Still Pitching

by Michael Steinberg

  Jagust and Kerchman were polar opposites. Where Kerchman looked and acted like a prizefighter, Jagust had a slim, wiry physique, disheveled sandy blonde hair, a Boston Blackie mustache, pale skin, and a baby face. His aspiration was to become a college teacher. He even dressed the part—corduroy sport jackets with plaid shirts and black wool ties. He had an impish smile and a wry, sardonic wit that always kept you off balance. On first impression, he looked like the shy, skinny kid in the Charles Atlas ads, the kind of guy that a bruiser like Kerchman would have intimidated by kicking sand in his face.

  But Jagust was no pushover. From the start, you could see that he wasn’t going to be the typical, by the book English teacher. In fact, the first thing he did to shake us up was to seat us in reverse alphabetical order, starting with the Zs and finishing with the As. For our first assignment, he told us to look up at the ceiling and observe what seemed to be human footprints. Then, at home we had to write a 500-word essay speculating on how those footprints got there.

  The next day, we all read a short excerpt from our pieces. The guesses ran from space aliens to student pranks. Just before the bell rang, Jagust reached behind his desk and produced a long pole with an old leather boot attached to it. Maybe he was trying to loosen us up, give us permission to use our ingenuity. Maybe it was a way of poking fun at all the silly assignments we’d suffered through in school. Whatever his intent, he sure as hell got our attention.

  Jagust also had a personal agenda. For the first few minutes of every class he’d recite a witty, biting monologue. Sometimes tongue-in-cheek, sometimes deadpan, he’d rail against the absurdities of the school’s lockstep curriculum. Or he’d tell us pointed anecdotes that were designed to expose the petty-mindedness of school officials.

  Everyone, the deadbeats included, was drawn to him. Even when he was directing his sarcasm at you, it was clear that Jagust was on your side. He was always challenging you to stretch your imagination, think for yourself, and question all first assumptions—yours and everyone else’s. Moreover, he didn’t make us compete against one another. Whether you were talented or unimaginative, he’d keep encouraging you—but only if you made an effort to do the work.

  Because it was a required English course, we had to do all the common readings and grammar exercises that every other English class did. We read the four required books: A Tale of Two Cities, Macbeth, Giants in Earth, and The Good Earth. We took the tests, wrote the 500-word themes, and did the weekly grammar exercises. But half of our final grade was based on our term project—a four-page newspaper.

  This wasn’t just any newspaper. We’d have to choose one of the four required books to work from, and then come up with a series of news stories, feature columns, interviews, illustrations, photographs, editorials, and reviews—some of them written in the voices and personas of different characters in the book.

  I immediately chose Peter Desimone to be my partner. I knew he had an imagination, a talent for drawing, and a nose for doing research. If you got him going, he’d dig up every shred of information that was out there.

  Both of us were fascinated by the French Revolution, so we picked A Tale of Two Cities to work from. Together we decided to split the writing and research. I volunteered to do the layout and all of the feature writing. Peter would write the “hard news” stories, do the extra library work, and take care of the illustrations.

  We had our run-ins, but the one thing we agreed on was that we’d use as many contemporary parallels as we could. So we dreamed up far-fetched analogies between the French Revolution and McCarthyism; we found ways of invoking jazz innovators like Charlie Parker and Miles Davis, and movie anti-heroes like Brando and James Dean. We even used the Elvis phenomenon as a way of illustrating different forms of rebellion.

  For all of its demands, the project allowed our imaginations to roam at the same time that it taught us how to integrate our knowledge of the world with historical events and research. It’s still the most absorbing project I’ve ever done in a classroom.

