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Home , Billy Cox (baseball), Bob Cerv, Carl Furillo, Ebbets Field, Jim Gilliam, Kirby Higbe

A Boy of Summer

Andrew Paul Mele

“Every man carries within himself a world made up of all that he has seen and loved, and it is to this world that he returns incessantly.” —Francois-Rene de Chateaubriand, French Author and Diplomat, 1768 - 1848 “Those fans in were something. They were just about on the roster!” —Kirby Higbe, , Brooklyn Dodgers, 1941-1947

The summer passed swiftly. After the initial shock of his father’s heart at- tack in the spring, the boy and his family settled into an uneasy routine of medication and walks and having his father around the house all the time. Robert sometimes felt guilty about his own feelings. His father’s convalescence enabled them to spend more time together than had been possible before, and for that the boy was grateful. It was and the Brooklyn Dodgers that established the link between father and son, and through that summer of 1955, both were able to revel in the successes of the ball club. They had gotten off to a rip-roaring start by win- ning ten games they played, then after losing two out of three to the Giants, they won another eleven to go 22 and 2 to open the season. Robert and his dad had gone to for the second game of that Giant series. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon and they weren’t disap- 92 Aethlon XXIII:2 / Spring 2006 pointed, neither in the excitement that invariably comes with a battle between those two rivals, nor the outcome; the Dodgers winning the game 3-1. It was a fifteen-minute ride in the Chevy and they left the car on Parkside Avenue. They walked along the perimeter of Prospect Park and heard the birds and smelled the fresh grass. They crossed Flatbush Avenue and then it came into view. It was, to Robert, like the Emerald Palace in the Wizard of Oz, as it loomed over the foliage of the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. Across the street was the Bond Bread Company, a two-story building with a clock tower and the smell of fresh- baked bread. As he looked up, Robert could see the huge words circling the upper façade—EBBETS FIELD. There were people coming out of the Prospect Park BMT subway station and the scene in front of the ball park resembled a street fair. They jogged across the trolley tracks and into the marble rotunda. It was circular with twelve ticket windows around the perimeter. A chandelier with twelve globes painted to look like hung from the ceiling and there was a crossed bat design in the marble tiles. Robert’s dad bought two grand- stand seats behind third base for a dollar and twenty-five cents apiece and a scorecard from a vendor yelling, “scorecard, getcha scorecard! Can’t tell the players without a scorecard!” They climbed a ramp and then it all came into view. The rich green grass, the brown infield dirt and the figures in white and gray exploded before his eyes. He could never quite get over the idea that the whole scene was not in black and white like on the 12-inch Dumont television screen at home. The New York Giant pitcher, , the noted Barber of Coogan’s bluff, hooked up with Dodger ace, . In the fourth inning, Maglie Brooklyn catcher with a pitch, while the infuriated watched from the on-deck circle. “Uh-oh!” said Robert’s dad, “he’s gonna get Maglie.” Sure enough, Robinson bunted towards first base intending to clobber Maglie when the pitcher came over to cover the bag. But Sal stood on the mound glaring, never moving. Instead, Davy Williams ran over to cover first base. Robinson, never looking up, clobbered the diminutive . Both benches cleared and Robert and his dad were on their feet while Ebbets Field rocked. The two talked about it all the way home. The father’s attack came just one week later, so there weren’t too many opportunities after that to go to games, but they watched on television or listened on the radio the rest of the season, hardly missing a game the rest of the way. The boy worked at the fruit and vegetable store delivering orders, and played baseball on Saturday mornings at the Parade Grounds on Coney Island Avenue across from Prospect Park. They played their street games: ring-o-levio, kick-the-can, johnny-on-the-pony. But the big game on his block was stickball, which he played almost daily and now his dad could sit outside on their stoop and watch Robert play. Mele / A Boy of Summer 93

