I turned to glance at Rubin. He looked like a Thanksgiving turkey on the block. I was embarrassed for him. Maybe the wind was just blowing at his sweatpants, the stiff ocean breeze we get on the Long Island south shore. Then again, maybe his knees really were shaking.
“Let’s get the goddamned show on the road,” Sullivan muttered. I thought about quitting. But what if Kerchman found out? The two coaches were like an Australian tag team. “Bad cop, bad cop,” I once heard an ex-player say. But everyone here would have sold his own mother into slavery if it meant that Sullivan would put in a good word with Kerchman. That’s why those two bastards could jerk us around like this.
Whalen trotted back behind the plate and Sullivan turned to leave. To him this kind of stuff was routine. I wanted to refuse, but I kept reminding myself that this is my only chance to make the team, to maybe pitch at Cooperstown. In my mind’s eye, I could see my dad, brother, and Kerchman sitting in the stands at Doubleday Field.
I tried to buy some time, thinking maybe I could reason with Sullivan. Convince him there was another way to do this. I was red-in-the-face pissed, hoping it looked like windburn.
“You want me to stop the bunt, right?” I said. It came out sounding too timid.
He turned. What the hell was I saying? Nobody second-guesses the coach. Sullivan walked back to the mound and spat another wad of chew on the ground, making sure to splatter some on my new spikes. He looked at Whalen, then at Ortiz. Then he turned to me and shook his head from side to side.
“Thaaat’s right, Steinberg,” he said, stretching out the words. “You stop the bunt. Now, let’s please execute the fucking play, shall we?” He muttered to himself through clenched teeth as he ambled back toward the bleachers.
It was out of my mouth before I knew it. More assertive this time. “Suppose I hit him in the head?”
Sullivan’s own head swung around like a tetherball, making that last tight twist at the top of the pole.
“Don’t worry, it’s not a vital organ. Pitch.”
I think Big Tom knew that he was undermining his credibility by arguing with a piss-ant kid. So he turned and silenced everyone’s murmurs with a long glare. As if rehearsed, the seven guys behind me started to grumble, distancing themselves from me and Sullivan’s wrath. Whalen stood behind the plate, looking at the ground, his mask pushed back on top of his head.
“Pitch the fuckin’ ball,” Whalen yelled.
“Do what coach tell you man,” spat Ortiz from third.
To those guys, especially, the coach was George God. If he told them to take a dump at home plate, they’d get diarrhea. But me? I’m like Gary Cooper in High Noon. Everyone’s watching, no one’s volunteering to help.
Then I noticed Mike, still frozen in his batter’s crouch. He looked like a mannequin with bulging eyes. Before I could think, the words slipped out.
“It’s the wrong play, Coach.”
It was my voice, all right, but it couldn’t have been me who said it. I’d never have the guts to say anything like that. Not to Sullivan’s face, anyway.
Dead silence. You could hear the breeze whistling through the wire mesh of the backstop. At first, Sullivan was too surprised to even curse me out. But after a long moment, he turned and strode up to Rubin, who was still frozen in the batter’s box.
Like all of us, Rubin was jackrabbit scared of the coach. And just like a rabbit about to be prey, he was riveted to the ground.
“Goddamn it,” Sullivan ripped off his cap, exposing his jetblack crew cut and sunburned forehead. He spoke like rolling thunder, enunciating every word.
“WHAT DID HE SAY, RUBIN?”
It was a calculated ploy. I’d seen it before, in the streets. Coach was going to punish me by humiliating my friend.
Rubin managed weakly; “Uh, wrong—wrong play. Coach?”
Louder then, like a Marine D.I. “NOBODY IN THE STANDS CAN HEAR YOU, RUBIN.”
“WRONG PLAY, COACH.”
My stomach turned over watching Sullivan humiliate Mike just for the amusement of the guys in the bleachers. And Big Tom knew it. Knew it oh so well.
Still advancing, Sullivan took it to the grandstand.
“ALL YOU LADIES, SAY IT!”
The accusing chorus rained down.
“WRONG PLAY, COACH.”
“AGAIN.”
