Color

39. Secret

The Barons had been scheduled to play the white Montgomery Eagles. The undefeated white Montgomery Eagles. Playing a white team was always a nerve-wracking experience. The Barons knew not to agitate the white players. Not even a cross-eyed look. Too many blacks had been lynched for far less. And with a crowd of mostly white spectators, every Baron player understood how things could go from good to bad in an instant.

But keeping their distance from the white players and doing their best not to stir up trouble was one thing. Letting the Eagles win was something else altogether.

Two nights before the game, Albert crossed the moonlit street in the ghetto section of Birmingham. He was about to climb the steps to his apartment building when he heard the clop-clop of hard-soled shoes against the cobbled street behind him.

"Hey, hold up there son!" the man called out in a gruff voice.

Albert spun around, hands loosely fisted. He raised a curious eyebrow at the chubby, brown-haired man plodding over. He wore a squeaky-clean white suit and a straw hat that looked one size too big. He didn't know any white men, and he wasn't sure why this one was speaking to him. That thought sent his nerves over the edge.

"Albert Hailey?" the chubby man asked as he approached.

"Yes, sir. That's me."

"Listen son, I'm Gus Harley. I own the Eagles. Our teams are about to square off this Saturday?"

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Harley," Albert said with a nod. "I've just come from practice. We've been working really hard, hoping to give your boys a good game."

Albert winced on the inside. He hated the way he sounded when he spoke to white folk. Always ducking and weaving, trying to say anything to keep them happy. He sounded pathetic.

"Well, about that," Mr. Harley said. "I have a proposition for you."

"Say what?" Albert said, surprised.

"How would you like to make yourself a nice chunk of change?" He said it with a smile that reminded Albert of a car salesman.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Harley. I'm afraid I don't understand."

Impatience rearranged the kindly lines of the chubby man's face.

"My boys just can't lose to a Negro team. How would that look if they blemished their undefeated record to a bunch of coloreds? Well, they'd feel lower than dirt. They'd have to hang their heads for the rest of the season. And I simply can't have that. You understand what I'm saying?"

Albert swallowed the bubble of hot anger swelling in his throat. Struggling to keep his voice even, he replied, "I hope they've been practicing then. The best team will win. If they're really better than the Barons, then they'll come out on top."

Mr. Harley chuckled, his plump cheeks flopping.

"You're something else," he said. "Let me just get right to the thick of it. I'll pay you five hundred dollars to throw the game."

Albert felt his eyes bulge in astonishment. Five hundred dollars was a lot of money. It would take him nearly the entire season to make that kind of cash. But this man was offering it to him for only one game. He could do quite a lot with that money. He could pay off all his debts.

"You're wondering, why?" Mr. Harley said, a slyness in his demeanor. "Simple. I've placed a rather large wager that the Eagles will win. And you're the pitcher on Saturday."

The bubble of anger returned, but this time it was in Albert's chest. If a colored got angry at a white man, he was always in the wrong. But if a white man got angry at a colored, it was somehow okay. Albert was about to get really angry ...

But now in his bedroom, Albert's heart thumped something fierce as he heard the whirr of wheels against dirt. He ambled over to the window and peered outside. Sarah was back! She rode her bike into the yard and parked it next to the green work shed.

Albert breathed a sigh of relief. He was always glad to see Sarah come back safely. He supposed maybe he did worry too much, but bad things could happen to a black person out there.

The world just wasn't safe for colored folks.

And Albert knew that better than anyone else.

Author's Note

Well, I thought I could start writing a chapter a day for a while. Boy, I was wrong!

As of three days go, Chapter 39 still needed a lot of work. Mind you, it wasn't a complete mess. All the pieces were there. But I had to really attack it, rewriting paragraphs, swapping out words, adding new stuff, and even removing big chunks of excess writing.

The end result is what you see above - something that's mostly coherent and (hopefully) in sync with the rest of the chapters already written.

Well, we are three chapters away from Sarah's performance at Poetry Night at the Diamond Club. The next chapter (40) is going to be an easy one to crank out. But for the one before Poetry Night, all I can say is, "AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!" It needs a big rewrite, and I'm not even sure where to go with it. And no, it can't be dropped.

Oh well, I better get to work. Talk to you soon!

Thanks!

Tom