Fascinated, I gamesomely fancy I am a child prodigy, a phenom, the youngest rookie in major league history. I suit myself up in full Dodgers battle dress and step up to the on-deck circle right beside them. For the next few minutes I absorb much wisdom from two of the greatest sages in the game.
The opening day sun pushes through a diaphanous morning haze and spreads its thermal blessing over the inaugural scene. I close my eyes and turn my face up toward the warmth, feeling as though life aboveground is good again—if only for a day. My face begins to glisten as I give myself to the sun’s goodness, and a heady sensation merges into a feverishly sweet delirium. Overwhelmed by the totality of the moment, I feel as though I am no longer in my seat but floating. I become less and less aware of my surroundings—the murmur of the growing crowd, the cries of prowling vendors, the popping of glove leather on the field below—all of it slowly fades away.
Like a christening spirit establishing occupancy, my physical body turns to vapor and disperses into the ambient surroundings, where I lay claim to my rightful place in the new milieu…
Leo Durocher points, Duke Snider turns around and stares, Leo makes a beckoning wave with his arm, the Sergeant stands up, Miss Cherry squeals again…and before you can say Hocus-Pocus, I am being hoisted over the wall and down into the solid arms of Edwin Donald “Duke” Snider, the pride of Compton, the Silver Fox, the Duke of Flatbush, future Hall of Famer, and MY HERO! A snapshot impression slices through time eternal.
Duke sits me down on the field and gives my hand a firm shaking. “Well, young man—I hear you’re my number one fan.”
My feet and legs are functioning, but I feel as though my body is levitating, probably because of the gallons of adrenaline displacing my blood supply. A grin wider than Los Angeles distorts my face, and my bladder quivers in response to an emergency pee-or-flee signal from my conflicted brain. When Duke lets go of my hand, my fingers instinctively toy with the sticky, honey-like residue of pine tar.
I can feel my head nodding up and down in the affirmative and I hear someone who sounds unmistakably like me say, “You’re the greatest, sir.” I am hopelessly starstruck.
Duke laughs shyly, and I notice an endearing modesty about him that I hadn’t expected. He is human, just like me. “Let’s hope Mr. O’Malley thinks so after the season is over.”
He winks at Mr. Durocher, who is standing within earshot. “What’s your name, son?”
It must be the excitement, but now I really do have to go to the bathroom. I lick my dry lips. “Wade Parker, sir.”
“Wade Parker—boy, that sure sounds like a ball player’s name. Matter of fact, we’ve got a young man named Wes Parker in our farm system. We think he’s going be a heck of a ball player in a couple of years.”
I can’t believe this is really happening. I will be dancing like Luke again if I don’t do something soon to relieve the pressure in my bladder. “Duke, sir—um, Mr. Snider, I mean.” I sound like I have a mouth full of marbles. “I’m really sorry, but I have to go to the bathroom.”
“No problem. Have you ever been in a big league clubhouse?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, how ’bout we pretend you’re a young sportswriter or something. That’ll be fun. Come on, follow me.”
My heart rate triples, and my smile wraps around to the back of my head as Duke Snider leads me into the Dodgers’ dugout. Unbelievable!
The Dodgers’ manager, Walter Alston, is standing in the dugout near the clubhouse entrance. He’s talking on a telephone and looks up startled to see a shrimp like me in his dugout.
“It’s okay, Walt. He’s a cub sportswriter from the Los Angeles Times. He’s with me.”
Mr. Alston nods and keeps talking into the phone.
We enter the clubhouse just as someone yells: “Infield practice!” The booming voice startles me. Big men wearing baseball uniforms head my direction, and I feel like an indecisive squirrel in the middle of a road, unsure which way to dart to avoid being run over.
My senses are just beginning to stabilize when I bump smack into Johnny Podres. “Oops! Sorry. Excuse me, sir.”
“Hey there, kid, how are you doing?”
“Fantastic, sir. Good luck today.”
Podres is pitching the historic first game in Dodger Stadium. It is quite an honor. He smiles and gives me the thumbs-up.
