Free The Hero Two Doors Down by Sharon Robinson Page A

evenings I worked alone.
    A month into our summer project, the wings and tail were complete and we’d begun to work on the fuselage. The body of the plane was the most complicated because of the curves. It took two more weeks to finish fitting small pieces of balsa to the open rectangles that formed the body of the plane.
    One hot afternoon I came home from stickball and headed straight for the basement. My father was down there bent over our model airplane.
    â€œHey, Dad,” I called from the staircase.
    â€œHi, Steve,” he replied.
    I knew immediately that something was wrong. “How come you didn’t wait for me?”
    Dad looked up. His eyes were red. “Sorry, Steve. There was some bad news today, so I came down here as soon as I got home and started working,” he replied.
    I stepped in closer. “What happened?”
    â€œBabe Ruth died today of cancer,” Dad said.
    â€œGee, Dad, that’s terrible.”
    â€œHis body will lie in state at the main entrance to Yankee Stadium for two days. I’m going over there tomorrow.”
    â€œCan I go with you?”
    â€œIt’s going to be very crowded with long lines. Besides, you have school.” Dad paused.
    â€œDid you ever get to see him play?” I asked.
    â€œIt was a little before my time,” Dad replied. “The Babe was a baseball legend. Did you know he hit 714 home runs in his career? He was a real New York character. Everyone loved him . . . even Dodgers fans. We’ll remember August sixteenth as the date we lost one of MLB’s greatest,” Dad said, blowing his nose into his handkerchief. “Come on, son. Let’s see if we can finish up this fuselage today. I know it’s tedious work, but we’re getting close.”
    â€œSure, Dad,” I agreed, climbing onto a stool next to my father. I knew he was upset, but I hoped that working on this with me would make him feel a little bit better.
    We worked in silence. When the fuselage was finished, we sanded the model plane and covered it with layers of tissue paper and fabric, then final thin strips of balsa wood. Before going to bed, we painted our plane chrome and finished it off with a red stripe down the middle. It was a beauty!
    The next Sunday, Dad took me to the field where people were showing off their model planes. We set ours up on a folding table and waited for someone to notice it. Dad circled around the other tables and I manned ours.
    â€œThat’s an L-17, isn’t it, boy?” an older man said as he approached our table.
    â€œSure is,” I replied with pride.
    â€œThe finish is nice and smooth. It looks like it could fly,” the man said.
    â€œMy dad and I still have some work to do. We don’t even have landing gear,” I told him.
    â€œI was an air force pilot during the Second World War. I delivered cargo to North Africa in one of these babies.” The man ran his fingers over the fuselage. “You did a good job.”
    â€œThat’s because I made it with my father,” I replied.
    â€œThat’s right,” the man said. “Stick around. Some of the boys will be flying their models this afternoon. For such a young boy, you’re taking this hobby seriously. I like that,” he added.
    By the time Dad came back to the table, I was beaming. “Dad! Tons of people came by to admire our plane.”
    â€œI’m proud of you, son.”
    â€œCan we build one that flies?” I asked.
    â€œSure.”
    It wasn’t as if we forgot about the Dodgers that summer. Building the model plane just gave us something to do with our hands while we listened to games on the radio. It also kept us from being too anxious when the Dodgers went from last place to third in late August.
    The Dodgers left Brooklyn for a long stretch of away games. I overheard Rachel tell my mom that when Jackie was playing out of town, he wrote her long letters and sent flowers on Fridays.