Still Pitching

by Michael Steinberg

  Stoneham’s announcement and my final Legion game had triggered all the pent-up rage and frustration that had been building inside me since the baseball banquet in June.

  Alan crossed his arms and stared at me as if to say, “Are you having a nervous breakdown?”

  The last ten days of August were like a jubilant binge. Julie and I saw each other every night. Her reason for letting loose was, she said, to get back at her parents. Since mid July we’d been pushing against their disapproval—which of course drew us even closer together.

  The family skirmish began two days after our first date, when Julie’s parents abruptly grounded her. To retaliate, she cooked up a scheme with Virginia and Joe, the maid and handyman—both of whom adored Julie and hated her parents. One night, as soon as her mother and father had gone to sleep, Virginia and Joe snuck me in through the basement door. Julie and I spent the night down in her basement rec room, making out. They snuck me out at sunrise.

  After Julie’s parents gave her back the car, she’d meet me at the train station and we’d park at the yacht basin. Other nights we’d double date with our allies, Steve and Annie—both of whom were already veterans of this war.

  Some nights we’d buy a couple of six-packs of beer, crank the top down on Annie’s convertible, and at sunset we’d head out for the beach. Annie and Steve would take turns driving fast on the winding back roads, while Julie and I careened from one side of the backseat to the other, laughing and grabbing at one another. The tires squealed and the brakes screeched as we leaned into the sharp curves. The summer wind whipped our hair in our faces, and we all sang along at the top of our voices to songs like “Whispering Bells,” “Whole Lot of Shakin’ Going On,” “Teddy Bear,” “Long Tall Sally,” and “Jenny, Jenny.”

  It was all so new and exhilarating. I’d never cut loose like this before, never allowed myself to be so reckless and uninhibited. Part of it was a celebration of my good fortune. The other part was an escape from all the painful setbacks of the past three months.

  On the last Saturday night in August the four of us bowled a few frames at Falcaro’s on Rockaway Turnpike, and then we drove out to the Sunrise Diner at midnight for hamburgers and shakes. We ended up back at Annie’s house, drinking wine and beer, and dancing to the Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Buddy Holly, and Elvis records we were playing on Annie’s stereo.

  After Steve and Annie snuck off to Annie’s bedroom, Julie and I made out for hours on the living room sofa. I couldn’t help but wonder what was going on up there. But I wasn’t about to bring it up to Julie. A few nights before, in the front seat of Julie’s Buick, we were both down to our underwear when she called a timeout. I was frustrated and disappointed, but I didn’t put up an argument—or even try and talk her out of her decision. I was too afraid to risk doing anything that might queer what we had going. And I was a bit uncertain about how I’d react if we did agree to go all the way. I still carried the memory of how it all turned out with Karen back in eighth grade. Somehow I felt like I needed to erase that failure before I could move on.

  Without baseball to distract me, and with nothing to anchor me until school began, I had sex on the brain again. And being at camp each day didn’t help matters any.

  Lately, whenever Ronnie and Rob bragged about their sex lives, it made me even more self-conscious about still being cherry. Both of them, and Peter too, had made it this summer with Sandy and Lynn from the kitchen staff. Rob said that there was still time for me to take a shot at both girls. He even offered to wire up the deal in exchange for Ellen’s phone number. I thought about it. But everyone at camp knew I was going steady with Julie. It would be too risky.

  It’s funny how quickly perceptions change when it comes to girls and sex. Ever since the picnic, both of those guys had been buddying up to me—inviting me to parties and offering to drive me to work in the morning. It was all because they believed I was sleeping with Ellen and Julie. I can’t deny that I was enjoying their solicitations. But holding on to my secret was beginning to wear on me. It was time for another heart-to-heart with Steve.

  It was the last week of camp, and for the past ten days Steve had been after me for details about what was happening between Julie and me. I wanted him to think we were sleeping together, but he was bound to find out the truth from Annie sooner or later.

  I’d put it off for too long. Next week we’d all be back in school. Who knows if I’d get a chance to talk about this again? So on the last day of camp, I came clean with him.

