Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
December 5, 1959, turned out to be the worst day of my life.
I was twenty, a sophomore at Brooklyn College. My dream was to one day become a doctor, so I concentrated on being a good student. But I was also a rebel, and my dad was a prime target. Those boyhood years when my dad and I shared a passion for baseball and the Brooklyn Dodgers were gone. Lately, there was more tension between us than love.
That afternoon the fight was knocked out of me. I came home after a swim meet, tired and hungry. Mom met me at the door, looking worried.
“Stevie, your father’s home,” Mom said. “He’s not feeling well. I’m calling his doctor. Go to him.”
If Dad was home in the afternoon, he was really sick. I flew up the stairs. My heart raced as if I was still in the final lap of my last race. When I reached the landing, I was greeted by an eerie silence. It reminded me of a snowstorm that once shut Brooklyn down when I was younger.
I peeked into my parents’ bedroom. My dad was propped up against several pillows, struggling to breathe. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open. “Dad,” I called out as I rushed to him. I leaned in and shook his shoulders. “Dad?” He sucked in air without speaking. I turned and ran back down the stairs. “Getting an ambulance,” I managed as I passed my mother on the steps.
Outside, I felt a burst of cold air on my flushed cheeks. I ran as fast as I could. The fire station on Utica Avenue was only three blocks away. There was always an ambulance parked in front. I reached the open garage. When I saw it was empty, I burst into tears. A fireman came to my rescue. “What’s wrong, son?” he asked.
“My dad’s in trouble,” I gasped between sobs. “We need an ambulance quick!”
“Okay, calm down and tell me what happened,” the fireman said.
“He’s having trouble breathing. I think it’s his heart,” I explained.
“Here, write down your name and address,” he said, slapping a pad of paper in front of me. “I’ll send an ambulance to your house as quickly as possible. Don’t panic. You did the right thing for your dad. Now go home and stay there until help arrives.”
The restaurants I passed on my way home told a story. A kosher deli, a bagel shop, a Chinese takeout, and a Caribbean restaurant stood side by side. On the opposite side of the street, there was pizza and soul food. Over the years, our mostly Jewish neighborhood had become a community more reflective of the diversity of Brooklyn. “Change is inevitable,” Dad would say.
He had spent most of my childhood managing Markell’s Shoe Store on Fifth Avenue and 48th Street in Manhattan. Now he made custom shoes for everyone. “When all people, regardless of race or religion, are welcomed in all parts of New York City, from Brooklyn to Manhattan, then we’ll defeat discrimination,” he’d say at his new shop on Seventh Avenue and 28th Street.
I raced back toward our house. But I was too late.
We buried Dad a couple of days later.
We sat shivah, the Jewish tradition of mourning. All of the mirrors in the house were covered up, and we used boxes to sit on instead of our couches and chairs. Friends and family came over to join us, but I ran away from the talk of Dad in the past tense. I was angry and needed to be alone. I was in no mood to entertain friends. Nothing would bring Dad back. We’d never again press our heads against the transistor radio or watch the news on the black-and-white television in the living room. We’d never work on a car engine or build and fly model airplanes. So what was the point?
I was lying across my bed, thinking of Dad, when my mom walked in with a cardboard box.
“I found this in your father’s closet,” she said, dropping the box by my bed.
“What is it?” I asked as I lifted up on my right elbow.
“Not sure,” Mom replied. “It has your name on it.”
I slipped off the bed and settled on the floor beside the box. I lifted the lid and pulled out an envelope addressed to me. It was in my dad’s handwriting.
“Oh,” Mom said, seeing the note. “Do you want to be alone?”
I shrugged. “I guess.”
Mom stood up and slid her fingers through my hair before she left.
The letter was dated December 28, 1957. Two years ago, sometime after we learned that the Brooklyn Dodgers were moving to Los Angeles. It was a particularly rough time for me and Dad.
Steve,
Sorry for the harsh words last night. I woke up this morning wishing we could end each battle with a hug. But we’re both stubborn and saying “I love you” no longer comes easily. Instead, I preach and punish when I should be telling you how proud you make me. I complain because your bedroom is a mess. Truth is, my own father died when I was young and unprepared. So just in case history strikes twice, I’m trying to prepare you to be a man while you’re still young enough to learn.
When I saw you put aside your boyhood treasures, I collected them in this box, knowing that someday you’d find the joy in their reflected memories. Steve, the past often serves as a guide for the future. This box contains some of those clues. I pray you always know how deeply you were loved.
Dad
The note slipped out of my hands and dropped to the floor. I thought of my dad and I sobbed. I remembered him telling me that life wouldn’t always give me the answers I wanted. “The storm will pass,” he’d said. “Stick close to family, faith, and friendship. They’ll help get you through the worst of times, son.”
I pushed up on my knees and began to rifle through the box. As I reached inside, the first thing my fingers hit was a ticket stub from the Brooklyn Dodgers 1948 home opener. I stared at the faded paper ticket and thought of how excited I’d been that day. I remembered everything. It made me smile for the first time since Dad died.
