October 26, 2018--My Neighbor: Jackie Robinson

When I was a kid growing up in East Flatbush, on East 56th Street, as the seasons revolved and the days lengthened, our favorite thing was to head for the streets after supper to resume our punchball or stickball games.

One evening, impatiently waiting for Heshy who was the best punchball player on the block, we finally spotted him racing toward us, pumping his arms frantically.

Gasping for air, he could hardly get the words out but managed to say, "You're not . . . going to believe this . . . but I just heard . . . Jackie Robinson . . . of the Brooklyn Dodgers . . . moved into . . . the neighborhood . . . to East 53rd Street!" 

Heshy was also a prankster. Many of us tried to keep up with him but at that he also excelled. And so we didn't believe him.

"What are you up to?" the ever skeptical Irv asked.

"Nothing. It's the truth. I swear. My father told me. He's a glazer and they hired him to replace some of their windows. Jackie Robinson! And his wife. And children. From the Dodgers!"

It was early summer 1947 and Jackie Robinson had recently joined the Dodgers. The first Negro to cross the color line in the Major Leagues. 

He was already a hero to us though he was still having to deal with racist comments and threats from opposing players as well as from some of his own teammates. 

"My father said they are very nice people." Mr. Perly was a communist and like all other communists we thought he was a supporter of Negro rights. He believed they should be allowed to live wherever they wanted and to go to school with white people. So we were a little skeptical about this as well.

Sensing this, Heshy said, "Let's walk over and take a look. I'm telling the truth. I promise this time I'm not making this up."

So we jogged the four blocks to East 53rd and Tilden Avenue where Heshy said the Robinsons had bought a house, still not believing he was telling the truth. And we wondered what kind of stunt he was going to play on us.

It took just a few minutes to get there and sure enough there was a big moving van parked at the corner. It was clear someone was moving in but we still doubted it was the Robinsons. How could it be? I thought--it's just like Heshy. What a kidder.

But to give Heshy more credibility  stepping out of the front door was a Negro woman clutching a sobbing child.

I suppose that could be Mrs. Robinson, I thought. There were no Negroes at all in our overwhelmingly Jewish and Italian neighborhood. Could it be that . . . ?

We stood in the street shamelessly gaping at all that was going on.

Smirking, Heshy whispered to the four of us, "I told you so. I'm sure that's his wife. Just like my father said."

After a few minutes, realizing it wasn't polite to stand there staring, we turned to return to our block.

"Can I get you boys a glass of milk or a soda? I'm afraid I don't have much to offer you."

We turned back to look at her. She stood on the porch, smiling broadly and waving at us.

"I have to do my homework," Bernie said, shyly with lowered head. 

"Surely you have a moment to have a drink. It's still quite hot out, and if you wait just a little longer, Jackie, my husband should be home very soon and I'm sure he'd like to meet his new neighbors. The game ended an hour ago. Against St. Louis." She continued to smile while jostling her young son on her hip.

"I suppose we could . . . ," I sputtered, "Tomorrow's Saturday and . . . You know. We could maybe . . . just for a minute or two. Our mothers will be worried." 

In fact it was still quite light out and we knew our mothers were fine with us playing on the street until it was almost dark.

And with that, he arrived, smoothly gliding his convertible to the curb. He slid out of the front seat and hoisted a big bag onto his shoulder. It had Dodgers stenciled on it's side. Without doubt it was Jackie Robinson. 

He bounded up the steps and kissed his wife and son. Then turned to us, "I see, Rachel, you have some new friends." 

She smiled, nodding, "I was just about to bring the boys sodas. Will Cokes be all right?" she asked us. We all muttered that would be perfect.

"Why don't you go and get them?" he said, "Maybe we'll throw the ball around while you're doing that." He reached into his bag and extracted a couple of bats, two gloves, and three or four baseballs.

"Let's hit the street," he said to us, full of energy.

