A Boy of Summer

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 Brooklyn were something. They were just about on the roster!” —Kirby Higbe, Pitcher, Brooklyn Dodgers, 1941-1947 The summer passed swiftly. After the initial shock of his father’s heart attack 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 baseball 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 winning the first 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 Ebbets Field 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 baseballs 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, Sal Maglie, the noted Barber of Coogan’s bluff, hooked up with Dodger ace, Carl Erskine. In the fourth inning, Maglie hit Brooklyn catcher Roy Campanella with a pitch, while the infuriated Jackie Robinson 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 second baseman. 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 Vin Scully’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 outfielder could run 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 Pee Wee Reese 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 Carl Furillo hit a three-run home 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 World Series and the Yankees. But then some injuries hit and Duke Snider 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 Stadium 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.

Load more