“So, what’s this about?” I asked her—half-anticipating her answer.
Julie was just the emissary here. All three of them, it seems, had gotten together and decided that each one would go out with me over the span of three nights. When Julie walked away, I was in a panic. I looked around the patio. Where was Steve? I bet he was in on this.
For a moment, all the old insecurities came rushing back. Maybe the girls hatched this scheme to satisfy their curiosity. Maybe they were just toying with me. Maybe it was all just a silly game to them. But whatever it was, they’d done everything they could to draw me out. I had no choice but to take them up on it.
On Friday, Steve wasn’t at camp. Without his counsel, I’d be flying blind all weekend.
My three-day odyssey began on Friday night at seven, when Linda picked me up at the Far Rockaway/Lawrence border. She was driving a white Fairlane convertible and wearing an all-white tennis outfit. Linda always had a spoiled rich girl air about her that reminded me of Jordan Baker, Nick Carraway’s sometimes confidante in The Great Gatsby. Blonde, athletic, and well tanned, she was about five foot seven, with a swimmer’s broad shoulders and well muscled calves and thighs. She even walked like a jock—slightly pigeon-toed and with a little swagger to her step.
Before I had a chance to ask what she’d like to do, she launched into what sounded like a pre-rehearsed monologue. I knew that Linda had a deep competitive streak in her, so I wasn’t all that surprised when she let me know in no uncertain terms that she was indeed a competitive swimmer, as well as a tennis player, horseback rider, and accomplished golfer. I half expected her to tell me next that she was a world champion croquet player.
That night, she drove me all over the Five Towns, pointing out all her old haunts. We drove past the golf course, the Hewlett duck pond, the tennis courts, and the yacht club. We cruised with the top down though narrow, winding roads lined with quaint old-fashioned street lamps and evocative names like Ivy Hill Road and Mill Pond Lane. I gawked like a tourist at the huge mansions with spotlights set atop sloping, manicured lawns—each house surrounded by lush vegetation and weeping willow trees. Everything about this scene was almost exactly as I’d imagined it.
Later on, while we were sitting in her car, she suddenly turned toward me and presented her bare right thigh for inspection.
“Squeeze it,” she said.
It didn’t take a genius to see that this wasn’t a sexual overture. Linda literally wanted me to feel how strong her thigh muscles were. It was her perverse way of letting me know that this was as far as I was going to get. But it was a wasted set-up. I had absolutely no designs on her. Attractive as she was, she’d already talked me out of any interest I might have had. Steve had Linda pegged, all right. She was an exhibitionist—big time.
It was the weirdest date I’d ever been on. And it would get odder. Without so much as asking, Linda drove back over to the tennis club to take a half-hour lesson from “Carlos,” the tall, swarthy looking club pro. What was Steve thinking when he made the trophy comment? At the moment, I felt more like I ought to be wearing a dunce cap. If all three girls acted like this, I wouldn’t have to worry about making any choices.
While I was waiting, I looked up and saw the orange glow from the club’s ballroom. I half expected to hear the “yellow cocktail music” that Nick Carraway had described so evocatively in Gatsby. It was my first close-up view of a world I’d been conjuring in my imagination for years. And except for Linda herself, I was intoxicated by everything I’d seen.
After a half hour had passed, I toyed with the idea of walking to the train station before Linda came back from her lesson. But masochist that I am, I stuck it out. I was curious to see what Linda might come up with next.
On the way home I was thinking that maybe my initial fears were right. Maybe this was all a big game to them. I couldn’t help but worry about what was in store for me the next night. Joanne, after all, was the most distant and aloof of all three.
Joanne’s demeanor at camp always made her seem so unapproachable. She never socialized or flirted with any of the male counselors, which made me wonder why she’d bothered to participate in this strange little drama in the first place.
Physically she resembled a fashion model—tall and reed slim, with slender legs, small breasts, and narrow shoulders. She had a long elegant neck and wore no makeup. Her dark brown hair was styled in a neat, shoulder-length pageboy. Despite the sophisticated look, Joanne had a coltish, tomboyish quality that attracted me. She wore baggy and rumpled clothes to camp, as if she was deliberately camouflaging her body. I had a hard time picturing her as a cheerleader.
