On this day Don Newcombe and the Dodgers beat their nemesis, Sal Maglie. The game winner is a three run homer by Gil Hodges in the bottom of the seventh. As the ball disappears over the Brass Rail sign in left field, the people behind me begin showering the lower grandstand with confetti. All around us, we see grown men and women jumping up and down on their seats and hugging one another. I’m happy too; it’s another win for the underdogs. Maybe this’ll be their year.
When the game is over, the euphoric crowd refuses to leave until the team emerges from the dugout to wave their hats at us. Later, we linger at the third base exit outside the park and watch as the younger kids spot the players. A little blond boy in an oversized Dodger hat yells “Hey, there’s Pee Wee and Robbie,” and they all mill around their heroes—thrusting scuffed baseballs, Topps bubble gum cards, and black vinyl autograph books at them. Some players, dressed neatly in cubaveras and slacks, impatiently sign for a few minutes. Then they duck into touring cars or taxis taking them, I imagine, to exotic Manhattan destinations.
I feel an odd mix of envy and awe. A piece of me knows that I could never even hope to be like one of those players. Yet, I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to receive that kind of attention and adulation.
During the hot, crowded subway and bus rides home, we keep the afterglow alive by replaying the day’s highlights to one another—complete with simulated crowd noises and sound effects. Heshy imitates Red Barber saying “Hodges has just parked one in the left field seats, and that’s all she wrote for Maglie.”
Fellow strap hangers applaud. Others look at us like we’re crazy. I don’t care: just knowing I have a Dodger/Giant ticket stub in my pocket makes me glow inside. For the rest of the ride home, I daydream that I’m part of an elite, secret society—a fraternity of select fans, all of us chosen in recognition of our vast knowledge and appreciation for this game.
3
Being a Dodger fan was a fortunate match, but it didn’t satisfy my deepest longings. I desperately wanted to play in the schoolyard choose-up games. After two years of being a spectator, I felt left out, excluded. It was becoming too excruciating to sit in the cheering section behind Elaine Hirsch, Alice Rosen, and the other popular girls. Even if I failed, I had to try and make myself into a ball player. If my father and his middle-aged teammates could do it, then why couldn’t I?
I started by asking my father to teach me how to bat, field, and throw. He was only too happy to oblige. Whenever he was home, that is. On those nights, we’d go out in the backyard after dinner and he’d throw me ground balls and pop flies until the sun set behind the Union Carbide gas tank and it got too dark to see. Once in a while we’d drive to the batting range to work on my hitting. Other nights, I’d play punch ball with my Ebbets sidekicks, Heshy, Kenny, and Billy—none of whom were very good athletes. Sometimes, I’d go over to the schoolyard and watch the junior high school guys play softball. Just like I did at Ebbets Field, I studied the best players—analyzing their hitting mechanics and watching the ways they positioned themselves in the field.
I also honed my skills by teaching my kid brother how to play. Alan had just turned six when I started showing him how to bat and throw. He took to it so quickly that we were soon playing our own invented version of “stoop baseball.”
On Saturday evenings, we’d huddle around the radio and listen to Today’s Baseball, with Ward Guest, Marty Glickman and Bert Lee Jr. These dinnertime broadcasts were recreations of a selected afternoon Giant, Yankee, or Dodger home game—complete with simulated crowd noises and the crack of the bat meeting the ball. When the program ended, Alan and 1 would put on our hand lettered Dodger uniforms and our black Converse high tops, and we’d head out in the street to play “Dodger stoop baseball.” To begin, we’d each take turns imitating Red Barber’s southern drawl. When I’d shout out, “And the Dodgers take the field,” Alan would hum the organ strains and mimic the crowd’s roar, as we both ran out into the street to take our positions.
While the imagined TV cameras panned the field, we’d impersonate the entire starting team. First, the infielders, Hodges, Robinson, Reese, and Cox, then the outfielders, Pafko (or Shuba), Snider, and Furillo. And when Alan crouched down in imitation of Campy, I’d mimic the bearlike roundhouse pitching motion of Don Newcombe taking his warm-up tosses.
