I felt light-headed and dizzy like when Miss Mencken would lean over my shoulder in Art class. I closed my eyes and the image that kicked in was of Diana undressing in front of my window. The next thing I remember was lying on Karen’s bed, the two of us French kissing. There was nothing I could—or wanted to do—to stop her. Every time I rolled over and brushed her nipple with my elbow, she’d moan, very softly. The more pliant she was, the more aroused I became. We groped around on the bed and, with a lot of help from her, I wrestled Karen’s turtleneck over her head and then somehow I got her bra unhooked. When her breasts floated free, I sat up, wide eyed, mouth agape. I started rubbing my palm very tentatively across her bare nipples.
“Oh, that feels good,” she said.
I was speechless. I couldn’t believe this was happening: no girl had ever let me go this far. Now I was the one in control. It was like standing on the mound knowing that no matter what pitch I threw, I had the hitters eating out of my hand.
I kept stroking Karen’s breasts, first the right, then the left. I had no idea what I was doing or what to do next. But Karen didn’t stop me. Then she rolled over and sat up. She kneeled down and began to stroke my crotch. She was in charge again. Or maybe she’d been in charge the whole time. I started to get scared. I’d heard enough stories and imagined enough times what it was like to get to second base or third base. But this was uncharted territory.
I felt my stomach contract as she slowly unzipped my fly and slid her hand under my Jockeys. As soon as she touched my penis, I froze: I had this awful flashback of the six of us guys standing with our pants down in Manny’s basement, trying to jerk off in front of his French deck. I fought the image off and tried to call up the memory of Diana or Miss Mencken. I even tried to picture one of the models in Playboy who turned me on. When Diana’s image came back into focus, I felt a surge of relief.
But then everything got even weirder. I heard Manny’s voice whispering, “Don’t choke Burtchick, this bimbo’s a sure thing.” It was like he was right there in the room with us. As if by instinct, I took hold of Karen’s shoulders and slowly guided her back down on the bed until she was lying flat on her back directly beneath me.
I could see by the look in her eyes that I’d taken her by surprise. Hell, I’d taken myself by surprise. But, other than giving me a funny look, she didn’t offer any resistance. I sat up on my knees and slid my hand beneath her skirt, then pushed the skirt up over her waist and slowly worked my fingers under the elastic bands of her cotton panties. I held my breath and my throat tightened as my fingers worked their way ever so slowly down the inside of her thigh.
All of a sudden, her whole body went rigid.
“Please don’t,” she whimpered. Did I do something wrong?
I didn’t know whether to stop or keep going. Manny always used to tell us, “Listen to everything they say and just agree. But remember, with girls ‘no’ always means ‘yes.’”
Karen kept saying, with more urgency now, “Please don’t, please stop.”
I was starting to get spooked. What kind of signal she was giving me?
I was losing my erection, but still I kept going, inching my hand ever so tentatively down Karen’s thigh until I brushed my fingers across her pubic mound. She caught her breath and gasped. So did I. This time, she didn’t attempt to stop me. I closed my eyes and tried to relax into the moment. As I kept stroking her pubic mound, she was shaking her head from side to side. Her eyes were closed and she was sighing, “Yes, yes, yes.” I’d never possessed this much leverage before. She was thrashing around, legs splayed, her long dark hair falling over her eyes. It was the most extraordinary sight I’d ever seen. I knew it was time.
Just as I as was easing myself down between her legs, I flashed on an image of Art in his white, three cornered paper hat and apron. He was standing behind the soda fountain, waving to us and calling out, “Have a good time, you two.”
Then, I went completely soft.
Everything was a blur after that. I don’t remember either of us putting our clothes back on. But somehow we ended up in the living room, watching TV. My mind was racing, my insides were churning, and yet my body felt numb. I couldn’t sort any of it out. How can you be so turned on one minute and so weirded out the next?
We tried to make small talk, but it was useless. She looked dazed, and I felt mortified. What was she thinking? Would she tell her girlfriends about this? I wanted to apologize or ask her how she felt. Anything to ease my confusion. But I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make me sound like I was retarded. So I mumbled something like, “I’ll see you at the store,” and I ducked out the door as fast as I could.