The biggest event occurred every Sunday afternoon. All the people came outside to watch the games, their radios tuned to Dodger baseball and ’s play-by-play. The players were neighborhood legends. There was Little Vic, who played the infield with one foot on the curb and the other foot in the street. It was a thrill to see him scoop up a spauldeen that was egged from the speed and would spin out of your hands if you didn’t squeeze it just right. Little Vic was the best. Then there was Ralphie Boy. Ralphie always played the outfield deep, where 35th street intersected with Dahill Road. If a car was coming along Dahill, the driver couldn’t tell that there was a game going on and an could into its path. So one outfielder would slow the traffic while the other made the play. This required great teamwork and if you played the outfield, you always wanted Ralphie out there with you. His parents sat on the stoop with their next door neighbors, the Maggios, whose son also played. Mrs. Maggio was a great Dodger fan. Robert could remember that October afternoon when Bobby Thomson hit Branca’s pitch into the left field seats. When Robert went outside, he saw Mrs. Maggio sitting on the stoop and crying. “Oh, Robert,” she cried, “Those stinkin’ Giants!” They loved their Dodgers in Brooklyn. The summer days went by. Robert worked and played and spent time with his dad. Sometimes they took long walks, usually in the cool of the evening. Sometimes they walked along Ocean Parkway all the way to Coney Island, accompanied by Vin Scully on the portable radio. His dad took his pills, fol- lowed his diet, and watched the Dodgers on TV. They got to a couple of more games. On the evening of July 22nd, it was night and the little ballpark in Flatbush was bursting. Robert and his dad were there and what a night it was. They gave the Dodger captain gifts including a car and they held up matches and sang Happy Birthday to Pee Wee. It was his thirty-seventh. Reese hit two doubles and hit a three-run and Brooklyn won the game. But what made the night even more unforgettable was the Furillo home run, which hit the seats a few rows above where they were sitting in left field. The ball rebounded and Robert’s dad reached up and nailed it with one hand. As he handed the souvenir to his son, he was telling everyone around him, “All these years,” he was saying, “all these years, that’s the first ball I ever caught!” Robert had never seen him happier. And it made him happy to almost be able to put the whole heart attack out of his mind. In early August the Dodgers had a lead of 16 1/2 games and everyone began to think ahead to the and the Yankees. But then some injuries hit and went into a slump and by mid-August they had lost nine out of thirteen games. The lead slipped to eleven games and there was some murmuring about 1951. On a Sunday in late August, Brooklyn lost to the last place Phillies. Robert and his friend Nutsey went to Walters’ candy store to drown their sorrows in chocolate egg creams. 94 Aethlon XXIII:2 / Spring 2006

“Whatsamatta with dese guys?” Nutsey said. “Don’t worry, boys,” Walter reassured them, “the way they been playin’ you gotta expect a little slump. They’ll be all right!” To make matters worse, the Dodgers had just announced that they would play seven games in Roosevelt in Jersey City in 1956. Dick Young in the Daily News called them the Jersey City Dodgers. “They’ll be alright,” Walter said again. “And hey, they’ll never leave Brooklyn. They’d murder O’Malley.” With his father recuperating nicely and the Dodgers now looking like they might be heading for an early clinching, Robert thought more about the little girl he had met during the summer. Actually, he had only spoken to her once or twice on the street. One time when he was riding by on his delivery bike, he thought she smiled at him, but then he reasoned that she was probably just squinting in the sun. Another time he passed her on Church Avenue and couldn’t avoid talking. She was so pretty that he was fearful of even speaking, afraid that he would say something stupid and she would think he was just a jerk. But then there was that Friday evening at Walters’. He’d worked late at the fruit store and stopped in for an egg cream and catch an inning or two of the Dodger game or see if any of the gang was around. “Anybody around?” he asked Walter. “Yeah. They were here before looking for you. Nutsey said they were goin’ down the Island.” “What’s