Satan's Glove: Satan Series, #1

By Cousin Vinny Agnello

Satan's Glove

In 1991 Eddie Romano, an undersized, unconfident kid, finds an antique baseball glove while on a treasure hunt of the ruins of the old Comiskey Park in Chicago.

Instantly that glove becomes his obsession. While sleeping at night he's transported to a dreary, decrepit ballpark where he learns the game of baseball from Billy, a skillful young ballplayer, who seems to be under the control of a dark, sinister figure who calls himself, "The Manager."

 Miraculously, Eddie becomes a better ballplayer and is rewarded for anti-social behavior by having his skills improve. As his bad attitude causes him to lose more and more friends on his team, he starts receiving phone calls from legendary baseball players Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig who attempt to steer his behavior in the complete opposite direction.

Unbeknownst to Eddie, two factions of "angels" are waging a war for his soul. What is the price of glory? Eddie will soon find out. See below for an excerpt from "Kirkus Reviews."

"…Agnello's engaging novel, revised with Rae, showcases a morally complex young hero. For example, an enigmatic voice in Eddie's head leads him astray while the baseball legends Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig, via supernatural phone calls, offer useful advice. This spawns several relatable lessons that Eddie, with any luck, will digest, such as realizing his self-worth and following the golden rule. At the same time, a solid mystery runs throughout as readers gradually learn how Billy found himself in his terrible predicament. …There's likewise an understated spiritual theme, from periodic appearances by the omniscient "The Light" to speculation about who or what the chilling Manager is. Apt characterization boosts this enlightening sports tale about the allure and perils of fame."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cousin Vinny Agnello
• Release date: Nov 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215209066

Book preview

THE MAKING OF SATAN’S GLOVE

Louis Anthony ‘COUSIN VINNY’ Agnello believed so much in the merits of his first novel, THE DEVIL’S GLOVE that in 2014 he took to the road using his own funds to support himself as he made book-signing appearances at many BARNES & NOBLE and private book store locations throughout the United States.

This unusual marketing ploy did not go unnoticed as he and his novel were favorably featured or reviewed by news media in 21 different states. Over 10,000 novels were sold before he returned home to rest.

Three years later in 2017, legendary science fiction writer, BEN BOVA, stumbled across the unique novel and asked if he could lend a hand in its promotion. While perusing the novel, BOVA stated it was a NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER in need of an edit. He would know, since he won the prestigious HUGO AWARD six times as best editor. He told ‘COUSIN VINNY’ AGNELLO, I’m too old and don’t have enough time left to edit your book, but I will guide you in this effort. BOVA was eighty-four years old at the time and had a few more novels of his own to write before his untimely death in November of 2020.

By the end of 2018, the novel you’re about to read, SATAN’S GLOVE was ready for the big time according to BOVA and was promptly sent out to TOR BOOKS (Bova’s publisher) for review. BEN BOVA called it, The most fascinating novel he had read in years. The editors at TOR said it was a strong effort at creating an atmospheric, all-American tale of effort, failure, temptation, hope, longing, searching, and redemption. We empathize and appreciate Eddie’s struggle with his own personal demons as well as the literal devil trying to corrupt his soul. The theme of sports success as a metaphor for achieving life goals (likability, fame, personal satisfaction) is a resonant one and makes for compelling motivation. However, the execution of the work requires refining, despite the touching elements of redemption at the end. Overall, this is a charming effort but would require more work to be made marketable.

So, with BEN BOVA’S help I went back to refine the novel one more time and enlisted the aid of my published author aunt, Carolyn Rae, to rewrite the novel. Before it was ready, the great Ben Bova passed away. The book is now everything BEN BOVA believed it could be so now it’s up to you to enjoy this remarkable story. You are the jury and the executioner and your verdict will be final.