  Steve being Steve, he simply said, “We gotta get you in the saddle right away.”

  He didn’t waste a minute. Later that day, he told me that we had an eight o’ clock appointment in the city.

  “You mean hookers”? I said.

  “Not hookers, prostitutes. Two classy call girls. Julie and Annie will never know.”

  It was true. Annie was already up at Kutcher’s with her parents. Tonight Julie would be going to the Catskills with her family.

  There was no backing out of this one. Neither of us had anything planned for the weekend. Steve was playing Tom Sawyer again to my Huck Finn. But I allowed it for good reason. If I could get past this last hurdle, maybe I’d be ready to pilot my own course.

  On the subway ride into the city, Steve was already into his role. He explained, in graphic detail, how it had taken almost a year before Annie finally “came around.” He described his tactics with great animation, and proceeded to regale me with strategies for “breaking down Julie’s resistance.”

  His m.o. fascinated me. Sex was like a system to him.

  “If you hang in there,” he said, “it’s bound to happen with Julie sooner or later.”

  Then, with his usual enthusiasm, he filled me in on the details for tonight. Gus and Sally Cole were sisters, he said. They “specialized” in taking on prep school boys and guys from Ivy League colleges. I loved the way he used the word specialized. Then he recounted how he and his best friend, David Bernstein, had arranged a visit to the Cole sisters over a year ago.

  “We called up and told them that we were Steve and David Carter, and that our father owned Carter’s Little Liver Pills.”

  “And who are we tonight?” I asked.

  “We’re seniors at Andover, and we’re headed back to school on Monday.”

  By this time I was starting to worry whether I’d be able to go through with it.

  “Suppose they’re old or homely?” I said.

  But he didn’t bite. “You’ll see when we get there,” he said.

  How could he be so damn composed?

  When we got off at West Fourth, we had about a half hour to kill, so we walked around the Village, stopping to comb our hair in the store window reflections. At eight, we found the old brick apartment building on Bleeker. Steve rang the bell, and the buzzer sounded. We pushed open the creaking wooden door and headed up the stairs. My stomach began to turn over. The hallway reeked of stale onions and decaying plaster. A door at the top of the stairway swung open and in the backlight I could make out the silhouette of a tall, slender girl with a ponytail. That’s when it became real to me. I felt my windpipe tighten. I could hardly breathe. As she ushered us into the apartment, I was thinking, “Please God, let me get through this.”

  When we stepped onto the faded Persian rug, small plumes of dust spiraled up from under our shoes. The only pieces of furniture were a faded grey love seat against the far wall, a beat-up old coffee table, and two wooden dining room chairs. The room was lit by two old table lamps draped with colored scarves. The tiny room was stuffy and hot.

  The girl took our jackets and shook our hands.

  “Hi, I’m Sally,” she said.

  I’d always envisioned prostitutes as dark-haired and stocky, wearing tight black skirts, fishnet stockings, and black sweaters that camouflaged large, sagging bosoms. But Sally looked like she was in her late twenties or early thirties. It was hard to make out her facial features in the dim light. She was wearing a pair of for
m-fitting black slacks, a white satin blouse buttoned at the top, and tan ballet slippers. I thought the slippers were an exotic touch. I wondered if she was a model or maybe even a dancer.

  Her outfit was modest, but it highlighted her smallish breasts, firm rear end, and long legs. Her honey-colored hair was pulled back over her ears, and she wore a yellow ribbon tied in a bow where the ponytail broke off. I felt something stir inside. The ponytail, the ribbon—both reminded me of my first date with Julie. For a second I imagined Sally standing there with all her clothes off except for the yellow ribbon and the ballet slippers.

  “We have beer, wine, or soda,” she said.

  “Two beers,” Steve said—a little too eagerly, I thought.

  Sally asked us a lot of small-talk questions: Where did we go to school? What were we studying? Where did we want to go to college? What did our fathers do for a living? It struck me as odd that the prelude to having sex with a prostitute was not much different than being interviewed by Julie’s and Joanne’s parents.

