by John Addiego
It wasn’t just his vision, his entire connection to everything had lost its edge. A Saturday night, some brew, some chicks rolling by in their daddies’ new cars, some guys trying to get a conversation going. Didn’t register. He dropped them at a drive-in and started for home, slipping the glasses on once he’d left the main drag. At a busy intersection he saw a woman on a bus going the other way, a face ghost-doubled by her reflection in the window and half obscured by the strawberry hair falling across her cheek, and for a moment he thought it was his French teacher and slipped his glasses off.
Sunday morning he consulted the paper and was amazed to see that the Giants were down by one with one left to play. How could LA keep losing? He skipped church and took the rooter bus from Richmond to Candlestick among a crowd of old people in dark glasses and hooded sweatshirts, or black windbreakers and baseball caps, near-identical men and women who passed a hat and dropped nickels on total runs, score spreads, number of home runs, number of hits, number of beanballs, maybe number of rhubarbs, who knows, all entrusted to a wiry old lady with a clipboard and coin pouch in her purse. Paulie was the only kid, and he ran to the ticket booths and managed to get into the bleachers in time to watch batting practice. McCovey slammed one off a girder supporting the scoreboard, and it ricocheted twenty feet above Paulie’s head. The voice on the PA said it was fan appreciation day, and that five people with lucky seat numbers could win a car, but this didn’t include bleacher seats.
The game progressed slowly, punctuated by blasts of maritime wind and islands of sunshine. A subtle raking slant to the light and smoky taste to the air told him that fall was truly here and ball play soon a memory. Southpaw Billy O’Dell threw for San Francisco, and not much happened at the plate for either team until Ed Bailey, a squat catcher who looked like a balding mechanic, cracked a homer near Paulie’s seat, and then, a couple of innings later, Houston hit Billy three times and tied the score, one each. By then Los Angeles had begun playing St. Louis, and the scoreboard that loomed above Paulie at an oblique angle showed the series of zeroes as the innings passed four hundred miles south.
In the bottom of the eighth Willie Mays dug his foot into the dirt and double-cocked his bat. Paulie squeezed his visor and tapped his feet together. The organist squeaked the first bar of Bye, Bye, Baby, and Mays watched the first ball go by for a strike. The song stopped, the crowd fell silent. Mays was zero for his last ten at bats. Paulie whispered, Hum, baby, twice. He added a Lord’s Prayer. Willie crucified the next pitch, and the Giants coasted to a win.
Few people left the stadium, however. Paulie and the others swiveled their upper bodies as if receiving yoga instructions en masse. The scoreboard looming over his left shoulder showed seven zeroes for Saint Louis, six for Los Angeles. In a moment another square zero appeared, and several people clapped.
Paulie dug out the transistor and stuck its nipple in his ear. Russ Hodges blabbered about the car drawing, and Paulie saw a convertible roll out onto the field, as if part of a beauty pageant. A couple of middle-aged guys with New York accents moved into a gap beside him and asked what was what on the radio. One let his hairy forearm lie against Paulie’s knee the way he might with a buddy in a dugout. Who’s up for St. Louie?
Paulie explained that Hodges was getting updates from Vince Scully in LA, but it was kind of periodic. Still scoreless in the top of the eighth. Wait. Fly to left field, caught by Davis. One out.
Jesus, the guy next to him said, does this bring back memories? He started to describe a story Paulie knew well, about the pennant playoff in which Bobby Thompson hit his home run, and though it was a familiar tale of his father’s and uncle’s Paulie hung on every word because this guy had lived in Queens when it happened and could describe the sensation in the streets. His mind felt split in two, with one ear listening to Hodges give the count in LA alongside his patter about Folger’s Coffee while the other ear took in the Polo Grounds and a street in New York in 1951.
An attractive woman stepped onto the field to claim her car, and the crowd cheered. Although her hair was dark, there was something in her manner of walking which made Paulie think of Mrs. Rinaldi, and he pictured her pursed lips as she leaned over him after school. Je n’ai pas ta plume, je suis dans mon lit. I don’t have your pen, I’m in bed. He wondered if she shared a bed with her wizened little husband and hoped that, like Lucy and Ricky on TV, she had her own.
Hodges was talking with Bill King about basketball when he fairly yelped, What? He did what? Just a minute, let’s get that for sure . . .
