Barnstorming to Heaven: Syd Pollock and His Great Black Teams

29. My Roomie

29 My Roomie Turned out, there was much more to Bobo than the disgruntled juggling Army Ranger he projected. It's just his bad moments were as easy to read as the top three lines of an eye chart magnified. He was joyful to travel with and daily some new positive part of Bobo emerged. It was like watching a rose bloom in time-lapse photography. I understood early why Dad had suggested I split travel between Bobo and the teams. There were things to be learned from both. All Dad and Bobo had gone through about Bobo arriving before game time was a residual argument between Bobo and Ed. Beginning the next day in Marysville through the time I returned to Hollywood, whenever I traveled with him, Bobo never resented getting me to the park two hours before game time. I would have known if he had a problem with that. Bobo was incapable of deceit, to a fault. He said whatever was on his mind whenever it was there, regardless of his sensibilities or the feelings of those around him. On June 11, Bobo and I went to eat before we were due at the park in Marysville. It was there I made the culinary faux pas that ranks me alltime Clowns record holder for food blunders. And I did it my first day on the road. Whenever I went to Morrison's Cafeteria in Tallahassee, I ordered the shrimp salad. Made with fresh Gulf shrimp, Morrison's shrimp salads were among the most beautiful things on earth. So, when I saw shrimp salad on the menu in Marysville, Kansas, I ordered it. Cactus dying of thirst had seen water more recently than the two shrimp resting on my tossed salad, half a continent from the nearest ocean and as at home as penguins in Quito, Ecuador. My two shrimp looked like twin plankton swollen by some horrible nautical plague. But Bobo seemed to relate to me after that night, and, M Y ROO M I E 335 often during our travels, he pointed out to absolute strangers, "This here's my roomie, loves them Kansas shrimp:' At the game in Marysville that night, I wondered about Bobo. Here I was, the boss's son, and a college graduate, granted one who orders shrimp in Kansas. Butwhat would make a well-tempered road warrior like Bobo comfortable around me? At the end of four and a half in Marysville, the answer came; he was already comfortable. On the bench, Bobo rested a hand on my shoulder. "Okay, Wing Ding Nuts;' he said, "time for old Bobo's act. You go settle up-then we take two, hit to right, and go back to the motel. We keep playing these friggin' semi-pro parks without clubhouses, I got to ride sweaty with the boss' son. You tell Syd to think about how that smells next time he books:' On June 13, we drew a decent crowd in Lincoln, Nebraska. We were more than holding our own with two more days to payday. I wore Dad's money belt, with two specific instructions. Once I got a few hundred more than I needed, I was to send a cashier's check home in the amount of the extra money. If I was robbed, I was to lower my pants and give up the money belt at the slightest threat of violence. On the 14th, we played in Norfolk, Nebraska. Bobo and I checked into the local hotel early. "Marble lobby;' Bobo observed. "Perfect. Norfolk's another semi-pro ball park without dressing rooms:' Natche had ripped his tux coat sliding in Lincoln, so I took it and promised I'd have it repaired in Norfolk, and I wanted to send money home. Dad had left me $300 of his own money in case I needed it for payday, and I was nervous carrying the couple hundred extra from Lincoln. While I was waiting for the cashier's check, I asked the teller about a tailor. "You want the Jew. His place is the next block left, this side the street:' After I left the bank, I walked left to the next block and saw no tailor shop, so I asked a pedestrian. "That'd be the Jew;' he told me. "That's the next block." 336 PART SIX THE SIXTIES By this time, I realized I was about...