Puddlejumpers (12 page)

After taking showers in their swimsuits, the boys pattered out to the pool for their first lesson. Ernie marveled at the water's dreamlike glimmer and the kinetic reflections that danced across the walls and ceiling. For as long as he could remember, he'd wanted to learn how to swim.

Mrs. McGinty perched atop a lifeguard tower like a bloated vulture surveying her prey. She'd rolled her nylon stockings to just under her fleshy knees, and her glasses dangled on a string across her bosom. From her lofty position she monitored the behavior of her boys shivering in a group huddle. That is, everyone except Ernie. He was on his hands and knees at the edge of the pool, stroking the shimmering water.

When their instructor arrived with an enthusiastic greeting, “Hey, tadpoles—ready to get wet?” the boys stood at attention, even Ernie. Mr. Franco Alvarez had been the freestyle champ in the city of Chicago when he was sixteen, but that was sixty years ago. Rail thin, with wrinkled skin and only a few wisps of white hair left on his bony head, Mr. Alvarez shuffled across the tile floor in a red-and-white-striped Speedo. His flip-flops made a sucking sound with each step. He blew the whistle dangling from his neck and announced, “First thing we're going to do is pick a swim buddy.”

While the other boys grabbed a partner, Ernie drifted back to the edge of the pool. He had only one thing on his mind. The water. Unable to resist a second longer, he jumped into the pool, surprising everyone, even himself. He splashed about, flailing his arms and legs, then began to sink. Mrs. McGinty sprang to her feet. “Mr. Alvarez, do something!”

But Mr. Alvarez stood staring at Ernie as if he were walking on water instead of swallowing it.

“No Lakesider drowns on my watch,” McGinty muttered. “Not even Ernie Banks.” She pinched her nose and belly flopped into the pool, clothes and all. Blubbering to the surface, she gulped for air, then plunged back under.

But suddenly, to everyone's astonishment, Ernie began to wriggle across the bottom as if he'd lived in water all his life. By the time he reached the surface at the deep end, he was swimming with the grace of a porpoise, his face plastered with a giant grin. With the other boys cheering him on, he dove back under. From the bottom of the pool, he could see McGinty's blurry image paddling toward him. A thousand bubbles escaped her mouth as she screamed a garbled underwater rant. But the water felt so right, he decided to ignore her and swam several laps, sometimes underwater and sometimes on top.

When four YMCA staffers finally hauled him out of the pool, Ernie had an irrepressible grin because now he knew what it felt like to swim. It was the absolute best moment of his life.

McGinty greeted him with a stinging swat to his wet behind. “Ernie Banks, I'm gonna make you wish you never woke up this morning!”

When they got back to Lakeside, Mrs. McGinty kept her promise, and then some. For starters, she vowed he'd never see the pool again, not in this lifetime or the next, despite the fact that Mr. Alvarez said he was the best natural swimmer he'd ever seen. Then she made Ernie mop the entire basement, the damp, dirty underbelly of the old tenement, with the smallest sponge she could find. Finally she sat him in the corner of the dining room, facing the wall, while the other boys ate dinner, but McGinty still wasn't satisfied. After they washed their faces and brushed their teeth, the boys filed past Ernie standing outside the dorm in his underwear with a sign around his neck that read
TROUBLE
. It was long after lights-out before she let him go to bed.

After that night, something inside Ernie changed. He just stopped caring. After losing his best and only friend, and knowing he'd never be allowed to swim again, he became more reckless than ever and challenged McGinty's authority at every opportunity. It became a battle of wills. Mrs. McGinty told anyone who would listen that Ernie Banks was well on his way to becoming a first-rate juvenile delinquent.

And she was probably right.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Unfriendly Confines

T
HE FINAL TROUBLE
began on a summer afternoon perfect for baseball. It was the Monday of July 4th weekend and everybody from the sixth floor was going to Wrigley. Ernie had never actually been to a game, even though the field was just down the street. Mrs. McGinty knew how much he loved the Cubs, and when Lakesiders went on their annual trip to the park, she always found a reason why he should be left behind.