He skipped down the steps and out into the middle of the street. "Who wants to bat first?" he asked. "If any of you know how to bunt maybe you'd go first. You could lay one down and get us off to a good start. I sometimes like to lay one down and get a rally going. I'm not that interested in home runs. I prefer walks and hits and stealing bases." We knew that already from watching the Dodgers on TV. Even in his rookie year he brought excitement and speed to the Dodgers' game.

And so, many evenings after day games, after a gulped-down dinner, we went over to the Robinson's and Jackie joined us in the street where he played with us, all the while coaching us about the subtlety of the game. 

This went on for nearly three years. It was nothing short of a miracle to have him as a neighbor and for him to be so generous and forthcoming.

Then toward the end of the third year when we arrived at the Robinson house it looked vacant and forlorn. We went around back and again there was no sign of them. From the stoop we could see into the living room and it too was empty. It was if they and our time together had vanished. 

No one on the block who we asked about the Robinsons had any idea what happened and where they were.

I asked my mother. She and Rachel Robinson were elementary school teachers and I thought she might know what happened.

When I asked, my mother changed the subject. This was very unusual for her. She never held anything back from me. And so I asked again. This time she did not respond at all. Also not characteristic of her or our relationship.

I asked a third time as I knew she was not telling the truth. That she was hiding something. The truth. 

"They had to move," my mother finally said.

"Had to? Had to? Why did they have to?

"Not everyone was as happy as you, having them in the neighborhood."

"Meaning?"

"Well, you know they're . . ." 

She didn't finish their thought. There was no need to.

On the left, the Robinson house

April 2, 2014--Kill the Umpire!

After a funky start last week that saw the L.A. Dodgers play two games with the Arizona Diamondbacks in Australia, yesterday was the full launch of the official baseball season. For me, a lifelong Yankee fan, this means the Bronx Bombers got off to a bad start against, losing to the Houston Astros 6 to 2.

In addition to a year-long celebration of Derek Jeter's last season (he got one hit and scored a run in the season opener), Major League Baseball is expanding its instant-replay rules. In recent years, because of a number of controversies about whether or not home runs were fair or foul, they instituted replays so umpires could get it right.

Not everyone was happy with any rule changes in America's most traditional sport, but since home runs are so consequential, umpires were allowed to use technology.

For this season, there are new, much more dramatic options available to umpires and, most debated, managers.

As in football and tennis, they are being given a number of challenges.

Up to the 6th inning, managers will have one challenge and then after that two more.

Umpires will still use replay for home runs but managers can challenge if a ball hit down the left-field line is fair or foul, if a runner is or isn't tagged out when running the base paths or attempting to steal, if a fielder catches a ball cleanly or traps it; on a bang-bang play at first base if a runner beats the throw or not; or if a hit qualifies as a ground-rule double.

Though this will reduce umpiring errors, it will slow down even more a game that routinely moves along at a languorous pace. It can take five minutes to check every camera angle to adjudicate an especially close call. Baseball is often referred to as a "game of inches." With replay it will become a game of centimeters. And if all six challenges are used they will eat up another half hour of game time.

Much more concerning than slowing the game down, this new-fangled approach (from this phrase alone you can see I belong in the traditionalist camp) will result in eliminating from the game any lingering controversies.

One of the best things about baseball has been that it permits controversies to fester, especially during the long off season when blown plays and bad calls are topics for endless discussion over coffee in the Hot Stove League.

Did Reggie Jackson intentionally move his hip in order to be hit by a throw in the 4th game of the1978 World Series, thereby breaking up a potential double play? If he did, he would have been automatically out. The umpired ruled otherwise. Probably incorrectly. And the Yanks went on to win. But who knows.

Did Ed Armbrister interfere with Carlton Fisk's throw to second base in the 2005 American League Championship Series? Who knows.