The year was 1948. At eight years old, I lived for baseball. The Brooklyn Dodgers was our team. In six weeks, the Dodgers would be back at Ebbets Field. Maybe this is the year, I thought as I leapt from the third stair to the landing of our foyer, that Dad will surprise me with opening day tickets.
“Good morning, son,” Dad greeted me when I walked into the kitchen and slid into my chair.
Mom leaned over and planted a kiss on my forehead. “Good morning.”
“I’ve got good news,” Dad said, beaming from behind the Brooklyn Eagle newspaper.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Major League Baseball players have reported to spring training,” he reported.
“Yippee!” I shouted. “Where are the Dodgers?”
“They’re in the Dominican Republic, and Leo Durocher is back as their manager.”
“Is that good news? Didn’t he get fired?” I remembered something about the Dodgers getting rid of Durocher the year before, though I wasn’t sure. I tried to memorize the name of every player and coach on the team, but it wasn’t always easy to keep them straight.
Dad chuckled. “Durocher’s a good manager whose personal life gets in the way of his success. He was suspended for that last season, but he’s served his time and now he gets to come back. Let’s hope he learned his lesson,” he said.
Even without Leo Durocher as their manager, the Dodgers made it all the way to the World Series last season. It was so exciting until they lost to the Yankees in the seventh
game. The whole neighborhood still talked about it. Now a new season was about to start. Could they make it back to the championship?
“How come the Dodgers chose the Dominican Republic for spring training?” I asked.
“The weather’s good and the cost of living is low. Besides, Branch Rickey figured the Caribbean would be open to a team with black and white players. But this will be the last year for that. By next year, the Dodgers will have their own training facility in Vero Beach, Florida.”
Branch Rickey was a name I knew for sure. Mr. Rickey was the general manager of the Dodgers. He had signed Jackie Robinson last year. It was the first time an African American player had joined a Major League Baseball team. Jackie was a big part of why the Dodgers had won the National League pennant last season.
Dad folded the paper and set it down next to his plate to continue. “According to the Eagle, Mr. Rickey is a smart man and his plan is working,” he began. “Dodgers fans are showing up in droves to get a good look at Jackie. And in the Dominican Republic, Jackie can stay at the same hotel as his white teammates. Progress, son. We’re making progress.”
I poured milk into my bowl of cornflakes and spooned Nestlé’s Quik into my glass of milk. Before diving in, I looked over at my dad. “Does progress mean that when the Dodgers come home, Jackie will be able to stay in the same hotels as the other Dodgers, like Pee Wee, Gil, Carl, and Ralph Branca?”
“Afraid not, Steve,” Dad replied. “There are still laws in the South that keep blacks and whites separated in all public places. We still have a way to go before those laws are broken down. It’s not just the South with their Jim Crow laws. There will be hotels in the North and Midwest that will try to keep Jackie out. But the Dodgers will figure a way to keep the team together whenever they can.”
Dad paused a moment, then continued. “There’s more news that’s not so good. Pete Reiser, the Dodgers star outfielder, injured his ankle. After years of serious injuries, they’re saying his career is over. Mr. Rickey offered Pete this year off with pay so he could recover, but he refused.”
“Pete should listen to Mr. Rickey,” I said. “Right, Dad?”
“Maybe, son. Pete’s career is on the fence. We’ll have to see. Jackie Robinson has some issues, too.”
I almost knocked over my chocolate milk. “Jackie?”
“That’s right. Even though he won the Rookie of the Year award last season, he showed up at spring training twenty-five pounds overweight this year.”
“So he’s on a diet?”
“He’ll lose weight fast. Durocher’s so mad that he called Jackie an old lady. He’ll make him run hard and sweat away pounds so fast, Jackie won’t need a diet.” Dad chuckled.
Poor Jackie, I thought. Daniel, one of my friends, was overweight. Boy, did the kids tease him! I’ll never forget the day he ran crying out of school before the last bell. The next day, the principal punished the kids who’d teased Daniel, but I knew it had hurt his feelings.
“But what will happen if Jackie doesn’t lose the weight?”
Dad made a mighty grim face. “He’ll be fired,” he replied.
Fire Jackie! I thought. Could that really happen?
After breakfast, I met up with my best friend, Sena, so we could walk the two blocks to P.S. 244, our elementary school.
“The Dodgers started spring training in the Dominican Republic,” I announced as soon as our footsteps were in sync.
“That’s weird,” she replied. “How come they’re not in Florida like the Yankees?”
“Because their training facility in Florida isn’t finished yet,” I explained. Sena was the only kid I knew from Brooklyn who preferred the New York Yankees over the Dodgers. “I’m a little worried about Jackie and Pete Reiser,” I added.
“How come?” Sena asked.
“Jackie’s overweight, and Pete’s injured,” I replied.
“They sure better get in shape fast if they have any hopes of beating the Yankees! You know what happened in the World Series last year . . .” Sena declared.
I shot Sena a look. “This year isn’t last year. You just wait and see.”
“Hey, let’s do something fun after school,” she said.
