A Hero Grows in Brooklyn Page 2

  “Look!” cries Steve, “it’s Yogi Berra! For real!” Steve's pointing to the short, knobby catcher wearing his number 8 jersey. Berra is standing behind home plate signaling to Whitey Ford, the Yankees starting pitcher, to begin his warm-ups.

  “Let’s see what’s in this bag ya mom packed, besides your jacket,” says Ricky. “Look, a bag of peanuts. Oh, we got us a box of Cracker Jacks, too. Steve, your madre’s carissimo!”

  “Soda heah!” yells a tall skinny kid carrying a large tray of cups. “Soda heah!”

  Ricky waves at him.

  The skinny kid hustles down the steps to get to Ricky.

  “Let me have two Cokes,” says Ricky.

  * * * *

  Soon the game gets underway.

  Ford looks mighty good as he quickly strikes out Goodman and gets Klaus to pop up. There’s some respectful boos when Ted Williams, the six foot four superstar for the Sox, batting .386, steps to the plate. Working the count full, then fouling off a couple of tough pitches, Williams finally gets a hold of one, smashing a blazer toward first but Collins snares it.

  In the bottom of the first, Boston’s pitcher, six feet seven Frank Sullivan, looks pretty sharp himself as he retires Carey, Cerv, and McDougald—one, two, three.

  The game moves into the top of the second.

  “Pretty tight American League pennant race this year,” says a man with a straw hat, his binoculars resting on his belly.

  “I’m pretty nervous about Chicago,” Ricky replies. “They’ve been creeping closer and closer to us all month. This morning they were just two games out.”

  Ford hurls another scoreless inning.

  In the bottom of the second, through the reverberating public address system, the fans hear the distinctive, precise, resonant voice of the stadium’s announcer, Bob Sheppard. “NOW… NOW… now, COMING TO BAT… COMING TO BAT… coming to bat, FOR THE NEW YORK YANKEES… FOR THE NEW YORK YANKEES… for the New York Yankees, THE CENTER FIELDER… THE CENTER FIELDER… the center fielder, NUMBER SEVEN… NUMBER SEVEN… number seven, MICKEY… MICKEY… Mickey, MANTLE… MANTLE… Mantle.”

  Many of the fans, who had been listlessly watching the game and chatting, lean forward in their seats while joining their voices to the cheers.

  The Yankees’ switch hitting slugger, batting from the left side, approaches the plate. Just before stepping into the batter’s box, he pulls off his hat to wipe his brow, revealing his blond hair.

  “Boy, he could pass for a high school kid,” says Ricky.

  “That’s really Mickey Mantle,” says Steve. “For real!”

  Ricky smiles.

  Now Mantle steps into the batter’s box and sets himself. Here comes the pitch. Mantle begins to swing, but suddenly jerks his bat back.

  “STRIKE!” bellows the ump as he turns to his right and violently throws out his right fist with its index finger extended.

  Tumultuous cries and boos! Apparently, quite a few fans think the pitch was clearly outside, and they’re not exactly shy about letting the home plate umpire know they disagree with him.

  On the next pitch, a low inside fastball, the Mick begins his swing and his thick neck muscles bulge, his taut arms surge forward, and CRACK!!!

  Steve and those sitting around him almost strain their necks following the path of the ball as it rockets from home plate to the deepest part of the upper deck in right field for a gigantic, home run.

  “I can’t believe the way that kid can hit!” exclaims a burly red faced guy sitting beside Steve as the Mick begins his trot around the bases, clenched fists slowly pumping at his sides, head and eyes down, unsmiling, and seemingly shy about the raucous cheers swirling about him.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” says the gentleman in the straw hat, shaking his head.

  “I bet I could hit a shot like that,” says Steve smiling. “I’d just take my bat and I’d…” and Steve stands up and imitates swinging a bat with all his might.

  “Sure ya could,” Ricky replies. “In fact I bet ya could hit one right over that left field facade and clear out of the stadium.”

  “I bet I could,” says Steve laughing.