the score?” “Brooklyn’s winnin’ 6-2. Seventh inning.” “Who’s pitchin’?” Robert asked, looking up at the 12-inch Dumont screen over the counter. “Newk.” And then she came in the door and came right over and sat on the stool next to him. She was alone. “Hi,” she said. “Haven’t seen you around lately.” “I’ve been here,” he said. “Well, working and playing ball and things.” “I was just coming from Betty’s house. I was surprised to see you. How come you’re not out with your friends.” “I had to work late,” he explained. “They all went down the Island.” He was very uneasy and yet she had a way, an easy kind of a way that made him feel comfortable. “How’s your dad?” she asked him. “I heard about his heart attack.” “He’s comin’ along pretty good.” Then it dawned on him. “You want a coke or somethin’?” She smiled. They didn’t speak while Walter poured the soda. They watched while he topped it off, letting the foam settle and then filling it to the top. The store was quiet. There was only one other customer, a man from MacDonald Mele / A Boy of Summer 95

Avenue buying a pack of cigarettes. They spoke a few more minutes not saying anything in particular. They took their drinks to a table in the rear and Robert put a quarter in the Wurlitzer juke box and together they picked out five songs. Walter was watching the game. A few people drifted in and out but generally it was quiet. He looked over at the kids once and smiled to no one, then went back to the TV. They played Fats Domino and Chuck Berry on the Wurlitzer and the new one by the Platters called, “Only You.” They talked about some movies they’d seen and their friends and then they somehow got up and danced, slowly and he felt awkward as he held her in his arms. Tony Williams of the Platters sang, “… can make this world seem right, only you-ou … .” The last customer came and went. Walter turned off the TV. He looked at them again and pulled out a mop and began swabbing the front of the store. It would be a few minutes before he got to the rear and he worked more slowly than usual. He started to turn the chairs upside down on top of the tables. They were swaying slowly in sync with the music, “you’re my dream come true, my one and only you-ou!” It was a warm, clear and beautiful summer Brooklyn night and they held hands and when he went home he slept as though the world were a different place than he’d ever known it before this night. The Dodgers clinched the pennant on September 8, the earliest clinching in history, and they got set to face the Yankees once again in the World Series. He and Marie went to the movies and to Coney Island with Nutsey and Betty and life for Robert was wonderful. But that Coney Island night held more than one memory for him. Marie looked beautiful. She wore a pink sweater and a grey poodle skirt and her dark hair was pulled back in a pony tail. They took the Culver Line “El” train to the last stop. The Island panorama was exciting. The sights and smells were so vivid. They walked the boardwalks wooden surface and heard the cries and squeals of people having fun. The rides were ubiquitously evident: The Wonder Wheel, the Cyclone, the Carousel and Steeplechase Park. They could feel the vibration as they walked past the iron horses rumbling over metal rails. They faced the ocean, the sound of the lap- ping surf in their ears and the smell of the salt air in their nostrils. They looked to the top of the Parachute Jump 50 feet high. They watched as the chute with the little bench hanging beneath it slowly inched its way upward until it hit the top. Then the chute opened and amid the frenzied screams of the riders accelerated downward at breathtaking speed. “Less go on it,” Nutsey yelled above the cries of the crowd. “No way,” Robert said. “You outta your mind?” They went to Nathans’ for hot dogs and fries and chow mein on a bun. They rode the bumper cars where Ralphie Boy worked. Ralphie showed them what he always bragged he could do. He went from one end of the ride to the other without touching the floor, only skirting from one car to another. They heard the rock ‘n roll song, “Coney Island Baby” over the ping-ping sounds of 96 Aethlon XXIII:2 / Spring 2006 the shooting gallery. Robert and Nutsey took turns in the Bat-A-Way batting cages and Robert won a salami. It embarrassed him. He would rather have won a stuffed doll for Marie, but though he tried, he couldn’t knock over some wooden bottles. The night ended