Still Pitching (11 page)

Squad cars came at us from all directions. You'd have thought we'd kidnapped someone, or robbed a bank. Manny hit the brakes hard, and we all pitched forward. The cops jumped out of their cars, pointed their guns at the sky, and began shooting straight up. It was a scare tactic. I don't know if I was more frightened or relieved to see them.

The desk sergeant booked and finger printed us at the precinct station. Then two cops put us all in a cell while the sergeant called our parents. Over the next hour, someone from each family showed up to make bail. But no one came to get me. After they'd all left, I was alone. When I yelled for help, the sergeant came down and informed me that my father had indeed paid the bail bond. But he'd requested that I be held overnight. It was just like him to do something like that.

All night my stomach didn't stop churning. My mind couldn't stop racing. It wasn't fair. I got suckered into this, and those guys were home, sleeping in their own beds. I imagined all the worst scenarios. What if this goes on my record? How about college? Will it be in the
Wave?
Suppose Barrows finds out? Will he let me play again?

The next morning, my father came to get me. Once we were in the car I braced myself for the lecture. He certainly wasn't happy about this, but all he said was that since I was only an accessory to a misdemeanor, the charges would probably be waved. Myron Kerns wouldn't press charges, he said, so long as the six families agreed to make sure that we never met together again as a group. I wondered just how much of this deal had been brokered by my father?

For the rest of the ride home, neither of us said anything. But I was doing a lot of thinking. It was probably just as hard for my father to let me sit in jail overnight as it was for me to endure the punishment.

I never saw any
of those guys again. But I did find out later that Manny's parents had sent him away—to an upstate military academy. Stuie Issacs transferred to Andover, a rich kid's prep school in Massachusetts. Larry Ramis was sent to a junior high for delinquent students. And Goldman was killed the next fall in a motorcycle accident. I never found out what became of Shapiro, and I didn't try.

I had already begun to move on.

If you were a competitive athlete
, your fate was in the hands of three formidable coaches: Patrolman Joe Bleutrich ran the PAL basketball and baseball teams; Tom Sullivan, the junior high Phys Ed and Hygiene teacher, coached the VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars) baseball and Peninsula League football teams; and Jack Kerchman was the high school football and baseball coach.

Each coach had a singular trademark. And each asserted his authority in a different way. Ex-players referred to them as “Rockaway's Holy Trinity.” Bleutrich “the Father,” was inscrutable and reserved; Sullivan, “the Son,” was a ruthless bigot; and Kerchman, “the Holy Ghost, “the most powerful and feared of the three, was a disciplinarian and a tyrant. Each one was in cahoots with the other two. So, if you made the PAL and VFW teams you had a lot better chance of being chosen for the high school varsity. Which was, of course, every jock wannbe's dream.

I was a baseball player, so I'd have to contend with
all three
. That is, if I was lucky enough to get that far. The only other alternatives were to transfer to a private school, or else give up my dream of playing high school baseball, neither of which was a viable option.

I was hoping that PAL tryouts would be held on the Riis Park diamonds. I'd virtually grown up on those fields. I knew where every pothole and pebble was. And Riis Park was only a mile from our house. Maybe I could convince my father to come out and watch. Instead, Bleutrich chose the high school baseball field—almost five miles away from where I lived.

Far Rockaway was the only
high school on the peninsula. It was also one of the few city schools to have its own football/baseball field. That alone gave it some prestige. Even though I'd never set foot on the field, in my imagination it already was hallowed ground. In the past five years, ever since Kerchman started coaching football and baseball, Far Rockaway had gained a reputation as one of the top sports schools in the city—which of course only added to its mystique. All of us aspirants had dreamed of one day playing on that field.

Located a few blocks up from the El in Bayswater, the high school was a sprawling three-story white brick building with several annexes. The imposing structure was lodged between a lower-middle-class neighborhood to the west and a cluster of abandoned houses and weed lots to the east.

The playing field was surrounded on three sides by a twenty-foot-high chain link fence. The first things you saw when you walked through the gate were the football bleachers, the goal posts, and the huge factory-like building looming in the background. As I crossed that threshold, I felt lost and panicky, like I did on the first day of junior high.

