by Bob Mitchell
Oh, breaking* the Babe’s unbreakable* thirty-four-year-old home-run record* was nice, Seth thinks, but this unheralded, unassuming defensive play might well have been Roger’s crowning baseball achievement.
Second and third, and the Jints are either one out away from losing the Series or one hit away from winning it. And, second move on the chessboard, McCovey and Cepeda are due up.
Historian Seth realizes that men were also on second and third as a result of a single and a double when Thomson stepped to the plate against Branca.
The tension is palpable and Papa Sol and his teenage son have their four eyes glued to the action and the winds are now gusting up to thirty knots, coming in from dead center, and Seth Stein is wondering why he has been brought here, to this particular game at this particular moment.
Terry rubs the ball in his hands and knows he is going to have an unwelcome visitor. Sure enough, here’s Yankees manager Ralph Houk exiting the dugout and beginning his trek to the mound to lecture his tiring pitcher.
As Houk’s head emerges, Solomon Stein puts his carpenter’s right hand on the figurative chesspiece and makes his move. He is barely ten feet away from the Yankees manager now, and his yowl sure gets the skipper’s attention.
“Hey, Ralph, remember Maz? Take the bum out!”
Seth catches on to his grandfather’s creative chess gambit: The savvy Sol is employing reverse psychology here, knowing full well that a mere two years ago, Terry, in an eerily similar situation, gave up that winning homer to Mazeroski. Sol knows how nervous Terry must be with the deciding Series game on the line once again and is counting on manager Houk to bristle at a Giants fan telling him to yank Terry out of the game and, out of stubbornness, to do exactly the opposite and leave his nervous, tiring pitcher in.
It is a managerial decision for the ages, a move that reflects the beauty and complexity of baseball strategy and decision making. Maybe Houk is thinking about Chuck Dressen’s taking Newk out for Branca in ’51, and you know what happened then. Which is exactly what does not happen now: Bill Stafford, who won the third game, and Bud Daley are warming up in the bull pen, but, egged on by Sol’s taunt, Houk has already decided to leave Terry in the game as he approaches the mound.
“All right, now listen up, you sonuvabitch,” Houk fumes. “Can you get this one friggin’ guy out? Look me in the eyes when I’m talking to you, goddammit!”
Terry obeys and stares at his manager with eyes that cannot conceal the fear.
“Yes, sir. I got this guy in my hip pocket.”
“You sonuvabitch. Now don’t you go thinking about this guy’s triple in the seventh. And don’t you go thinking about what happened a few years ago.”
Houk is using tough love and his decades of baseball experience to goad his pitcher into focusing on the present and performing at an exceedingly high level, but in point of fact Ralph Terry feels like puking right about now.
Manager pats pitcher on the tush and lumbers back to the dugout.
Back to the chessboard. In his seat, arm around his son, a self-satisfied Sol knows that his move has succeeded brilliantly and that, what’s more, now that Houk is leaving Terry in, he has undoubtedly instructed him to pitch to McCovey, because of Cepeda’s statistical edge this season (Stretch only played in ninety-one games, but no matter). Hits: 191–67, 2B: 26–6, HR: 35–20, RBI: 114–54, BA: .306–.293, HBP: 6–0. Plus, even though Terry hadn’t walked a batter, putting McCovey on would load the bases and create an intolerably precarious situation. Plus, McCovey is a rookie. But this is exactly what Papa Sol wants. He’s got the righty/lefty matchup. And in Game 2, McCovey had homered late in the game (in the seventh), hadn’t he?, off a similarly tiring Terry (just like Bobby Thomson had homered off a tiring Branca in Game 1 before the Big One two games later). And don’t forget that in this game, he’d also hit that triple in the seventh.
Solomon Stein likes the odds. And to think it was his resourceful taunt that set up this whole hopeful scenario.
“C’mon, Willie, just a little bingle, that’s all we need!” a rejuvenated Sol shouts.
“C’mon, Willie, a little bingle!” Simon Stein parrots.
The imposing six-feet-four McCovey steps up to the plate and waves his bat menacingly behind him. In his huge hands, it looks like the proverbial toothpick. He takes the first pitch for a ball. Sol and Simon and Seth Stein and the other 43,946 spectators are at the edge of their seats.
