Still Pitching (28 page)

With everything else going on
, I hadn't been paying much attention to the Dodgers' situation. In late July, O'Malley had announced that strong business interests in Los Angeles were urging the team to move out there. With each new disclosure, it was getting harder to fool myself.

At home games, of course, it was the only topic we could talk about. Everyone sensed what was coming. But none of us wanted to acknowledge it. We blindly kept on denying reality, hoping that something or someone would deliver us from our misery.

In early August, O'Malley's negotiations with city administrators hit an impasse. Robert Moses, the most powerful of all city officials, staunchly opposed the new ballpark. Moses was like a czar. He was commissioner of parks, and he had jurisdiction over all city highways and urban projects. The new stadium, Moses said, would create a traffic hazard in downtown Brooklyn. His counter offer was a parcel of land in Queens, at Flushing Meadows, the site of the old 1939 World's Fair. O'Malley refused, claiming that he wanted to keep the team in downtown Brooklyn. Today, of course, Flushing Meadows is where the Mets and Shea Stadium reside.

By mid August nothing had been resolved. We didn't know yet that the move to L.A. was already a done deal. We wouldn't find out for two more months that the whole scenario had been an elaborate smokescreen.

At the beginning of August
, our American Legion team made it to the regional finals. It was gratifying to get that far—in more ways than one. I was still intermittently brooding about Kerchman. The longer we kept on playing, the less time I'd have to fret about him, or about what was likely to happen next. That was reason enough to want the season to keep on going.

In the championship game we faced Hank Fischer, a hard-throwing high school All-American, who a few years later would be pitching for the Milwaukee Braves. We were overmatched from the start. Zeidner started, and I relieved him in the top of the seventh. We were behind 5-0, but I pitched those last three innings with the same intensity and concentration as if it was a scoreless tie. The only hit I gave up was a monster homer by Fischer. No excuses. He hit a good sinker almost 400 feet.

The minute the game was over, that old hollow feeling overcame me again. What if this was the last time I'd ever pitch? The last time I'd ever wear a baseball uniform? I'd been dreading the moment since I had decided to quit the high school team.

On August 19th
Giants owner Horace Stoneham announced that at the end of the season the team was leaving for San Francisco. It confirmed all my worst fears. The Dodgers were certain to leave next. I had so many mixed emotions running through me, I didn't know what to feel.

That night, my brother and I were watching a Dodger game on TV. Suddenly I began shouting so loudly that Alan sat up in his chair.

“That asshole could have used me next season,” I screamed. “I could have been his fucking Sal Maglie.”

I ranted on, as if no one was there. “But screw him. It's his goddamned loss. He'll never see my goddamn ass again, that's for sure.”

Stoneham's announcement and my final Legion game had triggered all the pent-up rage and frustration that had been building inside me since the baseball banquet in June.

Alan crossed his arms and stared at me as if to say, “Are you having a nervous breakdown?”

The last ten days
of August were like a jubilant binge. Julie and I saw each other every night. Her reason for letting loose was, she said, to get back at her parents. Since mid July we'd been pushing against their disapproval—which of course drew us even closer together.

The family skirmish began two days after our first date, when Julie's parents abruptly grounded her. To retaliate, she cooked up a scheme with Virginia and Joe, the maid and handyman—both of whom adored Julie and hated her parents. One night, as soon as her mother and father had gone to sleep, Virginia and Joe snuck me in through the basement door. Julie and I spent the night down in her basement rec room, making out. They snuck me out at sunrise.

After Julie's parents gave her back the car, she'd meet me at the train station and we'd park at the yacht basin. Other nights we'd double date with our allies, Steve and Annie—both of whom were already veterans of this war.

Some nights we'd buy a couple of six-packs of beer, crank the top down on Annie's convertible, and at sunset we'd head out for the beach. Annie and Steve would take turns driving fast on the winding back roads, while Julie and I careened from one side of the backseat to the other, laughing and grabbing at one another. The tires squealed and the brakes screeched as we leaned into the sharp curves. The summer wind whipped our hair in our faces, and we all sang along at the top of our voices to songs like “Whispering Bells,” “Whole Lot of Shakin' Going On,” “Teddy Bear,” “Long Tall Sally,” and “Jenny, Jenny.”

It was all so new and exhilarating. I'd never cut loose like this before, never allowed myself to be so reckless and uninhibited. Part of it was a celebration of my good fortune. The other part was an escape from all the painful setbacks of the past three months.

On the last Saturday night in August the four of us bowled a few frames at Falcaro's on Rockaway Turnpike, and then we drove out to the Sunrise Diner at midnight for hamburgers and shakes. We ended up back at Annie's house, drinking wine and beer, and dancing to the Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Buddy Holly, and Elvis records we were playing on Annie's stereo.

After Steve and Annie snuck off to Annie's bedroom, Julie and I made out for hours on the living room sofa. I couldn't help but wonder what was going on up there. But I wasn't about to bring it up to Julie. A few nights before, in the front seat of Julie's Buick, we were both down to our underwear when she called a timeout. I was frustrated and disappointed, but I didn't put up an argument—or even try and talk her out of her decision. I was too afraid to risk doing anything that might queer what we had going. And I was a bit uncertain about how I'd react if we did agree to go all the way. I still carried the memory of how it all turned out with Karen back in eighth grade. Somehow I felt like I needed to erase that failure before I could move on.

Without baseball to distract me
, and with nothing to anchor me until school began, I had sex on the brain again. And being at camp each day didn't help matters any.

Lately, whenever Ronnie and Rob bragged about their sex lives, it made me even more self-conscious about still being cherry. Both of them, and Peter too, had made it this summer with Sandy and Lynn from the kitchen staff. Rob said that there was still time for me to take a shot at both girls. He even offered to wire up the deal in exchange for Ellen's phone number. I thought about it. But everyone at camp knew I was going steady with Julie. It would be too risky.