Right in the middle of the street, we’d remove our caps and place them over our hearts. I remember that Alan’s sandy crew cut stood straight up like porcupine quills whenever we’d bow our heads and begin to lip-sync the National Anthem. Then the “game” would begin.
Alan would whip a pink “Spauldeen” high bouncer against the front stoop. Whenever the ball hit the point of the step, it would spring off the wood and skip into the road, where I’d scoop it up and casually toss it back to my brother.
“And that retires the side,” I’d report in my announcer’s mode. “Whitey Lockman’s out of there, Reese to Hodges. Easy out,” I’d say. “Six to three if you’re scoring at home.”
At the end of each half inning, we’d record the put-outs in one of the Ebbets Field score cards that I’d picked up in the aisles.
By design we could produce line drive outs, pop ups, bunts, and long fly balls. We set boundaries for base hits: a single had to reach the other side of the road, a double had to land on Gail Sloane’s lawn, a triple would have to hit Sloane’s house above the second floor bedroom window, and a home run would have to clear either Sloane’s or Frieda Bergman’s rooftop on a fly.
The simulated game would continue until the streetlights flickered on and twilight obscured the flight of the ball. By then, the heat and humidity of the day had yielded to evening’s cool ripeness. As neighbors kibitzed out on their front steps, and kids flipped baseball cards against the stoops, Alan and I would trot off the “field” into our imagined dugout.
I loved playing that street game. But beyond that, it helped sharpen my fielding skills, and it offered me a chance to think strategically under game conditions. What’s more, it gave me some confidence and hope.
My only friends in sixth grade were Peter Desimone and Mike Rubin, an oddly matched pair of outsiders. Peter was the Italian bakery owner’s son. Lanky and angular, he was unathletic and wholly indifferent to what the popular crowd thought of him. In fact, Peter deliberately went out of his way to provoke them. Each day he wore what he called his “bohemian threads”—black turtle neck shirts, a chic beret, and snakeskin leather boots. Some of the nastier guys in the clique called him a “fag” behind his back. But he ignored their taunts.
I admired Peter’s independence, as well as his unconventional tastes. While I was still reading the Hardy Boys and Chip Hilton books, he could already talk intelligently about The Great Gatsby and Of Human Bondage. He was also the only boy my age who was interested in jazz. Late at night, Peter listened to Al “Jazzbo” Collins, Long John Nebel, and Jean Shepard, the WOR hipsters whose shows came on after midnight.
Peter was an authentic jazz buff, an aficionado like Hymie. On rainy days we’d lie up in his room and listen to old Lester Young and Charlie Parker records, while Peter would tell me apocryphal stories about the musicians and point out subtle shadings in the music.
His worldliness fascinated me. Instead of the usual pictures of movie stars and cars, Peter’s bedroom walls were decorated with neatly arranged posters from Broadway musicals, opera, and ballet. Monet and Picasso prints hung side by side above his bed, along with framed color photos of exotic European locales like the Riviera and the Greek Islands. Peter acted as if he inhabited a larger, more cosmopolitan realm. Even as a sixth grader, he’d transcended, at least psychologically, the small-time schoolyard hierarchy.
Mike Rubin, my other friend, was short and chubby—like me. The popular crowd shunned Mike because he tried too hard to impress them—always telling lame jokes and boasting about where he could get cut-rate cigarettes for everyone.
Two jock wannabes, we became known as the “twin Mikes.” After
school we’d play fierce, competitive stickball matches in his sloped driveway. I had to teach myself how to pitch just to keep up with him. When it rained, we played bruising games of indoor football and basketball, using jerry-rigged equipment that we’d set up in his knotty pine basement. It was not a hostile rivalry—just two disenfranchised kids, each trying to assert his superiority over the other.
After school, Peter, Mike, and I would be out on the streets playing punch ball or stickball. On weekends, I’d round up a bunch of younger neighborhood boys and, along with my other two friends, we’d ride our bikes up to Riis Park where we’d play marathon choose-up baseball games on the grass and dirt fields. Even on those rare September beach days, the first thing I’d do was stake out a patch of hard packed sand near the water’s edge and get up a diamond ball game.
