Still Pitching (19 page)

On the first day of my
sophomore year, I was sitting in homeroom when Mrs. Klinger handed me a note. “Be at my office 3 o'clock sharp.” It was signed by Kerchman. I had to read it twice before I could even react. How did he even know who I was?

The rest of the day was a blur. I couldn't hold a conversation, I picked at my lunch, and every time I opened a book my thoughts drifted. By three my stomach was in knots.

Kerchman's “office” was
across from the boiler room, deep in the bowels of the ancient brick building. To get there you had to walk past the showers and through the boys' locker room. I opened the stairwell door and inhaled the steam from the shower. Above the hum and buzz of locker room small talk, I heard the clackety-clack-clack of aluminum cleats hitting the cement floor. To my right was the bank of lockers reserved for Angelo Labrizzi, Mickey Imbrianni, and Leon Cholakis, the football players whom I'd been idolizing from afar at the diner.

Football, of course, would never be my sport; but playing varsity baseball offered some of the same privileges. I'd already witnessed it for myself. Parents and friends actually paid a half a buck to watch you play; cheerleaders chanted your name (“Steinberg, Steinberg, he's our man”), and they kicked their bare legs so high you could see their red silk panties. But the biggest ego-trip of all was when everybody watched with envy whenever a varsity athlete left sixth period Math or Econ to go to a road game.

I tried to push those thoughts out of my mind as I tapped timidly on Kerchman's door.

“It's open,” a booming voice said.

The room was a ten-foot-square box, a glorified cubby-hole, smelling of Wintergreen, Merthiolate, and stale sweat socks. The chipped, brown cement floor was coated with dust and rotted out orange peels. On all four sides, makeshift two-by-four equipment bays overflowed with old scuffed helmets, broken shoulder pads, torn jerseys and pants. Muddy cleats and deflated footballs were piled haphazardly on top of one another.

Mr. K stood under a bare light bulb wearing a blue baseball hat, white sweat socks, and a jock strap. He was holding his sweatpants and chewing a plug of tobacco. “You're Steinberg, right?” He said my name, “Stein-berg,” enunciating and stretching out both syllables.

“I don't beat around the bush, Stein-berg, You're here for one reason and one reason only. Because Gail Sloane told me you were a reliable kid. What I'm looking for, Stein-berg, is an assistant football manager. And I'm willing to take a chance on you.”

So that was it. I'd forgotten about Gail. For a second I was angry at my father. But I was more annoyed at myself for not stopping him when I had the chance. I wanted to run out of the room and find a place to cry. Assistant football managers were glorified water boys; they did all the shit work, everything from being stretcher bearers to toting the equipment. I was numb with humiliation.

Sensing my disappointment, Kerchman waited a beat.

“Gail also tells me you're a pitcher,” he muttered, as he slipped into his sweatpants.

Another tense beat. I tried to compose myself.

Finally, he said, “In February, you'll get your chance to show me what you've got.”

And to make certain there was no misunderstanding, he added, “Just like everyone else.”

He paused again, deliberately waiting. “So what's it going to be, Stein-berg?”

It had all happened too fast. I couldn't think straight. In a trembling, uncertain voice, I told him I'd think about it and let him know tomorrow.

When I brought it up
at dinner, I was tempted to tell my father, “See, I told you so.” But I held back. After I explained the situation, he told me exactly what I predicted he'd say: that I was the only one who could make the decision. My mother's advice, which was to politely decline the offer and concentrate on my classes, was just as predictable.

What did she mean, “politely decline?” Did she have any idea who Kerchman was? Then, my brother weighed in. He said, “Tell the coach to shove it.” Not a lot of help there.

All night I lay awake debating with myself. If I took the offer, would it diminish me in Kerchman's eyes? Would he write me off as a pitcher? Suppose I took this job and didn't complain? Would it give me an edge at baseball tryouts?

The next day in sixth period Econ everyone seethed with jealousy when Harold Zimmerman left early for football practice. That's when I knew I was going to take Kerchman up on it.

When I told him, his only comment was “Good, now that we've got that settled, report to Krause, the head manager, on the double.”

Without even a “Glad to have you aboard” he pointed at the equipment bays. “Get some sweats and cleats,” he added. “And as soon as practice ends, clean up this room. Get everything stacked up in the right bins, and mop the floor. Let's get this place shaped up.”

On his way out the door he said, “And make sure we've got enough Merthiolate, cotton swabs, gauze, and tape. First game's in a week, and when we step out on that field, I want us looking sharp and ready.

“We set the example, Stein-berg,” he added. “If we do our jobs, the players will do theirs. You understand me, son?”

It was as if he knew all along that I was going to say yes. I thought about what my kid brother had said. I imagined myself telling Kerchman to take the job and shove it. But I knew what the consequences of that would be.

You've been here before, I told myself. This guy's just like Sullivan. He's testing you, trying to see how much you can take.

Kerchman interrupted my reverie to give me a parting shot.

“Chop-chop, Stein-berg,” he said. “Let's get the show on the road.”

While my fortunes were
in decline, the Dodgers' luck it seems was about to change for the better. There was a palpable sense of urgency about the ‘55 season. Everyone knew that the only way they'd get the critics and fans off their back was to win the pennant and beat the Yankees in the World Series. But to do it, they'd have to overcome some big obstacles, one of which was that the Dodgers were an aging team. Their average age was thirty-two, relatively old by major league baseball standards. Robinson and Reese were thirty-seven, and Furillo and Campanella were thirty-four. How many more chances would they get?

The Dodgers answered the critics by winning twenty of their first twenty-two games. By mid August they were fifteen and a half games ahead of the second place Braves, hardly a shabby team themselves. Still, the lead wasn't big enough to satisfy the congenital pessimist in me. Until they won a World Series, the ‘51 collapse would always linger in the back of every Dodger fan's mind.

But this wasn't ‘51. They clinched the pennant in early September and eventually won it by thirteen and half games. Campanella came back from last season's injury to win his third MVP award; Snider had his best year, hitting 42 homers, driving in 136 runs, and batting over 300; Newcombe won twenty games and hit 381. The other starting pitchers, Erskine, Billy Loes, Johnny Podres, and Roger Craig, all had winning records; and the bullpen of Clem Labine, Don Bessant, and the rookie Ed Roebuck was the most formidable in the league. It was a typical Dodger scenario, following last season's failure with a gritty comeback. It's almost as if they'd staged the whole thing just to prove they could do it again.

The Dodgers weren't the only team in New York with something to prove. After winning five world championships in a row, the Yanks had finished second to the Cleveland Indians last season. Now two of their most dependable pitchers were gone; Allie Reynolds had retired, and Vic Raschi was traded to the Cardinals. They'd added Bob Turley, “Moose” Skowron, and Elston Howard—their first black player. But it would be years before those three would emerge as stars. Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford, Billy Martin, and Yogi Berra were still the heart of the team.