Chapter One – The Unconfident Eddie Romano

Spring of 1991 

The Astros, his team, was behind three to two, with runners on first and second base and two outs. A cool breeze ruffled twelve-year-old Eddie Romano’s hair. His knees trembled as he waited for his turn at bat. Since the sun was awfully bright, Eddie was glad he was wearing the black sun-glare protector strips underneath his eyes. Secretly he wished Brett Jones, his teammate, who was currently at bat would make the last out to save Eddie the embarrassment.

Shorter and less muscular than the other boys, when it came to playing baseball, Eddie didn’t feel confident. I really love the game, but I just can’t seem to play it, at least not the way my dad wants me to. And what I hate most is having everybody staring at me, and that’s exactly what’s going to happen, if I get up to bat.

As he fidgeted in the on-deck circle, Eddie shuffled his feet, stirring up dust. He waved it away before taking his last few practice swings. Like usual, he’d been riding the bench, and this was his first trip out of the dugout all afternoon. He scanned the wooden bleachers trying to locate his folks. What he found was a bleacher filled with every Little Leaguer’s number one fans and at this moment, Eddie’s number one nightmare, parents. Seeing his dad standing and cheering gave him butterflies in his stomach. Suddenly the umpire yelled out, Ball four. Eddie swallowed hard. His worst fears had just come true. It felt like a stone in his stomach had sunk to the bottom.  

As Eddie walked up to the plate, his coach, Mr. Mitchell, shouted encouragement. The fans, his parents included, were screaming at the top of their lungs for him to do well. The noise was overwhelming.

It seemed like the whole world was counting on him. But from the perspiration that was dripping down his forehead and the way his heart was pounding, he knew he couldn’t be counted on.

As the moment of truth approached, he wished he could have been anybody else. How can they really expect me to get a hit when all I’ve done all season long is strike out? Why even bother going to bat? This is ridiculous. I’m just going to embarrass myself. And worse yet, I’m going to embarrass my dad.

Eddie stared at the plate. His mouth was dry, his legs trembled, and his hands shook. Could he even hold onto the bat? He did a quick about-face and ran back toward the dugout.

With eagles fighting in his stomach, he looked up at his scowling coach. I can’t do this. You got anybody else?

Mr. Mitchell wiped the sweat from his brow. Eddie, I’ve used up my bench. Just give it your best try. Okay?

Johnny Mitchell, the coach’s son and the star of the team, got right in Eddie’s face and glared. What kind of crap is this, Romano? Get your ass out there before I stick my foot up yours. I swear, Romano, you’re worthless. You know that? You’re a coward. You don’t even belong on our team.

Eddie held the bat in a death grip and grinded his teeth. He’s got some kind of nerve talking to me like that.

Cool down, Johnny. I’ve got this situation under control, Mr. Mitchell said, extending his arms and displaying open hands. Please, Eddie, just go out and do your best, will you?

The Little League umpire waddled toward the dugout, Hey, kid, Speed it up.

Eddie clamped his lips together and began a slow, stressful walk to the plate, his stomach churning. Reluctantly, he entered the batter’s box. Up in the bleachers, his parents were yelling encouragement.

Cowering in fear, he positioned himself as far from the plate as possible. The pitcher reared back and threw a fast ball. It whizzed by him. Strike one! the umpire screamed.

Come on, Eddie! Dig in there, Mr. Mitchell coaxed.

Stepping closer, Eddie concentrated on the pitcher’s windup. Whoosh. He felt the breeze as the ball went by him. Darn, he almost hit me. Eddie stepped back. Placing a vise grip on the bat, he retreated to his original spot in the batter’s box. It’s safer here. The next pitch was on its way. Eddie swung with all his might.

And missed. Strike two, the umpire yelled.

Come on, Eddie! Don’t be afraid. Step in there close. He’s not going to hit you, Mr. Mitchell pleaded.