“WRONG PLAY, COACH.”
Then he ran out to the mound yelling, “YOU, TOO, STEINBERG, YOU SAY IT.”
He was hopping up and down like someone had pranked him with a hotfoot. Adrenaline overcame me then, and before Sullivan could order another round I let the words tumble out in a single breath.
“If I throw a pitchout chest high in the lefthand batter’s box, Whalen takes two steps to his right and he has a clear shot at Ortiz.”
By this time, I was so shook up I had no idea if it was the right play or not. I was just trying to call Sullivan’s bluff by parroting what Coach Bleutrich had taught me last summer.
Sullivan squared himself and casually put his cap back on. He was trying to regain his composure. He’d let a snot nosed junior high school kid get to him, and now he had to regain control.
My stomach was in knots, Rubin’s eyes looked like marbles, and the whole team was hungry to see what would happen next.
Softly now: “That’s enough, Steinberg.”
Then to Rubin: “Get back in the box. Let’s do the play.”
And to be sure there was no misunderstanding, he took it right back to me: “My play,” he said deliberately. “My play, my way.”
He was giving me a second chance. Why didn’t I just fake it? I had good control. I’d brushed off plenty of hitters before. Maybe deep down I believed that Sullivan was right about me. Maybe I didn’t have the balls it took to play for him.
I wanted to give in, get it over with. So I said, “I can’t do it.”
Sullivan slammed his cap to the ground, and in one honest, reckless moment, it all came out: “You fucking Belle Harbor Jews are all alike. No goddamn guts,” he yelled. “You’re a disgrace to your own people.”
Nobody moved. The wind whipped a funnel of dust through the hard clay infield.
So that’s what this was all about. It was no secret that Big Tom was a bigot. But it still came as a shock. He was a coach, a teacher. Some of the guys, I’m sure, had thought the same thing, but we were teammates and they’d never say it to my face. Even in my worst moments I believed that this stuff was for the anti-Semites from the sticks, the ones who say “Jew York.”
There was no chance Sullivan would apologize. He’d used tactics like this before—to get us mad, to fire us up. If I wanted be a real putz, I could report him to the league’s advisory board. My father knew some of the officers. But I knew I wouldn’t do it, because if I turned him in, it would confirm what he already thought of me, and I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Besides, I still needed him. And in some odd way I must have sensed that he needed me. If I said or did the right thing, I could still bail him out. For that moment, then, we were yoked to each other, like Sidney Poitier and Tony Curtis in that movie The Defiant Ones.
I think Sullivan believed that somehow I had made him say what he said. He was angry at me for making him look bad. So to cover his own ass, he had to make it seem like it was my fault.
“Get out of my sight, Steinberg,” he snapped. “You make me wanna puke.”
He motioned toward the bullpen. “Levy, get your butt in here and pitch.”
To my mind, Burt was more timid than either Mike or me. But, it was all part of Big Tom’s design.
Sullivan grunted; the cords of his muscular neck wound tight. Just as he reached to take the ball, something snapped inside of me. I pulled my hand back. Then an eerie calm began to wash over me. My stomach stopped churning, my chest didn’t feel as if it was about to burst, and my neck wasn’t burning. I could tell that Sullivan sensed something was going on, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Neither was I. Not yet, anyway.
�
��I’m not leaving, Coach,” I said.
Yeah, he sensed it all right. But he misread it. He waved Levy away. Maybe this was Sullivan’s obtuse way of atoning for the Jew remark, by allowing me to stay on his pitcher’s mound.
“Get back in the box, Rubin,” he snapped.
“No Coach,” I said
“What?”
“You grab a bat, Coach.”
A frozen moment. Was I really doing this?
Sullivan looked at me, then he looked at the guys in the bleachers and laughed out loud. We all knew he was going to do it. He ripped off his windbreaker and took a couple of practice cuts, his biceps rippling. He bowed at the waist when muffled cheers rose up from the third base side. Did it ever occur to Big Tom that they might be cheering against him? Or that maybe they were just morbidly curious to see what would happen? Anyhow, he was smiling that crooked ass grin of his. The players in the bleachers spilled into foul territory, inching closer to the backstop.
