October 29, 2018--The Bambino

During my childhood, on the streets in Manhattan where the UN is currently located, as unlikely as it may seem, there were slaughterhouses and meat packing plants.

One plant, Paramount Meats, was owned by my Uncle Eli. He and Aunt Tanna and their son, my cousin Chuck, lived less than a half mile from us and so, on occasional weekend mornings, Uncle Eli would pick me up at about 6:00--he and I were very early risers--and take me with him to have breakfast at Garfield's Cafeteria, an glitzy dairy restaurant on the corner of Church and Flatbush.

We would get in line and slide our trays along until we got to the grill area where we would order eggs or pancakes or various kinds of pickled and smoked fish.

Being there with him, talking as we did about things I was reluctant to raise with my parents, we discussed everything from politics (he hated Eisenhower), the state of the world (not good), and family matters (complicated). We also spoke about the "birds and the bees"--he gave me a book about this, The Stork Didn't Bring You, But above all else, in this way, he was the first person to treat me like an adult and not a kid. And so I loved him and our time together.

One Saturday he got permission from my mother to take me, after breakfast, to his plant. He had a new Buick and it also felt good and adult to drive in it with him across the Brooklyn Bridge and then up the East River Drive to Paramount. 

There was a garage across the street from it and he had a reserved spot, another reminder that his life was different than most of my other more immigrant-cultured relatives, many of whom did not own cars or speak unaccented English.

"You know, Babe Ruth, from the Yankees also parks in this garage," Uncle Eli said as he left the car with a dollar tip to the garage attendant. He knew I was a passionate Yankee fan.

"Really? The Bambino?"

"Himself. In fact, you may get to meet him. In our smoke house today we're making pigs knuckles, and once that smell gets out into the street, if the Babe is coming to pick up his car, he may stop in. More than anything else he loves pigs knuckles right out of the oven. I always put a few aside for him."

"Really? For the Babe?" I was more excited about this than our talk earlier about storks.

"First let me show you the smoker. It's pretty big so we can walk into it and you can see the pork butts and cow's tongues we'll be smoking along with the rack of pigs knuckles. We have to be careful not to let the door swing closed. We could get trapped in here and get smoked ourselves!" I knew this wasn't true, that he was fooling with me, which also made me feel grown up. He talked with me as if I were one of his boys.

From the garage we walked to his office where I would spend the rest of the morning helping him add up his bills. He read out the numbers and I would enter them in the adding machine. I wan't sure if this needed dong or if he was creating something for me to do to make me feel important. Which it did.

Rather quickly the smoke oven heated up and fumes from it permeated the plant and poured out onto 45th Street. It did indeed smell delicious and I couldn't help but think about the pigs knuckles and The Babe.

With that, framed in the office door was the shape of an enormous man, and from what I could see--he blocked the light--he was wearing a double-breasted camelhair coat that almost reached the floor and a signature Babe Ruth cap, both of which, from pictures of him in the newspapers, confirmed that indeed it was the Sultan of Swat.

"Are you making what I hope you're making?" Ruth asked Uncle Eli with a gravelly voice. It was well known he had a serious case of cancer. 

"I am," Uncle Eli said, "I was hoping you were in the neighborhood. They should be ready in just another few minutes and I'll get you a couple. In the meantime, let me introduce my nephew. He's a big Yankee fan, which can be dangerous when living in Brooklyn. Everybody there roots for the Dodgers."

"Did I ever tell you I was their first base coach back in '38? Most people don't remember that, but I was. I wasn't very good at it, but I could use the money."

Uncle Eli left to check the status of the pigs knuckles.

Alone with the Babe, shyly I said, "That's the year I was born." 

"Let me take a look at you," he said, "So you must be about nine. You're pretty tall for nine." I walked toward him and he tousled my hair, smiling broadly. "I'll bet you play baseball."

"Not really," I said, "Sometimes on the street. You know, mainly punch ball and stick ball. Also, softball. The guys on my block aren't good enough to play hardball."

"Stick with it," he said, "If you keep growing you never know."

Uncle Eli was back with a couple of ham hocks. 

The Babe reached out for one and with great relish took a big bite out of it. "Hot," he said, "I like 'em hot like this. There's nothing better than right out of the oven. Thanks, Eli, I need to get going. And nice to meet you kid." He reached out to shake my hand, careful not to use the one with which he was holding the pigs knuckle. What's your name again? I'm not always good at remembering names."

I told him and with that he was gone.

Two weeks later, Uncle Eli came by to pick me up and again we went to Garfield's. "I have something for you," he said as we turned up Church Avenue. "It's in that bag on the back seat. Reach back there and get it. Which I did.

"Open it. It's for you, from a friend of yours."

A baseball fell out of the bag and landed on my lap. "Is it . . . ?"

"Take a close look at it." 

On it, the Bambino had written, "For Steve. From your pal, Babe Ruth."

It became my proudest possession. I kept it on a shelf next to my bed so I could see it last thing at night and right after waking up.

Of course I showed it to my neighborhood pals. Most didn't believe me, contending I was trying to pull a fast one on them. "I'm not," I said, not caring if they believed me. I knew the truth, I knew what I had experienced.

Later that summer, Heshy said, "Why don't we play a little hardball. I have a hardball bat and you have a baseball. You know, the one from your pal." The rest of the guys chuckled derisively. 

I went upstairs and came back with the baseball. We played with it for a couple of days and then lost it when it fell into an open sewer that we had been using as second base.

And then in the middle of August, The Babe died.