But that didn't stop him. He'd just sneak out onto the fire escape and climb the drainpipe to the roof, then jump to the adjacent building and sit with his legs dangling over the parapet while watching the game and listening on his portable radio. The play-by-play helped a lot, because he could see only a corner of the infield grass. The thing he wanted most in the world was to go to a game at Wrigley, but the roof was as close as he ever got. Until today.

On the previous Saturday, when the other boys went to the Y for their swimming lesson, he'd sprung open the corner fire hydrant, which had caused a minor flood in the street. The crime had put him in detention for seven days, and cleaning the kitchen floor that morning was his final task. He scrubbed and waxed the linoleum, buffing the floor until it shined like a pair of McGinty's patent leather shoes. He wasn't going to give her any reason to keep him from getting to the game.
Not today.

He returned the mop to the supply closet, then bounded up the steps to the sixth floor. As soon as he entered the dorm, he saw five boys at an open window, waging a spitting contest to see who could hit a garbage can in the alley. A freckle-faced redhead invited him to join. “Ernie, you in?”

“Maybe later, “ he said.

Everybody else was changing into their best T-shirts and jeans for the trip to Wrigley when a pigeon flew into the dorm. Panicked, the bird fluttered back and forth as the kids tried to catch it. Shouting, they threw their baseball gloves, hoping to knock it out of the air. One kid was even swinging his bat. When the terrified bird hit a closed window and fell to the ground, the boys swarmed.

“No!” Ernie shouted. “Leave it alone!”

Everybody froze. Ernie walked through the crowd and knelt beside the stunned bird. Cooing softly, as if he could speak its language, he gently picked up the pigeon. At first the bird pecked his hand, but calmed as Ernie stroked its chest and checked to make sure its wings weren't broken. The other kids watched dumbfounded as he stood up with the bird in his open palm, then walked across the room and slipped out the window onto the fire escape. The pigeon stretched its neck and chirped, as if thanking Ernie, then flapped its wings, taking off. He watched the pigeon catch a draft between the buildings and soar toward the roof. He wished he could fly away, too.

“Ernie Banks—get off that fire escape!”

As soon as he heard that voice, he knew he wasn't going to Wrigley.

This latest transgression put him on hands and knees scrubbing the toilets on the fifth floor. From the bathroom window, Ernie watched the Lakesiders merging with fans young and old, migrating toward the ballpark. In a way he couldn't explain, he felt more desperate than he'd ever felt before.

Tortured by the happy sounds of the crowd on their way to Wrigley, he noticed a
drip-drip-drip
coming from a nearby sink. He inspected the leaky faucet, but instead of trying to stop it, he stuffed paper towels into the drain and turned the water on full blast. He hustled from sink to sink, clogging each drain and cranking all the faucets. The basins filled with water, spilling onto the floor. Soon water was flowing into the hall and cascading down the stairway.

Mrs. McGinty was working in her first-floor office when a puddle swirled around her feet. Horrified, she followed the stream into the hall and looked up the stairs, where water poured from step to step in a series of waterfalls.

By the time the incensed McGinty hauled herself to the fifth floor, she found out-of-control boys splashing in ankle-deep water and a flooded corridor transformed into a water slide. With a running start, Ernie Banks slid headfirst the length of the hall, a plume of water flaring behind. Unable to stop, he skidded between McGinty's legs, upending her. She tried to grab him, but he was already gone.

Ernie raced down the stairs, taking the steps two and three at a time. When he reached the third floor, he hopped onto the railing and deftly slid from landing to landing.

Four stories above, the soaked McGinty looked over the banister and spotted Ernie as he reached the first floor.

“Ernie Baaaaaaannks!” she screamed. “You stop right there!”

But he was out the front door and didn't hear her, though he wouldn't have stopped even if he had.