Was Jackie Robinson safe or out when attempting to steal home in the 1955 World Series? The umpire called him safe but to this day, nearly 60 years later, Yankee catcher Yogi Berra still claims Jackie was out. I saw the play on TV and though I was half-blinded by the snowy black-and-white picture think Yogi's right. But then again, who knows.

Isn't that the point? Who knows indeed.

For certain things getting it exactly right is important, even essential. In triple-bypass surgery, for example, you want things to be exactly right. But for close plays at first or home, not being certain reflects the reality of life itself, where so little is certain.

It is for this reason, before they automate everything, including the calling of balls and strikes (and there is the technology to do so), that baseball endures as sports' most metaphoric game.

Where, as in life, there's a role for stealing; in baseball's judicial system, a place for "judgement calls" and "appeal plays"; and a place for getting something for nothing--bases on balls come to mind. Also, for "errors" as well as bottom-of-the-ninth heroics.

And in a world ruled more and more by time where in nanoseconds one can earn or lose millions, isn't it still nice to have something important going on that doesn't depend on the rule of time?

Best of all, there are 161 games to go before the playoffs.

March 14, 2014--The Babe

It started innocently enough.

My friend Lee Frissell, knowing my interest in baseball, sent me a link to an article in the New York Times about Babe Ruth's 97-year-old daughter, Julia Ruth Stevens, who recently visited the other "house" that Ruth built, the Yankee's old spring training field in St. Petersburg, Florida.

Lee wrote--

Isn't this a great story? I always thought the Babe was just a hedonist with massive appetites of all sorts. I had no idea he was an anti-racist who was kept from managing a team because he would have brought in black players. And, even if his daughter is wrong about that, it's gratifying to know he was both anti-racisit and anti-fascist. I always figured he had no politics or social views. I know he drank a quart of vodka, a gallon of orange juice, a dozen eggs, and a pound of bacon for breakfast, and preferred his women six at a time . . . but this makes me like him even more.

I wrote back with a story of my own, a true story--

My Uncle Eli owned a meat processing plant where the UN is now located. Paramount Meats it was called. The Secretariat  is built on top of what used to be Manhattan's eastside slaughterhouses and meatpacking district. 

Babe Ruth parked his car in a garage across the street and, Eli told me, when he smelled my uncle smoking pigs' knuckles, a Ruthian favorite, he would stop by to pick up a few which he proceeded to eat on the spot. Even without a quart of vodka to wash them down. 

One Saturday, Uncle Eli took me to work with him and, with the air on 45th Street saturated with the smell of smoking meat, the Babe was lured in. 

I was about ten years old and he was visibly near death. But to me he was not just a legend by a looming presence. Mammoth in size and, though it was not cold, wrapped in a full-length, belted cashmere coat. In addition, he was wearing his signature Babe Ruth tweed cap. 

He tousled my hair (I had a full head of curls then!) and you can imagine what a thrill it was for me, a lonely Yankee fan from far away Brooklyn. 

The next week, Uncle Eli brought me a baseball autographed by Ruth on which he had written, "To my pal." 

Of course I should have saved it. But back then street kids didn't have much sporting equipment and a new baseball was a rarity. All the others were battered and wrapped with friction tape. 

So we used mine until someone belted it a mile into some bushes where we couldn't find it. 

Ah, well. I don't have the ball stashed away in a safety deposit box but the memory is sweet.

Within 15 minutes, breathlessly, Lee wrote back--

This email of yours is going to take some time to reply to! But let me begin with--smoking pigs' knuckles???!!!

What did Lee mean? That he needed "some time to reply"? I knew he was at work. I assumed he was busy and wouldn't be able to get back to me until after his meetings. Or whatever. But then what about the "pigs' knuckles???!!!" business. Very strange.

But it didn't take him long to get back to me. What should I make of this???!!!--

Well, I'm not going to get any work done today until I respond to your original email. 

To meet Babe Ruth was probably the most deeply held dream of every American boy born between 1925 and 1975, and to have your hair tousled by Babe Ruth, and then to have been given a ball autographed by him, "To my pal." 

