Ham On Rye - Charles Bukowski [10]
“No,” said Stanley Greenberg.
Stanley was right. I never hit another home run. I struck out most of the time. But they always remembered that home run and while they still hated me, it was a better kind of hatred, like they weren’t quite sure why.
Football season was worse. We played touch football. I couldn’t catch the football or throw it but I got into one game. When the runner came through I grabbed him by the shirt collar and threw him on the ground. When he started to get up, I kicked him. I didn’t like him. It was the first baseman with vaseline in his hair and the hair in his nostrils. Stanley Greenberg came over. He was larger than any of us. He could have killed me if he’d wanted to. He was our leader. Whatever he said, that was it. He told me, “You don’t understand the rules. No more football for you.”
I was moved into volleyball. I played volleyball with David and the others. It wasn’t any good. They yelled and screamed and got excited, but the others were playing football. I wanted to play football. All I needed was a little practice. Volleyball was shameful. Girls played volleyball. After a while I wouldn’t play. I just stood in the center of the field where nobody was playing. I was the only one who would not play anything. I stood there each day and waited through the two recess sessions, until they were over.
One day while I was standing there, more trouble came. A football sailed from high behind me and hit me on the head. It knocked me to the ground. I was very dizzy. They stood around snickering and laughing. “Oh, look, Henry fainted! Henry fainted like a lady! Oh, look at Henry!”
I got up while the sun spun around. Then it stood still. The sky moved closer and flattened out. It was like being in a cage. They stood around me, faces, noses, mouths and eyes. Because they were taunting me I thought they had deliberately hit me with the football. It was unfair.
“Who kicked that ball?” I asked.
“You wanna know who kicked the ball?”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do when you find out?”
I didn’t answer.
“It was Billy Sherril,” somebody said.
Billy was a round fat boy, really nicer than most, but he was one of them. I began walking toward Billy. He stood there. When I got close he swung. I almost didn’t feel it. I hit him behind his left ear and when he grabbed his ear I hit him in the stomach. He fell to the ground. He stayed down. “Get up and fight him, Billy,” said Stanley Greenberg. Stanley lifted Billy up and pushed him toward me. I punched Billy in the mouth and he grabbed his mouth with both hands.
“O.K.,” said Stanley, “I’ll take his place!”
The boys cheered. I decided to run, I didn’t want to die. But then a teacher came up. “What’s going on here?” It was Mr. Hall.
“Henry picked on Billy,” said Stanley Greenberg.
“Is that right, boys?” asked Mr. Hall.
“Yes,” they said.
Mr. Hall took me by the ear all the way to the principal’s office. He pushed me into a chair in front of an empty desk and then knocked on the principal’s door. He was in there for some time and when he came out he left without looking at me. I sat there five or ten minutes before the principal came out and sat behind the desk. He was a very dignified man with a mass of white hair and a blue bow tie. He looked like a real gentleman. His name was Mr. Knox. Mr. Knox folded his hands and looked at me without speaking. When he did that I was not so sure that he was a gentleman. He seemed to want to humble me, treat me like the others.
“Well,” he said at last, “tell me what happened.”
“Nothing happened.”
“You hurt that boy, Billy Sherril. His parents are going to want to know why.”
I didn’t answer.
“Do you think you can take matters into your own hands when something happens you don’t like?”
“No.”
“Then why did you do it?”
I didn’t answer.
“Do you think you’re better than other people?”
“No.”
Mr. Knox sat there. He had a long letter opener and he slid it back and forth on the green felt padding of the desk. He had a large bottle of green ink on his desk and a pen