NarrativeWriting

Narrative Story Writing

It was what I had always hoped for, a day in which I had dreamed of, it was my time to play ball. Ever since I opened my eyes that day in the mitts of my sewn together bed sheets, made from old tethered cloth, and the rickety sound of my wood carved bed I had thought about playing the game. The one that I had to strain my neck to see through the high-up window in the corner of my room, it was baseball. I watched and listened for the different sounds that came from the little dirt plot outside as if to make my conscious mind believe I was there at home plate even though I was still dreaming. **As if I were Jackie robinson who earned the rookie of the year award in 1947 for his unbelievable accomplishments.**

“Batter up” said the ten year old umpire behind the plate as he called me over to get ready and take long practice swings. I stood there and just waited as the first pitch came barreling down the plate close enough that I could grab it in my hand before it reached the catcher’s mitt. “Strike one” the umpire shouted as the world came back into my grasp and reality came into focus. The next pitch came and I watched it as it left the pitchers hand and came straight towards me, the fact was it wasn’t a ball, it was a fist.

Everyone of the six boy group beat me until I was no more but laying on the dry dirt on the backstop of home plate. Six of them, their ring leader was Jesse Clark and he was older than all of them, seeing as he was stayed back in school for 4 years as some had told me. They yelled racist terms such as “negro” and “African Trash” until it made everyone in the neighborhood to look out their windows and see. Not one of them tried to stop it and I just laid there as the wind was knocked out of me time and time again. Punch after punch came more pain and I started to cough up blood onto home plate. After the horrific time I had been left to dwell in my own blood pool that covered the now red soaked home plate. Eventually I got up after my brain kicked in and walked away from the field to my families small apartment, I limped through the forests and through driveways until I made it to the holy grail known as the William’s home. That is where I sat and waited until I could not stay awake anymore, I plopped down on the old brown couch as I dreamed to shrug the pain off.

One day that was all I could ever want in my life at the time, where I wasn’t beaten by the other white kids who weren’t my friends since I was a negro in a bad time. Life had been rough since we moved to the big city of Cairo, Georgia since my dad had passed away and my mother had to take care of both my older brother and I. She could never find work, but when she did it was usually in the form of a maid to rich people that lived in the upscale area of own town which always upset me. Lately things had gotten worse in my neighborhood, I would get jumped ,by kids that were just my age but had different skin color, after walking home from elementary school almost everyday. This was my life now and I had to make it a good one because for sure it would not be ending soon if I had any say in it.

The next day wasn’t any better than all the rest since again the boys had found me after the school day had ended and decided to take me on a little walk to the field. “Your nothing but a dirty negro” Screamed the boys as they pushed me down in a rage of racist and unforgiving thoughts. “Why do you think you can play with us, this is a white field if you hadn’t noticed”. Said the big boss Jesse, as he pointed to a new sign I had never seen before. “White field no Negros allowed on primacies” to my surprise the city had decided on making this a white only field meaning I was at a loss for a field and my dream of baseball was over. I got up from my long sat spot on the dirt of the field and ran the entire way home to explain to my mother what had happened. I was just like my idol **Jackie Robinson he was the target of racial epithets and flying cleats, of hate letters and death threats, of pitchers throwing at his head and legs, and catchers spitting on his shoes but instead I was just multi harassed by others.**

Finally I got to my brown shaded, dirty and unappetizing house to find my mom laid out and unconscious on the living room couch with a bottle of vodka in one hand and some chocolate hershey kisses in the other. This definitely was a bad time if I were to tell her now about the “no Negros” sign at the field because as I’ve experienced before my mother can be a dangerous drunk around me. I looked around to see if anyone else was home, thought for a moment about if I should tell her and decided it’s the only time I had. Slowly as to not make much noise I walked over to her and shook her shoulder until mom woke from her alcohol induced sleep.

“Mom, can you hear me?…. Something happened today at the dirt lot and it’s important.” I whispered to her as she came in and out barely listening to me while still holding the bottle of vodka and now eating one of the Hershey’s kisses.

“What do you want kid, you’ve caused enough trouble already...your the reason we live here now, because of you.” Said my mom as she sat up and pointed at me in the type of tone I had never heard from her before until now. “How is it my fault mom that we are living here in this god forsaken house, in a racist town that hardly any other Negros live in, and we are discriminated against daily? How is that my fault mom, now you talking nonsense.” I walked away from her after that because I knew this was going to get ugly very fast if we didn’t both calm down soon. As I was approaching my bedroom to go to bed and take a nap she whipped her bottle of half empty Vodka at me and hit right in the back of the head.

“That’s what you get for talking to the one who gave birth to you like that, and guess what...your father isn’t really dead I made that up because he scattered when you were born.” This was the next thing I remember as I went in and out of an unforgiving conscious state of sure pain and questions. What could she be talking about? My father is dead she must be out of her mind, my mom told me he was killed a long time ago in a car accident between him and another Negro man. I wish I could have just seen him just once but before I could he was dead.

The next thing I knew I was lying outside on the front porch steps of our apartment in the dark of a late night. Slowly I inched my way up from the step and walked over to my front door, then I had noticed my head was still bleeding tremendously onto the ground and all over my clothes. I rushed to the door and scrambled to open it and get inside to get some bandages, little did I known that my mom had purposely dragged me out of the house and locked the door since she was so fed up with my back-talking.

“Hello, anyone awake I need you to open the front door my head is still gushing blood at this very moment.” I yelled as if trying to wake someone up so I could get in. I waited and waited but no answer, finding a different way to get bandages was my only choice. I walked away from my house trying to find a source of aid until it hit me, Jesse hit me right in the back of my head where the bottle had impacted. Next thing I new I was being dragged across the street farther and farther away from my home.

Next morning I woke up to find my head still gushing blood like a waterfall and myself sitting on the floor of the homemade bathroom of the dirt plot known as the white field now. I got up just as I had gotten up before when I was hit in the back of the head by the bottle and slowly stumbled to the outside. It was mid morning and I could not see much, but what I thought I was seeing amazed me deeply. Right before me standing at home plate in his signature stance that was true to him was the one and only Jackie Roosevelt Robinson, my baseball idol. **He was the most electrifying performer in the game of baseball, paving the way for other black stars when he first stepped on base on April 15, 1947.** Standing there in total disbelief I watched from the home dugout as he took his first long stride of a swing and knocked that ball over five foot high old brown fence that the made a perimeter around the field.

Never did I once think that he would be in my presence at any moment, I slowly walked up to Mr. Robinson and poked him on the shoulder lightly.

“Yes son what can I help you with?” Asked Mr. Robinson in the sweetest voice a tough, overpowered ,major league baseball player could make.

“Well sir I was wondering why you were here because in all disbelief I could not believe you were standing on the very home plate that I as standing on just a few days ago.” I said asking as politely as I possibly could.

“No surprise I just wanted to see my son, you Alex Williams.” Whispering to me in my ear as if to keep it a secret.

And that’s when I woke up, lying there in my colorful, baseball covered, ready to be washed bed and sheets. It was all a dream, an irreplaceable wonderful dream for I had met my dad and he was my idol.