too soon, and when they said goodnight, he gave her a kiss. A soft, awkward brush on the lips. He stuck his head into Walters’ to see how the Dodgers made out. Walter gave him the thumbs up. He hoped his dad would still be awake, he wanted to talk, about Coney Island, the Dodgers, everything! There were lights on when he got home. At first he thought nothing of it, but as he climbed the stairs and heard muffled voices, a cold fear crept over him. His uncle Tommy was there and then he knew that something was wrong. “Everything’s okay,” Uncle Tommy told him. “Whadaya mean? What happened?” “We took your father to the hospital. It looked like another attack, but it wasn’t. Just some gas or somethin’. He’s fine.” His dad was in bed awake and smiling. “Hey, it’s okay,” he told his son, “I’m fine.” “I shoulda been here,” Robert said. “Hey, cut that out. I don’t need no babysitter. The bums beat Cincy.” “Yeah, I know.” Robert turned and went down the stairs, all the way down to the cellar. He didn’t know why, it was just someplace to go. Uncle Tommy followed him. “It’s okay. Just a false alarm.” “But I shoulda been here.” And then the boy began to cry. Tears of frustra- tion. Tears that had been held back. “I don’t want him to die.” “He ain’t gonna die,” Uncle Tommy said and sat down on the floor along- side his nephew until it all passed, just as the Coney Island stars passed into the morning sun. Robert got to go to one more game after the clinching. He and Nutsey and Al went to Ebbets Field on a Saturday in late September. They bought seats and since it wasn’t crowded were able to make their way to the box seats along the right field line. The ushers never bothered them on days like this and they watched batting practice with their feet up on the railing. Robert brought the baseball his dad had caught in the hopes of getting someone to sign it. The Dodger Symphony band was there playing beautifully off-key as usual; everybody loved their tinny version of “Take Me Out To The Ballgame.” Happy Felton was doing his “Knot-Hole Gang” show in the right field bullpen and who should be making his way to the show from the dugout but Pee Wee Reese. Nutsey called to him as he was passing, “Eh, Pee Wee, Pee Wee, whadayasay!” The captain smiled and came to the rail. They stuck papers and scorecards at him to sign as people rushed to the rail. Robert dug frantically for the baseball Mele / A Boy of Summer 97 deep in the pocket of his chino pants. Pee Wee waved and started to walk away. Robert, in a last ditch effort almost ripped the pocket away. “Hey, Pee Wee,” he hollered, “please?” The ballplayer laughed and came back and signed the ball. The Dodgers won the game. Labine saved it for Roebuck with two innings of relief, but for once Robert was not totally into the game. He wrapped the souvenir in a clean handkerchief and kept his hand in his pocket the whole time. When he got home he told his father everything that happened. Together they placed the ball on top of the TV in the living room and they talked into the night about how this would finally be “Next Year!” It was World Series time again in Brooklyn and the whole borough held its collective breath. Brooklyn finished 13 games ahead of the Braves with a record of 98 and 55. They led the majors with 201 home runs. Big won twenty games and lost five and hit seven home runs and batted .359. Dick Young wrote in the Daily News that the Dodgers didn’t have the pitching to win the series. So here it was again—“Dem Bums”—underdogs to the mighty Yankees of . Robert and his dad, along with Nutsey, and Ralphie Boy, Al, Vito and a couple of million others had their hopes though. This could be Next Year, Dick Young not withstanding. The Series opened at on Wednesday, September 28. It was a one-thirty start. Ford against Newcombe. Mayor Wagner threw out the first ball. The Yankee left hander started off with a fastball on the inside corner to Dodger for a called strike. Nutsey said, “Here we go again.” He was told to “sha-dap” from several sources around him. They were in chapel at Erasmus Hall High School during study period and had a few portable radios held quietly in laps. Robert had an English class next and then he would go to work at the fruit and vegetable store, which meant popping in and out of Walters’ to watch the TV. By the time he was on the trolley car, Brooklyn was losing 4-3, despite home runs by Carl Furillo and Duke Snider. They were losing 