Joanne’s family lived in an unpretentious white frame two-story ranch house, surrounded by immaculately pruned trees and flower gardens. It was tasteful but modest—by Woodsburg standards anyway. In my neighborhood, that house would have stood out like a palace.
Joanne’s parents—perhaps in their mid-forties—were polite and reserved. They dressed casually—in shorts and sneakers—as if they’d just gotten off the back nine. We talked about school, my plans, colleges—the usual polite conversation you’d expect. It hadn’t occurred to me until now that Linda never even invited me in to meet her parents.
When they left to take a walk, Joanne and I awkwardly debated about where we’d go and what we’d do—a movie, bowling, a hamburger and malt at Dave Schor’s, the local hangout. Instead, we took a walk into town and then came back and sat in her screened porch and talked—and talked and talked and talked—about books, jazz, even rock and roll.
I was relieved to see that this wasn’t going to be a facsimile of last night’s fiasco. I was also pleasantly surprised to see that Joanne was so receptive, and that we had some interests in common. I think she was also happy to see that I wasn’t just a dumb jock. Maybe Donna’s severe tutelage had been useful, after all.
Once she relaxed into it, Joanne began to talk about her passion for opera, ballet, and classical music. It was the first time she’d really let her guard down. I was fascinated by how animated she was, and impressed by how much she knew. But after a while, I began to feel like I was out of my depth.
By the time we wound down, it was close to midnight. The train whistle jolted me back to reality. I had to make the 12:30 to Far Rockaway or else I’d be stranded. We both stood up at the same moment, paused, and awkwardly kissed. It was a deep and passionate kiss, and I wanted it to go on and on. Just before we pulled away, Joanne said, “I hope we can see each other again.”
I was dumbfounded. This was the last thing I expected to hear. I didn’t know how to respond.
“I wish I’d never agreed to do this,” she said. “It was all Julie’s idea. When it’s about guys, she always gets what she wants.”
This complicated everything. Was Joanne really drawn to me? Or was there some kind of competition going on between the two girls? And where did Linda fit into all this? On the bus ride home, I was trying to dope it all out. Joanne and Linda had played two different hands. And just what did Joanne mean when she said that Julie always gets what she wants when it comes to guys? Then I caught myself. Three days ago this was an improbable fantasy. Where did I suddenly find the temerity to even be entertaining such thoughts?
Julie’s house was by far the most ostentatious of the three—a sprawling split-level ranch that sat up on a hill adjacent to the country club golf course. It had faux white columns, a terraced lawn, and a circular driveway. Two shark finned ‘57 Cadillacs, a white El Dorado, and a black Fleetwood Brougham, were parked out front. Above the garage was a backboard and a netted orange basketball hoop—the kind of set-up I’d always wanted in my own driveway.
I walked up the flagstone steps, still trying to sort out the past two night’s events. But as soon as Julie opened the door, my confusions melted away.
Julie was wearing a form-fitting canary yellow shift with a tightly belted sash. The outfit was clearly meant to call attention to her tapered waist and shapely hips. Her
chestnut brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail tied neatly in place with a yellow bow. I stood there, wide-eyed. Was this the same girl who wore oversized T-shirts and grubby denim shorts to camp every day?
When she turned to walk into the hall, I could see her breasts flexing against the cotton fabric. My pulse was racing and my breath came in short, ragged bursts. Steve and Joanne had alerted me that Julie could play the temptress. Until now, I hadn’t understood what they meant.
As she led me into the study, I shuffled along slowly, trying to compose myself but unable to take my eyes off her swaying hips and rounded derriere. If she was deliberately putting on a show, it was working. My face was flushed and hot, and my legs were rubbery. I felt like I was walking on a trampoline. Not exactly the ideal conditions to meet someone’s parents for the first time.