Shaking like a leaf on a tree, Eddie inched closer to the plate and looked out at the pitcher. Before he knew it, the ball was on its way and crossed the center of the plate at just about the height of Eddie’s knees. Come on. That was clearly a ball. Eddie prayed the umpire would agree After a long hesitation the umpire yelled, Strike three. You’re out!

Wishing for a place to hide, Eddie hung his head low and trudged back to the dugout. How could he even face his parents, let alone his teammates?

Johnny Mitchell looked at Eddie in absolute disgust. Way to go, Romano. Thanks for such a tremendous effort.

Eddie felt like he was about to cry.

Do me a favor, Eddie. Stay out of my sight, okay? You drive me nuts, Johnny yelled and kicked over the Gatorade dispenser. The lid flew off. Gatorade and ice drenched the concrete floor of the dugout.

Eddie’s other teammates didn’t seem quite as upset or mean. A few waded through the puddles to give him a pat on the back.

Just forget about it, kid, Mr. Romano said as he walked down from the bleachers and then gently wrapped his arm around his son. It happens to the best of us. 

As Eddie glanced up and saw his dad looking down at him, Eddie was surprised to see his dad shared in his disappointment. He’d always thought his father only had feelings for successful people.

Tell you what, my little man. You and I are going to cheer up together at that baseball card show tomorrow.

Really, Dad? Wow! I heard Ryne Sandberg’s going to be there.

He is indeed, my boy. 

Dad, I hope you know, striking out like that really did a number on me. I appreciate you taking it so well. I promise, I’ll do better next time, Eddie said a bit more cheerfully.

I certainly know you’re gonna try. Can I tell you something, Eddie?

Sure Dad, Eddie said, twisting his fingers together.    

You looked scared out there. I really don’t know what can be done about that. According to my experience in life, you either have it or you don’t. Maybe baseball is just not for you. We could always get you a tryout for football in the fall. Maybe you’ll have better luck with that, son, Mr. Romano said shaking his head.

Eddie couldn’t believe his dad had just said that. I’m not quitting, Dad. You have no respect for quitters. I want you to respect me. I just need some better coaching. I’m sorry I embarrassed you again, Dad.

Don’t put words in my mouth, Eddie, because I didn’t say that.

It’s what I felt though. I swear, Dad, I’ll try harder. I just need more practice. I need somebody to help me learn how to hit better. That’s all. Just don’t give up on me.

Believe me, his dad said, I haven’t. 

Why don’t we practice baseball when we get home? You could probably get me straightened out better than these Little League coaches can. All they care about is helping their own kids be stars. Bet you could teach me to play every bit as good as Johnny Mitchell. What do you say, Dad?

"I wish I had the time, Eddie. I’ve got a desk full of paperwork to look over before Monday.

I’m just asking for an hour or two. Is that too much to ask?

Quite frankly, it is. Look, it’s either the card-show or practicing baseball in the backyard. I don’t have time for both. I can’t snap my fingers and make you improve as a ballplayer. That’s going to take some time. So, what’s it going to be, Ed?

The card-show, Dad. Guess we’ll practice some other time.

That’s my boy. We’re going to have a blast, Eddie.

I know we will, Dad. Nothing ever gets fixed around here. How can I improve if you won’t take the time to help me?

Chapter Two – Baseball Memorabilia Card Show

Colorful posters of baseball’s heroes lined the walls at the Fifth Annual Windy City Sports, Collectibles, and Memorabilia Show. It looked like the whole city of Chicago was in attendance. Eddie was amazed he could spot anyone through this endless maze or even hear his father’s words over the buzz of conversation.

Eddie clung to his father’s arm as he peered among taller people walking along and blocking his view. When he caught a glimpse of Ryne Sandberg signing autographs behind a table in the corner, Eddie’s heart beat faster. He tugged hard on his father’s arm and pulled his six-foot father down to his level. Eddie pointed. Dad, Ryne Sandberg’s over there.

You want an autograph?

Yeah, Eddie said, so excited he could hardly stand still.  

