Still Pitching (29 page)

As she led us down a long, dark hall, she looked back at Steve and pointed to a door on the right. How did she know? The bastard shot me the thumbs-up sign and went in. My heart was pounding. Then I saw a crack of light creeping out from under a door.

“Good luck, sweetheart,” Sally said.

I cringed. Why couldn't it have been her?

The room was spare and dingy. Another lamp with a scarf draped over it gave off the only light. Against the wall was an old army cot with the bed covers rolled back. The wooden floor creaked with each step I took. Gus shouted from behind the bathroom door, “Take your clothes off honey and get comfortable—I'll be right out.”

I took off everything but my jockeys. My stomach was queasy. It was just like the dread I felt on the first day of grade school.

I heard the toilet flush, and Gus stepped into the bedroom wearing only a transparent nightgown that came down to her knees. Underneath, I could see the contour of her body—full breasts, a thatch of dark pubic hair, hefty thighs. She undid the string at the neck of her nightgown, and her breasts floated free. I remembered the night I spied on my neighbor Diana through the open window. I desperately wanted to feel that same wonder and awe. Instead, my hands and feet were freezing and I felt a knot balling up in my stomach.

“Just relax,” she said. “I've broken in a lot of boys just like you.”

She led me over to the bed and pulled off my jockeys. She fiddled around with my limp penis, then took it into her mouth. I started giggling—a nervous reaction. My stomach was tight as a coiled spring.

“A little ticklish, are we?” she said. She was being generous.

“I know you're cherry, and I know you're scared. It's okay. Just let me do the work.”

It would have been stupid to lie to her. I closed my eyes and sunk back on the bed. She continued to stoke my penis and move her tongue slowly up and down the shaft. I thought about Sally, wearing nothing but those ballet slippers. I began to feel a tingling sensation deep in my belly.

“You're doin' real good,” she said. “Now, I want you to think about the sexiest girl you know, the one you're dying to go to bed with. Then, make believe I'm her.”

It was as if she was reading my mind and giving me permission at the same time. I closed my eyes and slowly called up my old recurrent fantasy of Cindy Levine lying on her back under the boardwalk, dress hiked up over her hips, panties rolled down to her ankles. When my erection was at half-mast, Gus rolled a condom over my penis. It broke the reverie, but when she climbed on top and slid it between her thighs, the image that flashed into my mind was of Julie floating toward me, completely naked, except for the yellow ribbon in her hair.

Gus knew exactly when it was time. She started to rhythmically gyrate and pump, slowly and then faster, then up and down like a bucking horse. I held on tight, Julie's image still clear in my mind. When it was over, I was so elated I wanted to kiss her. I didn't care that it was all business. If all prostitutes were like her, they should be charging analysts' rates.

An indolent fatigue set in—a pleasant exhaustion, a feeling of being completely spent—the kind of sensation that ball players describe when they say that they “left it all out on the field.”

When we got back in the living room, Steve and Sally were dressed and sitting on the love seat.

“What took you so long, stud?” Steve laughed. Why was he still pulling rank on me?

Sally said, in a mock Southern Belle tone, “Sugar, the best lovers know how to take their time.”

She looked right at me and winked. I'll bet it was all part of their schtick. Sally, the actress—Gus, the shrink.

When Steve got up to go to the john, Sally came over to me and whispered, “That one is all talk. He never even got it up.”

By the time we were
on the subway, I was flushed with my success. I had no idea whether what Sally said about Steve was true or not, but it was reassuring to think that my fears weren't so unnatural after all—that even a stud like him might not succeed at sex every time. It was one more myth I could now put to rest.

When school resumed
in the fall, I was still giddy from the afterglow of the summer's escapades. Plus, everything I'd been longing for was now coming my way. I had my own column and full supervision of the new reporters. The high school sports editors at the
Times
and
Herald Tribune
assigned me to write up the football games, this time for a small honorarium. During the first week of classes, I was chosen for Arista, the honor society. Then Mr. Rosenthal, the senior play advisor, invited me to help write the script and play a role in the actual production.