It’s about an hour before the pregame festivities are scheduled to begin. Activity in the clubhouse is frenetic. Ball players, trainers, real sportswriters, and team executives scurry about the clubhouse with no evident organized purpose. I find the hubbub very exciting.
“The urinals are that way.” Duke points beyond where I am standing wide-eyed and marveling. “Go ahead. I’ll wait right here for you.” He smiles reassuringly.
I head down a corridor past a dozen players, recognizing some, not recognizing others, and turn a corner into a bathroom and shower area. I step up to the trough and unzip. Alone for the moment in the belly of Dodger Stadium, I try to convince myself to be calm and accept that this is really happening. I am almost positive I am not dreaming. After about ten seconds my euphoria bursts out in a nervous giggle. Who would believe it!
Major league chatter, metal cleats gnashing on concrete, raucous laughter—the symphony of the locker room resonates off sparkling tile walls. Standing there at the urinal, I am wound up so tight with amazement I really have to concentrate to go. I need to reach up a little by standing on the balls of my feet. This can’t be a dream. If I were dreaming, I would dream myself to be tall enough for a major league urinal!
Then, an amiable voice startles me so I almost fall over. “Rookies are getting younger every year.”
I turn my head toward the voice and look up, way up. Don Drysdale stands towering over the trough less than ten feet away.
“No, sir, Mr. Drysdale. I’m not a rookie. I’m a reporter with the Los Angeles Times.”
I am so unnerved I almost lose my balance. I dip my knees to keep from rolling over backward, which causes me to splatter on the front edge of the porcelain trough. I must look something like a newborn colt trying to stand up for the first time. There is nothing I can do to recover my dignity.
Mr. Drysdale chuckles. “You can’t be a reporter, kid, you’re much too polite.” He winks, tucks in his jersey, cinches his belt, and adjusts his cap. “Don’t forget to wash your hands, kid. See ya.”
Back out in the locker room, I find Duke talking with Sandy Koufax. A twinge of sadness scurries through me as I think about how thrilled Luke would be if he were here with me now. Luke has been unhappy with the Dodgers since they traded Charlie Neal to the Mets, but he still thinks the world of Sandy Koufax. Maybe, out of kindness, I won’t tell him I saw Sandy Koufax. Not a chance.
Duke spots me. “Hey, Wade, come here and meet Sandy Koufax.”
I stick out my hand and realize too late that I haven’t rinsed all of the soap off. I’m not accustomed to washing my hands every time but wasn’t about to go against Don Drysdale’s orders.
Mr. Koufax smiles warmly and shakes my hand. If he notices the soap, he doesn’t say anything. “I hear you’re a sportswriter.”
“Not really, sir—I’m too polite to be a sportswriter.”
Duke and Sandy are momentarily speechless. Then they look at each other and crack up. Mr. Koufax pats me on the back. “You know something, Duke? This kid is all right. Maybe he’ll bring us some good luck today.”
“Yeah, maybe we should have Podres rub his head a little.”
Still laughing, Sandy Koufax rubs the top of my closely cropped noggin and walks away shaking his head. “Hey, Perranoski! Wait till you hear this one!”
Duke continues to chuckle as he leads me back out to the dugout. Mr. Alston is still on the phone and doesn’t pay any attention to us. We walk back out into the warm sunshine, and I feel completely charged up, rife with enthusiasm—so alive. And I’m not at all nervous anymore.
Mr. Durocher is over by the wall talking to t
he Sergeant. I look up in the seats and see Luke and Miss Cherry waving to me. I grin but am feeling way too cool to wave back.
Duke notices them, too. “Is that your mom and your brother?”
I am uncomfortable with his question and not quite sure how to respond. I like it that he thinks Miss Cherry is my mother, but at the same time it makes me feel guilty and disloyal to Lucinda. “That’s my brother. His name is Luke.” I try to ignore the other part of his question.
“Your mom is very pretty. I’m not wild about her hairdo though.”
I giggle in agreement, noticing a couple of popcorn kernels still nested on top of Miss Cherry’s head. “She isn’t my mother. She’s a real good friend of ours.”
“Oh. Is that your dad talking to Leo?”