  * * * *

  It’s now the top of the ninth of the first game—the Yankees are winning a close one, 3 to 2. Ted Williams steps to the plate with two outs and runners on the corners. The batter’s box lines are almost all gone now. With the game on the line, the respectful jeers Williams received earlier have now been replaced with great big bellowing boos. A single could tie the game; an extra base hit could put Boston ahead.

  Batting from the left side of the plate, Williams gazes at the Yankees’ pitcher, Whitey Ford. Ford steps off the rubber and starts rubbing his shoulder.

  Now he’s ready. He leans over toward home plate, his left arm behind him resting on his back, glances at Williams and turns his attention to the crouching catcher, Yogi Berra. As he looks over the signs, Ford twirls the white leather, red stitched ball in his left hand, feeling the seams with his fingertips as he does so. Satisfied with Berra’s signals, Ford hides the ball in his glove, makes a few changes in his fingering of the ball, and checks the runners on first and third. The wind-up. The pitch.

  Williams lines one into the right field seats just foul.

  “Yipes!” cries Steve.

  “Marone!” cries Ricky.

  Yogi hustles over from his catcher position to the pitcher’s mound to conference with Ford. The two great ball players look over at Williams. Each time Ford and Berra say something to each other they cover their mouths with their gloves, hiding the movements of their lips.

  Now Ford is nodding. Berra pats Ford on his shoulder, hustles back behind the plate, and as he adjusts his mask he says something to Williams. Williams glances back at Berra but doesn’t appear to reply. As Berra crouches down he waves his hand at Williams, and he looks like he’s still trying to make some conversation with him.

  The runners on first and third are checked. The pitch.

  Williams crushes a deep fly ball into the gap in left center. As he finishes the follow through of his magnificent swing, in the same smooth motion, the Splendid Splinter races toward first. The fans leap to their feet, their mouths agape. It looks like a sure triple, maybe an inside the parker. Mantle, getting a great jump on the ball, races after it.

  “Look at him go!” Ricky yells as he points to the Yankee centerfielder.

  With his world class speed, Mantle closes in on the ball, and then… and then… he leaps off his right foot, reaches out with his left glove hand, notices he can’t quite reach the ball, strains to reach further, and just… just manages to grab the ball in the web of his glove.

  The crowd roars.

  Steve puts his right hand on his forehead and looks up at his uncle with his mouth hung open.

  “Marone!” cries Ricky shaking his head.

  “Great game!” roars the man in the straw hat behind Ricky.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Hey Steve,” says Ricky as he stretches his arms way above his head, “while we wait for them to get ready for the next game let’s take a walk. My legs are getting stiff.”

  “Can we go way up there?” Steve asks pointing to the seats high above them.

  “Let’s go see,” says Ricky.

  In the crowded aisle between the dark green seats, slowly they make their way up to a covered cement walkway with hordes of fans on long lines seeking to buy peanuts, ice cream, beer, and soda. After a quick stop in the bathroom, Uncle Ricky looks around to get reoriented.

  “Let’s try this way, Steve.”

  “Wow, Uncle Ricky, I never seen so many people!”

  The crowd thins out along an upwardly sloping tunnel. Soon, they emerge into bright sunlight and Steve finds himself in the upper deck behind home plate. This view provides a bird’s-eye perspective. Looking down from the wall in front of the upper deck’s first row of seats, Steve’s mouth flies open, and
he suddenly takes a step back. “I bet a guy could get pretty hurt if he fell from here!” he cries.

  “Ya wanna find out,” Ricky responds mischievously. “Here. I’ll give ya a boost,” and as he says this he bends down, interlocks the fingers of his hands together, and holds them by Steve’s feet.

  “No thank you,” Steve answers feigning anger, throwing some mock punches, and laughing.

  As they begin the journey back to their seats, Steve notices the unique smell of stale beer and Cracker Jacks.

  “So, Steve, you getting excited about starting kindergarten in the fall?”

  “I hear they got some mean kids there.”

  “There’s always a few kids trying to earn respect by pushing kids around.”

  “Resect? What’s that mean?”

  “Not resect, respect.”

  “Yeah, re… respect, Uncle Ricky, what’s it mean?”

