Rodzina by Karen Cushman

could barely see to cut the pig and not his own arm. In all seasons he came home stinking of pigs and fear. But for all his size and big hands, my papa was a gentle man....
    "Watch the rest of the kids for me for a minute," I said to Spud as I climbed back onto the train.
    "Miss Doctor?" I said, standing next to her seat.
    She opened her eyes and sighed.
    "And they can't hit."
    She closed her eyes again.
    The next morning, while Mr. Szprot, cigar in his teeth as always, slept and Miss Doctor read her book, I sat and watched Nebraska go by. Slowly I became aware of a ruckus. The boys had plopped down in the aisle and were taking off their shoes and socks. "Goldurn," said Chester, looking at Sammy's right foot, black and crusty with grime, "I bet that's the dirtiest foot on this train!"
    "Bet it ain't," said Sammy. Bet—the magic word. Half the carload of orphans came over to look at Sammy's foot and their own, argue, and wager.
    Then Sammy took off his other shoe and stuck his
left
foot into the air. He was right.
That
one was the dirtiest foot on the train. Peach pits and marbles went into the pocket of Sammy's patched knickers.
    Then they all began to unravel their socks. I sure couldn't figure what they were up to. Whistling through a gap in his teeth, Chester wrapped the yarn around a dried-up old apple. He kept winding and winding, and after long minutes he had a ball.
    What is it about boys and balls? If there is snow or a stone or an apple and some socks, there is a ball. And if there is a ball, there is a game. I know this because of my brothers, Toddy and Jan, who turned everything round or almost round into a ball.
    One time when Mama was to be out late, she gave me ten cents to buy chopped meat so I could have dinner ready when she and Papa got home. While I was slicing bread, Toddy grabbed the meat, rolled it into a round shape, and threw it to Jan. Back and forth went the meatball until Jan made a wild throw, and it hit the ceiling and stuck.
    "Get it down," I hollered, punching Jan on his arm, "or you will be the one to tell Papa his supper is on the ceiling."
    Toddy lifted Jan, but he couldn't reach it. I lifted Jan, but he still couldn't reach. Toddy took hold of the packing crate that we used for a table and moved it over. I stood on it and lifted Jan, who was then able to scoop the meat off the ceiling. But my foot went through the crate and we tumbled to the floor, meatball rolling into a corner.
    Toddy and Jan tried to fix the crate while I dusted off the meatball and turned it into meatloaf. Papa said it was the best he ever ate.
    My remembering was interrupted by a plop on my head.
    "Sorry, Potato Nose," said Chester as he retrieved the ball. Seemed Sammy, Joe, Chester, Spud, and Mickey Dooley had started a baseball game in the aisle.
    Muffled shouts and cheers filled the car: "Yer out!"
    "Not by a mile!"
    "Slide, Kelly, slide."
    "He ain't King Kelly. I am."
    "No, me."
    "I'm Cap Anson, star of the greatest team in the league, the Chicago White Stockings," said Joe.
    "I want to be the striker," Sammy shouted.
    "You?" said Mickey Dooley. "You couldn't hit a bull's butt with a bass fiddle!"
    Sammy just laughed—Sammy, who swung at Joe every chance he got. But he didn't get mad at Mickey Dooley. No one got mad at Mickey Dooley. How could you get mad at a kid who was smiling all the time?
    Lacey stood quietly and watched them. Then she asked, "What are you doing?"
    "We're playing baseball, dummy," said Spud.
    "What's baseball?"
    "Why, only the greatest game in the world. Yer out!" he shouted at Sammy, loud enough to make Lacey jump.
    "How do you play?"
    "Git away, Cabbage Head. I got a game to play and you're in my way." Spud turned back to Sammy. "You're out, you no-good, cheatin' lowlife!"
    "Ro, you tell me. How do you play baseball?"
    Never having seen an actual baseball game, I wasn't at all sure, but I thought I could figure it out. After watching for a few minutes, I told her: "Okay, see, the thrower