  You know you’ve crossed the line from desire to obsession when your longings infuse your every thought or action. By midseason I was so distraught that I couldn’t get a night’s sleep, concentrate on any class except Journalism, or even drum up the desire to socialize with anyone I knew. During the games I found myself silently rooting against my own team. I’d sit on the bench or in the bullpen and hope that we’d get blown out, just so Kerchman would give me a few innings. At night I dreamed up scenarios where I’d be up at bat and Kerchman would be pitching. He’d throw me a fat one down the middle, daring me to hit it, and I’d rip a line drive right at his nuts. There were days when I was angry enough to walk into his office and confront him. But what could I say that wouldn’t make me sound whiny? If I complained, I was certain he’d order me to turn in my uniform. So just to spite him, I decided to hang on and finish out the season. When I quit, I wanted it to be on my terms, not his.

  With three games left, the team clinched the Queens championship. Everyone of course was revved up on the bus ride home. And when we arrived back at school, the cheerleaders and a crowd of screaming boosters and adults were as usual waiting to greet us. I slipped quietly into the darkness as soon as I could get away.

  Some players make their peace with being a scrub just so they can tell envious friends that they’re on a varsity team. Others, like Henry Koslan, my left-handed counterpart, are content simply to be a part of a winning team. Henry went to practice every day, never got in a game, and never complained. The Koslans of the world are blessed: they’ve learned to accept their destiny without questioning it.

  Not me though. Every time I sat and watched the team play, I ached to participate, to contribute. But more than that, I needed to be acknowledged by this coach, this hard-nosed, Jewish street fighter whose ethic attracted and repulsed me. The more Kerchman ignored me, the more I craved his respect. But why him? Did I expect special treatment because we were both Jews? What was it about Kerchman that made me want to compromise everything I believed in just to earn his approval?

  I’d been so optimistic when the season started. I thought I’d proven myself in that last exhibition game. Evidently not; and now it was too late to hope for anything more than the letter. There was still enough time to earn it. All I needed was to pitch a few innings in a league game or two. Surely Kerchman owed me that much.

  The next game was at home and we were playing Richmond Hill, a weak team. It was a perfect opportunity for him to make it all up to me. I was so certain I’d get to pitch that I invited my father and brother to the game. Neither of them showed up.

  While I was pondering that disappointment, Kerchman announced that Henry Koslan would start the game. My mouth was agape, and my legs went slack. I tried to hide my surprise. It was too early to panic, I assured myself. I’d probably get my innings later on.

  Before he even got a single out, Koslan had given up six runs. I kept waiting for Kerchman to tell me to head for the bullpen and warm up. Instead he brought in Silverstone, then Coan, then Makrides. How could he pass me up? This game meant nothing. What in the world could he be thinking?

  I sat on the bench, one minute seething with anger, and the next wanting to break down in tears. I was counting the put-outs until the game would end. But each inning we chipped away at the lead. It was the bottom of the seventh and we were only two runs down. That’s when he told me to warm up. I wanted to scream, “What took you so goddamned fucking long?” Instead, I threw listlessly in the bullpen, waiting for the end.

  With two out, we loaded the bases. A single would tie the game. Suddenly, an adrenaline rush. I saw myself out there pitching the top of the eighth with everything on the line. I started throwing harder. I prayed for a banjo hit, a blooper, a dying quail, a nubber with eyes—anything to get me in there. But Donnie Knott’s liner to short abruptly ended the game, and the next thing I remember I was standing in Kerchman’s office, yelling wildly at him, tears running down my face.


  “You don’t have to pitch me, coach,” I screamed. “Put me in the outfield, let me bat one time. I just want my goddamned letter.”

  He stood there in his jock strap and sleeveless undershirt and didn’t say a word. When I wound down, he shook his head and said, “Not bad. I didn’t think you had the balls for this.”

  Then he let me have it.

  “I decide who plays and who doesn’t,” he said deliberately.

  I was about to ask “Why Koslan and not me,” but before I could get it out he began to lecture me about morale and about how winning teams couldn’t afford to lose momentum right before the playoffs.

  What was I then, chopped liver? How about my morale, my confidence?

  Then, as if he knew he’d gone too far, he abruptly backed off.

  “Your day in the sun will come,” he said softly.

  His eyes narrowed. “And you had better be good and goddamn ready when it does.”