Well, then we better get moving. I bet we’re going to be standing in line awhile. He and Eddie fought their way through all the chaos and confusion and finally arrived near the end of a long line to Ryne Sandberg’s table.

Dad, Eddie asked, are we going to see the White Sox play again this year? 

You bet we are. Boy, didn’t we have a lot of fun last year? Wistfully, he added, You know, Eddie, it’s going to be strange going to the new ballpark this year. I had a lot of great times in the old one. A lot of memories are dying with that old ballpark."

That’s right. They’re tearing the old ballpark down. I forgot all about that, Dad.

They’re supposedly making it into a parking lot. I heard on the news they began tearing it down earlier this week.

Dad, do they wreck ballparks on Sundays?

Nope, I don’t think so, my little man, Sunday’s a day of rest, except for those who like to wait in lines at baseball card shows.

I’ll bet there’s a lot of great souvenirs to be found at that old ballpark.

Probably. I mean, hell, they’ve been playing there for ages. Why wouldn’t there be?

If they’re not working today, why can’t we go down there and hunt for souvenirs?

Mr. Romano gave Eddie a stern look. I’ll tell you why not, because construction sites are dangerous, Eddie. Just forget about that. Hey, look, we’re getting closer my little man. We’re actually making some headway. Wonder if Sandberg’s going to charge for his autograph. Nothing else here is going for free. What are you going to have him sign, son?

My baseball glove, Dad.

Hey, wait a minute. I just bought you that. Don’t even think about putting that glove away, Eddie. I didn’t buy it to sit on your shelf. He shook his head. Gloves are way too expensive these days to just look at. You hear me?

Loud and clear, Eddie grumbled under his breath. He shifted his weight from foot to foot while waiting in line. After a few moments, Eddie asked, Dad, who was better, Babe Ruth or Hank Aaron?

Well, Eddie, I got to see Hank play when I was a kid, and he was a really good ballplayer. I never got to see the Babe. He was a bit before my time. But from what I’ve heard, the Babe was a much better hitter. He got his 714 home runs in a couple thousand fewer times at bat than Hank Aaron.

So, Babe Ruth was the best, huh Dad? Eddie asked.

Yeah, he was. 

Bet you would have been better than the Babe, Dad, if you hadn’t hurt your hip.

Don’t know about that son. And we’ll never know, because I never got my chance. Thankfully, you’re getting yours. Just remember when you step up to the plate you represent me and our entire family. So, try not to make us look bad. 

I’ll do my best.

In case you didn’t know it, you’re my hero, Eddie. You’re getting a chance to do all the things I dreamed about when I was lying on that bed, with my hip in traction.

Boy, Dad, I bet that hurt a lot.

You have no idea. They didn’t think I was ever going to walk again, but I showed them and you’re going to show them too, Eddie. I know I put a lot of pressure on you but you’re my only son. You can do anything you put your mind to. You hear me?

Dad, I do want to be great, like you want me to be. I just need to learn how to bat against fast pitching.

"Just keep on practicing, my little man. I know you’ve got what it takes if you could just overcome your fear. It’s fear that’s holding you back, Eddie."

I promise Dad, I’ll give it my best try.  Wow. He just won’t let up. Now I’m playing for my whole family. Talk about pressure, huh? Eddie sighed. Are we ever going to get to the front of this line?

One of these days, my little man.

Mr. Romano gazed over at a display of cassette tapes. The authentic recordings and interviews of players and events from Major League Baseball’s past sat on top of a glass chest on the way to Ryne Sandberg’s table. Hey, look what they got here, Eddie.

What, Dad?

They’ve got original recordings of one of the ballplayers I was talking about.

Eddie moved closer and looked at the cassettes. Who, Dad?

Well, they’ve got the Babe talking baseball. Mr. Romano pointed. And look, that’s Lou Gehrig’s farewell speech from Yankee Stadium.

