Free The Boys of Summer by Roger Kahn Page B

school. All the NYU Bronx campus lacked was a balanced curriculum, an intellectual climate and girls. It was not a college, but an anticollege. It was not a place of learning but a theater of memorization. It was an institution where students regarded Lear’s catastrophe as insignificant unlessit was worth eight points on an exam. During my sophomore year Dr. Theodore Francis Jones, whose history course ranged down a thousand byways from Thebes to Byzantium, summoned me after a lecture. He was bald, with a bird head and bright blue eyes. “I’m surprised to see you’re flunking organic chemistry,” he said.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Are you interested in organic chemistry?”
    “No, sir.”
    “What do you want to do?”
    I paused. Dr. Jones looked like someone to trust. “Well, sir, I believe I’d like to be a writer.”
    “A writer!” Dr. Jones spoke so loudly that I blushed. “Then what on earth are you doing at a place like this?”
    But in the living room at the Lincoln Place apartment two years later I would not tell my father my longing. We sat in overstuffed chairs, feeling Olga’s eyes, and reading disappointment in one another. “You seemed to like journalism, once,” Gordon said. “Go to the
Herald Tribune.
Ask for this name. You may be put on a list to become a copyboy.”
    “Great.” The word exploded, like hope.
    “If this doesn’t work,” Olga said, “you should take a trade. It’s no disgrace. Not everyone can be an intellectual.” We exchanged looks of loathing love.
V
    The Dodger DC-3 burst out of overcast near Jacksonville, finding clear air at the border of Florida. “Just like the Chamber of Commerce says,” the pilot announced. No one had gotten airsick and I had neglected to tell Fresco Thompson how I found my way to the Dodgers. It was too difficult, too much on the senses, and, besides, it did not seem plausible. “You can seebeach and breakers off to the left,” the pilot’s voice intoned. Minor leaguers lunged to one side of the plane, and the DC-3 tipped slightly. I grabbed both seat arms.
    “Don’t worry,” Thompson said, “ball players haven’t overturned a plane in flight yet, not that there haven’t been some crazy enough to try.” The late sun lit the cabin. “Slowest trip I can remember. I’m afraid you’re going to miss your game.”
    “I guess I can wait until tomorrow.”
    “You can afford to. You’ll see a ball game every day from now until October.” Thompson winked. “You had better like baseball, young man.”
    And writing, I thought. At twenty-four, I was passionately fond of both.
    Ball players were returning to the Hotel McAllister in Miami when I finally checked in. I recognized Reese, wearing Puck’s expression, and the soldier bulk of Gil Hodges, and Carl Furillo with a face from Caesar’s legions. It surprised me how many Dodgers I did not know. I had begun to consider the absence of black players—they were not welcome at the McAllister—when someone poked my ribs and cried, “Hiya, Rudolf.” It was Harold Rosenthal, who was abandoning the job I would take. He was a round, stooped man of thirty-eight, with crinkly brown hair and eyeglasses, respected at the
Tribune
for deft writing. “You know Vinnie,” Rosenthal said. “This is Vin Scully. We’ll get a Scotch.” Scully had a long-chinned, rather handsome face, under a shock of red hair. He was the number three broadcaster on the unit which Barber led.
    “Into the gymnasium,” Scully proclaimed.
    “Yes,” I said, vaguely. “Hey, Harold. How was the game?”
    “Eech,” Rosenthal said. He waved his right hand in a deprecatory motion. “Into the gym.”
    When drinks came to our table near the bar, I tried again. “How did it go tonight?” I said.
    “What?” Rosenthal said.
    “The game.”
    “We win, 5–3. Forget it.”
    “Just an exhibition,” Scully said.
    I still wanted to talk baseball, to draw out the men.
    “Pitching good?”
    “Whoop,” Scully cried.