The Hero Two Doors Down (8 page)

“Shut up,” one of the big boys warned.

“No need for that,” Jackie chastised the boy. “He's right. For the first half of the season, I was overweight. It affected my playing. I'm known for my speed on the base path and for stealing bases. It's hard to be daring and fast when you're out of shape. My weight's almost back where I need to be.”

“Gee, Steve, thanks for bringing Jackie to meet us,” one of the girls said. “We always hear you talking about Jackie Robinson, but nobody believed you really knew him.”

“Yeah. We just thought you were lying,” another boy said.

All I could do was smile.

“Will you sign my cap, Jackie?” someone asked.

“Gotta pen?”

Within seconds, boys and girls were lined up to have something signed by Jackie. A couple of kids even had me sign
my
name. I couldn't believe how proud I felt.

“I don't get to play much softball,” Jackie told the kids after he'd finished signing. “But I'd be happy to show you some skills that don't involve a ball.”

The requests came in as if they were fast pitches. And Jackie fielded them like the pro he was.

“Can you teach us how to steal a base?” one of the girls asked.

“My name's Sam,” a boy said, stepping forward to shake Jackie's hand. “I'm pigeon-toed, too. I want to be able to run as fast as you.”

“Sam, if you really want to run faster, join the track team and work hard. You'll be fine.”

“Could you show us how to slide into a base and not get caught?” another asked.

“I'll show you some moves,” Jackie promised. “But keep in mind that stealing bases takes daring and patience at the same time. You must study the pitcher and run at the right moment. There's risk, for sure. If you get picked off, let it go and don't be afraid to try again.”

“Hey, Jackie,” one kid yelled. “I know you're from Pasadena. So will you go home after the season?”

“Not sure,” Jackie replied. “California will always be home, but I think it's time to set down some roots on the East Coast. Now, enough talk. Let's play ball.”

Jackie joined us on the field and took us through base-running techniques until we could all slide into home plate like him. It was so much fun. Everyone groaned when Jackie called time-out.

“Game day tomorrow,” Jackie said.

“Who are you playing?” someone asked.

“Cincinnati Reds,” Jackie told them.

“Good luck beating the Reds,” the kids shouted as we made our way back down Tilden Avenue.

“Steve, how'd you like to invite your entire class to a Dodgers game?”

“Would I ever! My birthday's on the nineteenth,” I reminded Jackie.

“Great! How about you celebrate your birthday with your class on June twenty-fourth? Right before school lets out for the summer, the Dodgers have a doubleheader against Pittsburgh. I'll get a batch of tickets to the first game. It's in the afternoon. How many kids are in your class?”

“Maybe twenty-five,” I replied. “Is that too many tickets?”

“I'll get enough so parents and teachers can come. Do you think Miss Maliken will come along?”

“Are you kidding? She's a huge fan.”

“You can ride over early with Rachel, Jackie, and me. We'll leave the tickets at will-call. I'll have the Dodgers office contact Miss Maliken to make all the arrangements, and ask Rachel to call your mother. And, Steve . . . you can either stay with Rachel or join your classmates for the game. Okay?”

I couldn't believe my ears! “Okay,” I repeated. “It's the best news ever!”

I
was the school hero. News quickly spread that I'd brought Jackie Robinson to the school yard and he'd met a bunch of fourth and fifth graders. After the Dodgers front office called Miss Maliken, my whole third-grade class hugged me. Miss Maliken even pulled me aside and told me how happy she was with the change in my behavior. I was not the same boy who'd pushed her into that bush earlier in the year. That was because of Jackie.

I felt sorry for Sena. She was in a different third-grade class and felt left out. “How come you didn't get my class tickets, too?” she pouted on our way home from school.

“Gee whiz, Sena! I didn't forget you. Miss Maliken saved you two tickets so your mother can come with you.”

“Yippee!” Sena shouted right there in the hallway leading to our classrooms.

“When the game starts, I can sit with Mrs. Robinson or with my class.”

“If I were you, I'd stay with Mrs. Robinson,” Sena suggested. “Her seats will be better.”

The morning of June 24, I was up early. Mom and I walked over to the Robinsons' home and found Jackie Senior playing stoopball with little Jackie.

“Good morning,” Jackie called out as we approached.

“Good morning,” Mom and I said in unison. I continued to play stoopball with little Jackie while Jackie Senior and my mom talked out plans for the day.

“Are you excited?” Rachel asked after she came outside and Mom headed back home.

“Couldn't even sleep!” I answered, lifting Jackie Junior into the air.

“Evie.” Jackie Junior giggled as I swung him around and around until my arms ached. “Down,” he said.

I set little Jackie down. “Did you hear that the subway fare is going up to a dime on July first?” I asked.

“I heard,” Jackie replied. “But we're not taking the subway today.”

“We're not?”

“It's a special day,” Jackie replied. “We're taking a cab to Ebbets Field,” Jackie Senior told Rachel. “Steve, hold Jackie's hand while I grab us a cab.”

A few minutes later, we piled into the backseat. Mr. Robinson pulled his son onto his lap. I sat between Rachel and Jackie as though I was a member of their family.

We reached the player entrance and hopped out of the car.

“Once we're on the field, I'll send for you,” Jackie said as he leaned in for a kiss from Rachel. “Steve, we'll get you down to the dugout before the game starts. I'll get a ball so you can get a few autographs. Sound good?” Jackie asked.

