Say It Ain't So

            by Megan Hourula

 

         “Ha!” exclaimed Eddie Lonningan, holding in his hand a rusty and much-needed quarter. Eddie had been looking all morning and the moment he found it he hollered to his mother and ran right out the door. The strong wind was particularly cold for an August afternoon but it hadn’t kept the elders of the neighborhood from sitting on their front steps in the north side of Chicago. The scandal that was beginning to grace the covers of newspapers all over the country was the kind of conversation that no wind could stop. Eddie, however, was in a hurry and could not be bothered with what he figured to be Cub fans’ jealousy so he paid no attention to the comments sent his way about his slandered White Sox.   

         Eddie soon reached the newly remodeled and now alcohol-free drugstore on West Dove Avenue. He entered and headed straight for aisle sixteen where the baseballs were kept. He was a small boy, about 52 inches tall and skinnier then your average baseball bat. His brown hair matched his dark brown eyes that held a hint of fight in them wherever he went. In the neighborhood, Eddie was considered to be one of the toughest twelve year olds in the north, and one of the quietest —except for when it came to baseball. Eddie was fine with his reputation, but in his mind it wasn’t much of a feat. He didn’t care to be friends with the boys in his neighborhood. It was his old friends who lived in the south side that really mattered. He didn’t feel he matched up with them anymore. Since the move three years ago he felt he had gone soft.

         Following the rules, it was his turn to supply the ball for the game. He had lost the last one when he foul tipped it into the second floor of the apartment building next door to their field; lucky for him Mrs. McNally had left the window open so he didn’t have to try and find $100 in between the sofa cushions. Eddie bought his baseball and, with his glove in the back pocket of his corduroy knickers, he headed down to Ed Walsh Field. Eddie was the first one there.  He went over to left field, removed his leather shoes, and pretended to field balls hit at him. He would stand out there and dive to his left to rob the Detroit Tigers’ Ty Cobb of a double or he’d suddenly take off running and leap up to take away a home run off the bat of the Boston Red Sox’ Babe Ruth. He would land on his feet, throw the imaginary ball in, and smile at Ruth and say, “Nice try kid, why dontcha go back to pitching.” He always seemed to enjoy those moments more than playing with the other kids because then there was no one to tell him he wasn’t really Shoeless Joe Jackson.

         Eddie didn’t want to grow up and be like Jackson; even at twelve he knew he didn’t have that kind of talent. Instead, Eddie wants to be Jackson; just turn into him and escape. Jackson had the perfect life— almost; after all his team had lost the World Series last year. Eddie knew he’d be happier if his name was Joe and was on his way to another batting title.

         The game began at half past two. It would be one of the last games before both Chicago teams returned from each of their road trips. So all the boys in the neighborhood came to get their swings in before they returned to following the Cubs. When it was Eddie’s turn to bat he took a deep breath.  As the air filled his lungs his confidence grew and as he exhaled he made the decision to stand by his hero. He stepped up to the right side of the plate; he had trained himself to hit lefty just like Joe. He looked out to the pitcher, the fight in his eyes got a little bigger and he yelled as if nothing was different, “ I’m Shoeless Joe and I say you ain’t got no wing at all and I plan on sending this one into the street.”  Right then Ricky Johnson over at third base threw down his glove and yelled,

         “Yea, you ain’t no Joe Jackson and if you was I’d quit ‘cause I ain’t playin’ against no crooked ballplayer! And don’t you know Jackson is the worst of  ‘em all, cause he don’t even know how to throw a game right!” At this the other boys began to laugh so Ricky continued, “Imagine that— a guy agreeing to play bad in the World Series. No wonder they call him Shoeless— he was too dumb to remember to put ‘em. on!” Ricky laughed loudly at Eddie and added, “Just give up and go home, that’s what Joe Jackson would do.”

