Free Still Pitching by Michael Steinberg Page A

the time.
    To distract themselves from their hardships, every Wednesday night my mother played mahjong in the living room with her friends, while my father presided over the pinochle game in the smoke filled kitchen with the other husbands. On Saturday night the card games shifted over to the Platts’ house. What little spare time my parents had, they spent over at the West End Temple Men’s and Women’s Club. It seemed like they were moving in separate orbits.
    Lately I’d noticed that my mother had lost interest in reading, which left us little to talk about. My father and I had been growing apart ever since the summer, when he broke his leg sliding into second base. I remember the exact moment it happened. I heard the bone snap just as his foot jammed into the bag. When I ran out on the field, I saw the fractured bone protruding from his ankle. It made me sick to my stomach.
    After a slow, painful rehab, he quit playing. Then he stopped watching the Giant games on TV. Without baseball to talk about, we didn’t have a lot to say to one another.
    I couldn’t look to my brother for companionship. He was only seven. And as soon as school started, we weren’t playing street games anymore. That was about the only thing we had in common.
    So I began to brood and withdraw. After dinner, I’d retreat to my room to read or do homework. As a diversion, I listened to music. I wasn’t much of a Your Hit Parade fan. The Perry Comos, Guy Mitchells, Patti Pages, and Eddie Fishers seemed unexpressive and bland. The songs were too old-fashioned and sappy for my tastes.
    But after midnight, I’d listen under my pillow to the Al “Jazzbo” Collins show. The music’s soaring leaps and abrupt transitions, the unpredictable chord changes, the complex riffs and improv solos surprised and delighted me. Even the musicians’ names—Bird, Monk, Duke, and Diz, were personal and fraternal—like the nicknames of professional baseball players.
    The music conjured up images of a downtown Manhattan nether world—an arcane universe of smoky lounges and Bohemian Greenwich Village clubs where artists, musicians, and writers all congregated. It was an exotic, fascinating universe that I dreamed of being a part of someday.
    At best, I was a neophyte jazz buff. But knowing even a little bit about this music made me feel a bit like I did when I hobnobbed with the aficionados at Ebbets Field. Jazz lovers were a select aristocracy of sophisticated, informed hipsters who appreciated the music and who, on cue, could cite its history and invoke its dignitaries. The problem was that, aside from Peter, there was no one else I could share my enthusiasm with.
    The only class I looked forward to was Language Arts. The reason I was so taken with it was because of my teacher. Whenever Mr. Aaron lectured on an assigned book, he’d close his eyes and wave his hands around like an opera singer belting out an aria. I loved watching him get all cranked up about whatever novel we were reading at the moment. I knew exactly what it felt like to be so enthralled by something I’d read.
    Mr. Aaron’s freckles and buzz cut made him seem almost boyish looking. He was tall and wiry, and his shoulders were too wide in proportion to his slender frame. Danny Ocasio, the class clown, called him “the human coat hanger.” Two of the more savvy greasers, Martin Ackereizen and Vinnie Kay, poked fun at Mr. Aaron’s first name.
    â€œOh Marvin, could you help me with my homework?” Ackereizen would say when Mr. Aaron was out of the room.
    But everyone—even the one-book boys—respected him. That was because he didn’t let you get away with anything. It didn’t matter who you were. If you cut class or didn’t do your homework, he’d take it off your grade. If you mouthed off or he caught you daydreaming, he’d write up a pink slip and send you down to assistant principal