Written by Steve M.
“The bakery has seen an increase in sales for this past quarter. It’s a testament to the dedication and hard work of everyone in this room. And, of course, the women who are not present with us this afternoon. They will be vital to the success of the bakery while the men who are part of the ball team reduce their time spent in the bakeshop so they can engage in professional baseball playing for the New York Bakers ballclub.”
The soft light reflected a variety of facial expressions of the dozen, or so young men who were standing between two French made rotating ovens in the middle of the production area. A few were all smiles while many appeared neutral trying to understand the meaning of each moment as it unfolded. Two young lads in the back looked overwhelmed in the moment gazing down at their feet. Finally, the one donning the weathered white cap pulled tightly to their scalp, scarcely moving, preferring to pose behind what could only be described as a poker face. The last shift had ended so it was somewhat quiet in the preparation area except for one young boy of about 12 or so, who was operating a push broom to gather up the remnants of flour sprinkled on virtually every inch of the terrazzo floor. The bakery temperature was pushing 90 F.
“I know all of you men are going to be outstanding ballplayers, just as you are bakers. We’ll take the best of our bakery boys, and I would anticipate about ten to twelve of you making the cut, and we’ll combine them with fella’s calling themselves pro ball players. As in, ‘professional’.
“What is the difference between the ‘professional ball players’ and us, Mr. Henri?”, queried veteran lead baker Laurant Bon Homme. It was no secret that the French born Julien Henri, born on the island of Martinique, held a soft spot for any French bakers and ballplayers that crossed his path. Laurant Bon Homme came to America ten years ago after apprenticing as a baker in Paris. His breadmaking skills were unmatched.
“Don’t they pull their boot-straps up same as us?” added young Moe Nash, newly acquired 19 year old free agent. “Heck, Mr. Henri, I guess I’m one of them professional ballplayers now that I think about it.”
The room lightened up with the Nash quip as most of the guys seemed to relax a bit after the baker/ballplayer made his comment.
“A good question Laurant? And, yes, Moe is correct. For those of you that don’t know, the professional ballplayer is a ballplayer first, and then works a second job like a baker, or barber, but it’s the ballplaying that is their specialty. And, someone pays them to do it. You fella’s here, are bakers by trade who are now gravitating towards being a professional ballplayer. And, technically, you already are one the moment you signed a contract to play with the New York Bakers.”
“Our Team Owner, Thaddeus Wolcraft, is half French, his mother being from Paris”, Henri continued.
At this point, Henri stopped talking and started craning his neck to get a better glimpse of someone in the back of the room. Say there Swifty, slide over a bit so I can see to the back, would you?”
The 33 year old pitcher, with his pencil thin mustache and brown side burns, shimmied to his right opening up a line of direct vision to the back of the group. Julien Henri’s mouthed open, and his eyebrows shot up, but he looked like he had been freshly slapped across the face. The rest of the players looked first to Julien, and then they followed his eyes to the short person in the back of the room, standing no more than 5’2” in shoes.
“Gennaro? Gennaro, is that you? Why?….What?….I’ll be a horse’s ass, it is you! What do you think you are you doing here? You know, well, you know darn well you can’t be on this team. What makes..”
Henri was cut off in mid-sentence as the soft speaking Gennaro took over the floor and the conversation, “You know damn well I’m as good as any other ballplayer in this room.
Still in white and black checked pants, white t-shirt, and white ballcap tugged tightly over the skull the smallish baker glared at not just Henri, but every man young or old daring any one of them to a challenge. No one took Genaro up on it.
Henri, trying to gain control of the meeting, stated that he was pretty certain that only men could be in this league.
“Is it written?” responded Genaro. When Henri did not immediately replay, she asked it another way, “Where is it written Mr. Henri? I want to know where it specifically says a woman can’t play ball in this here league?” Because if it ain’t written, and I hear from some that it ain’t, then you got yourself an up and coming 1b who can hit, hustle, and field a bit for when Laurant hangs up his spikes.”
Swifty chimed in, “Skip, we could use a player of Genaro’s caliber. I’ve seen her play. She’s got the goods, I wanna tell ya.”
Moe Nash spoke next, “Mr. Henri, maybe we sort of keep it under our hats you know. Get Genaro a bit of a shorter haircut. No offense, Genaro, but up top is not gonna blow your cover.”
A few smirked at the comment, but most of the guys chipped in with support for Genaro being on the team. Henri looked around the room and even he had to smile. Nodding his head, he offered up, “Well fella’s, and I say that to all of you in the room, I’m going to think this over.”
“Putain oui”, yelled Laurant.