Who’s Lou Gehrig?

Well, Eddie, I can tell you a little bit about him, but he was way before my time. He was the captain of the New York Yankees and played alongside Babe Ruth. Gehrig hit a lot of home runs and had a really-high batting average. He played in more games than any other player in baseball’s history. That’s how he got his nickname, the ‘Iron Horse.’ But his career was shortened because he got a terrible disease and died at a young age.

How old was he?

Hmm. I think around forty.

"That’s really sad, Dad. That’s about your age. Hope nothing like that ever happens to you.

He patted Eddie’s shoulder. Don’t you worry about your old man. I’ll be here to keep you on your toes for a long, long time. How would you like to have those cassettes, Eddie?

Eddie’s eyes opened wide. Wow! Yeah. Please, Dad.

Your wish is my command, Mr. Romano said, waving his arms, trying his best to imitate the genie from Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp.

Thanks, Dad, but do me a favor. Don’t quit your day job quite yet. Okay? Eddie said winking.    

Mr. Romano gave Eddie a dirty look before beckoning to the teenage clerk with the long dark hair tied in a ponytail. I figured as long as we’re going to be waiting here in this line, we might as well do a little business.

Just these two, sir?

Yup. He handed over some bills. Eddie, we’ll be there in no time, my little man. Mr. Romano handed Eddie the cassettes.

Thanks again, Dad. I can’t wait to get home to listen to these, but what I really want to do is go and check out that old ballpark. There’s still plenty of daylight left. I’m sure we could be extra careful. Never know what we might find there, Dad.

Mr. Romano shook his head. That’s out of the question. It’s also against the law.

I won’t tell if you don’t. But Dad, this is a chance of a lifetime. I mean how many times do they wreck famous ballparks?

Not very often, Eddie, but—

"Please, Dad. I promise I’ll be careful. It’ll be so much fun. Please?"

Mr. Romano clapped a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. Why do you have to do this to me? I should never have brought that up. Damn it, Eddie, you’re a pain in the ass, you know that?

But you love me anyway, don’t you? Eddie wrapped his arms around his dad affectionately.

Okay. I’m not promising you anything, except we’ll go down there and check it out. If it looks too dangerous, we’re not going to go hunting around, understand, kid?

Yes, Dad. I knew you’d see it my way. I tell all the kids in the neighborhood I’ve got the coolest father in town, Eddie said.

Don’t be a smart-ass. Now go get your autograph, and let’s get out of here.

Eddie walked over and shook hands with Ryne Sandberg. Although Eddie was an avid White Sox fan, and Sandberg was a Chicago Cub, Eddie was elated to have the baseball star autograph his baseball glove. His dad seemed amazed to find out there was no price for the transaction. Grinning, Eddie turned back toward his father. Let’s head for that ballpark now. I can’t wait to see what we’ll find.

Chapter Three – Finding a Souvenir

Mr. Romano pulled his big Lincoln Town Car up alongside the curb near where Comiskey Park used to be. As he got out of the car, he stared in disbelief at what used to be a ballpark. It reminded him of pictures he’d seen of Germany after World War II. Here, what used to be was only a memory. Long sawhorse-like blockades, put up by the police department to discourage trespassers, surrounded the wrecking site. Yellow plastic tape, stretched between the blockades, warned trespassers of imminent danger.

You really want to go through with this? Mr. Romano asked, hesitant to step over the barriers.

Eddie tugged on his dad’s arm. Come on, Dad.

I suppose. But if it looks too dangerous, we’re going to go back, understand?

Sure, Dad, Eddie said, obviously raring to begin the treasure hunt.

I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. I feel like I’m the twelve-year-old. Who’s the adult here anyway?

You are, Dad. Come on, it’s going to be fun, coaxed Eddie.

