Free New Moon by Richard Grossinger Page A

there was a nursery behind the kitchen for the baby.
    Late one night Mommy left for the hospital and came back several days later with a sister named Deborah. Nanny kissed us goodbye shortly afterwards and never returned. Her macabre landscape faded; in absentia she became a numinous being, vast and sepulchral as life itself.
    One afternoon we strolled to the corner of 96th and Central Park where we met a young pretty lady named Bridey. The famous Fifth Avenue wind whipped at our jackets and blew newspapers past like missiles. Bridey held a little hat on with her hand, and Jon and I bounced a ball while she answered my mother’s questions in a brogue. A month later she moved in as our new nurse.
    From the day I picked Gil McDougald as my favorite player from a card of a friendly pixie face gazing at far-off sky, I became a Yankee fan and joined Phil in a pact of loyalty.
    When I told Uncle Paul about this new thing, he bought me a Yankee history in which I acquainted myself with prior seasons. That opened a legacy as primeval as the Egyptian tombs and labyrinthine as Jessie’s cave. I started at the beginning when they were the Highlanders, then went through eras of Babe Ruth, Herb Pennock, Bill Dickey, Waite Hoyt, Joe Gordon, Joe DiMaggio, and Old Reliable, Tommy Henrich. None of those players were still around, but their photos were pinstriped heirlooms out of which the 1952 squad took the field. Allie Reynolds and Vic Raschi pitched; Yogi Berra was their catcher, Charlie Silvera his alternate; Joe Collins played first, spelled by Johnny Mize; Billy Martin was at second, Phil Rizzuto at short, McDougald at third backed by Bobby Brown. Gene Woodling, Mickey Mantle, and Hank Bauer started in the outfield, Irv Noren and Bob Cerv filling in.
    These were my ikons, their names indelible. They were fighting Cleveland for first place, the same Indians they had been battling for years. Casey Stengel was the manager. A savvy old-timer who had not been successful with other teams, he surprised the baseball world by leading the Yanks to the pennant in 1949 as they beat theRed Sox in the last two meetings of the season to prevail by a single game. They edged out Detroit, Cleveland, and Boston in 1950. Then in 1951 they ran away from the Indians, and Rookie of the Year Gil McDougald hit a grand slam against the crosstown Giants in the World Series. That was all before my time, the prologue to 1952.
    Daddy pulled his old Philco from the back of a closet, a red plastic box with a big square battery. I carried it around the house and on walks, trying not to miss an inning. Now I had a daily narrative of games, a pennant race, to keep me company. Mel Allen’s voice called me into a parallel world: “That ball is going, going, gone!”—pure consummation, the home run that ended discourse in speechless sound, the player who hit it elevated to temporary adulation.
    I hurried upstairs from the Bill-Dave wagon, heart beating, to catch the endings of games, though sometimes Bert put the Yankees on the wagon radio. (In the early 1950s only rare Yankee games were on Channel 11, but these were monumental affairs, from pregame home-run contests to postgame interviews.)
    A victory by the Yanks would wash out all other sadnesses and disappointments. Like a fairy’s wand it would enhance and color the day, giving it a rhapsodic spark. I would become happier, friendlier, more cooperative, even more attentive in class. Likewise, if the Yanks lost, everything would become glummer and drearier; I would turn sullen and inward. This dance of Yankee highs and lows was a reliable mood-barometer throughout my childhood.
    Jonny declared himself a Yankee fan too and picked his own favorite player. So Daddy took us back to Miller’s and bought Yankee caps and pinstriped uniforms. We proudly donned these for our Sunday outings, number 12, Gil McDougald, and number 7, Mickey Mantle, the switch-hitting star.
    For years my brother and I routinely carried a