For days, I kept mulling over the scene, looking for clues—anything that would help me get a handle on what had happened. What made me stop? Had it all happened too fast? For me? For both of us?
I wanted to call Karen back and apologize. But Manny would have said that was uncool. The more I thought about it, the more mixed-up I became. What’s worse is that there was nobody I could talk to about it.
But this much I did know. I did not want to repeat this failure any time soon, with Karen or anyone else. It was too humiliating. The only thing I wanted right now was to get back on safe ground.
It was early October, thank God, and the ‘53 World Series was just beginning. Each afternoon, I’d catch the early bus home from school to see the games. It was hard to watch the Dodgers go down again, but it kept my mind off what had just happened. And I wanted it to stay that way—at least until I sorted everything out.
When the Series ended, I compulsively cataloged and recatalogued my baseball card collection. Then I stored it in my father’s empty cigar boxes and slid the boxes under my bed. At night and on weekends I sweet-talked my brother into playing marathon competitions of All Star Baseball, a popular board game. And when it turned cold, I read all the hot stove league gossip I could dig up from Baseball Digest, the newspapers, and The Sporting News.
Right before Halloween, I began going to the public library again, this time to look for books on pitching. While I was browsing in the baseball section, I found The Southpaw. At first, I mistook it for a guidebook on how to pitch. The librarian who shelved it probably thought the same thing. But it turned out to be a coming of age novel narrated in the first person by Henry Wiggen, a rookie pitcher for the New York Mammoths, an invented amalgamation of the 1940s Giants and Yankees. I couldn’t have stumbled over it at a more opportune time. I became so engrossed in the story that I took the novel home and stayed up half the night reading it.
To Henry, baseball was a sacred calling and he treated it with a disciple’s reverence and respect. Naturally his dedication struck a chord in me. For the moment, it helped put my world back in focus. VFW tryouts were coming up in the spring, and I wanted to be ready for coach Sullivan.
8
We all knew about Tom Sullivan’s reputation for hazing Belle Harbor Jews. If you were lucky, the guys in the clique said, you might not get him for Guidance or Hygiene, the two classes he taught. Yet in spite of the scary rumors, I was strangely excited when I found out that next term I’d be in both of Sullivan’s classes. This way, maybe I could learn something that would give me an advantage with him when VFW tryouts rolled around in June. I needed to somehow convince Sullivan that I was different from all the other Belle Harbor kids.
“Big Tom,” as the greasers called him, was in his mid to late thirties—a broad shouldered, thick necked, World War Two vet. Every day he wore the same outfit: a white or light blue oxford shirt and a rep tie, dark brown or navy blue wool pants with cuffs, and spit shined brown wingtips. He had a prominent jaw, thinning sandy blonde hair, and a Marine style butch crew cut. And it was no surprise that he ran his classes just like a platoon leader.
Teachers, parents, and coaches have their favorites and their scapegoats. It was clear from day one that Sullivan favored the toughest kids in the class, the Irish Catholic and Italian guys from the surr
ounding neighborhoods, several of whom were on his
Peninsula League football team. And it was equally obvious that he had a thinly veiled contempt for the rest of us.
For the first few weeks I watched as Sullivan singled out the most insecure and easily intimidated kids from my neighborhood. As soon as he sensed their fear, he upped the ante. Whenever guys like Elliot Reiss or Danny Klein screwed up even the slightest bit during Phys Ed, he made them take extra push-ups and run laps. He also called on them repeatedly in Hygiene class. Just as Ira and Billy had said, Sullivan would snidely refer to those two guys as “candy ass sugar babies.” We all knew that was his euphemism for “Belle Harbor Jews.”
I hated it when he deliberately picked on guys like Reiss and Klein. But I knew I couldn’t ally myself with the likes of them. So I steered clear of the victims and made a conscious effort to buddy up to the guys from Arverne and Hammels.
Every once in a while he’d single out Burt Levy, Mike Rubin, or me and call us sugar babies. My strategy was not to talk back to him and not to flinch whenever he picked on me. Let him play whatever games he wanted to. He’d see what I was made of when tryouts rolled around.
