It turns out that Gail worked in the administrative office at P.S. 198, the new junior high where Kerchman taught Guidance and First Aid. Every so often I’d heard rumors that the coach had a thing for her.
Maybe talking to Gail about me was my father’s way of compensating for missing so many of my games. But I was uncomfortable with the idea. It was not the way I wanted to make my first impression on a coach who already believed that boys from my neighborhood were too privileged.
My grandfather, Hymie (pictured here circa late 1940s), was my earliest mentor and a horse racing aficionado. By taking me to the track, he opened for me a whole new world of excitement and adventure.
The would-be pitcher, at twelve, showing off for Grandmother Tessie in front of our house.
This was taken in my backyard when I was ten or eleven years old and just beginning to imagine myself as a baseball player.
My first baseball uniform, bought for me by my father when I was twelve.
This is me at thirteen wearing my P. A. L. (Police Athletic League) uniform. It was the first competitive team I ever pitched for.
A rare photo-op for me my junior year, 1956. I was a rookie sports reporter for The Chat (the high school newspaper). The two girls in the picture are the cheer leading cocaptains. Maybe my luck was about to change, after all.
I’m fifteen here, pictured with Carole Wertheimer, my first confidante and platonic girlfriend—another mentor of sorts.
The Village Vanguard on Seventh Avenue near Sheridan Square in the spring of 1957. A high school friend took me here when I was sixteen and she was fifteen. For years afterwards, I went back to this fabled club to see the likes of Monk, Coltrane, Miles Davis, Cannonball Adderley, Mingus, Dizzie Gillespie—the great jazz players of that era.
Group photo taken at Grove Day Camp in 1957—the summer of my transformation. No longer a chubby, unpopular outcast, I’m at the far right striking my best “I know I am a very cool guy” pose. My co-counselor and summer advisor about matters of girls and sex is at the far left.
That same summer, 1957, I found this photo taped up above the lockers in the girl’s locker room. Shot by my soon-to-be first girlfriend, it’s one of the most flattering pictures taken of me during my high school years. I swiped it to remind myself that for a brief moment at seventeen I really did look this good.
American Legion team photo taken the summer of 1957. We went all the way to the state finals that summer. I’m in the second row, far left, holding a baseball and showing off.
The banner from my first Chat sports column and my best “Joe college” pose.
The girls in the clique.
Me in the spring of 1958, wearing my high school baseball uniform—an authentic hand-me-down Brooklyn Dodger uniform donated to the high school by the Dodgers in 1951, right after they lost the playoff to the Giants I’d wanted this uniform since my sophomore year. Getting one of these from coach kerchman meant that I’d finally arrived as a ball player.
Senior Prom photo taken at the Shore Club in Atlantic Beach, Long Island, June, 1958. Another symbol of having arrived. The couple pictured in the middle was the only one that stayed together. They’re still married today. The rest of us all broke up within a year.
My future wife Carole Berk and I went to the same high school. When she proudly showed this photo of her new boyfriend to a friend, the friend commented, “Yech! He’s so ugly. Why would you want to go out with him?”
Myself, Coach Kerchman, and my brother Alan posing at our high school’s one-hundredth anniversary reunion in 1998. My brother is wearing the high school uniform jersey that he swiped after his team won the city championship in 1964, still the only city championship that any of Kerchman’s baseball teams ever won.
10
On the first day of my sophomore year, I was sitting in homeroom when Mrs. Klinger handed me a note. “Be at my office 3 o’clock sharp.” It was signed by Kerchman. I had to read it twice before I could even react. How did he even know who I was?
The rest of the day was a blur. I couldn’t hold a conversation, I picked at my lunch, and every time I opened a book my thoughts drifted. By three my stomach was in knots.
Kerchman’s “office” was across from the boiler room, deep in the bowels of the ancient brick building. To get there you had to walk past the showers and through the boys’ locker room. I opened the stairwell door and inhaled the steam from the shower. Above the hum and buzz of locker room small talk, I heard the clackety-clack-clack of aluminum cleats hitting the cement floor. To my right was the bank of lockers reserved for Angelo Labrizzi, Mickey Imbrianni, and Leon Cholakis, the football players whom I’d been idolizing from afar at the diner.
Football, of course, would never be my sport; but playing varsity baseball offered some of the same privileges. I’d already witnessed it for myself. Parents and friends actually paid a half a buck to watch you play; cheerleaders chanted your name (“Steinberg, Steinberg, he’s our man”), and they kicked their bare legs so high you could see their red silk panties. But the biggest ego-trip of all was when everybody watched with envy whenever a varsity athlete left sixth period Math or Econ to go to a road game.
I tried to push those thoughts out of my mind as I tapped timidly on Kerchman’s door.
“It’s open,” a booming voice said.
The room was a ten-foot-square box, a glorified cubby-hole, smelling of Wintergreen, Merthiolate, and stale sweat socks. The chipped, brown cement floor was coated with dust and rotted out orange peels. On all four sides, makeshift two-by-four equipment bays overflowed with old scuffed helmets, broken shoulder pads, torn jerseys and pants. Muddy cleats and deflated footballs were piled haphazardly on top of one another.
