by Jim Piersall
“Take it easy, Jim,” Bernie said. “There’s plenty of time.”
“I know. But I have to get things done,” I answered.
“Why?”
“I just do, that’s all.”
“So you’ll have more time to loaf?” he asked.
“No. So I can get to the next thing I have to do.”
“Relax. Nothing’s that important.”
But everything was that important. Bernie didn’t agree with me and he didn’t know what made me tick, but he did understand that I couldn’t help myself. More than once, he had to defend me when the other kids objected to the way I talked and acted.
No matter what I was doing, I couldn’t keep from yelling instructions to the other guys. During baseball games, especially, I was always shrieking at the top of my lungs, telling everyone else what to do. I not only worried about myself, but I worried about the whole team. I played center field, and I tried to run everything from out there. I yelled to the other fielders where to play opposing hitters, and I yelled to the pitcher what to throw, and I yelled to the umpire what to call. When we were at bat, I yelled to our own hitters, and when I was up myself, I yelled to the base runners, if any, or the coaches.
When I played basketball, I yelled instructions from the minute the game started until the minute it ended. In huddles, when there was time out, I was always the one who did the talking. During the football season I yelled from the sidelines. My father flatly refused to let me play football, which I loved, but I held the first-down stakes during the games, and that brought me close to the action. I yelled as much from there as I did from my positions in the other sports.
Every night I came home hoarse and exhausted. From my sophomore year in high school on, I couldn’t even unwind at night. I had to replay every move of every game, whether I had taken part in it or not. I did it over and over. It took hours for me to fall asleep, but when I succeeded, I slept soundly enough. Every morning I bounced out of bed, eager to get back on the merry-go-round. No matter how much of myself I had squeezed out one day, I always seemed to have a rich new supply to squeeze out the next.
One morning when I was about fifteen years old, I woke up with a terrific headache. It was the day after a tough basketball game which had left me in a turmoil. I had tossed and turned most of the night and had slept only a few hours. I felt as if a steel band was drawn tightly across my forehead, which throbbed with pain. I climbed out of bed and bathed my face in ice-cold water. That gave me some relief. The pains were no longer intense, and after a while they nearly subsided altogether. But every day after that I woke up with a headache, and it stayed with me in some form or other almost all the time. Sometimes the pain was acute, as it had been that first morning. Most of the time, I was aware only of a dull ache that occasionally throbbed a little.
At first I thought I had a sinus condition, but then I noticed the headaches were worse after I had been yelling a lot. I began telling myself to quiet down, and I would start a day determined to let nature take its course in the afternoon’s game, but that did no good. I had to keep taking charge of everything. The headaches persisted, and after a while I came to accept them as part of my daily existence. They annoyed me and I wished they would go away, but I didn’t do anything about them. I simply suffered them in silence, and sometimes I almost managed to ignore them.
I rarely mentioned them to anyone. But one morning I couldn’t get up, and when my dad came into my room to see what was wrong, I said, “I’ve got a sinus headache.”
“Does it bother you so much that you can’t get up?” he asked.
“It’s pretty bad, Dad.”
“O.K. Stay home from school. I’ll get you some aspirin before I leave to go to work. Better stay in bed. You’ll be all right tomorrow.”
I stayed in bed, but I wasn’t much better the next morning. I didn’t tell my father that. I managed to struggle out of bed and go to school, and he thought I had fully recovered. I didn’t dare tell him the headaches occurred so often, because I was afraid he would make me go to see a doctor. Then I might have to rest, or, at least, stay away from sports for a while, and I couldn’t stand that.
I wished I could take the games more in stride. Every game, whether it was basketball or baseball, seemed to mean everything to me. When a close decision went against us, I rushed to the official who called it and argued for long minutes with him, even though I realized as often as not that I was the one who was wrong. When we won I felt good, but I was desolate when we lost. Invariably, after a losing game, I slept worse and woke up with a more severe headache than usual.
Before each game, Bernie and I would go to church and light candles to the Blessed Mother.