I am caught off guard again. This time his question gives me a little stabbing feeling, and I know it’s already too late to mask the pain. “No, sir. He’s also a good friend. Earl, um, our father, abandoned us a few years ago.”
Duke doesn’t say anything, but a sympathetic sadness fills his eyes. It seems he’s gotten the whole picture from that one word, and he glances up to the seats where his own family sits. The life of a professional baseball player requires a lot of travel. Maybe he has some regrets about being away from his wife and kids so much. I stand there feeling like a textbook example of abandonment.
Duke puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me around so I face toward the field. The Dodgers’ infielders have taken their positions and are in the process of stretching and limbering up. One of the coaches has arrived at home plate and is preparing to hit some ground balls.
Duke kneels on one knee and puts an arm around my waist. “Do you think you might want to play in the big leagues someday?”
“Not really. I’m just an average athlete. I might want to be a policeman, though.”
“Police work can be kind of dangerous, don’t you think?”
“Yes, sir. But not nearly as dangerous as facing pitchers like Bob Gibson or Don Drysdale.”
His eyes turn serious. “You’ve got a point there, my friend.”
“My brother is a big fan of Charlie Neal.” I release a sarcastic chuckle. “He’s not very happy with the Dodgers for trading him.”
“Charlie’s a friend of mine. Baseball is a tough business. Sometimes players get traded. But going to the Mets isn’t necessarily a bad thing for Charlie. He’s from Brooklyn, and it’s always a big deal to play for your hometown team. Like me growing up in Southern California and getting to play ball for the Los Angeles Dodgers. Charlie will help them win some games, but it’ll be some years before the Mets are a competitive ball club.”
“I hope the Dodgers never trade you, Duke.”
He smiles and gazes wistfully toward center field. “I’m a Dodger, Wade. I might not know how to play baseball in any other uniform.”
“I think you’re the greatest center fielder of all time, sir.”
The silver fox grins. “You think so?”
“Yes, sir, I sure do.”
“Boy, I don’t know about that, Wade.” The modesty shows again. “There are some exceptional center fielders in the game right now. There’s Willie Mays and Mickey Mantle, for example.”
“They are terrific players. But I happen to think you’re a little better.”
“Boy, you are my biggest fan, aren’t you?”
“Yep.”
“Well, I sure do appreciate that. But just between you and me, and strictly off the record, Mr. Baseball Writer, I believe Joe DiMaggio is the best center fielder of all time.”
Duke stands up, signaling the end of our chat. He looks over to Leo and the Sergeant and gives them the high sign with his eyebrows. “You know something, Wade? Well, I hope you don’t mind me offering a little advice about your father and all. Sometimes I can be pretty hard on myself, and, well, there’s a little saying I learned along the way that has helped me through some rough spots. We must find a way to forgive, or we only end up blaming ourselves.”
A feeling of great trust wells up in me, and squinting there in the wonderful Dodger sun, I look at him. “But what if it’s me who needs forgiving?”
“Hmm?” Boy, now that is a very important question. I guess if we really think about it, the whole world needs forgiving. But you’re a young man, Wade. If you’re already carrying something heavy on your shoulders, chances are whatever it is probably doesn’t belong on your shoulders anyway.
“I was thinking more along the lines of your father taking off and abandoning you. That’s an awful thing for a father to do, but who knows what troubles he might have on his shoulders. I’m not making any excuses for him, but if you can find it in your heart to forgive him, it will be a good thing for you.”
Duke smiles as I consider his meaning. But Earl doesn’t deserve forgiveness. I struggle with the core of his advice. Realizing I will have to chew on it, I just look at him, and he smiles and squeezes my shoulder.
I flip-flop over a wild notion to tell him about the dead man of Three Ponds, and the image of Duke Snider suddenly dissolves…
“Wade!”
“Huh?” Startled, I snap my head around.
“Are you all right, honey? You look a little pale.” Miss Cherry places the back of her hand on my forehead.
I was dreaming! “Yeah—I’m okay. Sorry, I guess I was thinking too hard or something.”
“I guess so, sweetie. Lyle’s been calling you. He wants you to come over there by him.” She points and nudges me out of my seat.