Mr. K stood under a bare light bulb wearing a blue baseball hat, white sweat socks, and a jock strap. He was holding his sweatpants and chewing a plug of tobacco. “You’re Steinberg, right?” He said my name, “Stein-berg,” enunciating and stretching out both syllables.
“I don’t beat around the bush, Stein-berg, You’re here for one reason and one reason only. Because Gail Sloane told me you were a reliable kid. What I’m looking for, Stein-berg, is an assistant football manager. And I’m willing to take a chance on you.”
So that was it. I’d forgotten about Gail. For a second I was angry at my father. But I was more annoyed at myself for not stopping him when I had the chance. I wanted to run out of the room and find a place to cry. Assistant football managers were glorified water boys; they did all the shit work, everything from being stretcher bearers to toting the equipment. I was numb with humiliation.
Sensing my disappointment, Kerchman waited a beat.
“Gail also tells me you’re a pitcher,” he muttered, as he slipped into his sweatpants.
Another tense beat. I tried to compose myself.
Finally, he said, “In February, you’ll get your chance to show me what you’ve got.”
And to make certain there was no misunderstanding, he added, “Just like everyone else.”
He paused again, deliberately waiting. “So what’s it going to be, Stein-berg?”
It had all happened too fast. I couldn’t think straight. In a trembling, uncertain voice, I told him I’d think about it and let him know tomorrow.
When I brought it up at dinner, I was tempted to tell my father, “See, I told you so.” But I held back. After I explained the situation, he told me exactly what I predicted he’d say: that I was the only one who could make the decision. My mother’s advice, which was to politely decline the offer and concentrate on my classes, was just as predictable.
What did she mean, “politely decline?” Did she have any idea who Kerchman was? Then, my brother weighed in. He said, “Tell the coach to shove it.” Not a lot of help there.
All night I lay awake debating with myself. If I took the offer, would it diminish me in Kerchman’s eyes? Would he write me off as a pitcher? Suppose I took this job and didn’t complain? Would it give me an edge at baseball tryo
uts?
The next day in sixth period Econ everyone seethed with jealousy when Harold Zimmerman left early for football practice. That’s when I knew I was going to take Kerchman up on it.
When I told him, his only comment was “Good, now that we’ve got that settled, report to Krause, the head manager, on the double.”
Without even a “Glad to have you aboard” he pointed at the equipment bays. “Get some sweats and cleats,” he added. “And as soon as practice ends, clean up this room. Get everything stacked up in the right bins, and mop the floor. Let’s get this place shaped up.”
On his way out the door he said, “And make sure we’ve got enough Merthiolate, cotton swabs, gauze, and tape. First game’s in a week, and when we step out on that field, I want us looking sharp and ready.
“We set the example, Stein-berg,” he added. “If we do our jobs, the players will do theirs. You understand me, son?”
It was as if he knew all along that I was going to say yes. I thought about what my kid brother had said. I imagined myself telling Kerchman to take the job and shove it. But I knew what the consequences of that would be.
You’ve been here before, I told myself. This guy’s just like Sullivan. He’s testing you, trying to see how much you can take.
Kerchman interrupted my reverie to give me a parting shot.
“Chop-chop, Stein-berg,” he said. “Let’s get the show on the road.”
While my fortunes were in decline, the Dodgers’ luck it seems was about to change for the better. There was a palpable sense of urgency about the ‘55 season. Everyone knew that the only way they’d get the critics and fans off their back was to win the pennant and beat the Yankees in the World Series. But to do it, they’d have to overcome some big obstacles, one of which was that the Dodgers were an aging team. Their average age was thirty-two, relatively old by major league baseball standards. Robinson and Reese were thirty-seven, and Furillo and Campanella were thirty-four. How many more chances would they get?
The Dodgers answered the critics by winning twenty of their first twenty-two games. By mid August they were fifteen and a half games ahead of the second place Braves, hardly a shabby team themselves. Still, the lead wasn’t big enough to satisfy the congenital pessimist in me. Until they won a World Series, the ‘51 collapse would always linger in the back of every Dodger fan’s mind.
But this wasn’t ‘51. They clinched the pennant in early September and eventually won it by thirteen and half games. Campanella came back from last season’s injury to win his third MVP award; Snider had his best year, hitting 42 homers, driving in 136 runs, and batting over 300; Newcombe won twenty games and hit 381. The other starting pitchers, Erskine, Billy Loes, Johnny Podres, and Roger Craig, all had winning records; and the bullpen of Clem Labine, Don Bessant, and the rookie Ed Roebuck was the most formidable in the league. It was a typical Dodger scenario, following last season’s failure with a gritty comeback. It’s almost as if they’d staged the whole thing just to prove they could do it again.
The Dodgers weren’t the only team in New York with something to prove. After winning five world championships in a row, the Yanks had finished second to the Cleveland Indians last season. Now two of their most dependable pitchers were gone; Allie Reynolds had retired, and Vic Raschi was traded to the Cardinals. They’d added Bob Turley, “Moose” Skowron, and Elston Howard—their first black player. But it would be years before those three would emerge as stars. Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford, Billy Martin, and Yogi Berra were still the heart of the team.
