Free Highpockets by John R. Tunis Page B

has osteomyelitis.”
    “Has what? What’s that?”
    “Osteomyelitis. An inflammation of the bone in his leg has set in that necessitates an operation. We’ll probably operate tomorrow. Though we haven’t told him yet.”
    “Tomorrow? Is it serious?”
    “Well, of course it could be. Fortunately we’ve got him in time, and I anticipate no complications. He’s a healthy boy. Naturally, any operation ... one never knows ... you understand.”
    Highpockets was dizzy when he hung up. There was sweat over his forehead. Nothing I could have done would have prevented his smashing into my car; it wasn’t my fault, it was his fault. Look, it really wasn’t my fault. I was only going twenty ... well, maybe thirty ... I think ... I honestly believe it wasn’t over thirty. Osteomyelitis. Sounds bad. If only I hadn’t dropped that fly or got mad with the truck driver; if only they’d never given me the darn car. I wish I’d never seen the Ford. But it wasn’t my fault. You have to be reasonable in these things; it wasn’t my fault and everyone said so; his own dad said so; the boy ran straight off the curb into the car. Like that.
    Highpockets went out into the street. He did something he seldom did, especially when subways were running. He hailed a taxi.
    “Bushwick Hospital in Brooklyn.” All the way over he was thinking. If only I’d held on to that fly and not been upset, if I’d kept my temper when that goon honked at me from his truck, if only ...
    The boy was wider-eyed than ever, somewhat paler and quite as unresponsive as the previous week. Meanwhile the fame of his visitor plus the two homers in the All-Star at Cincinnati still meant nothing to him. In several minutes, however, his father came along. Highpockets was relieved to have the man greet him with a delight that also had respect in it. He, at any rate, had heard of the Dodgers. Notwithstanding the impending operation, of which he knew, he again absolved the ballplayer of blame for the accident.
    The victim glanced from one to the other with a wide-eyed stare, saying nothing and not missing a word. Then the nurse entered with a pill for her patient. Highpockets immediately noticed a change in her attitude. The previous week the boy had been an occupied bed, a nuisance, a kid who could easily be taken care of at home. Now he was a potential surgical case and possibly something more. For one never knew about operations.
    The father was talking. He asked the boy whether he had thanked Mr. McDade for the lovely flowers, the baseball books, and the games which were heaped up, unopened still, on the side table. No? Had he written to thank him then? No, the boy had not. Mr. McDade was thanked somewhat sullenly in mumbled tones. Next the father thanked him, and then there was another one of those pauses.
    At last came the usual, the inevitable, query: What’s the matter with the Dodgers? Highpockets pointed out that although they were in fourth place, they were only six games off on the losing side, not bad for the end of July. Sometimes, he explained, it was harder to lead the league, to set the pace, than to come from behind. The father was interested and attentive, if the boy was not. He declared with enthusiasm that he was a great Dodger fan, and had seen Highpockets hit his sixteenth homer against the Cards and his twenty-first against the Phils.
    “Never dreamed I’d ever get to meet you, though,” he said, as if it was an honor to have his son run over by Highpockets. The ballplayer accepted this. Then conversation died away again. Highpockets became desperate. He tried to say something.
    “Kinda funny, Mr. Kennedy, you living in Brooklyn and being interested in baseball, but this boy doesn’t seem to care one bit.”
    The father turned on him, “All the time, all the time, Mr. Hi ... Mr. McDade, that boy spends on his stamps. Won’t work at school nor play ball nor anything. I’ve tried to send him to camp this summer; he won’t go. And