On the second offering, the rookie absolutely torches one that curves just foul down the right-field line. Hearts are in throats at the near miss, and, unnoticed, this rope of a line drive has prompted second sacker Bobby Richardson to move three baby steps to his left and toward first base.
On the third pitch, Stretch is jammed but somehow, miraculously, adjusts in mid-swing and scorches another liner that looks for all the world like it is heading over Richardson’s head and safely into right field for the game winner. But the ball is sinking with topspin, and Bobby, who had just repositioned himself, moves slightly to his left and reaching but without leaping barely nabs the shot for the final, excruciating out.
Papa Sol is aghast. His “Take the bum out!” strategy—so masterful, so well conceived—has backfired. And his Jints have let him down. And he has let his Simaroo down.
Simon, sensing his dad’s despondency even at his formative age, puts his arm around his father’s shoulder.
“It’s only a game, Pop,” Simon consoles, with wisdom beyond his years.
“It’s only a game,” Seth consoles, standing behind his Papa Sol in the living room in Berkeley as his grandfather, alone in the house this morning, reads the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle.
“Take the bum out!” a forlorn Sol whispers to himself as he looks at the photo of Bobby Richardson nabbing McCovey’s rope.
“Take the bum out!”
Papa Sol tilts his head back and looks straight up, as if his empty stare could shoot through the ceiling and the roof and go directly to the Almighty to seek comfort.
His eyes are piercing straight through Seth’s invisible eyes.
Seth sees the same odd look on Sol’s face as when he was scrutinizing the clipping in his Brooklyn basement, the article about the hundreds of fans claiming they had the “authentic” Bobby Thomson ball. A shiver of fear courses through Seth’s body.
Papa Sol’s look is searing into Seth’s brain, etching itself indelibly. It is almost too painful to return the look.
Seth closes his eyes.
Seth opens his eyes. To his left is his Martin 000-28EC, just where he had left it, resting on its little stand in his Cambridge study. Straight ahead, on the coffee table, is the scuffed baseball reposing in its custom-made, green-felt niche. The wooden box’s hinged top is open. He is slumped in his La-Z-Boy. His watch says it is 12:15 A.M.
This is getting too strange, Seth thinks, closing the top of the wooden box and reflecting on his second trip to the past.
He is thinking about how he has witnessed a second huge disappointment in the life of baseball fanatic Solomon Stein, a second scenario in which his grandfather’s high baseball hopes have tumbled down to earth. First the worthless Thomson baseball, now the Terry Fiasco. Is this turning into a dangerous pattern in Papa Sol’s secret life? Are these two baseball games he has revisited with his grandfather simply games, or mirrors of some deeper conflict in Sol’s psyche that no one ever knew about? Was Sol somehow crazy enough about the game and his team to…take his own life?
He is thinking about how this exciting game was one of the most vivid reflections of how baseball is a game of inches, about how McCovey’s drive might have sailed above Richardson’s head and into the outfield if it were just a few inches higher, or if Richardson hadn’t repositioned himself those few inches toward first base, thus making the Giants and not the hated Yanks World Champions, about how this game is such a powerful metaphor for life. He is thinking about all the near misses that have occurred not only in baseball, but in History, a
nd in his own thirty-three years, and about how much of life is out of one’s control and often depends on a lucky bounce or a chance encounter or a twist of fate.
He is thinking, too, about all the times that Papa Sol, and Seth Stein, and everyone on the face of the earth now and in History and for all time to come have ever taken three baby steps to the left—or not—and about how that has made all the difference.
An exhausted Seth considers crashing for the night, but he’s got too much work, between tinkering with the book and preparing for tomorrow’s class.
He picks up the phone, and his fingers dial a number they know by rote.
“Kate? It’s Seth. I know it’s late. I’m sorry, sweetie. But we have to talk…. How ’bout tomorrow, after squash, at-noon? Great. Love you, too.”
4
CURSE
THE FIGURE IN THE MIRROR looking outward at its source resembles an untoasted marshmallow more than it does Seth Stein.