He stepped into the box and took a few swings.
Ok Coach, I’m thinking. You’re gonna get just what you asked for.
I was ready to play me some chin music. Chin music, where the ball whistles as it buzzes just underneath the batter’s throat. Before I went into my windup, Whalen took two steps up the first base line. He was sure I was going to throw the pitch-out. Can’t blame him. It’s what he would have done. It’s what anyone in his right mind would have done. Sullivan must have thought so too, that’s why he was still grinning.
It was the smirk that did it. Screw chin music, I’m gonna’ take his fucking head off.
As I brought both arms over my head, I saw Ortiz streaking from third toward home. In that split second I realized that this really was happening. When Big Tom squared to bunt, I zeroed in on the black line on the inside corner of the plate. Calm down, I told myself. Brush him back. Just let him know you’re here.
That’s what my head was saying, but when I started my motion I lifted my eyes from the plate and locked them on the bill of Sullivan’s cap. That shit-eating grin was still on his face. I pushed hard off the rubber, and cut loose. I watched the ball tailing in, in, in, right toward Sullivan’s head. But he didn’t back off, not even an inch. Maybe he didn’t believe I could throw hard enough to hurt him.
I yelled, “HEAD’S UP,” tucked my chin into my chest and shut my eyes. I heard a dull thud. I opened my eyes just in time to see his cap fly off his head. And as I watched him crumble, feet splayed in the dirt, I felt sick to my stomach.
Stunned players surrounded the fallen Sullivan, not knowing what to do. With leaden strides, I joined them, growing a little more lucid. Rubin shot me a “Man, you are dead meat” look, and I thought about suspension from school. Jail even. But the coach sat up. Jesus, was he lucky. Was I lucky. I must have clipped him right on the bill of the cap. Why was I so surprised? It was the target I was aiming at.
Sighs escaped as one breath. Legs and arms unraveled. Players backed away. Slowly, Big Tom lifted himself up and brushed the dirt off the seat of his pants. He shook his head like a wet cocker spaniel who’d just taken a dip in the ocean. Then he wobbled to the bleachers, looking like a young girl testing out her mother’s high-heeled shoes.
Before I could collect my thoughts, Sullivan’s voice boomed out: “All right, here we go again. Ortiz, hustle back to third, Rubin, up to bat, Steinberg, get your butt back on the hill. Suicide squeeze, same play as before. This time I know we will get it right, won’t we ladies?”
He’d caught me by surprise again. I should have known that he’d have to get the last word. But I couldn’t—wouldn’t—jump through his hoops. Not this time. I resigned myself to my fate. I took a deep breath, bowed my head, and slowly walked back toward the mound—all the time knowing exactly where I was headed. When I got to the rubber, I kept going. At second base, I pushed off the bag with my right foot and started to sprint. I was unbuttoning my shirt, and as I passed our center fielder, Ducky Warshauer, I tossed my cap and uniform jersey right at him. Ducky stared at me like I’d just gone Section Eight. When I stepped onto the concrete walkway outside the locker room, I heard the metallic clack, clack, clack of my spikes on the concrete floor. I opened the door and inhaled the familiar perfume of chlorine, Oil of Wintergreen, and stale sweat socks. For a moment I thought about going back out there; instead I headed straight for the shower and pushed the lever as far to the right as it would go. As the needle spray bit into my shoulders, I watched the steam rise up to surround me.
Walking home, I replayed the whole scenario. I did it, I told myself, because he provoked me. What else could I have done? It was a knee-jerk response.
All weekend, I brooded about the incident. Should I take what was left of my uniform to his office? Nope, all that would do is let him know he’d won. Ok, I’ll wait for him to ask for it. But what if he doesn’t? Will I lose my nerve and give in?
Sunday night, seven thirty, he called me at home. Ten minutes later I was back in that stifling office, the steam pipes hissing and banging away. Sullivan was sitting at his desk, head down, shuffling papers. He made me wait for about two minutes. Didn’t even look up. When he knew I couldn’t take the tension any longer, he said matter-of-factly—as if nothing had ever happened—“I’ll see you at practice on Saturday.”
