Life, 1929-08-02 · page 9 of 40
Life — August 2, 1929 — page 9: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This short story concerns Eddie Bland, a young Black baseball player who encounters a racist white man on the street. The man insults Eddie's name and mocks his aspirations to pitch in a major league game. Eddie responds with dignity and humor rather than anger. The central joke involves a "luck ball"—a superstitious baseball charm. When a Prohibition enforcement agent arrests the racist man for carrying whiskey, Eddie cryptically suggests the man's misfortune stems from the "luck ball," implying that doing the right thing (not retaliating against racism) brings good fortune. The story uses baseball as a metaphor for American opportunity and social progress during the segregated era.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Life Short Stories of Life The Luck Ball by Stanley Tipton ITH outraged brakes squeal- ing a protest, the knobby lit- ue roadster lurched to a stop, its right fender a scant foot from the coattails of a leaping pedestrian—a flabby man whose escape denoted sur- prising agility. The pleasant faced youngster at the wheel smiled and said, “Sorry, sir. Glad I didn’t hit you.” The flabby man_ stared. “You're ‘Smoke Ball Eddie Bland,’ ain't you?” “That's me, all right. Going to the game?” The man nodded. “Hop in,” said Eddie. The man climbed in ponderously and the roadster jumped ahead. “See b’ th’ papers Mac’s startin’ I understand.” 3 “Well if ye c’n start ‘em like ye cn finish ‘em, them Beavers won't have a look in.” Eddie smiled. — For two- thirds of the season he had done heroic work as a relief hurler. And now he had a long awaited chance to pitch a whole game, with a promise of a regular turn on the mound if he showed well. “Did ye reely learn U pitch b’ throwin’ rocks at rabbits down in South Ca'liny, like they say ye did?” Eddie laughed. “News- paper bunk. T was born and raised in South Carolina, yes. But I learned to pitch with a baseball.” “Hm—'s what I figgered.” “Have a cigar?” inquired Eddie. “There's a box of them in that door- pocket. Help yourself.” “Thanks. Don't mind if I do.” The man reached a pudgy hand into the pocket, groped about and drew out—an unopened bottle of whiskey. Eddie saw it and laughed. “I guess they're on this side.” he said. With his feft hand he reached into the other ry =F pocket and located the cigars. He passed them over. “I'm slipping that bottle to Trainer Joe. I had a kink in my arm yes- terday and he worked two hours overtime on me. Ironed it out, too.” The flabby man still held the bottle. “Whiskey, ain't it?” “Sure.” “Now that’s too bad, young feller. I'm downright sorry, I am,” he sighed. “Transportin’ it, too, ye wuz.” “Say, what are you talking about?” snapped Eddie. Tang BEES ies The flabby man threw back his lapel. “Pro’bition enforcement agent,” he said succinctly. “I'll have to confis- cate the bottle an’ put ye under arrest. Right sorry, too.” Eddie started to offer him money but changed his mind. There was some- thing about the man that stamped him as one of those mournful individuals who have a sense of duty. “Cain't no baseball player in de worl’ hit a@ luck ball.” “Tell ye what, Mr. Bland,” said the man as they neared the park, “ain't no call t arrest ye right now, long’s I know who ye are. If ye'll meet me at y’re autymobile after th’ game, I'll lay off till then.” “Oh, thanks,” replied Eddie grate- fully. “Thanks a lot. This chance to pitch today means a heap to me.” The huge stands were filled. The game was about to be called. Um- pires chatted near the plate while ground-keepers groomed the diamond with the meticulous care of hair- dressers. A wholly white head capping a face the color of stove polish popped around the end of the dugout. “Mistuh Eddie, Suh?” Bland looked up—then sprang to his feet. In two strides he was up the steps and grasping a black calloused hand. “What are you doing so far from home, Uncle Andy?” “T's a delicate.” “A what?” “A delicate to de Culled Baptis’ Convention. Yas- suh. I seen in de papehs dat y’ wuz gwine pitch tday, ‘n ol’ Andy jes’ nachelly had t’ see de game. I's got a box seat right heah.” Eddie was touched. “Well, that’s fine, Uncle Andy—you'll root —_ for me?” “ "Deed I will. Yassuh. Yas indeedy. An’ Mistuh Eddie,” the old negro stepped closer and groped = in his pocket, “does y’ git in a pinch, jes’ y’ rub dis heah rabbit's foot on de ball. Dat make a luck ball outen it. Cain’t no baseball player in de worl’ hit a luck ball.” Eddie suppressed a smile as he put the rabbit's foot in his hip pocket. Tt was a fast snappy game. The Beavers had their pitching ace in the box but Eddie was a match for him. “No hits, no runs, no errors” went click-clicking out over the telegraph wires at the end of each inning until the seventh. In that frame Eddie’s (Continued on Page 36) comicbooks.com