In the schoolyard before class, at recess, or in the lunch room, Rubin and I would huddle together and talk about—what else?—baseball. We argued and sang the praises of our favorite players. We bet nickels and pennies on the games. We traded Topps and Bowman baseball cards and played “leaner/lapper” against the handball court wall. All of it was contrived, at least in part, to draw attention from the clique and their girlfriends. It didn’t work. The only guys who joined us were fanatic baseball nuts like ourselves.
By this time, my longing to be acknowledged by the guys in the clique was becoming so acute that it felt like a persistent ache. I was also persona non grata with Elaine Hirsch, Alice Rosen, Sandy Kaufman, Bonnie Lerner, and Linda Firestein—the girls they hung out with at lunch and recess. If I couldn’t draw the popular kids into my world, I’d have to meet them on their own turf—a daunting proposition to the likes of me.
As much as I hated mixers and dances, I decided to attend the first Temple Beth-El dance of the fall. Maybe if I got up the courage to ask one of the popular girls to dance, the rest of that crowd would take notice.
I’d had a crush on Elaine Hirsch since the second grade. So did everyone else. All the guys in the clique fawned all over her. She was slender, about my height, with dimples and sandy blonde hair that curled in ringlets around her ears. Word had it that she was snotty and stuck up.
Normally, I wouldn’t dare approach someone who was so far out of my league. But I thought I might have a chance with Elaine because back in fifth grade I’d helped her with a book report on The Yearling. In fact, when she asked me for help, I couldn’t say yes fast enough. I even wrote the whole book report.
It got an A, so I felt a little let down that all she said was “Thank you.” But at least she always waved or said hello to me before class or at recess. That was just enough to build some hope on.
Temple Beth El mixers were typical of most grade school dances. I’d always shied away from these kinds of social events. The guys—even the clique—stood around on one side of the rec room, while the girls clustered on the other side. The boys shuffled their feet, nervously laughing, telling jokes, and making snide comments about the girls, who in turn giggled and pointed across the dance floor at the boys.
That night, I stood off to the side rehearsing what I’d say to Elaine. She was standing with Alice Rosen, another popular girl who’d never acknowledged me. I could feel the lump in my throat tighten as I walked across the room. For a moment, I wondered why I was doing this. I imagined that every eye in the room was on me. I thought again about chickening out. But I was already halfway across the dance floor. Alice spotted me first. She signaled Elaine with a slight tilt of her head.
Just as I blurted out “Would you like to dan—” Elaine cut me off. “Sorry, but thanks anyway,” she said.
Then she turned back toward Alice, and both of them started to giggle. I trudged back to the boy’s side of the gym. I didn’t dare pick up my head for fear of having to confront all those laughing faces. My scalp tingled and my face was flushed with embarrassment. My legs were so wobbly I felt like I was slogging through a mud puddle. The last time I felt so mortified was six years ago when I threw up in Kindergarten class.
Before I’d even crossed the floor, I heard Alice say—loudly enough for all the others to hear—“I’d never dance with him; he’s too short. Besides, he hangs around with those two other losers. All they ever talk about is stupid baseball.”
I swallowed hard and tried not to cry. My legs were so heavy that I wondered if I had enough energy to make it to the double doors at the entrance. Knees shaking, I skulked out of the rec room and headed straight home. I crawled into bed without saying good night to anyone. I was too numb to even take off my clothes.
The next day, I ducked around stairwells and hid in dark corners of the hallway. I kept my head down during class, at lunch, and at recess. I even avoided Peter and Mike. Every two minutes, it seemed, I checked my watch. By three o’clock, I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there.
After school, I ran home and grabbed a broomstick out of the closet. I put on my sneakers and old torn pants and raced down to Casey’s Lot—a weed choked, rock-strewn open field on the corner of 129th and Beach Channel Drive. As I swatted handfuls of stones into Jamaica Bay, I pretended I was Duke Snider, then Jackie Robinson, then Gil Hodges. I kept it up until the broom handle was covered with nicks and cuts, and my palms had sprouted blood blisters.