Without taking his eyes off his papers, he handed me a paper bag with my cap and jersey inside and said, “Get your nasty butt out of here, kid. I got work to do.”
Of course I went back. That’s what you do when you’re fourteen and your identity is wrapped up in being a ballplayer. I had a pretty good season too. Rubin also made the team, but he sat the bench for most of the summer.
We didn’t win the state title, but we did make it to the final game in Cooperstown. We got bombed that day, but my father and brother got to see me pitch a few good relief innings at Doubleday Field.
While I was on the mound that summer I’d hear Sullivan razzing us from the bench. I always listened closely, curious to see how far he’d push me. But whatever else he yelled, I never heard him say “Jew boy” or “candy ass sugar baby” again.
I’d survived Sullivan. The last hurdle would be Coach Kerchman. And, as I later found out, Big Tom did indeed invite Kerchman to scout me that summer. He just never took the trouble to tell me about it.
9
All summer I’d been looking forward to high school with mixed anticipation. The competition for teams, grades, and recognition would be a lot tougher. But how could it be worse than junior high? Maybe high school would be a fresh start. I was cautiously pinning my hopes on two long shots: making the varsity baseball team and the school newspaper staff.
The first setback came a week before school began. All incoming freshmen were notified that the entire school would be going on double session. The freshman class would attend school in the afternoon, while the sophomores, juniors, and seniors went in the morning.
It meant that all freshmen were excluded from participation in every after school organization, including cheerleading and all five sports—football, baseball, basketball, tennis, and swimming. We’d even miss out on the hazing rituals that would certify us as bona fide high school freshmen.
It was another crushing disappointment. The newspaper and baseball would be on hold for at least another year. The only consolation was that I’d have more time to prepare for Kerchman.
All the jock wanna-bes in the neighborhood knew the Kerchman stories by heart. We’d been privy to them as far back as seventh grade. In his first three years at the high school “Mr. K” had become a local legend. Since he arrived in the fall of ‘51, the football team had won two Queens championships, and the baseball team had gotten as far as the city championship semifinals. During that time, people in the Rockaways—kids, parents, teachers, local merchants, and newspaper reporters—began to take notice. As I’d learned for myself back in sixth grade, winning teams have a way of galvanizing communities, especially in New York, where neighborhoods are marked ac
cording to who commands the “turf.”
If you believed the buzz on the playgrounds, Mr. K was an obsessed man. Max Bernstein, a reserve end on the football team, regaled us with stories about the coach’s fiery locker room speeches. The way Max told it, before each new season Kerchman would gather the team around him in the boy’s shower and give them a spiel about his old college days at Syracuse, where under coach Biggie Munn he was a one-hundred-sixty-pound offensive guard and defensive tackle. Kerchman also made it a point to let everyone know that just after the war he’d had a tryout with the New York football Giants, and that he’d made it to the last cut. He always finished up by saying that he did it all “on a little talent, a big heart, and a whole lot of guts.”
Like Tom Sullivan, Mr. K had a reputation for hazing his Jewish players, the difference being that Kerchman himself was a Jew. The story goes that because he grew up in poverty he believed, like Sullivan did, that the Jewish boys from suburban neighborhoods like Neponsit and Belle Harbor were too soft. But where Sullivan was a flat-out bigot, Kerchman was convinced in his own perverse way that it was his mission to toughen us up.
On the first day of football tryouts, Max said, Kerchman always made the same speech—about the time his Army platoon liberated a concentration camp at the end of World War Two. It was designed to let the Jewish players know just how important he thought it was for them to shape-up. Max also said that at the first practice of each new season Mr. K would order the Jewish boys to scrimmage without helmets and shoulder pads.
Exaggerated or not, those rumors were enough to convince Ronnie Zeidner’s and Rob Brownstein’s parents to send them to Poly Prep and Woodmere Academy, two private schools that were not above bending the rules when it came to recruiting top athletes. The Kerchman stories spooked me too, but boarding school was not an option. Either I played for him, or I didn’t play at all.
Still Pitching Page 12
