An uncle
of his had once been a ballplayer and he had
taught Willie the fine points of the game. And
this uncle's ballplayer friends, who occasionally
visited him, had imparted to Willie the vernacular
of the game. So that Willie's knowledge of players
and play, and particularly of the strange talk,
the wild and whirling words on the lips of the real
baseball men, made him the envy of every boy on
Madden's Hill, and a mine of information. Willie
never missed attending the games played on the
lots, and he could tell why they were won or lost.
Willie suffered considerable pain, mostly at
night, and this had given him a habit of lying
awake in the dark hours, grieving over that
crooked leg that forever shut him out of the heritage
of youth. He had kept his secret well; he was
accounted shy because he was quiet and had never
been able to mingle with the boys in their activity.
No one except his mother dreamed of the fire and
hunger and pain within his breast. His school-
mates called him ``Daddy.'' It was a name given
for his bent shoulders, his labored gait and his
thoughtful face, too old for his years. And no
one, not even his mother, guessed how that name
hurt Willie.
It was a source of growing unhappiness with
Willie that the Madden's Hill boys were always
beaten by the other teams of the town.
Pages:
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202