6-3 in the eighth inning when he got to Walters’ just in time to see Jackie Robinson take his wounded and berated thirty-six year old body back a few years and steal home under the tag. They went wild at Walters’ but not nearly as wild as . The Yankee catcher jumped and screamed at umpire Bill Sommers’ call, but it didn’t do him any good. Brooklyn scored two but lost the game 6-5. Robert followed the same pattern for game two: school, then the store and in and out of Walters’ for the rest of the game. The Yankees won again, 4-2 and all seemed to be following true to form. No team had ever come back after losing the first two games to win a World Series. Robert, his dad and Nutsey were down, but with the true resilience of the Brooklyn fan never quite out. Brooklyn came home to Ebbets Field and won the next three games, winning game three on his twenty-third 98 Aethlon XXIII:2 / Spring 2006 birthday. It was in this game that Jackie Robinson once again electrified the crowd and ignited his teammates. On a to left field, he rounded the bag and taunted the Yanks’ to throw behind him to second base, while he took off for third sliding in ahead of the hurried throw. beat them in game six and the stage was set for the final . On Tuesday October 4, game seven was played at Yankee Stadium before 62,000 fans. Johnny Podres got the nod from to go against Yanks lefty . When Robert got to English class, it was the third inning. No radios were allowed in Miss Locksley’s class, but she did let Dudie Schatcher go out into the hall a couple of times to get the score and post it on the blackboard. It didn’t matter to Robert though; Georgie Crocco had a tiny portable radio under the desk and he kept feeding information to Robert. In the bottom of the third, the Yankees had two men on base and two out and Robert had to tune out Miss Locksley and the Canterbury Tales completely in order to get Georgie’s whispered report. Rizzuto had been hit by a battered ball while sliding into third base. “I can’t believe they get a break like that,” Robert whispered. When the Dodgers scored in the fourth, Robert was hustling across campus to Economics class. Someone yelled, “Campy double, Hodges single.” Robert raised his arm in a gesture of triumph and punched the air. Mr. Gorman in Economics was a bit more tolerant than Miss Locksley and he let Joe Ganz listen to his radio and report every half inning. The sixth inning came on the trolley ride home. Georgie’s radio kept going in and out and as they approached the tunnel under Ocean Parkway, Georgie said, “The Yankees got men on first and second, only one out.” “Who’s up?” They wanted to know. “Berra.” “Oh, jeez!” The trolley car descended into the blackness beneath the street and the radio went out completely. “Move it,” they hollered at the trolley conductor, “move this tin can, willya!” When they reemerged near East 5th street, the crowd was roaring. “What da hell is goin’ on?” “Shad-ap,” Georgie said. “I’m tryin’ ta listen. I think it was a .” “Berra hit inta a double play?” “I think so,” Georgie said. “Somethin’ ta do wit Amoros.” “Amoros? He ain’t even playin’.” “Yeah. He’s in left field.” “A double play in left field?” “Well—it’s a double play. See, the Dodgers are up.” By the time they got to MacDonald Avenue it was the ninth inning and Brooklyn was ahead 2-0. Robert, Nutsey, Al, the whole gang crowded into Mele / A Boy of Summer 99

Walters’. Robert wanted to run home and be with his father but he was afraid he wouldn’t make it in time and miss the end of the game. Marie was there with some of the other girls and the place was packed. Then it was the Yankees’ ninth. Moose Skowron hit back to the pitcher. One to three if you’re scoring, as Vin Scully said. flied to left. Podres ran the count to two and two on Elston Howard. Nutsey cried out, “pul-lee-eeze” and Howard hit to short. Pee Wee took the bounder and you could hear a pi- geon plop on Church Avenue for that split fraction of a second. Robert stayed for a moment not believing the eruption that was beginning to swell around him. He dimly heard Scully say simply, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Brooklyn Dodgers are champions of the world.” That was the verification that he needed, and suddenly it was the Fourth of July and V-J Day in Brooklyn. The telephone company later reported that from 3:44 PM until 4:01, you could not get a call through in Brooklyn. The lines were completely jammed. People