It was early October, just before the World Series was about to begin. Three days earlier, the Dodgers had lost the National league pennant to the Giants on “the shot heard ‘round the world”—Bobby Thomson’s playoff winning homer off Ralph Branca. I could still hear echoes of the Giants’ announcer, Russ Hodges, screaming above the Polo Grounds’ pandemonium, “The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant!”
I’ll never forget the moment and how I felt. It was late afternoon recess at Hebrew School. Mike Rubin and I were sitting outside on the back lawn, huddled around the portable radio I’d brought with me. We were tuned in to the rubber game of the Dodger-Giant playoff. The winner would face the Yankees three days later in the opening game of the ‘51 World Series.
I’d been counting on the Dodgers to win the pennant, if for no other reason than to take my mind off of the humiliation at the Saturday dance. Not to mention the schoolyard bragging rights that it would bring me. Wasn’t it my turn to cop a break?
I’d been agonizing over the Dodgers’ collapse since mid September when the Giants had cut a thirteen-and-a-half game mid-August lead to under five games. But now, in this crucial season ending game, the Dodgers were ahead 4-1 in the bottom of the ninth. I was certain that they had it locked up.
When the Giants scored a run to make it 4-2, I began to worry. Then with two on and one out, Thomson hit the game winning, season ending homer. I sat stunned under a tree and began to cry. I was so distraught that no one could console me. Not even Arthur Hoffman, my teacher, could coax me back inside.
For the next week the schoolyard taunts and epithets were cruel and merciless, just as I’d expected they would be. The entire chain of events, from the dance to the Dodgers’ loss, had me so rattled that I couldn’t bring myself to watch the World Series. The underdogs had lost again. Was it another portent? A signal that mine and the Dodgers’ misfortunes were hopelessly intertwined?
A week after the baseball season ended, my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Carlin, chose me to write the sports column for the class newsletter, the 6-2 Shooting Star. How and why she picked me is still a mystery. Did she overhear the recess skirmishes? Did she feel sorry for me? Did she see something in me that other teachers had missed? Whatever the reasons, it came at just the right time.
My first response was to write something about the Dodgers’ recent collapse. But once I got going, I found myself writing instead about their determination not to give up on the last day of the regular season.
The Giants had already won their game, putting them a half game up on the Dodgers. The Dodgers were playing the Philadelphia Phillies, the team that had beaten them out for the pennant on the last day of the 1950 season.
They were trailing the Phillies 8-5 in the eighth. I’d just about given up hope, when they somehow rallied to tie the game and send it into extra innings. Even if they lost the game, the comeback made me feel proud to be a Dodger fan.
In the bottom of the 12th, the Phillies loaded the bases with two out. Their first baseman, Eddie Waitkus, hit a sizzling line drive just inside the second base bag. Jackie Robinson made a spectacular diving catch of what looked like the game winning hit. Then in the top of the 14th, with two out Robinson hit the most dramatic (and overlooked) home run in Dodger history. The Dodgers won the game 9-8. Three days later, they lost the playoff to the Giants.
As I scribbled pages and pages of notes, I was almost paralyzed with doubts. How would I find the right words to express what I was feeling? Would anyone like it? Would anyone even care? This was so different from writing alone at home. It would be published. My name would be on it. Everyone in school—including the teachers—would see it.
In the finished version, I mentioned the Bobby Thomson home run in passing. The column’s real emphasis was the tenacity and courage the Dodgers, and Jackie Robinson in particular, had displayed in the last six innings of the must-win Philadelphia game.
When the purple-inked newsletter came out, the two teachers who’d told my mother that I was a slow learner were among the first to praise my writing. Boys who’d ignored me for years sent notes saying things like, “I never told my friends, but I was crushed when Thomson hit that home run,” and, “I don’t care about baseball, but I felt the same way when my cat died.” Even though they’d missed the point of the column, it was gratifying to hear the praise.
Still Pitching Page 4