  “Well, if ya like a guy then ya…” Ricky begins to say but then pauses. He was about to say, If you like a guy you respect him. But then he thinks about his older brother Mike. He realizes that he likes Mike, even loves him, but he doesn’t truly respect him. Then Ricky wonders to himself if you can dislike a guy and still respect him. Hmmm. I kinda don’t like Ted Williams because he plays for Boston, and when he gets a big hit that beats the Yankees I get pretty angry, but I do have a world of respect for him.

  “Well?” says Steve.

  “I guess I’ll tell ya what my dad used to say about respect. You’re a little young ta understand this yet but anyway, every now and then your nonno, in his heavy Italian accent, would say ta me and your dad when we were young, ‘Ricky, Michelangelo, if ya wanna get respect ya gotta learn how ta use this-uh, wit’ this-uh, and wit’ this-uh,” and as Ricky imitates Steve’s grandfather saying these words he points first to his right arm’s biceps, then to his head, and then to his heart.

  * * * *

  When they get back to their seats, Steve feels thirsty from their walk. “Can I get another soda, Uncle Ricky?”

  “Let’s fill up our empty soda cups over at the water fountain for now. It’s not good ta drink too much soda. By the fourth inning of the next game it’ll be supper time and we’ll get some more soda then with some hot dogs, okay?”

  Steve is really in the mood for a cool sweet soda sliding down his hot dry throat. Frustration at having to put off this refreshing sensation leads Steve to think about pleading for the soda. Then he thinks about how, if he’s a pain in the butt, he won’t get asked to go anywhere else again. In the end, even at this early age of five, Steve senses that at this moment it’s best to go along with his uncle’s plan. “Okay, Uncle Ricky,” he says.

  * * * *

  As the Yanks are taking the field for the second game, Steve pounds his baseball glove. “Who’s pitching for us, Uncle Ricky?”

  “Bob Turley. He ain’t too bad. Boston’s got Tom Brewer going for them, a righty that gives up lots of homers. With the Yankee sluggers, I think we’re in pretty good shape.”

  When Boston’s leadoff batter, Jimmy Piersall is called out on what looks like a pretty high pitch, he’s none too happy about it and starts to scream at the ump. Boston’s manager, Pinky Higgins, hustles onto the field and pulls Jimmy back to the dugout before he can get tossed out of the game.

  “That Piersall guy,” says Steve, “he’s kinda like Dad, ain’t he Uncle Ricky?”

  “Their anger, it flies all around, and for what?”

  * * * *

  Once again the Boston Red Sox star, Ted Williams, comes up in the top of the ninth with his team trailing by a run. Boston’s got Billy Goodman dancing off third but there are two outs.

  Williams smashes a line drive up the middle and the Yankees’ scrappy shortstop, Billy Martin, dives for it. When Billy lands, he’s on his side all stretched out and the ball is half in the web of his glove and half sticking out. Billy doesn’t move a muscle until the umpire runs over, takes a good look at the ball and calls Williams out. Then Billy, very carefully, gets up with the ball still sticking out of his glove, runs over to Williams, and shows it to him, waving it in front of his nose. Williams, playing the perfect gentleman, tips his hat to Billy, and then hustles back to the Red Sox dugout.

  The Yankees have swept the doubleheader. Rapturous cheers! Arms thrown in the air! And then, for Steve, comes the greatest moments of the day. The Yankees let the fans walk right onto the playing field after the game. Steve can’t believe it. When he first steps onto the grass he looks up to Ricky with wide eyes.

  “Bene?” asks Ricky smiling.

  “Yeah!” Steve replies as he begins to jump up and down, getting the feel of the magic green softness beneath his feet. After a few seconds, he runs over to the infield by first base and picks up some dirt. It looks so different from the dirt in the lot where Steve plays. That dirt is blackish, with pebbles and shards of glass mixed in. This dirt is a much lighter brown, almost reddish. It has a rich moist smell. When Steve rubs it between his hands it feels so cool and fine as it slides through his fingers. He bends down and picks up some more and places his treasure in his pockets. Then he runs out to center field, puts on his mitt, faces home plate, and waits a few seconds. Suddenly he darts back, running as hard as he can, stretching out his glove hand. The crowd leaps to its feet and then lets out a terrific roar as the ball strikes his glove, for, like Mickey Mantle, he has made the greatest play of the day.

