The Story of Bobby Hearst, Part II

Setting the table was one of the little things we did each night. One night you would be setting the table, the next night drying or putting dishes away.

Cathy sat quiet, after setting the table, not mentioning her pitching abilities to Mom, who was standing at the kitchen counter chopping onions. Cathy set the table, took her seat and waited for Mom to announce dinner was ready. It was liver and onion night, Dad’s favorite night, but no one else’s.  Tiny red potatoes with skins on were first passed around, followed by cooked baby carrots - all from our garden. Loading one's plate with potatoes and carrots in hopes of no room for the liver was the idea. Dad was handy with his reach, and fork, though, giving everyone a share. Mom always had more on the stove if anyone dodged a piece and the liver plate got empty. 

Liver on his plate, dad interlaced his fingers, bowed his head, and led us in prayer. Who had picked the potatoes began the after-prayer conversation. He knew Francis was sent to the garden that afternoon. Dad just liked acknowledging Francis's part in the meal each night. Cathy and I worked on our liver hiding skills, as Francis told us about his day. Placing bits of liver under our plates was our best effort. Bits in pockets were good too. Major, our dog would be getting those bits when we turned our pockets inside out. 

Pat told Dad about her job at the dry cleaners and her walk home over the High Street bridge with its missing sidewalk planks. Michael talked about books he needed from the library. Playing with her carrots, Cathy suddenly blurted out how she struck out both Donny and I and hit a ball out of the infield. Dad stabbed a piece of Cathy's liver from under her plate - her reward for striking us out.  “How's the mitt,” Dad asked me. Just then arriving at the table, Mom said Carol Lenardi drove Michael to his Polio treatment, as she took her seat.

There was a call from Mr. Brown, the park grounds keeper, Mom injected while asking for the carrots. Something about an overturned dugout. Cathy instantly began telling the story how she pitched to this older kid and how I grabbed the ball barehanded on the fly. “How did the dugout end up overturned?, Dad asked.” I remained speechless as Cathy went on.  Dad held back a grin, Mom was horrified that Cathy tried to bean a boy with a hardball.  Cathy had a reputation, she once took a hammer to a bully’s front teeth.  Mom couldn't believe that one, till the kid showed up with his Mom, showing his half a front tooth.  

I got out of my dish drying duty, despite offering, because it was a paper route collecting night. Dad handed me the collection book and the change bag and said the dishes would be here when I was done with the collection. Last house on Mountain Street was the Hearst house. Luck was with me - Bobby's sister answered the door and paid for three weeks of paper delivery. My Saturday luck ran out at Mike Spencier's Barber Shop though, where I received a hard, friendly punch from a smiling Bobby. Just his way of saying he had more for me…

The Story of Bobby Hearst

I shared a room with my two older brothers. My tiny space was decorated with drawings of grasshoppers, hollyhocks and cowboys like Ward Bond, star of the TV show Wagon Train, and James Garner of Maverick.  From the ceiling hung two dozen model airplanes, my brother Mike had assembled from kits while recovering from Polio. Aircraft carriers, destroyers and battleships sat atop the cedar chest where mom kept her linens she saved from Grandma Schen. I loved the smell of that chest.  My other brother Francis, who was very religious, had pictures of Saints and Popes around the room. Cathy, my little sister,  decorated her half of the girls room with golf & tennis trophies, and basketball medals and ribbons she had collected over the years. 

Dad said I invited bullying with my constant drawing of flowers and bugs. Baseball was what I needed in my life, and so came a trip to Crosby's Sporting Goods Store. Monday I was to go to Garfield Park with my friend Donny, and sister Cathy, to test our baseball skills and maybe find a game we could join in. With Donny's bat and ball and my brand new baseball glove, we took turns fielding, hitting and pitching while waiting for other kids to show up. Cathy, at 11, was already showing signs of being the athletic one.  Cathy was pitching when Bobby Hearst showed up. White, tight t-shirt with a pack of cigarettes rolled in the one sleeve, Bobby was the typical teen back then, and nearly twenty years old, at least ten years older than Cathy. I was twelve, a big twelve. Donny, eleven I guess. Donny and I were both intimidated by Bobby picking up the bat and demanding a turn. My sister Cathy had no problem telling Bobby where to get off. I told her to pitch one to him which she did and he sent it down the third baseline screaming at me. Much to my surprise I snared it with my bare hand. Tossed the ball back to Cathy, like what I had just done was nothing. My hand stung like all hell, but I acted like it was nothing.

Bobby demanded another pitch. Cathy refused him. He was out because I had caught the ball on the fly. Both Donny and I yelled to Cathy to just pitch him another one. Now Cathy, at 11, was just starting her baseball career. Her next pitch was right at Bobby's head and he knew it was on purpose and charged the mound with bat in hand. I charged Bobby full speed, catching him off balance just as he was about to reach Cathy who was ready to swing at him.  Driving him off the field into the home team's dugout we both tumbled with the dugout, over turning it as we went. The dugout seemed to fall apart as it toppled over with us inside. Bobby tangled in the broken dugout was yelling what he was going to do to us as he pushed free of the loose boards. Scrambling free, I yelled for Donny and Cathy to run. Scooping up the ball and bat, Donny and Cathy were at full speed, as I grabbed the glove. Running across two baseball fields and full speed through peoples yards - for two blocks we just ran. When I could not run any farther I stopped and turned ready to take my beating. No Bobby. Had I killed him? Cathy and Donny, still running, were a full block ahead. Lungs burning,  dragging myself onward, I was thinking up a story to tell my folks over dinner about what had happened at the park.  I stumbled the rest of the way home. That night was collection night for the paper route. Bobby's house was on my route.  Would he turn his two pit bulls loose on me? I was sure death was waiting for me… or would the police come and take me away for murder?