         There it was. Eddie had expected it after all the things they were saying in the paper— calling them the Black Sox and everything. The whole time Ricky went on, Eddie just stared over at him. It was a vacant stare because Eddie didn’t want to listen, but he couldn’t keep from hearing, and he felt it was his job to protect whom his Dad called “the greatest ball player alive.” He marched right over to his now ex-friend and said,  “You take that back! Joe Jackson ain’t no quitter and I’ll fight anyone who says he is.”

         “You gonna have to fight my dad then ‘cause he says that the whole Black Sox organization is a disgrace to baseball.” Yelled the catcher from behind home plate. Eddie looked around and saw the heads shaking in agreement. He realized that fighting wouldn’t do him any good so he took into account what his mother always told him and tried using his words. He began by reciting every stat he could remember. He told them how in 1912 Jackson led the leagues in hits with 226, that in 1916 he had the most triples with 21, and he reminded them that he had hit .375 in last years World Series

         “No one that good would cheat. Joe loved ball too much to do that.” Eddie tried to explain, the frustration building inside of him. He knew he hadn’t changed anyone’s mind and he reasoned with himself that it wasn’t worth his breath because most of them were dumb Cub fans anyway and would never listen. He decided to leave; he walked away muttering, “Joe’s a good man, a good man.”     

         Eddie was confused. There were things he knew he wasn’t suppose to understand and he got that, usually he chose not to care about them. He didn’t try to get why his dad had to die in the war, or why he and his mom couldn’t have stayed in their own home when he left. The why’s didn’t have answers but at twelve years old his emotions dictated his actions anyway so there wasn’t much room for reasoning. It was those events that he preferred to ignore. It came to a point where all he cared about was baseball, or at least that’s what he told himself. Now Eddie had more to deal with. He didn’t understand the new wave of attacks on the White Sox. He wondered why people would lie like that. “At least a judge will fix it,” he said confidently to himself.

         On his way home he stopped off at his neighbor Mac Wilson’s house. Mac had been a friend of his father’s and was just about the only upside to living where they did. Mac was a good man and despite being a die-hard Cubs fan, he never attacked the White Sox or Eddie. He was always there to talk ball with the kid and teach him little known facts that made Eddie feel important to know them. Eddie loved hanging around Mac when it was just the two of them. He would recite all the reasons why the White Sox were so great and why the Cubs just stunk. Mac would sit and laugh and say, “Sure kid, whatever ya say.”

         Today, Eddie entered Wilson’s house in a manner similar to that of manager John McGraw after being ejected from a Giants game. He was full of anger from his argument with Ricky and was sure he was right, and now all he needed was Mac’s approval on the issue. “Mac,” Eddie yelled as he bounced on to the couch in the living room.

         “Hey Kid,” Mac shounted from the bathroom, “ I was just talking to Benny in New York. He says your Sox just won and the Cubbies swept in Boston.” Wilson often relayed to Eddie the scores he got from his connections. Seeing Eddie as he entered the bare living room he asked, “Whoa, Buddy, what’s the matter?”

         Mac was a big guy in many respects. Eddie only came up to his waist and with his arms spread he just barely could cover the distance of Mac’s width. Mac was also well connected and—  according to Eddie— few people were more important. As a retired sports writer he had kept in touch with a he had met traveling and in Chicago while covering the Cubs. He also never found the time to furnish his house and owned nothing but the absolute essentials needed to get by.  Eddie looked at him through his angry scowl staring, then his look weakened he lifted his brow and spoke the words he had been dreading.

         “It ain’t true, is it? Tell me it ain’t true.” Mac had to look away because he saw the fear in Eddie’s eyes. Eddie slowly lowered his gaze to his feet and with the back of hand rubbed under his nose. And looking back up at Mac through the corner of his right eye, he waited for his answer. He watched Mac look up at the white ceiling like he was trying to remember something and then look down at the brown carpet like he was looking for a lie, but finally his eyes met up with Eddies.

         “Well, kid. I don’t know what to tell ya. There’s a lot of mixed up stories out there and so many rumors going about that I, well, that I’m a having trouble coming up with the truth myself. Ya see there’s... you probably won’t understand and it’s best that you don’t think about it. Okay?” Eddie couldn’t believe what he was hearing; Mac had never treated him this way before, like he was too young. 