Ernie didn't stop running until he stood in the shadow of Wrigley Field. Still wet and out of breath, he watched enviously as fans entered the stadium. More than anything, he needed to get inside. He hovered near the turnstile, waiting for the moment to make a preemptive strike. When the ticket taker turned his head, he leapt the gate, then juked past the lunging security chief.

“Hey, you! Get back here!” the man shouted.

Ernie disappeared into a throng of fans, darting left then right. The barrel-chested chief grabbed his walkie-talkie from his holster. “Look alive, people, we got a jumper headin' straight up the concourse,” he said with irritation in his voice. “Maybe eleven, twelve years old, a blue-and-white T-shirt with a Cubbies cap. Oh, and he's soaking wet.”

Ernie was threading through the crowd when he noticed two security guards up ahead scanning the concourse. He checked over his shoulder and saw more security jogging toward him and closing fast. Putting on the brakes, he disappeared into the midst of a Boy Scout troop gathered around a concession stand. He slipped a scout cap from the pocket of an unsuspecting troop member, switched out his Cubs cap, then crouched down behind a pudgy scout who was licking an ice cream. After the guards hustled past, he returned the scout cap to its owner, then merged with other fans making their way to the field box level.

As Ernie walked out of the darkened tunnel into the daylight, his jaw dropped and his heart skipped a beat. He gazed in awe at the field's diamond geometry, its rich velvety grass, and perfectly raked infield. Never had he seen grass so green or sky so blue. Like the pull of the ocean's tides by the moon, he was drawn down the aisle toward the field, where major leaguers stretched, played catch, and took batting practice. When he arrived at the rail just above the Cubs dugout, home run king Rocky Harmon emerged to swing a bat just in front of him. He stared for a minute, wondering if his voice had deserted him. Finally summoning his courage, he called, “Mr. Harmon? Can I have your autograph?”

The all-star first baseman was busy applying pine tar to the handle of his bat. “No kid's called me mister in a while. Got a pen? Paper?” asked Rocky.

Ernie shook his head.

“You got to be prepared, son,” Rocky explained, then turned to a batboy. “Randy, you got a pen?”

The batboy tossed him a pen, then Rocky grabbed a ball from the ground. He turned to Ernie. “Okay, what's your name?”

“Ernie Banks.”

Rocky gave him a look, suppressing a laugh. “You're kidding me.”

Ernie shook his head and Rocky broke into a broad grin. “Yo, guys, catch this.” Nearby players emerged from the dugout to gather around Rocky.

“Meet the man, Ernie Banks, Mr. Cub himself,” he announced to his teammates. When the others saw the diminutive Caucasian kid bearing the name of their great Hall of Fame shortstop, they began to laugh.

“If he can hit like Ernie Banks, let's sign him,” suggested one player.

“You got your spikes?” questioned another.

Rocky smiled. “Hey, Ernie, it's a beautiful day—what say we play two?”

Ernie wasn't sure what to make of their laughter, but the smile never left his face. Mesmerized, he couldn't believe that half a dozen major league ballplayers were actually paying attention to him. And because of that he didn't notice the security guards swarming down the aisle. His reverie was shattered when they clamped him in their grip from behind.

“Hey, people, not too rough. What's the problem?” asked Rocky.

The security chief arrived, angry and out of breath. “This kid's the problem. Jumped the gate without a ticket.”

On the chief's command, the guards began to drag Ernie up the aisle, and none too gently. Fans near the dugout began to boo loudly.

“Hey, hold up!” shouted Rocky. Not willing to defy the great ballplayer, the guards waited. “Ernie Banks—keep your eye on the prize,” he said, then tossed the autographed baseball to the youngster.

One of the guards tried to intercept it, but Ernie was quicker and he snagged the ball, to the crowd's delight. As security hauled Ernie up the aisle, the fans booed even louder. Before they disappeared into the tunnel, the entire stadium was thundering its disapproval. The Lakesiders in the right field bleachers swore it was Ernie, but their chaperones said that was impossible.