It was almost if I'd had blinders on for the last five years. I'd talked myself into believing that making the varsity would be my only avenue to popularity and recognition The reality was that baseball wasn't responsible for any of the honors and distinctions I'd recently earned. Or for my relationship with Julie. Or even for losing my virginity. None of this would have happened, in fact, had I persisted in seeking out Kerchman's approval.

A week after football
practice began, I was in
The Chat
office revising my first column when the phone rang.

“Where the goddamned hell have you been?” Kerchman snapped. “You're my head football manager, get your ass down here.”

What chutzpah! And how had he found me? Did Kerchman really believe I'd jump at the chance to be a gloried water boy? Again? Did he have no memory? No conscience? In his twisted scheme of things, there was probably no reason why I shouldn't have been honored by his invitation. But I couldn't risk a face-to-face meeting—couldn't let him get to me again. I had too much to lose.

When Kerchman wanted to be a bastard, he could browbeat you without feeling an ounce of remorse. But he could also be a sweet talker. I'd seen it up-close too many times. Oh how I ached for the opportunity to turn him down. I'd been thinking about this moment since June. All summer, I'd been rehearsing what I'd say. I'd tell him point blank that if he'd given me the varsity letter, I'd have been happy to help him out. And the truth is that I would have—in a blink. Even if I didn't want to do it.

But now that the moment had arrived, all I could do was stammer a polite, weak-ass excuse about having already made other commitments. I braced myself for the fallout. All he said though was, “I see,” and he hung up. Just like that, it was over and done with. Okay, I'd reclaimed my dignity and pride. I'd vindicated myself. Why then did I feel so guilty—as if
I'd
somehow undermined
him?

For the next hour I couldn't concentrate on the column. Every five minutes I fought off the impulse to call him back. Why did he still have such a stranglehold over me?

I'd just about talked myself out of calling him back, when Andrew Makrides dropped the news on me the following morning. Two days ago Henry Koslan had died of leukemia. The whole team would be attending the memorial service the next day. “Kerchman wants you there too,” Makrides said. Coach K, it seems, had known about Koslan's condition for almost a year. But he'd promised the family he wouldn't tell anybody.

So that's why he started Koslan in that last game. And that's why Koslan got his letter and I didn't. Despite it all, I still didn't want to give in. I earned that letter. And why couldn't he have explained it to me—even after the fact? Why did I have to hear it from Makrides? Apparently, this little dance wasn't over yet. Certainly not in Kerchman's mind. Maybe not in mine either.

I was never very close to Koslan. In fact, because of our similar roles, I always tried to disassociate myself from him. But his death was a numbing reminder of just how quickly and suddenly your whole life can change. It made everything feel just a little bit more urgent.

On September 27th
, a sunny, chilly afternoon, I journeyed alone to Ebbets Field—for what I sensed would be the last time. The 6,702 other Dodger fans in attendance seemed to think so too. We all watched in gloomy silence as Danny McDevitt, a promising lefthander, shut out the Pittsburgh Pirates, 2-0. In a curious twist of fate, the Pirate team president at the time was Branch Rickey, the ex-Dodger owner who, in 1947, had signed Jackie Robinson to a Major League contract.

I can't recall feeling so listless and melancholy at a Dodger game before. Even Tex Rickert's voice on the P.A. didn't have its usual resonance and pizzazz. Between each inning, the organist, Gladys Gooding, played a selection of sad, torchy songs: “Am I Blue,” “What Can I Say Dear, After I've Said I'm Sorry?” “Thanks for the Memories,” “When I Grow Too Old to Dream.” She capped the medley during the seventh inning stretch with a solemn rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.” It was only the second time I'd cried over a major league ball game. The first was Bobby Thomson's home run. But back then, I was only eleven.

Most of the crowd left before the game was over—in protest of O'Malley's still-pending announcement of the move. I stayed until the end, wishing that I could stamp all my Dodger memories in my imagination forever.

