Free Lay that Trumpet in Our Hands by Susan Carol McCarthy

Marvin, it was a holy day in the sacred celebration of Heaven on Earth.
    Marvin gave me nicknames, Bible Drill secrets, Mistuh Bee stories. But his gift to Ren was baseball.
    Two years ago, on my brother’s sixth birthday, Marvin gave Ren his first glove and the great love of his life. He had Daddy’s permission, of course, because Daddy can’t play—the polio withered the muscles required for an overhand throw. So it was Marvin who taught Ren to catch a ball, fire a pitch, hit a curve, follow a game on the radio and love the Brooklyn Dodgers.
    Marvin wasn’t alone, of course. Old Sal Tomasini, the Italian grocer who grew up in Brooklyn, was in on it, too. The same year Ren got his glove, the Dodgers won the 1949 National League pennant, Marvin’s hero Jackie Robinson was picked Most Valuable Player, and Sal and Marvin christened Ren their lucky charm.
    Above Sal’s small store, which caters to the folks from The Quarters, is the cheerful, cluttered apartment where he and Sophia live. Rising above that is the twenty-five-foot radio antenna that connects Sal and the fans who gather behind his store on game days to the Brooklyn Dodger Radio Network.
    No doubt, they’re all there now, sitting on the benches under the scrub pines, watching the game in their minds with the help of the Dodger’s honey-toned storyteller, The Rhubarb, Red Barber.
    Old Sal was here earlier, offering Ren a ride. But Ren refused.
    “We can’ta open widout you!” Sal had said in his thick Milano-by-way-of-Brooklyn accent. “You are our lucky charm! Besides,” he’d pleaded, “It’s Preacher Roe pitching; you don’t wanna miss
him
.”
    Ren said nothing, and everything, with a shake of his head. Chin on his chest, face unreadable under the bill of his blue cap, he’d mumbled, “Sorry,” and turned away, walking resolutely down the drive to face the car barn wall.
    Sal’s eyes, behind his thick glasses, grew pained; their sadness magnified by the high-power lenses. His white mustache drooped over lips pursed in disappointment.
    “Sorry, Sal,” I’d told him, by way of comfort.
    He’d thanked me with a wave of his small hand, adjusted his own ancient Brooklyn cap and driven away.
    Bhhh-dmmm (pause) p f.
The lonesome sound of Ren’s solitary play is a world away from the complex chatter of catch with Marvin.
    For the past two summers, the driveway where Ren stands now, facing the wrong way, was his and Marvin’s playing field. In front of an imagined crowd (Ebbets, of course), the two of them, fifteen feet apart, re-enacted baseball’s greatest plays, playing multiple positions as their personal heroes. Marvin was most often Jackie, the great Jack Roosevelt Robinson, white baseball’s first black player. Ren was sometimes Preacher Roe, the Dodgers’ league-leading pitcher, sometimes himself as a grown-up pitcher, Ren “Rocket Man” McMahon. (“When Rocket Man’s on the mound, nobody orbits the bases!” he’d crow.)
    “But can The Rocket do it again?” Marvin would taunt, his throw finding Ren’s glove with a firm
Thwap!
Ren would squint, hard, and hurl the ball back—
Thwap!
—and the imaginary game would begin, with Marvin, imitating Red Barber, calling the play-by-play:
    “Rocket Man’s held the flock scoreless, folks, through eight innin’s. Bottom of the ninth, one away, with Reese on first. Snider steps in to face McMahon.
    “Rocket Man checks Reese, an’ delivers. Duke swings—
Thwap!
—It’s a blue darter over the shortstop’s outstretched glove. The left fielder picks it up an’ rifles it to second—
Thwap!
—No, suh!
Too
late!
    “Listen to those fans as Jackie Robinson approaches home plate. Jackie leads the league in runs scored, an’ bases stolen. PeeWee’s on second, Snider’s at first. Here’s The Rocket’s windup, an’ the pitch—
Thwap!
—It’s a bullet back to the box. Rocket Man snags it, turns and fires it to second, doublin’ off a surprised PeeWee Reese!—Thwap!—Oh-ho,