So you swung like you always did, and hit the ball squarely, in the place where the whorls in the wood grain kiss leather goodbye. The ball rose for two decades, high above the shacks of Mobile, high above the Negro leagues, the restaurants where they'd break your team's plates after you ate dinner, high above the bigots who walked off the field the moment a black man walked onto it, and high enough to clear that wall called America. When the ball landed in our back yards on a spring afternoon, our small sons and daughters ran over and picked it up. Not knowing it was from you, Hank, they giggled and began a game of catch, tossing the ball back and forth through the fragrant, colorless air. Copyright 1995 Kaleidoscope .
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