I see the Sergeant motioning to me to hurry up. Miss Cherry looks electric with pent-up enthusiasm, like she is in on a big secret. I pick a popcorn kernel out of her hair as I slip by her toward the open aisle. I look back at her and Luke once more, and then cautiously make my way over to the Sergeant.
I am still numb from my midday fantasy as I approach the Sergeant, but I perk up some as I come under the influence of his captivating grin. I walk up next to him and put my hand on the railing. “Yes, sir?”
“Ah, here he is. Wade, I’d like you to meet—Duke Snider.”
I start to slump to my knees and have to grip the railing with both hands to steady myself. My heart bangs and clatters, I blink hard, swallow harder, and peer over the railing straight down into the face of my real live hero.
He raises his arm and offers his hand to me. “Hello, Wade. I’m Duke Snider. I’m very glad to meet you.”
I have enough sense about me to reach over the rail and take his hand. I squeeze firmly and grind as much pine tar into my pores as I can, planning never to wash my hand again. “It’s a great honor to meet you, Mr. Snider.” I got that out in a surprisingly clear and forceful voice. I immediately notice the bat he used for batting practice is still resting on his shoulder.
“Wade here is going to be twelve years old next month, Duke. My fiancée and I brought him and his brother to the opener as a treat, and kind of an early birthday present for Wade.”
“No kidding. What day is your birthday, Wade?”
“May 30, sir.”
Duke warms with an obvious twinkle in his eye. “You know something, Wade? May 30, 1950 was a very good day for both of us.”
“Yes, sir, it surely was. You hit three home runs in the second game of a doubleheader against the Phillies at Ebbets Field that day. And the Dodgers won. It was a Tuesday.”
Duke’s mouth hangs open.
The Sergeant appears proud of me. “Pretty special kid, huh, Duke?”
“I’ll say. Wade, it seems me and you are kind of connected.”
His words make me light-headed. “Wow—thank you, sir.”
“I’ve been blessed with a lot of good fans, especially back in Brooklyn. And you’re right there with the best of them.”
My heart soars and hovers around the third deck. “I think you’re the greatest center fielder of all time, Duke.” My words of praise ring forth like a familiar echo. It seems to me I rehearsed that line just a minute or two ago.
&n
bsp; Duke’s winning smile grows bigger and better than the Sergeant’s best grin. “Tell you what, Wade. How would you like to have this bat as an early birthday present?”
“Really?” My face beams brighter than Queenie in the noonday sun, and my hand grasps the handle of the bat so quickly I startle myself.
“It’s yours.”
“Thank you!”
“You’re welcome, son. Have a great birthday.”
Suddenly my eyes pool up. Embarrassed and confused, my male conditioning quickly checks the outburst. Is this really happening? Or am I still in the middle of a daydream?
But the Duke’s regal scepter, tightly gripped in my sweaty little hands, is as real as real can be. It peals true and solid like the Duke’s advice about forgiveness as I tap it firmly on the concrete deck. A therapeutic vibration travels up my arm and ripples across my chest, magically giving me power. The sound and the feel of that simple shaft of lathed wood instantly fills a good portion of the bleak void in my soul.
Since long before Earl ran off to Barstow, a dearth of love has battered my psyche and left my heart raw as an open wound. My mind and spirit have been festering ever since. Now a gift from the noblest of all baseball royalty commences a painless debridement of my wound. At last the tide is turning. At last I am moving in the right direction. At last my wound has begun to heal.
The Sergeant brushes his hand over the top of my head. His reassuring touch triggers the tears again, and overpowered by joy, I break down completely. Through eyes blurred like rain-streaked windows, I gaze down at Duke Snider. Glorious Dodger sunshine pours across his mirth-filled face, making his silver-stubbled cheeks sparkle with glitter. His compassionate smile tells me everything is going to be okay.
In his eyes the message is implicit: I must find a way to forgive, or I’ll only end up blaming myself. But to me this is a conundrum of untold scale.
The Dodgers lost the opener six to three. But I was so enamored with the bat, I didn’t really care who won or lost. My favorite Dodger got the historical first hit in Chavez Ravine. He also hit the last two home runs in historic Ebbets Field.
Billy Goat Hill Page 20