  CHAPTER 5

  As the midnight blue pick-up pulls up alongside Steve’s Bensonhurst apartment, the sky is reddening. “Boy, I had a great time,” says Steve turning to his uncle. “Can we go again sometime?”

  “I had fun too, Steve. We’ll go again soon.”

  Steve leans into his uncle, puts his arms around his waist, and squeezes.

  As Ricky returns the hug, and plants a kiss on his nephew’s head, the smell of sunshine sweat fills Ricky’s nostrils and from deep within him comes a wonderful sensation of all that’s fine about warm summer days.

  “Thanks for everything,” says Steve looking up into Ricky’s eyes.

  “A rivederci bambino simpatico.”

  Steve turns to his right, opens the door, and slides out onto the sidewalk. After walking up his stoop, he reaches up and rings his door’s buzzer.

  Marie opens the door and flashes one of her famous sweet, sweet smiles. Then, upon examining Steve, she cries, “Oh, look at that sunburn!”

  “It was great, Mom! Where’s Dad?”

  “He went drinking with his friends,” Marie answers as she waves goodbye to Ricky.

  “To the bar on the kawner?” asks Steve.

  “Yeah. He left just a little while ago.”

  “Didn’t ya wanna go wit’ ‘im, Mom?”

  Marie looks down to her white and gold speck linoleum kitchen floor for a moment and then she looks up to Steve’s brown eyes. “I wanted to stay home and wait for you so I could get you into the shower and then I thought it’d be fun for us to curl up on the couch and watch ‘The Ed Sullivan Show.’”

  Steve smiles. “Okay Mom, but first do ya got… ya know… those paper things ya put a letter in…”

  “An envelope?” Marie asks.

  “Yeah. An endadope. Could I have one? I need it for somethin’.”

  Marie repeats the word, “envelope,” a couple of times as she begins to look in a closet just to the left of the dish cabinet. “Here they are,” she says as she pulls one out from an orange and black cardboard box and hands it to Steve.

  Steve goes into his bedroom, puts his hands in his pockets, and fills them with a little of the reddish-brown Yankee soil. Very carefully, he slides the soft, fine grains into the envelope. Then, way back in the rear of his top bureau drawer, behind his socks, Steve tucks his treasure away.

  In the bathroom, Marie turns on the light revealing its little white hexagon tile floor and a picture of a bouquet of bright flowers hanging over the
toilet.

  “Do I have to take a shower, Mom?”

  “Let’s go, Steve, get in there.”

  “You shoulda seen the way Mickey Mantle hit a home run today,” says Steve as he begins to get undressed.

  “Sister of Mary! Look how sunburned you got!”

  Steve puts his hand on the back of his neck and notices it feels hot to the touch.

  “I shouldn’t have let you go today,” says Marie. “A double header in the sun like that, it was way too much.”

  “No it wasn’t, Mom,” says Steve, his voice going high, his face muscles tensing. “It was great. I’m fine Mom. I’m fine.”

  “Sister of Mary! Look at you!”

  Steve climbs into the shower and at first the warm water inflames his burn, but in a few seconds, somehow, it becomes soothing.

  After soaping up and then washing his hair, Steve steps out of the shower. Marie throws a towel over his head and gently massages the water out of his hair. “Good!” she says. “Now finish up drying yourself and get dressed while I get the TV ready. The show’s gonna start in a minute.”

  In the living room, Marie turns on the TV. It takes a half minute for it to warm up, and then, suddenly, the black and white picture appears on the screen.

  “Did it start yet?” asks Steve hurrying into the room wearing his pajamas, still dripping a little.

  “Not yet,” says Marie as she turns the RCA dial to channel two. “Hmmm. That doesn’t look so good.” She adjusts the rabbit-ear antenna so she can get rid of the shadows that are interfering with the picture quality. “There,” she says, “that’s better. You need anything before the show starts?”

  “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “Well, in that case, I’ll just come over here and sit by my handsome young man.” Together they settle in on their green sofa to enjoy the night’s variety acts.

  Steve likes the juggling act. Not only does the guy get balls flying all around, but he also performs a smooth routine using cigar boxes that dance in the air.