Before he quaffs his morning joe, Seth possesses the approximate vision of a newborn sea otter. Which explains why he can’t see much of anything as he lathers up his face with shaving cream.
His implements of depilation: Merkur double-edge safety razor, Kent silver-tip badger shaving brush with white hand-turned barrel, Solomon Stein Honduran mahogany shaving bowl with sandalwood soap. All presented to him by Papa Sol on the occasion of his very first shave seventeen years ago.
His entire face south of his eyes is under lather. A horizontal wipe of the index finger across the lips creates a window in the middle of the foamy mass, not so much for aesthetic purposes as for the fact that he now has the option of breathing through his mouth if he so desires.
As he strokes his cheek with the blade, his mouth forming a capital O, the marshmallow in the mirror becomes a face, which Seth recognizes as his own—yes, those are his piercing brown eyes, and there’s the strong nose Papa Sol bequeathed to him, and the full head of jet-black hair, too. Yup, it is for certain the face of Seth Stein, Seth notes as he approaches wakefulness.
He is nearly three-quarters of the way through his shaving ritual, his vision is about 80 percent, and he is acclimating to his bathroom surroundings.
When suddenly his hand, the one holding the razor, stops dead in its tracks, halfway down his left cheek.
Seth squints, refocuses, parks his razor on the side of the sink, opens his eyes extra wide to get the clearest possible corroborating view.
His vision restored, he is staring at a wicked sunburn that begins at the top of his forehead, continues down his face and neck, and ends in a V halfway between his clavicles and his sternum. Which is odd, because it’s mid-October in Cambridge, the temps are in the forties, and the sun has been on sabbatical for weeks.
Holy kamoley.
A clean-shaven Seth is sitting alone at a table in the Algiers Coffee House, on Brattle Street, waiting to be joined by his best friend, Gordon Stewart. He slowly sips his Arabic coffee, the best you can find outside of Abu Dhabi. Ahhh.
The coffee-cum-stimulating conversation with Gordon is a lovely daily morning ritual, usually followed by a drive to the squash courts at the Murr Center on North Harvard Street on the other side of the Charles River, then a hotly contested match that often goes the full five games, and a hot shower. Today is particularly hectic for Seth: From the shower, he will have that talk with Kate, grab a quick lunch, teach his two o’clock class with the bushy-tailed freshmen, spend a couple of hours working on his book in his Robinson Hall office, have a phone chat with Sammy, pay a sweet visit to Elsie, and top it all off with a relaxing, romantic dinner and evening with Kate.
Here comes ol’ Gordon, with the usual swagger in his step. He is thirty-four, witty, ebullient, erudite, charming, African American. Husband of Kate’s best friend, Molly. Amazing athlete. Successful shrink with a booming practice.
“Buon giorno, èbete!” Gordon booms.
“Shalom! Achotcha zona!” Seth shouts.
“Mon cul, espèce de crétin!”
“Guten Morgen, Scheißkopf!”
“You are cracked!”
“Why, ibid., I’m sure!”
“Loc. cit.!”
“You should be locked up!”
“Sic passim!”
“You are one sick puppy!”
“Et al.!”
“You can call me Al!”
“Hey, Al!”
The lightning exchange epitomizes the friendship, with its Marx Brothers zaniness, Henny Youngman pacing, Jerry Lewis intonation, Monty Python erudition. When they are together, Seth and Gordon are certifiably out of their respective gourds.
Gordon purchases his cup of java, joins Seth at the table. Seeing Seth’s sunburn, he does a double take.
“So whassup, my bro?” Gordon asks his darker-skinned-than-usual friend.
“Same old. Book’s proceeding apace. Teaching’s fun. Kate’s great—”
“Hubba hubba—”
“Moron!”
“So, what do the Sox have to do to win the pennant again?” Gordon inquires, taking a first sip of his Arabic.
“Yeah, damn Yankees,” Seth says. “Well, here’s my theory. The pitching is about even, and we can’t trade for another Pedro or Clemens, because we’d have to unload damn near half the team to get them. So I say we win it with fighters. Fill our lineup with feisty, gritty, scrappy, gutsy guys. Guys who never give up. Get Bill Mueller and Johnny Damon back, trade for David Eckstein, bring Wally Backman and Pete Rose and Lenny Dykstra out of retirement, resurrect Richie Ashburn, and we’ll have Ortiz and Ramirez and seven table-setters in the lineup and hope the pitching holds up.”