If I didn’t get to pitch for the VFW team, there was virtually no chance of making the high school varsity. So in early March I decided to pass up eighth grade softball. It wasn’t an easy decision. Coach Barrows had given me a chance last year, and now I was letting him down. But, like my father said, I needed to think about myself. If I played softball, I’d fall behind the guys who were gearing up for VFW tryouts.
By late April I was practicing outdoors with my old PAL teammates, Mike Rubin, Rob Brownstein, Ronnie Zeidner, and Burt Levy. Lee was even talking to me again. Things were back to normal—whatever “normal” meant at that age.
By Memorial Day weekend I was back into my old routine: going to Ebbets, studying big league hitters and pitchers, running on the beach every day, throwing hundreds of baseballs through the hole in the sheet, and pitching to Rubin and my kid brother. By the time tryouts came around, I was as ready for Sullivan as I’d ever be.
Say what you will about Sullivan, he knew how to whip a team into shape—and fast. He didn’t waste any time with motivational speeches. By the end of the first session, infielders and catchers were already turning double plays, fielding bunts, and covering bases on steals. Outfielders were attempting to throw runners out on the bases and learning to hit the right cut-off man on relays. There was so much simultaneous activity, you couldn’t relax or think straight. Which is exactly what Sullivan had in mind.
When infield and outfield drills were over Sullivan would stand at the plate with a bat in his hand, while a backup catcher fed him one baseball after another. If a hit and run was on, the pitcher and catcher had to decide right on the spot whether to throw a pitchout or try to make the hitter bite on something just out of the strike zone. On a bunt or a grounder to the right side of the infield the pitcher had to get over to first in time to take the throw. If you screwed up, you did it again until you got it right.
The last activity of the day was “situation” batting practice where Sullivan would set up simulated game situations for the hitters and pitchers. Each pitcher would pitch the equivalent of three innings to a rotating group of hitters.
By the end of the first day I’d acquitted myself pretty well. But I knew I hadn’t exactly dazzled Sullivan with my brilliance. Therefore, it wasn’t a complete surprise when after the first round of cuts, he picked Lee, Rob Brownstein, and Ronnie, plus two of the Wavecrest guys—Larry Moshan and Bob Milner. He also added Ducky Warshauer, an outfielder from Laurelton, and Bubba Murphy, a third baseman from Broad Channel. You couldn’t really second-guess any of those picks. They were the seven most talented players at tryouts.
Still, I was a little disappointed that I wasn’t in the first group. Especially after seeing the coaches’ final two choices: Frankie Ortiz and Hughie Whalen, neither of whom I’d ever heard of. Rubin, Levy, and I—along with about a dozen others—were told to come back next Saturday morning for final tryouts.
Naturally, I couldn’t sleep all week. Yet, I felt strangely optimistic about my chances. You could see by the way he ran tryouts that Sullivan was big on preparation and knowledge of the game—two of my strongest assets. One thing still bothered me, though. Rubin, Levy, and me were all Belle Harbor Jews. Was that a good or bad sign?
I got my first clue that something was up when Sullivan stopped me after our Hygiene final and told me to meet him on Saturday morning ten minutes before tryouts. What could he possibly want with me?
Sullivan’s office, if you could call it that, was a steam-heated compartment above the St. Francis de Sales gym. Amidst the banging and hissing of the old pipes, he told me in no uncertain terms that if I wanted to make this team I’d have to convince him that a Belle Harbor sugar baby had what it took to play ball for him. I’d anticipated he’d be testing me sooner or later, I just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon.
Tryouts were held on the St. Francis de Sales field, right behind the church. I was out in the bullpen when I heard Sullivan yell out my name. The bastard didn’t even give me a chance to warm up. Just as I was running in to the mound, I heard Sullivan ordering Burt Levy to get loose and Mike Rubin to grab a bat. Then he gave me ten warm-up tosses and told Rubin to get in the batter’s box.
So there I was on the mound of the church field staring down at Mike, who stood sixty feet, six inches away nervously taking his practice cuts. So many thoughts were racing through my mind. I’d been preparing for this moment for the last nine months. I didn’t want to blow my only shot. Last year’s team almost made it to the state finals at Cooperstown. They got eliminated in Westchester County—one game away from the regionals. With the talent Sullivan had assembled, there was no telling how far this year’s team could go. Then there was Coach Kerchman. Sooner or later, he’d be scouting this team, looking for next year’s rookies.