“You bet.” I was smiling so much my cheeks ached.

Jackie smiled back at me. “Shouldn't be a problem,” he replied, lifting Jackie Junior up so he could give him a kiss. “Wish Daddy luck.” Little Jackie leaned over and planted a kiss on his dad's cheek. “That's my boy.”

 

Jackie rushed off to the clubhouse to change into his uniform. And Rachel hurried us through the turnstile and into the belly of the ballpark. Our seats were several rows up from the Dodgers dugout. I could hear the players joking around with one another.

I couldn't stay in my seat. Luckily, neither could Jackie Junior. It was so early that the stadium was practically empty. Jackie Junior and I stood in our row and tossed a ball to each other. A couple of times the ball got away from us. Little Jackie clapped and jumped up and down.

“Enough,” Rachel scolded the third time it happened.

Jackie cried out in protest until his mom hoisted him onto her knees and pointed to his father on the field.

The Dodgers were wrapping up their batting practice when we were escorted down to the Dodgers dugout. The players stopped by to greet Rachel and tickle Jackie Junior while I collected autographs from Arky Vaughan, Preacher Roe, and Gil Hodges.

“Gee, thanks” was all I could think of to say.

While the Pittsburgh Pirates took batting practice, Rachel got us hot dogs and orange juice. We brought bags of peanuts back to our seats in time for the start of the first game. I yelled from the moment the Brooklyn Dodgers took to the field. In the bottom of the first inning, Jackie hit a line drive into the right field, stole third base, and scored.

Rachel turned to me and said, “You and your class are bringing Jack good luck!”

“I hope so,” I said, beaming.

Jackie's great performance continued. The fifth inning had us on our feet from start to finish! Dick Whitman got on base with a walk. Jackie hit a ground ball to left field, and Vaughan scored!

Little Jackie and I jumped up.

“Sit down, boys,” Rachel told us as Carl Furillo stepped into the batter's box. We watched quietly as Furillo grounded out. We were back on our feet when Pee Wee warmed up.

“Pee Wee! Pee Wee!” we shouted. Pee Wee's fly ball sent Jackie to third base.

A wild pitch by Elmer Riddle gave Jackie the opening he needed. With expert timing and speed, Jackie stole home.

The fans were on their feet, screaming with joy. It was so loud in the stadium that Jackie Junior covered his ears. Rachel lifted him in her arms.

“He did it, Jackie,” she told her son. “You and Steve brought Daddy luck.”

The Dodgers beat the Pirates 6 to 2.

My whole class and Miss Maliken wrote a letter to Jackie and Rachel to thank them for the tickets. Miss Maliken said she could see the positive influence spending time with Jackie had had on me.

The baseball game was the best birthday present I could have asked for. But my parents had also gotten me an incredible gift. They had given it to me on my birthday, a few days before the game. It was wrapped in bright silver paper. I tore into it and revealed a Cleveland model kit for the L-17 airplane. I couldn't believe it!

On Sunday, June 27, Dad and I went down into the basement to work on our model airplane. “Steve, this L-17 model is a major step up from the kids' model airplane kits you're used to,” Dad began. “I've watched you closely and feel that your building skills merit this upgrade.”

“Awesome,” I said, studying the photo of a sleek chrome plane on the front of the box. It cost a dollar instead of ten cents like my other models. “How come this kit cost so much?”

“This model is more complicated to build. We can add a fuel tank and landing gears. It won't fly, but this is the real deal. We'll have to work on this one together. It will take time and lots of patience. Are you up for that?”

“You bet,” I replied. I was used to making model planes all by myself in an afternoon. “How much time do you think it will take?” I asked.

“Most of the summer,” Dad replied.

“Jeez . . . that is a long time.”

Dad and I began to work that same night. We studied the plans and mapped out a strategy to build our plane.

“They used this type of aircraft during World War Two. It was built for reconnaissance, and to carry both soldiers and light cargo. Our model will look just like the real thing except it'll be made out of balsa wood.” Dad looked up at the framed cover of a
Sat
urday Evening Post
that hung on the wall over our workbench. It was dated December 9, 1944. The cover picture showed a boy building a model plane, with the headline
ALL BOYS WERE EXPECTED TO MAKE MODEL AIRPLANES
.

“Let's start building the basic plane by cutting out the parts printed on this large piece of wood. I'll cut out the pieces, and you can sand the edges until they're smooth and the exact shape of their outline. As soon as you were born, I dreamed of this moment,” Dad said.

“What moment?” I asked.

“The moment when you and I would build our first model plane,” Dad explained.

“Why was it so important?”

“I grew up loving baseball and building model airplanes and couldn't wait to share those two favorite things with you. It's a dream come true, son.”

Tears came to my eyes. We quit talking and finished sanding the last pieces of wood.

Dad and I worked together on the plane most Sundays. We'd spend hours cutting and sanding pieces. We'd stop briefly for lunch, then get back to work until Mom called us for dinner. Some 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.

“Hey, Dad,” I called from the staircase.

“Hi, 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?”

“Babe Ruth died today of cancer,” Dad said.

“Gee, Dad, that's terrible.”

“His body will lie in state at the main entrance to Yankee Stadium for two days. I'm going over there tomorrow.”

“Can I go with you?”

“It's going to be very crowded with long lines. Besides, you have school.” Dad paused.

“Did you ever get to see him play?” I asked.

“It 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.”