13 Hangmen by Art Corriveau Read Free Book Online Page B

baseman, Lou Gehrig, had benched himself for the first time in fourteen straight seasons due to some sort of mysterious illness. So New York was suddenly very vulnerable.
    â€œWait, I’ve got an idea,” Solly said. “What if Williams continues to field, but I pinch-hit and do his running for him?”
    â€œIf I wanted the opinion of an uppity Jew-boy benchwarmer, I would have asked for it!” Cronin exploded.
    â€œThat settles it,” Williams said. He slipped his shoe back on, hoisted himself to his feet, and hobbled toward the locker room. Cronin demanded to know where Williams thought he was going—the medic hadn’t wrapped that ankle yet.
    â€œHome,” Williams said. “I quit.”
    Cronin told Williams to skip the funny business: he wasunder contract. That’s for the lawyers to decide, Williams said. This clearly unsettled Cronin—he didn’t want to incur the wrath of Eddie Collins—so he backed off. They’d do it Weinberg’s way. Number 27 could pinch-hit for Williams as long as Williams played the field.
    â€œNot unless you apologize to Weinberg first,” Williams said.
    â€œLike heck I will!” Cronin said.
    Williams shrugged, then disappeared into the locker room.
    Inning over. Detroit’s turn at bat. Cronin whirled on Solly. “If you know what’s good for you,” he said, “you’ll get Williams taped up and onto the field by next inning.” He ordered another benchwarmer to grab his mitt. Solly headed for the locker room. Angelo noticed Williams had left his ball cap on the bench. He used this as an excuse to chase after both players—and see what happened next.
    Williams undressed while Solly tried to convince him to keep playing. Nothing doing, Williams said. His favorite uncle back in Santa Barbara—the guy who had taught him how to play ball—was named Saul too. Saul Venzor, a Mexican. Williams knew all about prejudice: his
abuela—
his grandma—was born in Mexico. His mother’s side of the family barely spoke English. Solly confessed he hadn’t known any of that.
    â€œBecause my contract expressly forbids me from speaking tothe press about my family,” Williams said. “Which is also why I never have anything to say. Which is why the Boston papers go out of their way to make me look bad to the fans. And
that’s
how much I think of my contract with the Red Sox.”
    Angelo handed Williams his cap. Williams tossed it into his locker. It was no use, he told Solly. He wouldn’t play again until Cronin apologized for his racist remarks.
    â€œThen
I
won’t play,” Solly said. He opened his locker and started to undress.
    â€œMe either,” Angelo said, planting himself on the nearest changing bench. Both ballplayers laughed. Solly asked Williams what they should do with their night off. It would be Solly’s treat. Williams told Solly to forget about it. What he really wanted was the one thing another ballplayer couldn’t give him: a home-cooked meal.
    Angelo cleared his throat. The two men looked over. “Mama’s fixing me a big birthday meal when I get back to the North End,” he said. “Why don’t you both come? She always makes way too much food.”
    â€œIt would give me a chance to see the old place and pay my respects,” Solly said.
    â€œI’m just warning you, it’s not gonna be a turkey with mashed potatoes and peas,” Angelo said. “We’re Italian.”
    Williams turned to Solly. “We better hit the showers. Then you gotta wrap my ankle good and tight, Weinberg. We’ve got ourselves a date.”
    â€œSolly,” Solly said. “My friends call me Solly.”
    â€œAnd I’m Angelo,” Angelo said. “By the way.”
    The three of them were in fine spirits as they made their way past all the
caffès
and
trattorias
and butcher shops of the North End. They even stuck