“Y’know, I think you’re on to something here. Very creative. Me, I’ve always believed that old saw that good pitching will always beat good hitting. So I’d trade for Johan Santana, John Smoltz, Jake Peavy, and Mariano Rivera…and screw the lineup!”
“Great minds think differently,” Seth says between sips.
“So, anything happening outside the box?” Gordon says.
“Well, now that you ask, yeah. But you’ll never believe me.”
“Shoot.”
“Gordon?” Seth chooses his words with great care. “Lately, well, I’ve been seeing…Papa Sol.”
“How do you mean? And remember, the meter’s running.”
“Hardy-har-har. No, seriously, I saw him twice, and it was amazing.”
A hesitant Seth is torn between spilling his guts to Gordon, telling him everything just the way it happened or at least the way he thought it happened, and zipping his lip until he knows the whole story.
“I don’t know if they were dreams or not,” he fudges. “I think they were, but they seemed so goddam real.”
Gordon affects a thick, mock–Sigmund Freud accent. “Well, then, let us see. Very interesting case. You say you are dreaming you saw your Papa Sol, yes?”
“Gor-don!”
“Yes, it is obvious,” Gordon continues, his Austrian accent thickening, “that since the dream is the royal road to the unconscious, your dreams of Papa Sol are disguises for wish fulfillment, the wish to see him again, yes, and to satisfy your repressed feelings of abandonment and resentment.”
“Are you quite finished?” Seth asks.
“Not quite,” Gordon answers, thickening his accent even more. “From a Jungian perspective, I would even say that these dreams are a compensation for, a reaction to, your traumatic experience in real life, allowing you free access to the collective unconscious and its primordial archetypes, where your seeing your grandfather represents, symbolically, the archetypal motifs of the Shadow, the Persona, the Anima, the Trickster, and the Puer Aeternus, all at the same time.”
Gordon is milking it for all it’s worth but, seeing by the look on Seth’s tightened face that he has gone too far, ends his little jocular therapy session.
“I’m sorry, but your time is up,” Gordon announces lamely. “Seriously, Seth, tell me about it, really. I’m all ears.”
Seth weighs h
is options. He wants to speak candidly to Gordon, get his professional and personal take on things. But as close as Gordon is to him, how could he possibly believe what Seth is about to tell him? Believe that he actually saw Sol in the flesh as he was back then? Believe that he was there with Sol at the Polo Grounds and Candlestick? What a Freudian field day he’d have should Seth inform him about checking in on his three-year-old father. And what about the ticket stub and the mustard stain and the sunburn as prima facie evidence? Would Gordon actually believe him or call for the men in the white jackets to haul him away to the funny farm?
Seth gets a chill thinking that he is very possibly experiencing the same fear that Papa Sol must have felt, the fear that no one would believe his stories, of the Catch and the Ball and the Taunt, and would simply dismiss them as being absurd.
“Gordon, I’m telling you, it all seemed so real…,” Seth begins but can’t pull the trigger.
“I’ll bet. It’s pretty normal, actually, your wanting to reconnect with him, sort things out, come to a resolution, reconfirm your love—”
“Yeah, I guess. It was great. And I saw sides to Papa Sol I never knew about.”
“This is normal, too. You’re probably compensating for your loss of him by building him up, dimensionalizing your image of him to accentuate the positive.”
“But, Gordon, I’m not sure why I’m dreaming about him now, or why—”
“We never know why we dream what we dream or why we do it when we do it,” Gordon consoles his best friend. “Listen, kiddo, this is all perfectly normal and understandable. You’re still recovering from what happened, it seems to me, and your wounds are still healing, even after all this time. It’s just natural you’d want to be with him again, it’s as simple as that. Well, not really, but that’s the nub of it.”
“Hey, thanks for listening to all this silliness,” Seth says.
“No problemo, my bro,” Gordon says, with a wink. “Just send me a check.”
