[Big Six]

At the batting cage, Comiskey Park, Chicago
August 2, 1925


The ball sailed in a soft arc over the infield, landing in the very spot where a first baseman would be playing. The young man who had hit the ball muttered a soft oath and shook his head. He had seen too many popups, too many easy ground balls, too many swings and misses. He was batting .194, and was pressing hard. So hard that he had forgotten the easy feel of his natural swing, the one that had carried him from Maryland to New Bedford, then to Providence, and then to Boston.

"One more, Johnson." Clarence Blethen, who was throwing today's batting practice, held up the ball. The young Negro infielder nodded once.

Pat O'Farrell, having already hit with the regulars, stood nearby, relaxed, rubbing a cloth on the handle of his bat. "Julius...keep your hands back," he advised.

Johnson's hands stayed back on this one. CRACK...a sharp line drive that zoomed down the left-field line, kicking up dirt before caroming into the corner.

"That's a double...maybe a triple, with your speed," Blethen called out, nodding. Johnson left the cage, and the next hitter nodded silently to him as the two men passed each other.

Pat, who had already begun to approach the cage, met Johnson as he walked back toward the dugout. "Good hit, Julius." He smiled and clapped Johnson on the shoulder.

"Thanks."

"Can I have a word with you for a minute?" Pat asked, motioning Johnson a few steps farther away from the cage.

"Sure," the younger man said warily.

"I was thinking..." O'Farrell began, toeing the dirt with the front spike of his right shoe. "You know, I don't have a roommate on the road, and neither do you."

Johnson looked up, right into Pat's eyes. "That's...right," he said slowly.

Pat broke the tension before it became uncomfortable by continuing to speak. "I always roomed with Carrigan when he was a player. Now that he's the manager, he has his own room. The team's let me have one too."

Johnson paused, weighing his words carefully. "Are you sure you want to room...with me? Aren't there..."

Pat spoke quickly, stopping the next words, whatever they might hae been, before Johnson could speak them. "Speaker and Wood have roomed together all the while they've been here. Besides, Joe's married to my sister. I see him at Christmas." Pat grinned.

"McNally's with Irish, and Chappie rooms with Frankie. Can't room with a pitcher. They drive you crazy the night before they pitch. You and me, we have lots in common. We're both infielders. You're a married man, like me...we won't be out late chasing skirts and finding speakeasies. Whaddya say?"

Johnson took a half-step back and looked closely at Pat's face, searching for signs that the older player was joking, finding none. The veteran's features were relaxed as he waited for a response.

"Ummm...sure," Johnson finally said, smiling warily.

Pat smiled and extended his hand. Johnson took it, and the two men shook, muscles rippling in their forearms, one dark, one fair.

"Good. I'll tell Carrigan. He'll be ok with it, I know. They've been on him to save money, and this means one fewer room." Pat hefted his bat onto his shoulder and grinned again.

Johnson laughed softly and leaned on the handle of his bat, visibly more relaxed. O'Farrell nodded and turned to go find Carrigan.

"Hey, Pat," Johnson called out to him softly. Pat turned around.

"Yeah?"

"Call me Judy."

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You might have noticed this was the first dialogue I've written here. I thought it was the ideal way to tell this part of the story. Pat would not have wanted to receive any attention for what he would consider the simple act of reaching out to a teammate who was struggling on more than one level, so unless he wrote about it to Sarah, it would be an entirely personal matter.