The Little Foreign Legion

Little League was away from the neighborhood, and devoid of anyone I knew, so it had the aspect of the French Foreign Legion: a sterling opportunity to become new; to find (or reinvent) oneself, through stirring heroics to last ages. That was for me.

Of course, my father accompanied me to every practice and game (he had the car), but didn't seem to recognize the full weight of my goals, nor the signs of my transformation. I suppose they were rather oblique.

We were driving home one night from one of our first practices. I was tired, and had my cap pushed back on my head to emphasize it. I had had a pretty good night.

But not as good as one other kid I saw. His name was Kenny Davis.

He could do anything I could do, except much better, but what really impressed me was his demeanor. He had a sense both of concentration and ease, which I strove for myself, so certainly recognized.

"Hey, Dad," I said, riding home. "Who did you think was the best one there tonight?"

"You," he said, after sort of a long pause.

"No, come on," I said. I appreciated his kind loyalty, but I was looking for an honest answer.

"I don't know," he said, which I suppose was honest as you could get without actually saying "I wasn't watching that closely." I appreciated that, and his subsequent willingness to listen to my scouting report.

"Who?," he asked.

"I think that kid Kenny Davis. We were catching at the end."

"The colored kid?," he asked, by way of clarification.

This was the word used at the time. It was not black or African-American or of color, yet.

As it happened, Kenny Davis was the only "colored" kid in the program.

"Yeah," I said.

"What was so good about him?"

"At bat, he didn't miss a single pitch. Neither did I," I mentioned casually. "But he hits harder. Better swing."

"Hm," my father said, marking an interval.

"Good fielder, too," I reported. "He gets a good jump on the ball. He was in center when I was in left. We kept getting to the ball at the same time. He backs you up if it's yours."

"That's what you're supposed to do."

"Yeah, but did you see the other kids out there? Some of them? They had no idea what they were doing. Did you hear the fielding coach yell? He said, 'Fellas, run, in the direction of the ball.' "

"That's bad, I guess."

"That's real bad!"

"Did the coach say anything to you?"

"Yeah, he did. To me and Kenny. We were playing pretty shallow. He told us to move back. He said it's a lot easier to come in on the ball than go back."

"So did you?"

"Yeah. But Kenny said to me, 'All the same to me.' Quiet, like. We did it, but it didn't make any difference. I can go back or come in." This is because I am Roberto Clemente.

"But you listen to the coach," my father asked.

"Yeah," I assured him, with upturned palm.

Of course, every ball the rest of the day was hit in front of us.

"Good exercise," Kenny Davis said to me as we trotted back to position.

"My legs hurt," I said.

The coach didn't know it, but he was building team spirit.