The dimly lit study was framed by floor-to-ceiling oak bookcases. I scanned the shelves desperately searching for a familiar title. All I saw were Reader’s Digest condensations and Book of the Month Club selections. The leather bindings even looked like props from a movie set. And I was worried about not being educated enough to impress them?
Julie’s parents were a real piece of work. Her father, a slender, slightly balding, dark complexioned man—was sitting on a peachcolored divan wearing a red satin bathrobe and scarlet house slippers. He had a glass of scotch on the rocks in one hand and he was holding up the Wall Street Journal with the other. When Julie introduced me, he muttered something under his breath and absently shook my hand without lifting his eyes from the paper.
Julie’s mother was a severe looking, stocky peroxide blonde. She fired a litany of questions at me; where did I go to school, what did my father do, where did we live? She nervously chain-smoked and avoided eye contact whenever she addressed me. As soon as I’d begin to answer one question, she’d cut me off and move on to the next. In the meantime, Julie’s father acted as if I wasn’t even in the room. It was as unnerving as getting the silent treatment from Kerchman.
“Don’t pay attention to them,” Julie said when we were out the door. “They never like any of my boyfriends.”
Great. Was that supposed to make me feel better?
All evening I felt like I was off balance. All I recall are a series of impressions—like jump cuts in a movie. I remember that Julie drove us to Jahn’s ice cream parlor in Cedarhurst. I know we sat at a white marble table and listened to Buddy Holly’s “That’ll Be the Day” many times over on the jukebox. I remember thinking how odd it was that every time we heard the refrain, “That’ll be the day when you say goodbye, that’ll be the day when you make me cry,” she would tease me about who would leave who first. I wondered what conclusions I was supposed to draw from that.
Julie’s persona confused me. The provocative way she dressed, the elaborate makeup, the beguiling persona, the rumors about her seductive manipulations—none of it meshed with the captivating, childlike manner she displayed at the ice cream parlor. We made the most mundane small talk: school, friends, people we knew, camp gossip. It was the kind of nonconversation that should have bored me to death—especially compared to the highbrow exchange I’d had with Joanne the night before. Yet I was taken by everything Julie said, no matter how trivial or inconsequential it seemed. It was almost as if she was hypnotizing me. Or, was I hypnotizing myself? In less than an hour, we’d established a familiarity and ease that made me feel like we’d been dating for years. At the same time, there was an undeniable sexual undercurrent to everything we said. Every time I looked at her, Julie’s deep brown eyes seemed to be probing right inside me
I was still pretty spacey when we left Jahn’s. As we walked to the car, Julie grabbed my hand, and then she drove us down to the yacht club basin, a mile from her house. She cut the lights and turned on the radio. The parking lot was the designated neighborhood make-out spot. Everyone’s windows were open, and you could hear the same strains of music coming from the other car radios. We were all tuned into the Murray the K Show.
Murray the K spun an uninterrupted string of rock and roll summer love songs, like “Long Lonely Nights,” “In the Still of the Night,” and “Tonight, Tonight,” while Julie and I made out for what seemed like hours. This DJ knew his audience, all right. He dedicated every love song “to all you submarine race watchers out there.”
It reminded me of all those Saturday nights when I listened to some of the same songs alone in my room, aching to be with Cindy Levine or some other unattainable girl. I thought about all those rejections and humiliations; and now, here I was, almost to third base with a pretty, popular cheerleader from the Five Towns.
As I rode home on the bus, I replayed every moment. Somehow Julie had managed to make the evening seem sportive and inviting. Even when we were making out, her playfulness put me at ease. The whole adventure felt like a dream.
But late that night, just as I was approaching my house, a chilling dread crept over me. I looked up and down the street at all the modest homes. Who was I kidding? All of these girls were far more worldly than I was. They had more experience with sex and romance. They had prep school suitors and college boyfriends. They’d been going to lavish, upscale parties since grade school. They had elegant wardrobes, and they drove their own cars. For their entire lives, they’d been bred to attend the top schools and marry the right kind of men. Yet here I was, about to embark on a courtship with one of them, a girl who only a month ago I thought would never even deign to give me a second look.