The two ducked under the yellow tape and entered the forbidden zone. The smell of fresh dirt filled the air as they carefully made their way through the wreckage. Leaning, broken bleachers, remnants of the once-proud stadium, shaded the path. With each step, Mr. Romano felt the once-familiar childhood rush. He was breaking the rules, and it felt good. He reminisced back to when he and his friends used to explore the sewers in his hometown. He’d spend entire afternoons walking bent over through drainage pipes in search of treasures, like dead animals or other interesting things. He couldn’t believe he was actively participating alongside his son in one of these great adventures. He kept asking himself, How old are you? He shook his head in amazement. He was now the father of a twelve-year-old boy. How time has flown by.

The two continued farther into the wreckage, and Eddie spotted a baseball wedged underneath a couple of wooden boards. Dad, look. It’s a baseball! I told you this trip would be worth it, didn’t I?

You sure did, my little man, he said, amused by Eddie’s excitement over the ordinary-looking ball.

Eddie grabbed the mostly white baseball and quickly rubbed off whatever dirt remained. Do you know what year this ball’s from, Dad?

Haven’t got a clue, Eddie. Despite popular opinion, even I don’t have all the answers. To me, all baseballs look pretty much the same. Mr. Romano looked around nervously. I wonder if anyone saw us sneak in. He and Eddie were trespassing, and he didn’t want to get arrested. So far, so good. He and Eddie continued exploring. A parked earth-moving machine impeded their progress. The workers, who presumably would continue excavating on Monday, had left it in the middle of the path.

As Eddie and his father walked around the earth-mover, Eddie noticed the earth-mover’s shovel had broken the ground. He peered down into the hole, and something green caught his eye. Dad, what the heck is that? He pointed to the unusual green object.

His father shrugged. I don’t know. Go down there and have a look.

Eddie leaned over and stared into the darkness. Wonder if I’ll hurt my foot if I jump? Dad, it’s kind of deep.

Well, I’m certainly not going down there, not with my bad hip. So, if you want to find out, I’ll give you a hand. Otherwise, let’s keep moving.

The hole looked dark and scary, but he wanted a better look. Hold on. I want to go down there.

Mr. Romano sighed, held both of Eddie’s arms, and lowered him down into the hole. Eddie held his breath until his feet finally hit the ground. The smell of dirt filled the space around him.

Dad, move. You’re blocking my light.

Mr. Romano stepped away. Eddie knelt on the hard ground beside the green object. He dug it out with his hands. He brushed it off and looked it over in amazement.

Dad, it’s some kind of fancy baseball glove. You’ve got to see it. It’s the coolest thing I think I’ve ever seen. It has all kinds of fancy artwork on it.

Well, bring it up and let me have a look. Mr. Romano reached down and pulled Eddie up.

Let me see it, Mr. Romano said and took the green mitt from Eddie. He brushed away some dirt. Wow, Eddie, this glove’s ancient. We’re talking the forties here, maybe even earlier. Look at all the intricate artwork. This had to be somebody’s pride and joy.

I wonder how it got buried like that, Dad?

Your guess is as good as mine, but since it’s such a fancy mitt, somebody was probably pulling a practical joke. If you ask me, it was a pretty mean thing to do. His father slid his hand into the glove. This is an infielder’s mitt, Eddie? You have no idea how rare this glove is. It’s for a southpaw, like you. Traditionally, most southpaws don’t play the infield.

I don’t care what kind of glove it is, Dad. Just give it back, Eddie demanded.  

Well, that’s some attitude you have, son. Here, take, your glove. Mr. Romano tossed the glove over toward Eddie, who caught it and held it tightly. I think it’s time to get out of here, Mr. Romano said, annoyed with Eddie’s sudden change in attitude.

I like this glove. It’s a pro glove, and I’m going to use it from now on, Eddie announced while wrapping both arms around it.

Mr. Romano shook his head in disbelief as he watched Eddie’s overly-possessive behavior. By the way he’s carrying on, you’d think that glove was made of solid gold. Why can’t I have a normal kid like everybody else. It’s your glove, Eddie! Do what you want with it.