“Please,” I would pray, “don’t let me argue with the officials. Please let me keep my temper. And please, please, let us win so I won’t be upset.”
In high school, I had a new idol. He was Bill Tracy, the football, baseball and basketball coach. Bill was six feet tall and a graduate of Villanova College, where he had been an all-round athlete. He was a serious man, with a slow smile, and he spoke in a gentle voice. He suffered terribly from hay fever. During the pollen season, he could hardly breathe, and I used to hold my own breath when he had a spasm and pray inwardly that he’d get some relief.
He was strict, but fair. All of the boys started from scratch with him and he made us feel that we had really earned something whenever we made one of his teams.
He knew more about me than I thought he did, as I found out when I tried to go out for football in my sophomore year. It was the first time I ever willfully disobeyed my father. I knew he didn’t want me to play because he was afraid I would get hurt badly enough to ruin my baseball career, but I loved the game and was sure that I could protect myself. I figured that if I did make the team, he’d be so proud that he’d let me play anyhow.
But Bill Tracy never gave me a chance to find out whether I could make the team or not. When he saw me among the other football candidates he pulled me aside and said, “Jim, I’m not going to give you a suit.”
“Why?” I asked, innocently.
“You know why. Your father doesn’t want you to play.”
“Let me try, Coach. I’m sure he’ll let me go through with it if I make the team.”
“No, Jim. He made a special point of talking to me about it and I promised him I wouldn’t let you play. Your father wants you to be a big-league ballplayer, and he doesn’t intend to let anything happen that might prevent it. If you ruin yourself for baseball by suffering a serious football injury, I’d never forgive myself.”
I turned away, so obviously disappointed that Bill stopped me and said, kindly, “You can hold the first-down stakes during games. You can’t get any closer than that without playing.”
I was at the football field every day, and I held the stakes at both the varsity and the junior-varsity games. The two teams were practically interchangeable, since Tracy and his assistant, “Jarp” O’Neil, worked with both. The two squads would practice together, and in the early weeks of the season, Bill would pick the varsity out of the whole group the day before the games. The junior varsity had its own schedule.
Bill’s father died, and the funeral was held on the day of a junior-varsity game. Jarp was left in charge that afternoon and I went to work on him.
“How about letting me play?” I said.
“You can’t play, Jim. You’re not allowed to.”
“Just this once, Jarp. What’s the difference? Bill won’t mind.”
“I can’t let you play,” he insisted. “What if you got hurt? I’d probably get fired and your dad would never forgive either of us.”
“Oh, Jarp, I won’t get hurt. You can use a good end, can’t you? And have you got a guy who can punt as well as I can?”
“Well—I don’t know.”
He was softening up. I knew he didn’t have a punter, and I could kick the ball well. And the junior-varsity ends were weak. I was faster and could catch passes better than an
yone on the whole squad, let alone just the J.V.’s.
“This one game?” I said, softly. “Bill’ll be back tomorrow and I’ll never get another chance. Please, Jarp?”
“Oh, all right. Only, for the love of Mike, be careful. We’ll both get murdered if anything happens to you.”
I played and had a field day. I caught half a dozen passes, did all of the kicking and either scored or made the key plays that led to all our touchdowns. The climax came in the last period, when I intercepted a pass behind our own goal line and ran 102 yards for a touchdown. We won the game, and when it was over, Jarp rushed over to me, whacked me on the back and yelled, “Jim, you were great. And you didn’t get a scratch!”
I was in a schoolboy’s seventh heaven. I had always felt that I could play football well enough to make the team, but this was the first chance I had ever had to prove it. I felt wonderful showering and dressing after the game, and I was walking on air when I left for home.
But by the time I got there, my feet were like lead. On the way I suddenly realized that it would be impossible to keep my father from knowing that I’d played. The Waterbury sports pages would carry the story of the game and so would the sports announcers on the radio. There wasn’t any question about who would get most of the credit for winning the game. If I’d had a name like Smith or Jones, I might have bluffed it through, but the only other Piersall in Waterbury was my dad. He’d know what had happened the minute he turned on the radio.