  I was relieved that Steve didn’t launch into the Carter’s Little Liver Pills routine. But I was also thankful that he did do most of the talking. I was too nervous. I don’t think I could have gotten a coherent sentence out.

  Then Gus came in and introduced herself. The name Gus put me off. She was dressed in tan slacks, a tight black sweater, and those same ballet slippers, only in black. She had dirty-blonde short hair that was shaped like a football helmet. Gus was huskier and sterner looking than her “sister.”

  They excused themselves and disappeared down the darkened hallway. In a few seconds they returned, followed by two huge black cats, both of which had long, sharp claws. When she saw the look on our faces, Gus said, very softly, “Oh don’t be afraid, they’re black panthers—quite domesticated though. We keep them around in case guys don’t pay up or try and get rough. Happens sometimes.”

  The message was, “Let’s be very clear here. This is business.”

  “By the way,” she said. “Could you leave the thirty on the table over there? You’ll each get a buck back for good behavior.” I thought that was an interesting touch.

  They left us alone to make our decisions. I’d already made up my mind. Gus reminded me too much of my old grade school teachers. Besides, Sally had the yellow ribbon.

  “I want the younger one,” I said. I was startled by my own assertiveness.

  “Nope, she’s mine” Steve said, like it had already been decided. “I did the leg work, I get to pick.”

  My heart sank. I thought this was about getting me laid.

  Sally padded back into the living room.

  “Just follow me boys,” she said.

  As she led us down a long, dark hall, she looked back at Steve and pointed to a door on the right. How did she know? The bastard shot me the thumbs-up sign and went in. My heart was pounding. Then I saw a crack of light creeping out from under a door.

  “Good luck, sweetheart,” Sally said.

  I cringed. Why couldn’t it have been her?

  The room was spare and dingy. Another lamp with a scarf draped over it gave off the only light. Against the wall was an old army cot with the bed covers rolled back. The wooden floor creaked with each step I took. Gus shouted from behind the bathroom door, “Take your clothes off honey and get comfortable—I’ll be right out.”

  I took off everything but my jockeys. My stomach was queasy. It was just like the dread I felt on the first day of grade school.

  I heard the toilet flush, and Gus stepped into the bedroom wearing only a transparent nightgown that came down to her knees. Underneath, I could see the contour of her body—full breasts, a thatch of dark pubic hair, hefty thighs. She undid the string at the neck of her nightgown, and her breasts floated free. I remembered the night I spied on my neighbor Diana through the open window. I desperately wanted to feel that same wonder and awe. Instead, my hands and feet were freezing and I felt a knot balling up in my stomach.

  “Just relax,” she said. “I’ve broken in a lot of boys just like you.”

  She led me over to the bed and pulled off my jockeys. She fiddled around with my limp penis, then took it into her mouth. I started giggling—a nervous reaction. My stomach was tight as a coiled spring.

  “A little ticklish, are we?” she said. She was being generous.

  “I know you’re cherry, and I know you’re scared. It’s okay. Just let me do the work.”

  It would have been stupid to lie to her. I closed my eyes and sunk back on the bed. She continued to stoke my penis and move her tongue slowly up and down the shaft. I thought about Sally, wearing nothing but those ballet slippers. I began to feel a tingling sensation deep in my belly.

  “You’re doin’ real good,” she said. “Now, I want you to think about the sexiest girl you know, the one you’re dying to go to bed with. Then, make believe I’m her.”

  It was as if she was reading my mind and giving me permission at the same time. I closed my eyes and slowly called up my old recurrent fantasy of Cindy Levine lying on her back under the boardwalk, dress hiked up over her hips, panties rolled down to her ankles. When my erection was at half-mast, Gus rolled a condom over my penis. It broke the reverie, but when she climbed on top and slid it between her thighs, the image that flashed into my mind was of Julie floating toward me, completely naked, except for the yellow ribbon in her hair.

