the gates of heaven instead of the main gate of a baseball park.

      “This is us.” Dad rose and offered his hands, one to me and one to Eddie. “Hold tight, boys. You don’t want to get lost in this crowd.”

      No, I surely didn’t. There were so many people, a river of people, all crowded together, bumping into each other without an “excuse me,” everyone talking, laughing. To the right and left of the gate, carts sold pennants, caps, scorecards, satin jackets, and baseballs, some of them signed by every member of the team. My father guided us to the cart on the left. No fool, he didn’t ask us what we wanted, just settled a pair of genuine Cubs baseball caps on our heads, paid the man behind the cart, and herded us to the gate.

      I was so proud at that moment, I wanted to bust, and I could sense Dad’s pride as well. He’d done this, given us this moment, hoping I’d remember it until I closed my eyes for the last time. In that he succeeded. These days, when I get up in the morning, it’s all I can do to remember where I left my eyeglasses. But I remember every minute of that game.

      We joined the ticketholders’ line and shuffled forward until Dad handed our tickets to a man who tore them in half. The man gave the bottom halves back to Dad and said, “Enjoy the game, boys.”

      Then we were through the gate, walking up a long, concrete ramp. The ramp was deeply shadowed, a tunnel leading from the sunshine outside the stadium to the sunshine within. When we finally came into the light, Dad squatted down, took me and Eddie by the waists, and lifted us high enough in the air to allow an unimpeded view of the ball field. The June grass was the greenest of greens, the red-dirt baselines impossibly straight, the bases as white as new-fallen snow. The foul lines ran, to the left and right, from home plate to heaven. For once, even Eddie was struck dumb.

      The Cubs were on the field, outfielders and infielders. They seemed awfully small compared to the acres of grass around them. Could nine men cover all that ground? Could any man hit a baseball over that wall?

      “We’re holding up the wheels of progress,” Dad announced, setting us down. “Let’s find our seats.”

      Our seats were behind third base, about ten rows back—expensive seats even in 1917, but I didn’t give a thought to the cost of the tickets. This place, Weeghman Park, was the realm of gods. Except, perhaps, for the man with a big belly who stood in front of home plate, bat in hand.

      “Is that a player?” Eddie asked, pointing to the man.

      “He’s a coach,” my father explained. “He’s conducting infield practice.”

      I watched the unnamed coach toss a ball into the air and hit it, one handed, toward the third baseman—hit it harder than any ball I’d ever fielded. Unfazed, the fielder took a step to his right, graceful as a deer. Despite a bad hop, he scooped the ball up and threw it across the field to the waiting first baseman. The first baseman caught the ball and flipped it toward the visitors’ dugout all in one motion. He didn’t have much choice because the coach hit a second ball toward the shortstop before his first grounder reached the third baseman. By the time the first baseman got rid of one ball, another was coming at him.

      I watched every move, my attention riveted, mentally comparing the players’ skills with those of the Bear County Bruins. My hometown, I have to admit, wasn’t faring too well, but all comparisons ceased when the Cubs began to practice double plays. I watched the coach hit a hard, one-hop grounder to the shortstop, who tossed the ball to the second baseman just as he crossed the bag. The second baseman caught the ball, whirled, and threw to first, the ball a blur that disappeared into the first baseman’s glove, СКАЧАТЬ