Something happened, Paulie said. Several people leaned near him now. He leaped to his feet: Gene Oliver hit a homer for the Cards! The guys from New York stood next to him, and the man with the hairy arms squeezed his shoulders as they both hopped up and down, making the plank of the bleachers flex.
There were pockets of applause, scattered sections of the stadium rumbling like the first waves of an earthquake as it might ripple through the concrete structure. The woman on the field turned to wave, and Paulie thought it might be her narrow shoulders and long neck which made him think of his teacher. Then, as the deep, sonorous voice on the PA spread the news, the entire ballpark shook and roared. Some of the Giants jumped onto the field and danced around, and the woman joined in, spinning with Juan Maricial until her dress opened like a flower.
An hour later Paulie was on the rooter bus as it rocked above the downtown on its approach to the Bay Bridge. Windows of the skyscrapers were orange with the approach of evening. Half of the passengers were sauced, and the old lady with the clipboard staggered up the aisle as she handed around fistfuls of coins to the people on her list. Sirens and horns and fire bells sounded all over the city. People waved from their cars, threw cups and scraps of newspaper out their windows. The old guy beside him opened a bottle of Hamm’s, and some of it misted Paulie’s glasses while more of it lapped onto the man’s trousers. Paulie closed his eyes as the bus entered the understory of the bridge.
Since the pennant playoff games were televised in the evenings, he didn’t skip French. Mrs. Rinaldi made him sit in the front, and he could smell her perfume and chalk dust. It made an ecclesiastical mixture, a memory of limestone, rosewater, and incense. In nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti, amen. Je n’ai pas ta plume, je suis dans mon lit.
His entire family sat before the black-and-white TV eating meatloaf and watched the Giants clobber LA eight to nothing in the first game. His brother Angie taunted the Dodgers’ hitters between pitches: Hey batta, hey batta, hey batta, SWING batta!
The next evening started out the same, to the point of boring his sisters and parents, and Paulie couldn’t believe how those poor bastard Dodgers were crumbling. He’d seen them beat San Francisco more often than lose to them, and usually by the craft of Sandy Koufax or Don Drysdale, who would shut them out, or little Maury Wills, who would bunt or walk or beg his way to first base, steal second, and score on either a hit-and-run, sacrifice fly, or weakly slapped base hit. None of the Dodgers seemed to know how to swing a bat, in Paulie’s estimation, but they could make contact and move runners home. He heard Russ Hodges say that they were now scoreless in the last thirty-five innings! Poor luckless bastards. He went to the kitchen and fixed a salami sandwich.
The briefest tremor of pity for Los Angeles, for its millions of hapless fans, swept through him as he sliced the greasy meat. When he came back his little sisters were watching a cartoon. Paulie almost turned the channel back, but his mother told him it was their turn. It only took two games to win that rarest of baseball events, a pennant playoff, and the Giants were ahead 5-0 in the sixth inning of the second game. He finished his sandwich, got out his transistor radio, and opened his French text to an assignment due the next day.
The Dodgers had just scored seven runs.
Paulie told his father, and they commandeered the TV. He got the mitt and cap and began his rituals, but LA won it, 8–7.
One more game.
The next day American spy pl
anes obtained photos from above the island of Cuba. The handsome young Catholic president met in secret with his military advisers, grim men with black eyebrows and silver crew cuts. A bald, gap-toothed Russian peasant and a tall Caribbean ballplayer with a bushy beard were the subject of their secret meeting. As they met, the Giants waited in a motel for evening to come to Chavez Ravine.
The shades were drawn, and the men stationed themselves before the TV. Some smoked cigars, and at least one sipped whiskey. The women and children stayed out of the living room except to make brief forays into the smoke to learn the score. Joe Verbicaro passed chips to his brother, who dropped them in front of Pete Rinaldi, the Realtor. Joe’s nephew Gino picked them up and passed them to Paulie, who balanced the bowl on his mitt. Pete cleared his throat: What’s the score?
Get your head out of your ass, Ludovico told him. Don’t know the score.
The others laughed, including Pete. It’s two-zip, Joe said. Don’t listen to him, Pete.
Who’s ahead?
Christ sake, he don’t even know who’s ahead? This is historical, baboso. Pay attention.