But what about Rubin? We’d played on every team from sixth grade to PAL. This would be his last chance to make the VFW team. Next year we’d all have to try out for American Legion ball, a tougher, more competitive league.
Goddamn it. Why did it always have to come down to bullshit like this? Why can’t it just be about your ability to play?
But I knew I couldn’t let it get to me, like it did last season with Lee. I had to get the Rubin dilemma out of my mind. I needed to calm down and start thinking about what I was doing. And fast.
Over the years, Rubin had seen my entire repertoire of pitches. And, of course, he knew exactly how I thought. But I was aware of every one of his weaknesses. And I had the ball. Within seconds, I knew just how I’d work him.
Rubin had an open stance and he always stood deep in the box, a few inches off the plate. Hughie Whalen, the catcher, went into his crouch and signaled for a high inside fastball. That’s how much he knew. Up and in was right in Rubin’s kitchen. High inside fastballs were just what I didn’t want to throw. If I threw him low-breaking balls away, my stock-in-trade, he was finished. Kaput. But if I deliberately pitched him too fat, Big Tom would know it. Then I’d be history too.
While I was trying to figure out what to do, Sullivan called timeout and ordered Frankie Ortiz to be the runner at third. This was not a good sign. Ortiz was one of Sullivan’s football goons. He was a bruiser from the Arverne projects, and he could hurt you. That’s when Sullivan shouted out. “Game situation, ladies,” and he called for a suicide squeeze. It’s a risky play, and it’s meant to work like this: as soon as I go into my windup, Ortiz will break for home and Rubin will square around to bunt. My job is to make certain Rubin doesn’t bunt the ball in fair territory.
Instead of tossing me the ball, Sullivan swaggered out to the mound. As he slapped the grass stained baseball into my glove, he deliberately sprayed black, bitter tobacco juice across the bridge of my nose. Then he motioned Whalen, his other football thug, to the mound.
Sullivan and I were inches
apart. I could feel his breath on my right cheek. His nose was red and swollen, and slanted to the right, broken three times in his college football days. Just as Whalen arrived, Coach rasped, “Steinberg, when Ortiz breaks from third, throw it at his head.”
He meant the batter, Rubin. Why would I want to throw a baseball at my friend’s head? It wasn’t the right strategy. It was another one of Big Tom’s stupid tests of courage.
“At his head, coach?” I said, stalling for time.
Sullivan gave me his that’s-the-way-it’s-done-around-here look.
It wasn’t like I didn’t know what he was doing. Everyone knew that if you wanted to play ball for Big Tom you did what you were told and you kept your mouth shut. So why was I being such a smartass? It wasn’t like me. Why was I so willing to risk it all, right here, right now?
I tried to calm myself down, remind myself what the costs were. Just cool it. Try and think it through, I said under my breath. Pretend to go along with Big Tom’s program. The whole time, though, I could feel the knot in my stomach twist and tighten.
Sullivan glared at the third base bleachers where the final ten guys fidgeted nervously, waiting for their chance to bat. Then he looked back at me. With his cap pulled low, the coach’s steel blue pig eyes seemed all the more penetrating. He smiled. The lower part of his jaw was distorted from taking too many football hits without a facemask. So the smile came off looking like a mocking leer, which rattled me even more. I could feel my palms getting clammy; my armpits were already drenched with perspiration.
He looked at the guys waiting in the bleachers and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Steinberg, let’s show this wet nosed bunch of rookies how the game is played.”
Then he grabbed his crotch with his left hand. It was the old comrade routine. He was giving me a chance to look like a leader by pretending we were buddies. We weren’t. Big Tom and I didn’t operate in the same universe. He was a bull-yock Irishman from Hell’s Kitchen, a high school juvi who learned to fight in the streets. His platoon had fought in the Pacific, and the pride still showed in his eyes. To him, guys like Rubin and me were too privileged, and he resented us for it.
Still Pitching Page 11