I became even more flustered when I spotted small gatherings of adults and kids in the third base bleachers: family members and friends of the neighborhood guys who were trying out. It reminded me that no one was here to support me.

At breakfast that morning my mother had diplomatically informed me that my father wouldn't be able to get out of work in time for the tryouts. She assured me that he really wanted to be there. But her tone of voice betrayed her disappointment. I'm sure it was true, but I still felt like I'd been deserted. I was also miffed that my mother didn't volunteer to take his place.

But that was a minor letdown compared to what I'd soon be up against. All the best baseball players on the Rockaway peninsula had shown up. Fifty of us would compete for fourteen roster spots. And a half dozen were shortstops.

As a rule, a team's most versatile infielder is the shortstop. The good ones are acrobatic enough to make the pivot on the double play, they can range far into the hole to their left and right, and they have strong enough arms to throw runners out at first. On most every team from sandlot to the pros, the shortstop is the unofficial infield captain. They're also expected to be super alert, and they're responsible for covering second on steals and third on bunts, as well as for being the cut-off man on anything that's hit to the outfield.

As withdrawn as I am in social situations, I've never been a passive ball player. I like to take charge. On the field, I thrive on being right in the middle of things. In that regard, I'm most at home at shortstop. My main assets are my intelligence, my ability to anticipate, and a strong accurate arm. Because I could size up the hitters, I always knew where to position myself. I'd watch where they stood in the box and observe their stances and mechanics. Did they uppercut or hit down on the ball? Did they have an inside/out or outside/in swing? I also paid close attention to the catcher's signals and to the location of his glove. Before every pitch, I'd shade the hitters accordingly, depending on whether the catcher's target was up and in, low and away, low and in, or high and away.

Still, I knew that I didn't have the size or quickness to compete with Sammy Silverman, Bobby Frankel, or Larry Moshan, the first three shortstops I watched that day. Add to that mix Mandel and Zeidner—each of whom had grown almost a half a foot since sixth grade—and there already were five shortstops who were better than I was. Still, what else could I do but sit it out and wait my turn.

I'd been observing coach
Bleutrich all afternoon, looking to see what I could do to hook his attention. He was a tall distinguished looking man, maybe mid forties, with salt and pepper hair, sharply chiseled features, and slightly stooped shoulders. He was very taciturn, even restrained. He spoke softly and respectfully to his fellow coaches and to all of us kids. Definitely a Gary Cooper type.

You could see why his former players referred to him as “the Father.” Bleutrich's demeanor reminded me a bit of my grandfather Hymie. Like my grandfather, he had an air of quiet dignity about him. He seemed at ease with himself. My hunch was that you could trust this coach to keep his word.

I managed to make it through infield tryouts without distinguishing or embarrassing myself. I handled each ground ball cleanly, my throws to first were right on the money, and I even turned the pivot neatly on the double play. But I knew I was playing mostly for myself. I didn't stand a chance of making the team—even as a reserve infielder.

After my turn then, I sat alone in the bleachers, brooding about what a long summer it was going to be—working five days a week at the pharmacy, having no social life to speak of, and dreading having to start eighth grade with nothing to look forward to but another year of anonymity. I tried to resign myself to that inevitability. I'd made the best showing I could under the circumstances. Still, I couldn't shake off my disappointment.

Hitting tryouts were the last hurdle of the day. I'd never been much of a hitter, so things weren't going to get any better for me. After each batter took his turn, I'd watch Bleutrich take him aside and quietly inform him of his fate. You could tell by the body language and the looks on faces who'd made the cut. By the time I came up to bat, I already knew who'd made the team and who hadn't.

Brownstein and Zeidner were shoo-ins. So was Lee. I was also pretty certain that the three Bayswater guys—Silverman, Frankel, and Moshan—would also make it. They were all good enough, but I bet it didn't hurt that they were starters on Bleutrich's PAL basketball team.