That’s right, Dad. He ran his hand over the palm and then the fingers. It’s so smooth. Must be real leather for sure. It’s my glove, and from now on, nobody’s touching it.

Calm down, son. Nobody wants to touch your glove. His dad frowned. What on earth has gotten into you, kid? We were having such a nice day. Now, you have to catch an attitude and spoil it all.

Eddie followed his father out of the wrecking site. Wow, I can really use this glove. Just wait until I show it to the other boys. I bet they’ll be jealous and maybe even look up to me.

Chapter Four – A Dreary Existence

He didn’t know what day or year it was. He had no concept of time. His only friend, speaking in the loosest of terms, called himself The Manager and stood ominously in the shadows of a baseball dugout. It annoyed him that the Manager only allowed him to go as far as the rusty stairwell which led there. Utterly confused, he looked up at the perpetually overcast sky as gray clouds drifted by, a constant reminder of how dismal and dreary his existence had become. He had nothing to do and all the time in the world to think about it.

There was nobody to talk to. He was doing a life sentence in solitary confinement. This ballpark which he now called home, wasn’t one he’d been familiar with. Sure, he’d never played here before, he spent an enormous amount of time examining it, wondering what city it was in. It was nothing like Comiskey Park, the last place he remembered being.     

Now, footsteps broke his mournful thoughts. The Manager stepped out of the shadows of the dugout. We’re going to have company.

The grating sound of that voice caught his attention. He looked over at the distinguished-looking man in black and tried to comprehend what the Manager had just said. Visitors?

No. A visitor. Some kid has your glove. He needs some coaching, and I think you’re just the man for the job. We’re going to give him the same deal I gave to you, but let’s see to it that he doesn’t back out, okay? Billy, don’t let me down now, because this kid is your ticket home. Understand me?

Yeah. It would be nice to go home. I wonder if I’ll even have a home to go back to.

Of course, you’ll have a home. Like I told you a long time ago your little stay here is just temporary, the Manager said with a smile. Maybe all your doubts will disappear when you see this kid in the flesh. That should prove to you, once and for all, there’s hope for you. All you got to do is help me with my ploy and you’ll be back playing baseball before you know it.

"This whole plan of yours reminds me of a game I played as a child. It was called ‘hot potato.’ I guess it’s my time to pass on the gift," Billy said with a forced chuckle.

You’re catching on, my boy. You’re not quite as dumb as you look, the Manager said with a smile   

Look, I’ll do whatever is necessary to get back home.

I know you will, my boy. I know you will, the Manager said as he retreated back into the dugout.

So, the Manager wants me to give this poor kid a raw deal too. What a despicable chore he’s given me. Why can’t I be a real mentor like Michael was to me? Thinking of Michael brought a longing for his childhood and the days they’d spent together. Since his arrival here he’d often wondered what had become of him. It seemed like a long time had passed since he’d seen Michael.

His memories of his mentor, and all the love they shared was all that kept him from going off the deep-end these wasted days. Rough wood pressed against his back as he lay on top of the dugout roof and sadly gazed out at this silent rundown ballpark. There has got to be a way out of this prison. If I could only find it, I could go back home and finally make things right. But to be honest, he’d been there for so long now, his hope was almost gone.  

His days were mostly spent daydreaming. What else is there to do? His mind could wander wherever it wanted to. It was the only thing he had any control of. Although he had no access to any of the people and things he used to love, he had his memories of the one special man who raised him. In a perfect world, Michael would have been his father, but there was nothing perfect about Billy’s world. So, he re-lived the past – the only thing that brought him comfort. If I could only avoid falling asleep, things wouldn’t be so bad here.

He replayed movies of his old life. His thoughts drifted back to Chicago during the month of May. The weather had been unusually perfect for baseball. Comiskey Park was jammed to the rafters with folks dying to get a good look at Ruth, Gehrig, and the visiting Yankees from New York.

