“You sure take a long time to eat a Twinkie. You want to go play?”
The invitation shocked me. Eager to accept, I turned the vanilla tube, about to shove it in my mouth, when a red orb entered my peripheral vision and hit me flush in the face. The vanilla tube exploded. The force of the blow knocked me backward, and my head smacked the bleacher behind me with a sickening, dull thud. When I managed to sit up, dazed, the side of my face felt as though it had burst into flames.
“Look! Devil Boy has a red face to go with his red eyes.”
“Hey, it’s Sam Hell!”
Of the three boys climbing the bleachers, the one in the middle was by far the biggest. I did not know David Bateman, but I knew of him. I’d heard a couple of students say he’d been held back. Bateman stood a good head taller than the two boys accompanying him, and each towered over me.
“Devil Boy and Black Boy,” Bateman said. “What are you doing with my ball, darkie? Give it here.”
That’s when I realized Ernie held a soccer-size rubber ball. Ernie would later recount how the ball had ricocheted off my face, hit the bench one level below, and bounced straight up. He plucked it from the air, a real feat given that the splatter of cream had also hit him.
“What, are you deaf or just stupid?”
Ernie’s eyes narrowed. He did not look the least bit scared.
“I don’t think this boy had enough to eat for lunch,” Bateman said. “I think he wants a knuckle sandwich.” He balled his fist. “You want a knuckle sandwich, darkie?”
Ernie looked to me.
“Last chance. Give it here.”
Ernie held up the ball. “You want this ball?”
“No, the other ball, stupid.”
“You threw it away.”
“I threw it at Devil Boy. It’s mine. Give it back.”
Ernie shook his head. My heart pounded.
“Count of three . . . nigger.”
Ernie stared.
“One . . . two . . .”
Ernie quickly leaped off the bleachers to the asphalt playground, leaving David Bateman and his two friends flat-footed. “Get him,” Bateman yelled, but that would be easier said than done. Ernie moved with the fluidity of a bird in a flock, never in the same direction long. When one boy approached, he swerved; when another appeared, he dodged, ducked, or dived, each time with a burst of speed. Initially he managed to do this while deftly avoiding other students playing foursquare and hopscotch, but soon the entire playground had stopped playing and taken notice.
“Get on the other side,” Bateman yelled. “Corner him.”
They came close to catching Ernie once or twice, but then he would twist and weave and be gone, leaving all three bent over and gasping for air. When they had seemingly given up, Ernie jumped onto the top bleacher, tossed the ball in the air, and kicked it higher and farther than I had ever seen anyone kick a ball.
The students gasped.
“Told you they didn’t want it,” Ernie said, smiling down at me.
“Look out!” I yelled, but my warning came too late. David Bateman had come up behind Ernie like a raging bull. He struck Ernie in the kidneys with a fist, causing him to double over in pain. Bateman’s face was a mask of anger and fury as he pulled back his fist a second time, about to deliver a lethal uppercut I was sure would remove Ernie’s head. That’s when something inside me snapped. I leaped from the top bleacher onto Bateman’s back, causing him to stumble off balance, though he ultimately remained upright. Almost immediately I realized both the insanity of my decision and my shortsightedness; there was seemingly no way to get off without encountering a raging bull. Terrified, I gripped Bateman about the neck, holding on for dear life as he twisted and turned, arms flailing to get at me. Students circled us, chanting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”