The Hero Two Doors Down
Read The Hero Two Doors Down Online
Authors: Sharon Robinson
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December 5, 1959, turned out to be the worst day of my life.
I was twenty, a sophomore at Brooklyn College. My dream was to one day become a doctor, so I concentrated on being a good student. But I was also a rebel, and my dad was a prime target. Those boyhood years when my dad and I shared a passion for baseball and the Brooklyn Dodgers were gone. Lately, there was more tension between us than love.
That afternoon the fight was knocked out of me. I came home after a swim meet, tired and hungry. Mom met me at the door, looking worried.
“Stevie, your father's home,” Mom said. “He's not feeling well. I'm calling his doctor. Go to him.”
If Dad was home in the afternoon, he was really sick. I flew up the stairs. My heart raced as if I was still in the final lap of my last race. When I reached the landing, I was greeted by an eerie silence. It reminded me of a snowstorm that once shut Brooklyn down when I was younger.
I peeked into my parents' bedroom. My dad was propped up against several pillows, struggling to breathe. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open. “Dad,” I called out as I rushed to him. I leaned in and shook his shoulders. “Dad?” He sucked in air without speaking. I turned and ran back down the stairs. “Getting an ambulance,” I managed as I passed my mother on the steps.
Outside, I felt a burst of cold air on my flushed cheeks. I ran as fast as I could. The fire station on Utica Avenue was only three blocks away. There was always an ambulance parked in front. I reached the open garage. When I saw it was empty, I burst into tears. A fireman came to my rescue. “What's wrong, son?” he asked.
“My dad's in trouble,” I gasped between sobs. “We need an ambulance quick!”
“Okay, calm down and tell me what happened,” the fireman said.
“He's having trouble breathing. I think it's his heart,” I explained.
“Here, write down your name and address,” he said, slapping a pad of paper in front of me. “I'll send an ambulance to your house as quickly as possible. Don't panic. You did the right thing for your dad. Now go home and stay there until help arrives.”
The restaurants I passed on my way home told a story. A kosher deli, a bagel shop, a Chinese takeout, and a Caribbean restaurant stood side by side. On the opposite side of the street, there was pizza and soul food. Over the years, our mostly Jewish neighborhood had become a community more reflective of the diversity of Brooklyn. “Change is inevitable,” Dad would say.
He had spent most of my childhood managing Markell's Shoe Store on Fifth Avenue and 48th Street in Manhattan. Now he made custom shoes for everyone. “When all people, regardless of race or religion, are welcomed in all parts of New York City, from Brooklyn to Manhattan, then we'll defeat discrimination,” he'd say at his new shop on Seventh Avenue and 28th Street.
I raced back toward our house. But I was too late.
We buried Dad a couple of days later.
We sat shivah, the Jewish tradition of mourning. All of the mirrors in the house were covered up, and we used boxes to sit on instead of our couches and chairs. Friends and family came over to join us, but I ran away from the talk of Dad in the past tense. I was angry and needed to be alone. I was in no mood to entertain friends. Nothing would bring Dad back. We'd never again press our heads against the transistor radio or watch the news on the black-and-white television in the living room. We'd never work on a car engine or build and fly model airplanes. So what was the point?
I was lying across my bed, thinking of Dad, when my mom walked in with a cardboard box.
“I found this in your father's closet,” she said, dropping the box by my bed.
“What is it?” I asked as I lifted up on my right elbow.
“Not sure,” Mom replied. “It has your name on it.”
I slipped off the bed and settled on the floor beside the box. I lifted the lid and pulled out an envelope addressed to me. It was in my dad's handwriting.
“Oh,” Mom said, seeing the note. “Do you want to be alone?”
I shrugged. “I guess.”
Mom stood up and slid her fingers through my hair before she left.
The letter was dated December 28, 1957. Two years ago, sometime after we learned that the Brooklyn Dodgers were moving to Los Angeles. It was a particularly rough time for me and Dad.
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Steve,
Sorry for the harsh words last night. I woke up this morning wishing we could end each battle with a hug. But we're both stubborn and saying “I love you” no longer comes easily. Instead, I preach and punish when I should be telling you how proud you make me. I complain because your bedroom is a mess. Truth is, my own father died when I was young and unprepared. So just in case history strikes twice, I'm trying to prepare you to be a man while you're still young enough to learn.
When I saw you put aside your boyhood treasures, I collected them in this box, knowing that someday you'd find the joy in their reflected memories. Steve, the past often serves as a guide for the future. This box contains some of those clues. I pray you always know how deeply you were loved.
Dad
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The note slipped out of my hands and dropped to the floor. I thought of my dad and I sobbed. I remembered him telling me that life wouldn't always give me the answers I wanted. “The storm will pass,” he'd said. “Stick close to family, faith, and friendship. They'll help get you through the worst of times, son.”
I pushed up on my knees and began to rifle through the box. As I reached inside, the first thing my fingers hit was a ticket stub from the Brooklyn Dodgers 1948 home opener. I stared at the faded paper ticket and thought of how excited I'd been that day. I remembered everything. It made me smile for the first time since Dad died.
The year was 1948. At eight years old, I lived for baseball. The Brooklyn Dodgers was our team. In six weeks, the Dodgers would be back at Ebbets Field.
Maybe this is the year
, I thought as I leapt from the third stair to the landing of our foyer,
that Dad will surprise me with opening day tickets
.
“Good morning, son,” Dad greeted me when I walked into the kitchen and slid into my chair.
Mom leaned over and planted a kiss on my forehead. “Good morning.”
“I've got good news,” Dad said, beaming from behind the
Brooklyn Eagle
newspaper.
“What's that?” I asked.
“Major League Baseball players have reported to spring training,” he reported.
“Yippee!” I shouted. “Where are the Dodgers?”
“They're in the Dominican Republic, and Leo Durocher is back as their manager.”