As the players ran off the field for the last time, I stood up with the few thousand remaining diehards cheering my old heroes, tears streaming down my cheeks. One second I'd be overcome by a feeling of pride and admiration for all their achievements, and the next moment I felt bitter and resentful. Until, finally, a profound sadness set in. In addition to the Dodgers, I was mourning Henry Koslan's untimely death. In the larger scheme of things, I was unconsciously grieving the loss of my childhood.

A few days after
Koslan's funeral I went down to Kerchman's boiler room office. I'd had a week to think it over. Naturally I was curious to see what he had up his sleeve. But I was also testing my own resolve. This time it would be my call. No more trade-offs. If I didn't like the deal, I'd walk.

I made it as tough on him as I could—or so I thought. I told him I'd take the job, but only if I got time off to write my column and make the four campus visits I'd already scheduled. I even wrote the dates out and handed the piece of paper to him; “Trinity/Hartford in mid October; Syracuse in late October; Boston U in early November; Columbia, right before Thanksgiving.” I deliberately made no mention of baseball. And neither, to my slight disappointment, did he.

Kerchman readily agreed to my demands. A bit too readily, I thought. He said “Okay” like it was no big deal. For a minute I felt like he'd trumped me again—that he'd gotten just what he'd wanted. But to hell with what he thought. I'd already made the deal. I'd wait and see what happened next.

The following day Mr. K held a special squad meeting in the boy's showers. He had only a single item on the agenda.

“Anybody gives Steinberg here any flak,” he told the troops, “you'll answer to me.” It was the first time he'd ever pronounced my name correctly.

He'd never said anything like this about Krause or the other student managers. I was flattered, of course. That was his intent, wasn't it? Still, I decided to reserve my judgment.

As head football manager I delegated all the menial jobs to the new assistants. I also cut out of practice early on the days when we had editors meetings at the paper, and when we did page proofs and layout. I even missed two games because of my campus visits. But he never said a word to me about any of it. Whatever else he might have thought, Kerchman kept up his end of the bargain.

Over the course of the season I became an unwitting accomplice to this obsessed, inscrutable coach. While the other managers scurried around servicing the players and doing their bidding, I stood next to Kerchman, taking notes on a clipboard while he muttered complicated strategies to me—all of which I somehow comprehended. I felt a secret pride at being taken into his confidence, even as I was annoyed with myself for feeling so beholden to him.

On October 9th
—the day before the Yankees and Braves would play the seventh game of the World Series, the Dodgers held a press conference. Arthur Patterson, one of O'Malley's front office minions, read a curt, generic statement to the press: “The stockholders and directors of the Brooklyn baseball club have today met and unanimously agreed that the necessary steps be taken to draft the Los Angeles territory.”

I knew it was coming, but I was stunned by the presentation. It was all double-speak. No apologies, no farewells, no concessions of any kind. No acknowledgment of the allegiance of an entire borough. No statement of gratitude to the millions who'd supported this team since the turn of the century. Only a bland, businesslike memo.

The next day, the Braves beat the Yankees in the seventh game. It was an all too abrupt ending to the city's ten-year period of entitlement, a remarkable decade during which a New York team had won the World Series eight times, and two of the city's three teams had played one another for the world championship seven times.

The move to LA would turn out to be the precursor to major league expansion, as well as to the eventual commodification of the game itself. It would also foreshadow a radical shift in the culture's values. But at the moment I was too caught up in my own personal drama to comprehend any of it.

My main preoccupation
that fall was my evolving relationship with Julie. At the time of the Dodgers' move we were still in that goofy, euphoric, puppy love stage. From the minute school began, we were sending silly love notes to one another, exchanging cutesy gifts, and talking incessantly on the phone. We even adopted Johnny Mathis's mushy ballad, “Chances Are” as “our song.” On Friday nights I'd go to the Hewlett High football games and watch Julie cheer. Saturdays we'd go bowling with friends or see a movie. At the end of the evening we'd either park at the yacht basin or sneak into Julie's den after her parents had gone to bed.