That night I didn’t get any sleep. I weighed all the pluses and minuses. Of the two girls, Joanne was the closest to my imagined ideal: smart, reserved, well-bred, and pensive. Her parents didn’t seem to mind that I was from a lower-income family. And let’s not forget that unexpected kiss. Intellectually though, Joanne was too far out of my league. In a few years she’d be studying at the Sorbonne or on scholarship at Holyoke, Smith, or one of the other “seven sisters” schools.
No matter how I rationalized it, my feelings for Julie were so intense, so overpowering, that it didn’t seem as if I had a choice. Yet, I kept thinking about what I was losing by letting Joanne go.
I talked it over with Steve on Monday morning. He already knew the story. It seems that both Julie and Joanne had called Annie. When I asked his advice, Steve was uncharacteristically hesitant.
“I don’t want to get near this one,” he said. “It’s gotta be your call.”
This was a new role for me. I’d never been the heartbreaker; never the leaver, always the leavee. When the moment arrived, I couldn’t find the words to express to Joanne the bewilderment and regret I felt. We both stammered and stuttered a lot of platitudes about still being friends. But neither of us really believed that that would happen.
After it was over, I felt guilty and foolish. When I told Julie the next night, I held my breath until I saw the smile on her face. I’d gotten what I wished for, but I still didn’t know if this was what I really wanted.
With everything else going on, I hadn’t been paying much attention to the Dodgers’ situation. In late July, O’Malley had announced that strong business interests in Los Angeles were urging the team to move out there. With each new disclosure, it was getting harder to fool myself.
At home games, of course, it was the only topic we could talk about. Everyone sensed what was coming. But none of us wanted to acknowledge it. We blindly kept on denying reality, hoping that something or someone would deliver us from our misery.
In early August, O’Malley’s negotiations with city administrators hit an impasse. Robert Moses, the most powerful of all city officials, staunchly opposed the new ballpark. Moses was like a czar. He was commissioner of parks, and he had jurisdiction over all city highways and urban projects. The new stadium, Moses said, would create a traffic hazard in downtown Brooklyn. His counter offer was a parcel of land in Queens, at Flushing Meadows, the site of the old 1939 World’s Fair. O’Malley refused, claiming that he wanted to keep the team in downtown Brooklyn. Today, of
course, Flushing Meadows is where the Mets and Shea Stadium reside.
By mid August nothing had been resolved. We didn’t know yet that the move to L.A. was already a done deal. We wouldn’t find out for two more months that the whole scenario had been an elaborate smokescreen.
At the beginning of August, our American Legion team made it to the regional finals. It was gratifying to get that far—in more ways than one. I was still intermittently brooding about Kerchman. The longer we kept on playing, the less time I’d have to fret about him, or about what was likely to happen next. That was reason enough to want the season to keep on going.
In the championship game we faced Hank Fischer, a hard-throwing high school All-American, who a few years later would be pitching for the Milwaukee Braves. We were overmatched from the start. Zeidner started, and I relieved him in the top of the seventh. We were behind 5-0, but I pitched those last three innings with the same intensity and concentration as if it was a scoreless tie. The only hit I gave up was a monster homer by Fischer. No excuses. He hit a good sinker almost 400 feet.
The minute the game was over, that old hollow feeling overcame me again. What if this was the last time I’d ever pitch? The last time I’d ever wear a baseball uniform? I’d been dreading the moment since I had decided to quit the high school team.
On August 19th Giants owner Horace Stoneham announced that at the end of the season the team was leaving for San Francisco. It confirmed all my worst fears. The Dodgers were certain to leave next. I had so many mixed emotions running through me, I didn’t know what to feel.
That night, my brother and I were watching a Dodger game on TV. Suddenly I began shouting so loudly that Alan sat up in his chair.
“That asshole could have used me next season,” I screamed. “I could have been his fucking Sal Maglie.”
I ranted on, as if no one was there. “But screw him. It’s his goddamned loss. He’ll never see my goddamn ass again, that’s for sure.”
Still Pitching Page 20