I rushed into the house, and my father was in the kitchen, getting dinner ready. I could tell by his greeting that he hadn’t heard anything yet.
“How are you, Dad?”
“Fine, son. Have a good day?”
“Fine. Say, dad—uh—before you listen to a sports program on the radio or pick up the paper, I’ve got something to tell you.”
“What?” he asked indifferently. He was leaning over the stove, stirring a stew.
“I played football today.”
His body stiffened and the spoon in his hand froze. For a few seconds he remained in the position I’d found him in, leaning over the stove. Then he straightened up, whirled around and, brandishing the spoon, roared, “You what?”
“It was only with the J.V.’s, Dad,” I said, the words tumbling on top of each other. “You can’t get hurt playing J.V. football. I never heard of anyone getting hurt in a J.V. game. And, Dad, I was the star of the game. I caught a flock of passes and I intercepted one and ran one hundred and two yards for a touchdown.”
Measuring each word, my father said, tightly, “What—was—that—Bill—Tracy—thinking—of? He gave me his word—”
“Bill Tracy wasn’t there, Dad.”
“Then who gave you permission to play?” he thundered.
“Nobody—really. It was my fault. I talked Jarp O’Neil into letting me play. He couldn’t refuse. I nagged him and nagged him. Dad, look. I’m all right. I didn’t even break a fingernail. And did you hear what I did? I ran one hundred and two yards for a touchdown.”
“You did, eh?”
“Yes, and we won the game. I won it.”
“Is that so?”
He lowered the spoon, and looked searchingly at me. Then, his voice normal, he said, “Well now, that’s fine. I’m glad you got it all out of your system. But, son, don’t you ever—do you hear me?—don’t you ever again play football. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Dad. I understand.”
Then he turned around, leaned over the stove and started stirring the stew again.
When Bernie and I first reported for varsity basketball during our sophomore year, I had little hopes of making the team. There were some good boys at Leavenworth High, and the competition for positions would be keen. Bill Tracy was not the kind of coach who made up his mind in a hurry. He wanted to see everyone in action, not once but several times, before deciding whom to put on the squad.
I was terribly anxious to make it, and actually good enough to make it, but I was utterly devoid of self-confidence. It seemed to me that a dozen guys were better than I on the basketball floor, and no matter what I did, I couldn’t make myself believe that I had a chance. The coach was completely impartial. Right up to the last minute he gave no indication of which of the sophomores would go along.
On the day before the team was to leave for Ansonia to open the season, I said to Bernie, “Well, I hope you win Saturday.”
“What do you mean, you hope we win?” he snapped. “You got other plans or something?”
“I won’t make it. I’m not good enough.”
“You’re only about as good as anyone on the club, and better than most. What’s the matter with you, Jim? Of course you’ll make it.”
I didn’t agree with him. I was so sure I wouldn’t go with the team that I didn’t even bother to tell my father when the boys were leaving. But I lay awake most of the night, worrying about my chances, and went to school the next morning with chills of anticipation running up and down my spine.
When afternoon practice was over Tracy read off the names of the guys who were going to Ansonia and I was on the list.
“All right, boys,” he announced. “I’ll see you at the station tonight. The train leaves at seven o’clock.”
That gave me a couple of hours to get home and pack before meeting the team. But I couldn’t wait two hours. I couldn’t wait ten minutes. I ran most of the way home. I had to tell my dad. He was a hot basketball fan. It was the only sport that could, in its own season, get his mind a little bit off baseball.
But the door was locked when I got home. Mom was away, and, after I tried to get in, I remembered that Dad had mentioned something about getting home late because he was hoping to finish a job that day. He might be home any minute—or he might not be home for hours.
With a deep, sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach, I made a tour of the windows. Sometimes, one would be open or, at least, unlocked, and I could get in that way. I didn’t have much hope, though, because my father was always very thorough about things like that. He checked everything before going out. He left a window unlocked if I asked him to, but only when there was no question that I would get home before he did.