We’re ahead, Paulie said. In the distorted, smoky black-and-white picture the Dodgers looked inadequate beside the Giants, they looked soft and oafish. As if the smog and heat of Los Angeles, the false dreams and sexual warmth of Disneyland and Hollywood, sapped a man’s strength and left him unfocused, uncoordinated. Their fans were the same, they always had some guy with a bugle and a casual bunch of sleeveless, suntanned people yelling Charge and laughing right afterward, even as they were losing. Weak. Paulie tapped his glove.
Who’s that? The guy warming up?
Don’t tell him, Lu said. Joe. He’s gotta learn to open his eyes and ears.
Hey, my wife’s on it. Don’t blame me, my wife won’t let me watch. He winked at Joe.
No excuse, Lu said.
Tommy Davis hit a two-run homer, and the men cursed and tossed pillows on the floor. For the next half hour the living room was quiet, save for a few whistles from Pete and curses from Lu and Joe. At the end of the eighth the Dodgers led by two.
What happens if we lose?
That’s all she wrote, Joe answered.
They don’t play again tomorrow?
We lose, there ain’t no tomorrow, capice? Lu said.
Pete slopped whiskey onto his hand as he poured. That’s a shame.
No shit, Joe said. Excuse my French.
Paulie closed his eyes and prayed silently. He was like a man whose girlfriend has just met a handsome millionaire who speaks five languages and drives an Aston Martin. He’d given his heart, and he wouldn’t let go now.
In the top of the ninth Matty Alou led off with a single, and the men’s yelling brought the entire family into the room. However, the next batter nearly hit into a double play. Lu and Joe cursed the batter and the manager, Alvin Dark.
What’s the score?
Pete, shut up! Paulie’s mother said. It’s four to two, them, one out, last inning. Even Mickey and Janine know this.
Mickey had Down syndrome, and Janine was four years old.
He’s drunk, Lu said. Why’d you invite him?
Paulie and his father exchanged looks. Gino laughed. Gino’s mother, Paulie’s Aunt Min, who clung to her son’s arm as if she were watching a horror movie, suddenly laughed as well. They knew that Lu, not Joe, had invited Pete. Grouchy Lu was always inviting Pete, maybe just so he could complain. Joe barely knew the guy.
What thinks you make I’m drunk? Angie slurred his speech and staggered around the living room, making his mother and little sisters laugh.
McCovey came up to pinch hit, a towering man with a huge swing, and the Dodgers pitcher played cat-and-mouse with him on the edges of the plate until he walked him. The next man walked as well. This put Mays up with the bases loaded. I wouldn’t want to be that chucker, Joe said. Not for a million bucks.
Pitcher always has the advantage, Lu said. Always. He was rocking on the couch like a heroin addict. Paulie was silently chanting the Lord’s Prayer. Chavez Ravine was quiet.
Who’s the colored up to bat?
Joe and Lu each grabbed an arm and a leg, and they carried little Pete Rinaldi out of the living room. Gino opened the sliding glass door, and the men dropped Pete in a chaise in the backyard and hurried back inside. What the hell, Pete said before Gino turned the latch.
Mays lashed the ball off the pitcher’s glove, and a run scored. It was ruled a hit, and Paulie thought the pitcher was lucky to deflect it, lucky to be alive. When the family stopped whooping Paulie could hear the O’Malleys cheering next door. Orlando up next, down by one. Pete rattled the sliding door, then flopped back onto the chaise. Leave him there, Lu said to Gino. He’s all right.
The Dodgers manager and catcher were on the mound. A new pitcher was called in. Paulie’s younger siblings were drumming their hands on the floor, led by Angie’s chant of Hey pitcha, hey pitcha, hey pitcha, and his older sister, the sophisticated college student, sat in a lotus position against his leg, pretending to meditate. It took years before Cepeda stepped up. He hit it deep to right, and the tying run scored on a tag-up. The entire family danced around the room, Paulie swinging his older sister, Penny, jitterbug style. Pete knocked on the glass and fell back into the chaise. The doorbell rang.
Paulie’s sister Mickey let her in. The collar of her trench coat was raised, and her hair was hidden under a scarf. We kicked him out to the back, Lu told her, and she laughed. Paulie felt unmoored by the sight of her in his house, by the realization that his uncle knew her, had probably sat at a card table with her. He waved.
A wild pitch sent Mays to second. Paulie tried to contain his excitement. She was standing behind him while he sat with the cap and glove on like a little boy, a kid in thick glasses, maybe a little developmentally delayed like his sister Mickey. Bonsoir, Paul, she murmured, and he said, Hi, without turning.