poured out into the streets. Car horns blared. There were impromptu parades all around the borough. Traffic was at a standstill. The bars and pool- rooms filled to overflowing. Kids banged garbage can covers together like it was New Year’s Eve. Robert and Nutsey and the others spilled out of Walters’. They pushed the juke-box out the front door and they were dancing on Church Avenue. The deli in the next block was giving away free hot dogs. There was yelling and screaming. Firecrackers popped and crackled and blew up. Nutsey was yelling to Robert over the madness. “Less go, less go down ta Flatbush avenue.” “Okay, but wait for me,” Robert told him. “Where ya goin’?” “Be right back. Wait.” Robert took off along Church Avenue as fast as he could run. He turned down Dahill Road and up 35th street. The neighbors were out on the street. He negotiated his front steps three at a time. He waved to Mrs. Maggio on the stoop. She was crying again. “Oh, Robert,” she sobbed, “those stinkin’ bums finally did it!” As he burst into the living room his dad was standing in front of the TV, a huge grin on his face. Robert plowed into his arms and they fell onto the couch. “They did it, they did it!” He kissed his mother, who laughed and said, “Where are you going now?” “Out. I don’t know.” Back on Church Avenue, everyone was there. Marie and Betty and some other girls chewed gum and gave the chewed pieces to the boys who used them as glue and stuck them on the back of hand-written signs that said things like, “Yea, Dodgers,” and “Dodgers Champs.” They slammed them on the sides of passing trolley cars where they stuck. Al and Bert Cohen hung a dummy with a Yankee NY on its shirt from a lamppost on the corner of Church and 100 Aethlon XXIII:2 / Spring 2006

MacDonald avenues. It was no easy task with the trolley cables and electrical wires slung from pole to pole across the street. Patrons came smiling out of the Beverly Tavern squinting in the sunlight. It was bedlam in Brooklyn and if you were there that day you would never want to forget it. And when there was nothing left to remember, it would still be with you, in all your reverie, a glow that would warm you wherever you were for all the rest of your life.

EPILOGUE: On October 4, 1955 at 3:43 PM, Brooklyn exploded. Over the next ten years Robert’s dad had no further problems as a result of his attack. At the end of that time he was considered to have a healthy heart once again. Shortly thereafter he suffered a massive coronary and died. Gil, Jackie, Pee Wee and Billy Cox—the greatest infield ever—they’re all gone too. So are Campy and Skoonj and and Jim Gilliam and Sandy Amoros. You can see them still in your mind’s eye, young men in white flannel knickers gliding over an emerald sea. Marie and Robert were married two years after she graduated from Erasmus Hall High School. Aside from his wife, three children and four grandchildren, Robert felt that he had little else to show for his years on this earth. But he did have his memories. He remembered his dad, and he remembered the Brooklyn Dodgers. And he remembered that summer of 1955. Two years after they won the World Series, the ball club left Brooklyn. The last game ever played at Ebbets Field was won by the Dodgers 2-0. The shutout was thrown by Danny McDevitt. The young lefthander pitched brilliantly, allowing only five hits and striking out nine. It was a fitting way for the Dodgers to go—with all of the class that Robert and his dad and their friends had come to expect from them over the years. Gladys Gooding presided over the requiem by playing “Thanks For The Memory,” and “Auld Lang Syne.” Only about six thousand showed up. Not Robert or Nutsey or Al were there. They were no longer the Dodgers, not their Dodgers anyway. Not out there in California. Their Dodgers still reside in Brooklyn. In the huge apartment complex that stands on the site of the razed Ebbets Field where ghosts walk and spirits still play ball. In the rickety boardwalk and the stilled and rusting amusement rides of Coney Island. In the made-over Parade Grounds, devoid now of color, character and life. But each time that he looks at the autographed ball that sits on a shelf in the family room, Robert is made to realize that where they reside the most is in the minds and hearts of all of those that were with them so long ago, on a day when time stood still and each of them was for a fleeting moment, truly A Boy of Summer.