Free New Moon by Richard Grossinger Page B

Spaldeen and threw it over and under obstacles on the street, widening our range as we hit Central Park. Bridey said we had “ball-itis” because a round object was all that was needed to instigate this behavior. She may not have understood the impulse, but she knew its outcome. Spheroids, however large or small, generated energy fields that ran us aroundlike marionettes. A marble or rounded gob of Silly Putty cast pretty much the same spell.
    The way to our hearts was through baseball, so Bridey would tease us by calling me “Richard McTowers” and Jonny “Whitey T.”—she had a particular fondness for the name Whitey Ford and used it on unlikely occasions. Jon appreciated his nickname and, at its summons, snapped imaginary curve balls for her. We tried to get her more involved, telling her scores about which she cared little. “It’s not an Irish game,” she insisted. “And my kinfolk wouldn’t want me rooting for such as Yankees anyway.”
    To her mind, we honored the players like priests, and it was sinful to put so much emphasis on mere mortals. If we waxed too euphoric about a Yankee win, she said things like, “Hush now with your idolatry.”
    Sometimes Daddy peered in when we were listening and commented on the game, though he was a Giants fan. He had stock lines, like when Eddie Lopat was having a rough outing: “He’s not fooling anyone today, boys.” We laughed, as though he were Casey Stengel remarking to his bullpen coaches.
    One afternoon, Uncle Moe made an appearance, kneeled down right beside us, and requested an immediate update. I told him that Johnny Mize had just missed a pinch homer. Jim Delsing dove into the stands to take it away.
    “Did he buy a ticket?” Uncle Moe asked.
    I stared back at him without smiling. This was not a trivial matter, and I was hardly over my disappointment.
    “Why, he can’t go into the stands without a ticket!”
    At home I made up my own games. I would divide cards into nine-man teams, set one into fielding positions on the carpet, the other into a batting order, make one of my “doubles” the “ball,” and play nine innings, with the team of cards at bat taking turns swatting the “ball,” card-face against finger-teed card-edge. An out was when the “ball” landed on another card or near an infielder (from where I could flip it onto a part of the first baseman card—or fail for an error). Players took on distinct personalities, as regions ofrug became sectors of a diamond. Jon’s and my bureaus were the bleachers: home-run territory. Few pleasures exceeded the feeling of a seemingly solid hit floating across my room and landing smack on an outfielder’s card—or grazing the bureau for a Ballantine blast.
    During spare moments at Bill-Dave (or whispered at school) Phil and I played the “Initials” game: L.D., outfielder, Indians?; P.S., second-base, Athletics?; A.S., pitcher, Yankees? (We would never miss a Yankee no matter how obscure.) J.O., infielder, Pirates? Though not a Yankee, Johnny O’Brien was Phil’s favorite, the player he imagined and announced himself as, going into the hole at shortstop, making the throw to get the force play with his brother Eddie at second. It was the “O-apostrophe” of their names, not their abilities, that captivated Phil, for neither O’Brien could hold a candle to Bill-Dave’s all-star shortstop.
    En route home Phil and I would sit together in the back of the wagon pretending we were Mel Allen and Jim Woods announcing innings, complete with introductions, disclaimers, and Ballantine beer ads. We would go pitch by pitch: “Reynolds winds, checks second; now he comes to the plate … swung on…. ”
    We also had a rendition of Lou Gehrig’s legendary speech. I’d speak it, and Phil would do the echoes:
    “I consider myself—”
    “… consider myself—”
    “… the luckiest man—”
    “… iest man—”
    “… on the face of the earth—”
    “… face of the earth.”
    Then we