It was 1931, and the city and the rest of the nation were suffering through the Great Depression. The ballpark became a getaway for the fortunate who still had jobs. Although the White Sox weren’t playing very good baseball at the time, the people still gathered at the ballpark to escape the poverty and unemployment they faced in their daily lives. Baseball was America’s favorite game and Ruth and Gehrig, two of its greatest heroes.

Outside the ballpark on any given game day, numerous children played pickup games in Armour Square Park. These children had big dreams and played their games with the same intensity as the major leaguers playing inside the big stadium.

As one of those children, Billy Green loved the atmosphere surrounding the ballpark on game days. The electricity in the air seemed to purge the world of its troubles and gave him the will to survive through the worst of times. Besides not having enough to eat, the biggest disappointment in his eleven-year-old life, was that he couldn’t afford to buy a ticket to the ballgame.

He would stand in the batter’s box at the field at Armour Square Park, and daydream about how exciting it would be, if he were all grown up, and playing in that big ballpark next door, in front of all those cheering people. Just thinking about it gave him the chills, and a rush that energized his whole body. As the pitch came soaring in from that lanky twelve-year-old on the pitcher’s mound, Billy, powered by an incredible amount of adrenaline, would swing the bat on a collision course with the incoming ball, hammering it with a mighty crack. The ball would soar like it was shot out of a howitzer and fly in a low-line drive between the left and centerfielders. In what seemed like an instant, he’d stand smiling confidently on second base.

By participating in many local pickup games, Billy hoped to acquire the skills necessary to give him a chance to see his big-league dreams come true. He and the other kids would play until the White Sox had finished their game inside Comiskey. As soon as the crowds headed toward the exits, he and his friends would make their way toward the locker rooms. This was the only opportunity for poor kids who wanted desperately to meet their baseball heroes. He, along with a lot of other kids, waited sometimes for hours by the locker room doors to get autographs or at least a handshake from their favorite baseball stars.

On this day, Michael Rogers, tall and lanky, was taking the trash out from the visitor’s locker room, now smelling of sweat and soap. Billy blocked his progress.

Mister, are Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig still in there? Billy asked, turning on his puppy-dog eyes.

The Bambino and Columbia Lou are just about to leave for their hotel rooms. I’m surprised anyone’s still waiting around for them.

I’d never give up on either the Babe or the Iron Horse, Billy replied, looking up at him. Mister, did anyone ever tell you you’re awfully lucky to have a job like this? To be honest, mister, I’d do your job for free.

It’s not quite as glamorous as you might think, Michael said.

Sure, it is. It’s a job. That’s more than most people got. Do you think it’s possible I could come into that locker room? I mean, I’m only asking for a couple of minutes.

What would you do if I let you in there?

Billy’s eyes opened wide. You mean you’re actually considering it?

Why not? What’s your name, boy?

Billy Green. What’s yours?

I’m Michael Rogers. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Billy Green. Michael reached out to shake the boy’s hand.

Mr. Mike, the pleasure will be all mine if you can get me into that locker room.

You’ll behave, won’t you? You know my job is always on the line these days?

I promise you, I’ll be on my best behavior, Mr. Mike. I’ll be a perfect angel, Billy replied, so excited he could hardly stand still.

Alright. Let me go inside for a moment and see what I can do.

Sure. But you’re not going to forget about me, are you? You’ll come back, won’t you? Billy asked with a bit of panic in his voice. He and his friends had tried this before, and the last time they were left waiting indefinitely. Finally, the boredom of the wait had overcome their desire for autographs, and they’d trudged away disappointed.

Yes. I promise I’ll be right back. Michael replied and disappeared inside the large metal door.

It seemed like an eternity before he returned. Well? Billy asked anxiously. He looked up at Michael, his stomach all a flutter.

"They said it would be all right for you