“Stickball?” I offered.
“Too cold,” Sena replied. “Can you come over to my house and play Scrabble? Mom will make us egg creams. Please?”
“With Fox’s U-bet syrup?”
Sena nodded.
“My favorite! I’ll check with my mother,” I said, my mouth already tasting the mix of chocolate syrup, cream, and soda water.
“You aren’t in trouble again, are you?” Sena asked.
“Not exactly, but Miss Maliken sent home another note.”
“Let me guess. Missing homework?”
“You got it,” I replied. “Luckily, that’s all she wrote on the note.”
“Is there more?”
“I got in some trouble last week.”
“What happened?”
“Not much . . .” I said with a chuckle. “I sat in the last row in music class. The violin section was on break and I was bored. I could tell Josh was, too, so I decided to spice things up. I pulled the cord from the window shade behind Josh and tied it to his pants. When the bell rang, Josh hopped up without realizing he was attached to the cord. His pants ripped open and the whole class saw his underwear. It was hilarious until the window shade began to tear right up the middle.”
“Stephen!” Sena shouted.
“Josh turned all red and started screaming at me,” I went on. “Kids circled all around us, laughing, while Josh struggled to untie the cord.”
“Does this story have a funny ending or a bad one?” Sena asked.
“It’s not over,” I replied. “The music teacher rushed to the back of the room just as Josh was ready to sock me one. He stepped between us and sent Josh to the principal’s office so he could call his mother and get a new pair of pants. I got sent to Miss Maliken. She kept me after school, made me wash blackboards in six classrooms, and gave me a final warning. She was even threatening to go to my house and talk to my parents.”
Sena’s eyes were wide open. “This could have a very bad ending.” Sena groaned. “Two days ago, Robin and I got into a hair-pulling fight on the playground. I think Miss Maliken has had it with me, too.”
“Think she’ll really go to my house?”
“She might,” Sena said.
“Yikes! Bad timing,” I told her.
“Because?”
“Baseball season, silly. I’m hoping to go to the Dodgers opener,” I replied.
“Then why don’t you start doing your homework?” Sena asked.
“I will, and I’ll even hand it in on time,” I added as we signed off with a pinkie shake and headed to our classrooms.
But the very next day, I got caught playing stickball in the hallway on the third floor. My fate was sealed. Terrified, I waited outside my classroom for Sena. “I’ve got to talk to you,” I told her as soon as she stepped out the door.
“Geez, Steve. What’s the emergency?”
“Follow me,” I insisted. We crept away from the rest of the students. “I overheard Miss Maliken tell the principal that she was going to make a home visit.”
“Today? To your house?” asked Sena.
“I think so,” I replied.
“Maybe we can talk her out of it?”
“How?”
“I’m not sure. But let’s wait outside and see what direction Miss Maliken heads when she comes out of the building,” Sena said.
“Then what?” I asked.
“If it looks like she’s headed toward your house, we stop her.”
“I don’t think we can convince her not to visit my house.”
“You could tell Miss Maliken that your mother is home sick and wouldn’t want any company,” Sena suggested.
“That’s a lie,” I said flatly.
“We’ll think of something. Just follow my lead,” Sena said, yanking my shirt
by the collar and pulling me with her.
Scared, we huddled in the shadows of the school building. When our teacher reached the sidewalk, we sprang into action.
“Miss Maliken,” I shouted.
“Hey, Miss Maliken,” Sena called out.
My teacher stopped a few feet away from us. She was a petite woman, not much taller than Sena and me, but I was intimidated as we approached her. I looked over at Sena for strength. I was surprised to see Sena’s hand reaching toward Miss Maliken, but I followed her lead. Together we pushed Miss Maliken, then watched in shock as she toppled over the hedge. The air filled with her screams. I reached over the hedge to help her up but was pushed aside by a dozen mothers and grandmothers who’d come to her aid. Women scrambled to help her. I lost track of Sena while being dragged home by a pack of irate women and my red-faced teacher.
My punishment was swift and harsh. With a ten-day suspension from school and a long list of restrictions at home, I’d ruined my chances of going to the Dodgers opening day.
I knew that pushing my teacher was wrong. And boy, did I pay for it. Ten days of doing extra chores around the house—washing all the dishes and taking out the garbage. Keeping my room clean. I had to make my bed every morning while I was out of school.
The worst part was that I couldn’t listen to the radio or ask my dad about how the Dodgers were doing in spring training. It was so boring. I needed to be on my best behavior to have the punishment lifted, so I didn’t bother him. I spent most of the time catching up on my missing homework. But I had so many questions. Were they winning? Was Jackie losing the weight? This was torture!
Ten long days later, Dad brought me into the living room.
“Miss Maliken called,” he said. “She received your letter of apology and your schoolwork. Your school suspension has been lifted.”
“Does that mean I go back to my class in the morning?” I asked. Ten days away from my friends had me missing everything about school.
“They’re ready for you, Stephen. The question is . . . are you ready to go back to them?”
“I’ve learned my lesson,” I said.
The Hero Two Doors Down Page 1