Is your team winning the match?
We’re tied. He wanted her to stop talking to him.
She stepped out back and lit a cigarette. Pete lay in the chaise, his mouth open.
They gave Bailey an intentional pass to load the bases. Tied game, two outs, bags full, last inning, and sober-faced Jim Davenport, the Gold Glove winner, the technician at third, stepped up. He watched the first pitch. He watched another. The third missed the corner. Son of a bitch, Lu said, he can’t find the plate! Hey pitcha, Angie said, yer mudder wears army boots. The reliever for the best pitching staff in the game rocked back and threw it in the dirt, bringing in the go-ahead run.
For a moment the family was too stunned to cheer. Then Mickey yelled, Home run, and they all started laughing and whooping. Chavez Ravine was quiet as Alston brought in another pitcher. Mrs. Rinaldi sat on the edge of the chaise, smoking, while her husband slept. Her raised knees were pressed together, white in the scant light. The cigarette glowed near her frowning lips. Paulie watched her get up and stub it on the patio. On an error, San Francisco scored again before the last out. Six to four. Mrs. Rinaldi walked off into the dark.
When the Dodgers came up, their fans barely cheered. They were in shock, and their players looked the same. Wills stood at the plate looking lost, a space alien trapped on Earth under a thousand lights. Hey, batta, Angie said, yer sista’s got a mustache. Junior Gilliam looked like he’d never seen a bat and couldn’t decide where to hold it. Their last man, a pinch hitter, popped it to Mays. Willie caught it and threw it into the grandstands in one fluid motion before he leaped for joy.
Paulie spun with his sisters like a square dancer and stepped out to the front porch. He yelped at the harvest moon just rising over the Oakland Hills. He threw his hat and glove in the air, and the mitt landed on the roof. She stood with her arms out, maybe open for a hug, alone on the walkway, so he hugged her. He lifted her in the air, spun her around twice. She gasped and clung to his shoulders, the nape of his neck as she came down to earth, and they nearly toppled against the house. She still hung on a moment, in the
darkness near the hedge, her ecclesiastical scent, her long, cool fingers moving from his nape to his scalp, her lips touching his cheek, then his mouth, a smoky, fruited taste of wine and ashes.
Every time his mind was consumed by the sensation of kissing her the Giants lost some ground against New York in the World Series. Their kissing was not so much a sin as a jinx, just as his leaving the mitt off and making a salami sandwich had been, an act which disturbed God’s will or the team’s momentum. He avoided her eyes in class and skipped a few more times for series games. They went seven against the Yankees, broken by a few days when the heavens dumped the worst storm in thirty years on San Francisco, turning some streets in the East Bay to knee-high creeks. They took Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford, Yogi Berra and Roger Maris, the most winning team in the game, to the last inning when, down one to nothing with two outs, Matty Alou once again started a rally with a hit. Paulie stood before the plate glass of an appliance store in Berkeley with a group of older men, most of them winos he’d been meeting there on the days he skipped. His mitt was on one hand, transistor radio wire and thick glasses frames under his cap. The window set was always on, as was a wall of tubes deep inside where the salesmen in neckties gathered and smoked. Paulie saw himself in the glass and wondered what Mrs. Rinaldi would think of him here, cutting class and leaning shoulder to shoulder among old guys in similar caps who stank of piss. He felt her lips, remembered her smell. The next two men struck out.
The men on the sidewalk moaned, hugged their arms, cursed. Paulie had a brief insight about these men, that their hearts were big and broken easily, that they’d given their hearts to something or somebody and lost before. Willie Mays was up, and Paulie and the man next to him started praying out loud. Mays hit a double down the right field line, but Alou couldn’t get past third. McCovey stepped up.
The wino beside him hugged his arm. Paulie watched Willie Mack hit the first pitch over the fence, making the men scream, but he knew it was foul. He labored to keep his thoughts pure, his mind with Willie Mack. He tapped the glove and said, Hum, baby. On the last pitch McCovey cracked a rifle shot into the outstretched glove of Bobby Richardson at second. A few inches south would have won the series. A small shift in the cosmos, in the Earth’s rotation, in the place where ball and bat meet, and we’d have won. One hundred seventy-two games decided by three inches, or by Paulie’s lust for his teacher.