And you fucking played ball with it and lost it! 

How poor could you have been? You had Uncle Eli's knuckle smokery; your Uncle Schlomo's chittlin' factory, and your Uncle Ralph's Cuban sandwich shop. There must have been enough family money to buy a friggen baseball. Or to have used one of those pigs' knuckles. 

I advise you not to tell that story to your wife, Rona. Despite a subsequent considerable body of evidence to the contrary, that is such an act of monumental stupidity that it's hard to believe you could ever make anything of your life. Maybe if playing with that precious ball had laid the foundation for your getting into the Major Leagues and breaking the Babe's records or approaching your 7th Cy Young Award, it would be excusable. Otherwise, there really is no exculpation for you.

Wow!

I know Lee has quite a sense of humor, but he was sounding serious. No exculpation? I'm not even sure what that means, but it sounds serious. Even biblical. Hey, to me, though I know if I had saved the autographed ball and kept it it would be worth a fortune, at the time, to me, it was just a baseball. And life on the streets was mean. Even though there was enough family money, if I took up a collection, to buy a new ball. No likelihood of that.

And, by the way, Lee made up Uncles Schlomo and Ralph. They don't exist. I did have an Uncle Harry who never had a job and an Uncle Bob who owned a gas station on Myrtle Avenue. And also there was Uncle Jack who was in the clock and watch business, decidedly not in the non-kosher, treif food business. And if he didn't live all the way out on Long Island, if he had known we were using rocks as baseballs, he might have come through with some real sporting equipment. He was that kind of generous guy.

But not knowing what to say back to Lee and worried that somehow thinking about Babe Ruth and my, I guess, stupidity, had made him crazy, I thought to try to calm things down by dashing off a bland note staying--

I suppose you're right. I guess you had to be there at the time, blah, blah, blah . . .

But this didn't work. There was more fired back from Lee--

Of course I had to tell this story to our orthodox friend Ed G, who agrees that meeting the Bambino was the fondest dream of an American boy. But he's not perturbed by your Uncle Eli's treifish occupation. "You can't eat it," he said. "But no one said you can't touch it. Nu. It's business." 

I know you're no fan of the hassidim [true], but a pig smokehouse is a little too reformed even for a quintessential goy like me.

Concerned about Lee's blood pressure, again I tried the calm approach--

Does this mean Ed G has exculpated me? That's it's OK that I had an uncle who was in the pork business? 

And while we're talking baseball, did I ever tell you my Jackie Robinson story?

I should have known better. Lee wrote--

I shudder to think what the Jackie Robinson story must be.

Caring a little less about upsetting Lee, though still not understanding what had gotten into him when I mentioned "knowing" Babe Ruth, I couldn't contain myself from writing--

When I was again about ten, that would be 1948 or so, a year after Jackie Robinson began to play for the Brooklyn Dodgers, he and his wife and baby son moved into an apartment four blocks from where I lived. At the corner of East 52nd Street and Snyder Avenue. 

It was a mainly Jewish neighborhood with a few Italian families sprinkled in. When the Dodgers played at home, at Ebbets Field, at the time they were all day games, each evening Jackie would come out and play baseball with us in the street. Can you believe it, teaching us about fielding and batting. His wife Rachel would sit on the stoop with their young son, Jackie Junior, and we would play until it got dark. 

Then one day, as usual when the Dodgers were at home, we raced over to the Robinson's and . . .

That's as much as I wrote. I haven't yet heard back from Lee, which is fine since the story doesn't end well.

That's an exaggeration--I did hear once more from Lee--

As soon as we're back in New York, he wants to go together to Hawthorne, New Jersey, to visit the Babe's grave. And quintessential goy that he really is, he still knows a lot about treif and Jewish cemetery customs--that when visiting a grave we leave a stone on it to note we were there. In Babe's case, he suggests we leave a baseball.