  So that’s what I get for my trouble. More clichés. I’d forgotten what I’d learned from Coach Bleutrich three years ago. Hard work didn’t matter, character didn’t matter, work ethic didn’t matter. In coaches’ minds, the only thing that counts is winning games. But how do you win games if you never get your ass off the bench?

  I walked home from the bus stop in a daze. Kerchman knew how badly I wanted this. That was his lever over me. He knew he could string me along. I’d already put up with it for two years. Deep down, I had been hoping all along that he was testing my resolve, toughening me up for game competition. But this time he’d gone too far. Two years before, when Sullivan pushed me to my limit, I retaliated. Now, I didn’t even have the heart to fight back. All I could do was to cut my losses and try never again to let myself get into this kind of bind—with him or anyone else.

  I thought about how life would be without Kerchman. No more five-hour practices and sitting on the bench; no more getting home at nine o’clock at night too tired to do my homework or to go hang out at Art’s candy store. It was the perfect time to tell him to take the uniform and stick it up his ass. Still, there was only one more week to get through. Why give that bastard the satisfaction? If I could just stick it out, I’d have all summer to put this bullshit behind me.

  Right about this same time, my grandfather Hymie had the second of two consecutive heart attacks. When he recovered he seemed weak and lethargic. But he still insisted on going to the track. There were more and more days when he skipped the flats and slept all afternoon so he’d have enough energy to go to Roosevelt at night.

  By now, the old racing crowd had broken up. Hymie was going to the track with Jimmy Sparrow, a retarded kid he’d been kind to when he still had the pharmacy. And just so he’d have company, sometimes he’d even take crazy Shep, the shell-shocked war vet, or old Hilda Bells, who he was still loaning money to. On occasion, he’d even go alone.

  My mother was concerned about him driving by himself. So once a week, usually on a Friday night, she’d give me fifty dollars, ostensibly to bet for her and Ruthie. But really it was a bribe to get me to go along with Hymie to the track. She didn’t have to buy me off, though. I was all too willing to be his accomplice again.

  It had been almost seven years since I’d spent any real time with Hymie. He was approaching seventy, and he seemed frail and tired. But the minute we got to the track, he was as animated as ever. This was his arena. This was what he lived for.

  As I watched him dope out his choices, it struck me that even after fifty years he wasn’t the least bit jaded about the horses. In fact, he took in the whole spectacle with the wonder and awe of a child who is seeing it for the first time. It reminded me of the enchantment I felt whenever I went to Ebbets Field, and the rush of exhilaration I experienced when I watched my father and his cronies on those summer Sundays. Isn’t this what made me want to become a ball player in the first place?

  As the semester came to an end, I was so caught up in my class project that I wasn’t even thinking about how it would affect my chances to become sports editor. That is, until the last week, when Jagust invited The Chat’s editorial board into our classroom. He introduced each one and then asked them to read our grades aloud. It seemed like a needlessly perverse gesture.

  Jagust’s minions were haughty and condescending. Some of them even giggled as they read the grades. Annoying as it was, the whole scene reminded me of how badly I wanted to be sports editor. I even imagined that I could be up there reading out the grades next year.

  A week before school ended, I was sitting in class brooding about Kerchman, when without any warning Jagust announced the names of next year’s editorial staff. It happened so fast that I didn’t even have time to get nervous. Out of the welter of names, the only one I heard was my own. “Thank you, God,” I mumbled under my breath. At that point, I don’t think I could have endured another setback.

  While the new editors were congratulating each other, I sat quietly in my seat. Why wasn’t I beside myself with elation? I’d wanted this job ever since I’d started high school. Yet all I could think about was how demoralizing it would be to write stories about my former coach’s and teammates’ achievements. My second thought was that maybe this would be my way of exacting some revenge. Neither were very appealing prospects.

  The final league game, top of the sixth. I was sitting on the bench thinking “only six more outs and I can finally pack it in.” Kerchman had one wrinkle left though, and I should have seen it coming. We were winning by six runs when he called me in to pitch. I wanted to say, “You pitch the fucking innings.” But I’d been waiting so long for this opportunity.