The ‘55 Yankees had struggled all season. In the end, it took an eight-game winning streak in September for them to finish a few games in front of the Indians and Red Sox. Heading into the Series, it looked like the Dodgers might finally have the edge.
But that illusion was quickly dispelled. The first two games were played at the Stadium, and the Yanks won both. At the time, no team had ever lost the first two games of a World Series and come back to win. So when the Series shifted back to Brooklyn, it looked like it would be a replay of the past five encounters.
Athletes and coaches are always pontificating about “defining moments.” For the Dodgers, this most certainly was one of them. If they lost again, they would forever be remembered as the team that couldn’t win the big games. Perhaps they sensed what the stakes were, because they played all three of their home games as if they were possessed. They won them all. But with a chance to wrap the Series up at the Stadium, they lost the sixth game.
Déjà vu. Nothing’s changed, I thought. Somehow, they’d find a way to lose again. Would chronic failure become my m.o. as well? It was a chilling thought.
Losing game six set up another dramatic seventh game. In the bottom of the sixth inning, the Dodgers were ahead 2-0. Gil Hodges had driven in both runs, and Johnny Podres was pitching beautifully. Was it another occasion for false hope? I paced back and forth in front of the TV on every pitch.
When the Yankees got the first two men on base, it looked like the momentum was about to shift back to them. Yogi Berra, the Yankees’ most reliable clutch hitter, was at bat. He reached for an outside change-up and lifted a twisting pop fly that was headed for the left field foul line. As soon as Berra hit the ball, Gil McDougal, the runner at second, started for third. Sandy Amoros, the Dodger left fielder, had a long way to run. Just when it looked like Berra’s pop fly might drop in for a hit, Amoros reached down with his right hand and made a shoestring catch. Then he wheeled around and doubled McDougal up before he could get back to second base. The play killed off a potential Yankee rally and ultimately changed the course of the game.
From that moment on, you could sense that the Dodgers had a chance to win. I stood in front of the TV holding my breath as Pee Wee Reese threw Elston Howard out at first for the last out of the game. The final score stood at 2-0.
It was a fitting redemption. The Yankees had always seemed so invincible. It was also a confirmation of the Dodgers’ resilience. A lot of teams would have faded into oblivion after blowing that thirteen and half game lead in ‘51.
The Dodgers’ turnaround gave me a shot of renewed hope. Like them, I knew I’d have to pay my dues.
Working for Kerchman that fall would be the first test. In addition to doing the coach’s dirty work, I had to put up with a lot of crap from the senior managers and star players. It was even more humiliating than I’d anticipated. “Moose” Imbrianni sent me on a fool’s errand to fetch a bucket of steam; I earnestly searched for a rabbit’s foot for Leon Cholakis; and I came up with a pair of fuzzy dice for Angelo Labrizzi’s convertible. Before games I taped ankles, treated minor injuries and sprains, and inflated the footballs. At halftime I cut the lemons and oranges. During games I’d scrape mud off of players’ cleats, carry water buckets and equipment, and help injured guys off the field. After the games ended I stayed to clean out the locker room.
The worst jobs were being a water boy and stretcher bearer. It was bad enough that I had to run out there in front of thousands of people during the timeouts, but it was humiliating to have to listen to the taunts and jeers of my classmates. Whenever I heard “Hey water boy, I’m thirsty, bring the bucket over here,” or “Man down on the fifty,” or “Hey medic, get the stretcher,” I wanted to run off the field and just keep going.
When I wasn’t at practice I deliberately avoided Peter and Mike. I was too embarrassed to face them. As often as I could, I took the public bus to school, and I stayed away from dances and neighborhood parties. I thought constantly about quitting, but I was already in too deep. If I quit now, I could kiss my baseball dreams goodbye.
In late October, two other sophomores and I applied for a single internship on The Chat sports staff. I’d been waiting a year for this opportunity, and I was determined to get this position. To test our competence, Daniel Roth, the editor, asked us to write up the results of the first home football game. The best of the three, he said, stood a chance of getting printed in the next issue.
I’ve
always loved having the inside dope on things. As a student manager, I was privy to information that the other two aspirants didn’t have access to. So along with the game highlights, I wove in some pointed anecdotes about the star players, I explained a few of Kerchman’s game strategies, and I added some of my own sideline and locker room observations.
Even I could tell that the piece had more authenticity and pizzazz than the typical generic story. Luckily for me, Roth wasn’t a stickler for the conventional “who, what, where, when, and why” news report. He praised me, in fact, for making the story so personal and idiosyncratic. Naturally, I was thrilled when it appeared.
Two other stories followed, and by mid fall Roth had expanded my assignments. He asked me to do an exclusive interview/profile of Kerchman; and when football season was over he selected me to cover the basketball games in the winter.
My stories began to attract some attention—mostly from the sports nuts. I’d avoided them in school because they were so uncool, but it moved me a notch higher in the pecking order, if only in my own mind. And I couldn’t deny that I enjoyed seeing my name in print again. Especially now, when I was so embarrassed by my other role.
Still Pitching Page 14
