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"To hit you on the head with," said Cosner sharply.
"Play ball or hit the showers!"
Jimmie Cosner worked his mouth to collect enough saliva to spit, then angrily swallowed it, swore a bitter oath instead. Reaching down, he raised the bat, poised it like a musket on his shoulder.
And here came the ball! It started out small and wound up big in front of him. Powie! An explosion off the yellow bat. The ball spiraled up and up. Jimmie lit out for first base. The ball paused, as if thinking about gravity up there in the sky. A wave came in on the shore of the lake and fell down. The crowd yelled. Jimmie ran. The ball made its decision, came down. A lithe high-yellar was under it, fumbled it. The ball spilled to the turf, was plucked up, hurled to first base.
Jimmie saw he was going to be out. So he jumped feet-first at the base.
Everyone saw his cleats go into Big Poe's ankle. Everybody saw the red blood. Everybody heard the shout, the shriek, saw the heavy clouds of dust rising.
"I'm safe!" protested Jimmie two minutes later.
Big Poe sat on the ground. The entire dark team stood around him. The doctor bent down, probed Big Poe's ankle, saying, "Mmmm," and "Pretty bad. Here." And he swabbed medicine on it and put a white bandage on it.
The umpire gave Cosner the cold-water eye. "Hit the showers!"
"Like hell!" said Cosner. And he stood on that first base, blowing his cheeks out and in, his freckled hands swaying at his sides. "I'm safe. I'm stayin' right here, by God! No nigger put me out!"
"No," said the umpire. "A white man did. Me. Get!"
"He dropped the ball! Look up the rules! I'm safe!"
The umpire and Cosner stood glaring at each other.
Big Poe looked up from having his swollen ankle tended. His voice was thick and gentle and his eyes examined Jimmie Cosner gently.
"Yes, he's safe, Mr. Umpire. Leave him stay. He's safe."
I was standing right there. I heard the whole thing. Me and some other kids had run out on the field to see. My mother kept calling me to come back to the stands.
"Yes, he's safe," said Big Poe again.
All the colored men let out a yell.
"What'sa matter with you, black boy? You get hit in the head?"
"You heard me," replied Big Poe quietly. He looked at the doctor bandaging him. "He's safe. Leave him stay."
The umpire swore.
"Okay, okay. So he's safe!"
The umpire stalked off, his back stiff, his neck red.
Big Poe was helped up. "Better not walk on that," cautioned the doctor.
"I can walk," whispered Big Poe carefully.
"Better not play."
"I can play," said Big Poe gently, certainly, shaking his head, wet streaks drying under his white e
yes. "I'll play good." He looked no place at all. "I'll play plenty good."
"Oh," said the second-base colored man. It was a funny sound.
All the colored men looked at each other, at Big Poe, then at Jimmie Cosner, at the sky, at the lake, the crowd. They walked off quietly to take their places. Big Poe stood with his bad foot hardly touching the ground, balanced. The doctor argued. But Big Poe waved him away.