  I packed two years of frustration and rage into those two innings. If this was going to be it for me, I wanted to show that peckerhead what a mistake he’d made by passing me over. So I bore down and concentrated like it was the last game of the World Series. I snapped off curve balls and sinkers; I changed speeds and mixed locations. I got all six hitters in a row, easy outs.

  It was exhilarating to be out there. I wanted those two innings to last forever. When it was over, I was so high that I craved the varsity letter more than ever. I had goddamn earned it. Once I got it, I could walk away from the whole thing. Clean break, nothing more to prove to him—or to myself.

  As it turned out, we were eliminated again in the borough finals, by the same team, Bryant, and the same pitcher, Don Large, who’d beaten us the previous year. For the first time since I’d joined the team, Kerchman didn’t yell at us on the trip home or make a locker room speech. He just went into his office and cracked the door.

  I was relieved—and strangely elated—that this awful season was over. I couldn’t wait to turn in my uniform and get the hell out of there. But when I passed by his office, Mr K was still sitting in his chair staring at the wall. It was more than just a playoff defeat to him. He was losing two All-City pitchers and two All-Queens seniors from a squad that had won three straight league championships. Next year he’d be starting again from scratch. It was absolutely nuts, but my first impulse was to feel sorry for him.

  The mood at the banquet was subdued. Still, it was a prestigious event. Kerchman had invited two previous Kelly Award winners to make the customary inspirational speeches. When I listened to them delivering the old rah-rah, I remembered how good it felt to pitch those last few innings. Mike Hausig won the Kelly Award, and Berman and Gartner shared the Long Island Press MVP trophy. Next year those guys would be gone. No matter, I’d made up my mind to pack it in.

  Then, just as I expected, Koslan received his varsity letter. That sealed it. I knew I was next. When Kerchman shook my hand and handed me a minor letter my stomach turned over and I had to bite my lower lip hard to keep from crying. My knees were so wobbly I don’t know how I made it back to my seat. I couldn’t recall a single detail from the rest of the evening. I didn’t even wait for my father and brother to take me home. For hours I wandered around the neighborhood, hearing the same script over and over in my head. How could I have let him do t
his to me? Why didn’t I throw the fucking letter right back in his face?

  At one point, I found myself wandering barefoot on the beach, my suit pants rolled up to my knees. I took the letter out of my jacket and scaled it like a seashell into the Atlantic. I felt a pang of relief when it disappeared into the black sea. That night, and for three nights following, I didn’t sleep for more than a few hours at a time. Nobody in my family could console me.

  The last week of school I sat in the back of my classes hiding behind a book. I ducked into empty corridors when I saw teammates and acquaintances coming toward me. At noon I ate lunch alone in an empty classroom. And I cut out as soon as the three o’clock bell rang.

  I thought about possible reasons why Kerchman might have denied me the letter. Was this a punishment of some sort? Or was it another ploy? Could he have known somehow that the minute I got the letter I’d be history? I obsessed over it for days. But it didn’t matter what the reasons were. I’d have to have my head examined to go back for more. I was done with him and with baseball once and for all.

  My father knew how badly I was hurting inside. He wanted me to go back and play next year, but to his credit, he didn’t try to dissuade me. His silence was a dead giveaway, though. In his universe, there was no such thing as cutting your losses.

  To my mother though, it was a no-brainer.

  “Now you can get on with your own life,” she told me.

  Right, mom. And just what life would that be? Baseball was my life.

  13

  When school ended in June, I still couldn’t escape my melancholic thoughts. Five years of practice and striving and what did I have to show for it? Zilch. Bupkis. A big, fat goose egg. The question now was how to fill the void.

  To keep my mind occupied, I signed up for two summer teams—one in the local Rec League, and the O’Connell Post American Legion squad, a hand-picked all-star team composed of the best seventeen and eighteen year olds on the peninsula. Playing Legion ball was a step up in competition from high school. If I was good enough to make this team, then why in the hell wasn’t I good enough for Kerchman?