  Gus knew exactly when it was time. She started to rhythmically gyrate and pump, slowly and then faster, then up and down like a bucking horse. I held on tight, Julie’s image still clear in my mind. When it was over, I was so elated I wanted to kiss her. I didn’t care that it was all business. If all prostitutes were like her, they should be charging analysts’ rates.

  An indolent fatigue set in—a pleasant exhaustion, a feeling of being completely spent—the kind of sensation that ball players describe when they say that they “left it all out on the field.”

  When we got back in the living room, Steve and Sally were dressed and sitting on the love seat.

  “What took you so long, stud?” Steve laughed. Why was he still pulling rank on me?

  Sally said, in a mock Southern Belle tone, “Sugar, the best lovers know how to take their time.”

  She looked right at me and winked. I’ll bet it was all part of their schtick. Sally, the actress—Gus, the shrink.

  When Steve got up to go to the john, Sally came over to me and whispered, “That one is all talk. He never even got it up.”

  By the time we were on the subway, I was flushed with my success. I had no idea whether what Sally said about Steve was true or not, but it was reassuring to think that my fears weren’t so unnatural after all—that even a stud like him might not succeed at sex every time. It was one more myth I could now put to rest.

  15

  When school resumed in the fall, I was still giddy from the afterglow of the summer’s escapades. Plus, everything I’d been longing for was now coming my way. I had my own column and full supervision of the new reporters. The high school sports editors at the Times and Herald Tribune assigned me to write up the football games, this time for a small honorarium. During the first week of classes, I was chosen for Arista, the honor society. Then Mr. Rosenthal, the senior play advisor, invited me to help write the script and play a role in the actual production.

  It was almost if I’d had blinders on for the last five years. I’d talked myself into believing that making the varsity would be my only avenue to popularity and recognition The reality was that baseball wasn’t responsible for any of the honors and distinctions I’d recently earned. Or for my relationship with Julie. Or even for losing my virginity. None of this would have happened, in fact, had I persisted in seeking out Kerchman’s approval.

  A week after football practice began, I was in The Chat office revising my first column when the phone rang.

  “Where the goddamned hell have you been?” Kerchman snapped. “You’re my head football manager, get your ass down here.”


  What chutzpah! And how had he found me? Did Kerchman really believe I’d jump at the chance to be a gloried water boy? Again? Did he have no memory? No conscience? In his twisted scheme of things, there was probably no reason why I shouldn’t have been honored by his invitation. But I couldn’t risk a face-to-face meeting—couldn’t let him get to me again. I had too much to lose.

  When Kerchman wanted to be a bastard, he could browbeat you without feeling an ounce of remorse. But he could also be a sweet talker. I’d seen it up-close too many times. Oh how I ached for the opportunity to turn him down. I’d been thinking about this moment since June. All summer, I’d been rehearsing what I’d say. I’d tell him point blank that if he’d given me the varsity letter, I’d have been happy to help him out. And the truth is that I would have—in a blink. Even if I didn’t want to do it.

  But now that the moment had arrived, all I could do was stammer a polite, weak-ass excuse about having already made other commitments. I braced myself for the fallout. All he said though was, “I see,” and he hung up. Just like that, it was over and done with. Okay, I’d reclaimed my dignity and pride. I’d vindicated myself. Why then did I feel so guilty—as if I’d somehow undermined him?

  For the next hour I couldn’t concentrate on the column. Every five minutes I fought off the impulse to call him back. Why did he still have such a stranglehold over me?

  I’d just about talked myself out of calling him back, when Andrew Makrides dropped the news on me the following morning. Two days ago Henry Koslan had died of leukemia. The whole team would be attending the memorial service the next day. “Kerchman wants you there too,” Makrides said. Coach K, it seems, had known about Koslan’s condition for almost a year. But he’d promised the family he wouldn’t tell anybody.

  So that’s why he started Koslan in that last game. And that’s why Koslan got his letter and I didn’t. Despite it all, I still didn’t want to give in. I earned that letter. And why couldn’t he have explained it to me—even after the fact? Why did I have to hear it from Makrides? Apparently, this little dance wasn’t over yet. Certainly not in Kerchman’s mind. Maybe not in mine either.