I was secretly pleased that not one guy from the clique was chosen. Not even Louie Mandel. But I was mildly surprised that Bleutrich kept Barry Aronson, an awkward, rangy kid who lived five blocks from my house. Barry was only a sub on the sixth grade softball team, but he was one of the best players on our synagogue's basketball team. Who knows, maybe Bleutrich was doing a little advance recruiting for next winter.

The big shock was that Mike Rubin had made the first cut. As soon as I saw the look of joy on his face, I felt a manic surge of envy. It had occurred to me more than once that I probably would have had better chance if I'd tried out for third base. But that would have meant having to compete with Mike again—a scenario I didn't want to repeat.

After I finished hitting, I trudged over to the third base bleachers where Bleutrich was standing, writing the final notes on his clipboard. I swallowed hard when he gave me the news. He was kind about it, but he still told me in no uncertain terms that I didn't have the reflexes to be a middle infielder. Nor, he added, did I hit well enough to play the outfield. No surprises there.

I knew all along that it was coming. But now it was real, final. The prospect of not playing ball this summer was too excruciating to contemplate. My face was flushed with shame, and my ears were still ringing when I looked up and spotted a cadre of guys—Rubin among them—celebrating outside the gate. I wished I could just slip away without having to face the music. Then, in a split second, I knew exactly what I had to do. Why hadn't I thought of it before?

The only decent pitcher I'd seen all day was Lee Adnepos, a slender, wiry left-hander who'd just moved into our neighborhood. Lee was even shorter than I was. But he looked like someone had taught him how to pitch. He had a smooth three-quarter overhand delivery, a nice, easy leg kick, and a fluid, graceful follow-through. He even had a toe plate on his right shoe.

Whenever Lee threw a fastball in the strike zone, the hitters either whiffed or topped the ball off the end of the bat. So far as I could tell, his only weakness was erratic control. And that was because he'd sometimes get bored and lose his concentration. All day, I'd wondered where the other good pitchers were. Bleutrich must have a few other studs lined up. Probably, they'd show up tomorrow after the first round of cuts.

This would be a desperate gambit, I knew. But it was my only shot.

I waited until everyone had drifted away. While Bleutrich was packing up the bats and balls, I walked right up behind him. When he turned, he was a little startled to see me still standing there.

“Coach,” I said, trying to keep my voice from cracking. “I know how to pitch.”

Actually, it was more of a fib than an outright lie. I was thinking about those marathon stickball games in Mike Rubin's driveway, the winter afternoons when I'd pitch to Mike and Peter in the P.S. 114 gym, and the times I used to throw batting practice to my kid brother in the backyard. And what about the schoolyard pickup games? I could always throw strikes, so in time I became the designated batting practice pitcher. In reality, I'd probably put in more time pitching than I had at shortstop. Yet until this moment I'd never thought of myself as a pitcher.

Bleutrich looked away while I held my breath. I could sense that he was thinking about it.

He turned slowly back toward me, shaking his head up and down like he was having a private conversation with himself. He was probably wondering if this short, chubby, unathletic-looking kid was for real.

Finally, he said. “I can use a batting practice pitcher.”

I exhaled. Maybe the coach had seen the same thing today as I had. Maybe there really were no other pitchers waiting in the wings. If that was so, aside from Lee and Zeidner, who was also Bleutrich's best shortstop, there wasn't much to choose from. Besides, when you thought about it, what could he lose by taking on a batting practice pitcher? Especially one who volunteers.

For a second, I wished my father had been there to witness this. He'd have been proud of my gumption.

“Show up tomorrow morning,” Bleutrich said.

I left tryouts feeling vindicated. So, okay, I was only a batting practice pitcher. But Mandel and those guys didn't even get that far. Perhaps, I'd learned something from Manny's boys, after all. A year ago, I'd have never had the balls to do this.

The next day, Bleutrich gave me an old faded uniform with patches on the knees of both pant legs. For a minute I felt like an impostor. I had six days to make myself into a reasonable facsimile of a pitcher. The coach told me to come back in a week for the first practice. In the meantime, he said, work on throwing strikes. Right. As if he even had to tell me that.