First, I tried to be calm about the situation. I pulled at the door, then went to each window, trying to convince myself that one would be open. But then, when I realized that I was locked out and that precious time was being wasted, the sinking sensation exploded into panic. Frantically I rushed around and around, yanking and heaving at one window after another, tugging at the door, alternately trying one, then the other. Upset as I was, I didn’t dare break a window. That would have infuriated my father.
By now, I was conscious of nothing except the passing of the minutes and the certainty of impending disaster.
If I couldn’t get into the house, I couldn’t go to Ansonia. And if I couldn’t go to Ansonia, I couldn’t play in the game. I’d be letting the whole team down. What would the other kids say? What would Bill Tracy say? He wouldn’t stand for my missing the train. He’d fire me right off the team.
I lost track of the time while I literally ran around in circles endlessly trying door and windows as if, by force of will, I could get something to give. It was a hopeless situation. It took me a long while to realize it. When at last I did, I sat down on the stoop and wept.
I don’t know how long I sat there, crying my eyes out and wishing I were dead, but when I finally looked at my watch, it was after seven, and the train was gone. There was nothing I could do now to save the situation. As far as Leavenworth High was concerned, I was ruined. Bill Tracy was the baseball coach, too. He’d never trust me again.
After a while, still crying, I stood up, and half-blindly started down the street. My father hadn’t come home yet, so I headed for Artie Barstis’s house. He lived on East Main, on the other side of the street and about a block away from me with his brother, his sister Judy, and her husband. I had known them all my life, and the family had always been nice to me. When I walk
ed into the house, Judy was home alone, ironing.
She heard me sobbing and, turning towards me, said, “For heaven’s sake, Jim, what’s wrong?”
“I can’t get into the house,” I blubbered. “The train’s already left. What can I do? I’ll lose my job.”
“What train? What job? Now, Jim, you’re a big boy. Stop crying. Things can’t be that bad.”
“They can’t be any worse.”
She put her arms on my shoulders and pushed me over to a chair.
“All right,” she said. “Calm down, and tell me what happened.”
“I made the basketball team today,” I finally managed to say.
“Well, that’s wonderful.”
“It was wonderful. It isn’t wonderful any more. I was supposed to be at the station at seven o’clock to go to Ansonia, but I couldn’t get in the house, so I missed the train. Now I’ll lose my job. Tracy’ll never understand. He doesn’t know how things are at my house. Gee, Judy, you don’t know how hard I worked to get that job. And now I’ve lost it.”
I started to sob again.
“Don’t cry,” Judy said. “I’m sure Tracy will understand. You just tell him what happened. And if you worked that hard, you’ll get your job back. Don’t worry.”
Dad was heartbroken when he got home and found out what happened.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.
“Because I didn’t think I’d make the team.”
“Well, after this, I’ll leave the key in the shed or something. We can’t have this happen again.”
I did lose my job, but only for one game. Even then, Tracy pulled me aside and said, kindly, “Don’t worry, Jim. I understand. You’ll be back.”
From then on, I never had a problem I didn’t take to Bill Tracy. To this day, he’s my most trusted adviser and one of the closest friends I have in the world.
WHILE I CONFINED all my basketball to the school team, I played baseball wherever I could. We had a good city league in Waterbury, and I made the Franco-American team when I was sixteen years old. We won the State title the next year and played in the Eastern championships at Baltimore. I still wasn’t as big as I wanted to be, although I was learning to hit. But my batting had always been far behind my fielding. I could handle a ball that came anywhere near me, and I often made catches that seemed close to impossible. I was desperately unsure of myself in everything else I did, but I had absolute confidence in my ability to catch a fly ball, once it left a hitter’s bat. I never went after one that I wasn’t positive I was going to get, and I was surprised and unhappy if the ball fell out of my reach. My arm was getting stronger all the time, too. I could throw hard, and threw to the right base almost by instinct.