         “Mac,” Eddie said as he sat up a little straighter, “What are you tryin’ to tell me? Are you tryin’ to say Joe did it? Are you? Cause I won’t believe it? Joe is the greatest man alive! My Dad told me so and I won’t let anyone say nothin’ about him.” Eddie’s eyes began to water but he wouldn’t let himself cry. Innocent men don’t cry he thought to himself as he blinked away the threatening tears. Eddie stood up and with the voice of a twelve year old said. “Joe didn’t do it because I say he didn’t.” And that’s when it hit him— he didn’t know the truth. There wasn’t some magical connection between him and Jackson that allowed him feel the right answer. All he really knew was that everyone else around town thought the White Sox had thrown it, and that he had no one on his side. He hadn’t even seen any of the series. He began to question; everyone had been so sure that the Sox were gonna win and they hadn’t. Maybe the only way they could have lost was by doing it on purpose.

         “Eddie, I didn’t say he did, only that I didn’t know the truth.”

         “Why would a guy that works so hard to be better then anybody else at ball, wanna lose? If a team beats out all the others and gets to the series and is about to be the best of ‘em all, why would they pick to lose?” Eddie spoke in a quite voice but it was strong unlike before.

         “Money is the long and the short of it. When money is involved people will do about anything to get their hands on it— even lose a few ball games. Look, I wanna be honest with ya—do think ya can handle that?” Eddie responded with a nod of his head; he knew what to expect, so he figured he could hear. “ Kid, ya gotta understand that sometimes people make bad choices and that doesn’t mean they’re bad people or your bad for trusting ‘em. It’s just that they made a mistake. Now here’s what I think: I think there are eight people on the White Sox team that made big mistakes. They made the kind of mistakes they probably won’t be forgiven for.  A pal of my says they took money from some gamblers who were out to make a profit and they paid those guys to lose the series so as they could bet on the winning team to lose while everyone else bet them to win, and while they knew that they would lose for sure and then win big money. Make sense?”

         Eddie wasn’t listening anymore; he had heard Mac say they were guilty and that was enough for him.  His head began to throb and all he could see was his dad. All he could remember was how his dad used to tell him that there was nobody better in baseball then Jackson. “That, my boy, is a ball player,” he used to say. That’s all he ever remembered about him.

         At some point he left the house and returned home and into his room. He sat on his small cot with nothing but thin white sheets for the summer heat.  His mind was working at top speed trying to come up with more memories of his father; for some reason there were none.  His father left for the war when he was eight and Eddie refused to believe all he had left for him was Joe Jackson.  As the sun changed positions in the sky Eddies room went dark and a combination of the wind and his nerves caused him to shake. He was slowly losing control and breaking down when the name ED WALSH clawed it’s way back into his memory.  Walsh pitched for the Sox for thirteen years and was good with average ERA of 1.81, when he went to Boston in 1916 the south side was left in shambles. Eddie was seven, devastated and crying when heard the news. That was his guy, his first favorite. Nothing could comfort him then, not even his Father’s words. He recalled him saying, “Son, baseball is great because you can always find a new hero.”

         Eddie turned to the wall along side his bed. He reached out to the pennant flag on his wall and ran his hand over the black felt and the white cursive letters that read WHITE SOX and said to it in a forgiving tone, “Well, just don’t do it again.” He let his eyes follow the point of the flag to the baseball card taped onto the wall. There was Shoeless Joe himself, with the same blank expression that Eddie had hoped had change to one of guilt. Eddie gently removed it from his wall and held it between finger and thumb. At first he felt the urge to crush it— after all he had been betrayed. However, Eddie couldn’t do that. For while he no longer wanted to be the guy who had lost for money, he couldn’t deny that he played baseball better then most and played for his and his father’s team. Eddie’s anger left him and as he placed the card in a box under his bed he was left saying, “Well I never would have thought it.”