Everyone's Hero: The Unofficial Novelization

Chapter 3

Emily Irving sat at the front of her Singer sewing machine, fixing a quarter inch hole in the right hand pocket of her husband's trousers. In addition to the repairs, it needed to be cleaned and washed, but of course, sewing it back on was the first job. She had owned this machine since 1926, coincidently the same year Babe Ruth made his name in history when he hit a record of three homers against the Cardinals. She never seemed to mind her husband's position as a custodian, after all, it was he, not her, who kept food on the table, and she was lucky to have one son, because if she had to have two or three more...Stanley would have to work even harder.

I thank the lord every for one child. But I can only hope that the two men who I love the most, will improve our lives for the better.

She was halfway done when she heard the door opening. She stopped the machine and turned around to see Yankee having just crossed his way to the middle of the composited living room and kitchen. The once white wallpaper of sprouting lilies was starting to yellow with age as it had not seen such renovation since 1911 when it was first built. The apartment itself was located on the sixth floor of the seven story tenant, which was constructed of red bricks and strong balsa wood. The full details of the kitchen weren't much. In those days you had your average settings, a radio, a lamp that was as long as an eight foot leg, a fold out table, an Alaska ice box to store you food in and cabinets to hold spices that gave home cooked meals a delectable taste.

But enough of the details. Anyway, Emily was asking Yankee how his day was, but Yankee was not in the mood for elucidating the details.

"Fine, I guess," was his reply. "Is Dad going to be home for dinner?"

"I'm afraid he's going to be working late, son. The Yankees have been training since sundown. With that kind of exercise, they might win the World Series and if Mr. Barrow was generous enough, he would consider giving your father a raise."

As Emily rattled on, continuing her work on the sewing machine, followed by the dinner she was cooking up on the kitchen stove, Yankee had already gone into his room. It was small, but so was his parent's own bedroom, with nothing else but a closet constructed of dark wood, a cotton-made, blue-colored bed and a drawer on the left side. The wall on the right side of his bed was plastered with newspaper clippings and magazine articles of the Yankees at their highest from the last decade. There was even an article of Babe Ruth getting tagged out by Rogers Hornsby and another detailing the miraculous recovery of Johnny Sylvester. Underneath his bed, was a tin can containing baseball cards of every major league player to date. With this amount of information, you would have thought that Yankee Irving would grow up to become an NBL historian.

Yankee sat on the edge of the bed and brought the baseball up to his eyes, rotating it with his fingers as he studied it like it was some sort of diamond in the rough.

"What should I call you?"

With his ingenious imagination, he could see two crystal blue eyes forming at the top of the red threads and a large mouth with big teeth at the base of these threads. The face had no nose and no ears, but it had a Brooklyn accent, just like him. Like a true baseball fan, Yankee knew every single type of throw. A curve ball, a line drive, a screwball...

Maybe Screwball would work, he thought. But for short, I'll call him Screwy.

And thus, Screwy was born. His first words were:

"Would you mind taking your damn thumb outta my mouth before I bite it?"

"Sorry," Yankee replied sheepishly.

He set the little ball down on the bedside table and watched him curiously like a dog staring at something peculiar and strange.

"What the hell are you staring at?" Screwy asked as though his new owner was some kind of retard.