It's funny how quickly perceptions change when it comes to girls and sex. Ever since the picnic, both of those guys had been buddying up to me—inviting me to parties and offering to drive me to work in the morning. It was all because they believed I was sleeping with Ellen and Julie. I can't deny that I was enjoying their solicitations. But holding on to my secret was beginning to wear on me. It was time for another heart-to-heart with Steve.

It was the last week of camp
, and for the past ten days Steve had been after me for details about what was happening between Julie and me. I wanted him to think we were sleeping together, but he was bound to find out the truth from Annie sooner or later.

I'd put it off for too long. Next week we'd all be back in school. Who knows if I'd get a chance to talk about this again? So on the last day of camp, I came clean with him.

Steve being Steve, he simply said, “We gotta get you in the saddle right away.”

He didn't waste a minute. Later that day, he told me that we had an eight o' clock appointment in the city.

“You mean hookers”? I said.

“Not hookers, prostitutes. Two classy call girls. Julie and Annie will never know.”

It was true. Annie was already up at Kutcher's with her parents. Tonight Julie would be going to the Catskills with her family.

There was no backing out of this one. Neither of us had anything planned for the weekend. Steve was playing Tom Sawyer again to my Huck Finn. But I allowed it for good reason. If I could get past this last hurdle, maybe I'd be ready to pilot my own course.

On the subway ride
into the city, Steve was already into his role. He explained, in graphic detail, how it had taken almost a year before Annie finally “came around.” He described his tactics with great animation, and proceeded to regale me with strategies for “breaking down Julie's resistance.”

His m.o. fascinated me. Sex was like a system to him.

“If you hang in there,” he said, “it's bound to happen with Julie sooner or later.”

Then, with his usual enthusiasm, he filled me in on the details for tonight. Gus and Sally Cole were sisters, he said. They “specialized” in taking on prep school boys and guys from Ivy League colleges. I loved the way he used the word
specialized
. Then he recounted how he and his best friend, David Bernstein, had arranged a visit to the Cole sisters over a year ago.

“We called up and told them that we were Steve and David Carter, and that our father owned Carter's Little Liver Pills.”

“And who are we tonight?” I asked.

“We're seniors at Andover, and we're headed back to school on Monday.”

By this time I was starting to worry whether I'd be able to go through with it.

“Suppose they're old or homely?” I said.

But he didn't bite. “You'll see when we get there,” he said.

How could he be so damn composed?

When we got off at West Fourth, we had about a half hour to kill, so we walked around the Village, stopping to comb our hair in the store window reflections. At eight, we found the old brick apartment building on Bleeker. Steve rang the bell, and the buzzer sounded. We pushed open the creaking wooden door and headed up the stairs. My stomach began to turn over. The hallway reeked of stale onions and decaying plaster. A door at the top of the stairway swung open and in the backlight I could make out the silhouette of a tall, slender girl with a ponytail. That's when it became real to me. I felt my windpipe tighten. I could hardly breathe. As she ushered us into the apartment, I was thinking, “Please God, let me get through this.”

When we stepped onto the faded Persian rug, small plumes of dust spiraled up from under our shoes. The only pieces of furniture were a faded grey love seat against the far wall, a beat-up old coffee table, and two wooden dining room chairs. The room was lit by two old table lamps draped with colored scarves. The tiny room was stuffy and hot.

The girl took our jackets and shook our hands.

“Hi, I'm Sally,” she said.

I'd always envisioned prostitutes as dark-haired and stocky, wearing tight black skirts, fishnet stockings, and black sweaters that camouflaged large, sagging bosoms. But Sally looked like she was in her late twenties or early thirties. It was hard to make out her facial features in the dim light. She was wearing a pair of form-fitting black slacks, a white satin blouse buttoned at the top, and tan ballet slippers. I thought the slippers were an exotic touch. I wondered if she was a model or maybe even a dancer.

Her outfit was modest, but it highlighted her smallish breasts, firm rear end, and long legs. Her honey-colored hair was pulled back over her ears, and she wore a yellow ribbon tied in a bow where the ponytail broke off. I felt something stir inside. The ponytail, the ribbon—both reminded me of my first date with Julie. For a second I imagined Sally standing there with all her clothes off except for the yellow ribbon and the ballet slippers.

“We have beer, wine, or soda,” she said.

“Two beers,” Steve said—a little too eagerly, I thought.

Sally asked us a lot of small-talk questions: Where did we go to school? What were we studying? Where did we want to go to college? What did our fathers do for a living? It struck me as odd that the prelude to having sex with a prostitute was not much different than being interviewed by Julie's and Joanne's parents.

I was relieved that Steve didn't launch into the Carter's Little Liver Pills routine. But I was also thankful that he did do most of the talking. I was too nervous. I don't think I could have gotten a coherent sentence out.

Then Gus came in and introduced herself. The name Gus put me off. She was dressed in tan slacks, a tight black sweater, and those same ballet slippers, only in black. She had dirty-blonde short hair that was shaped like a football helmet. Gus was huskier and sterner looking than her “sister.”

They excused themselves and disappeared down the darkened hallway. In a few seconds they returned, followed by two huge black cats, both of which had long, sharp claws. When she saw the look on our faces, Gus said, very softly, “Oh don't be afraid, they're black panthers—quite domesticated though. We keep them around in case guys don't pay up or try and get rough. Happens sometimes.”

The message was, “Let's be very clear here. This is business.”

“By the way,” she said. “Could you leave the thirty on the table over there? You'll each get a buck back for good behavior.” I thought that was an interesting touch.

They left us alone to make our decisions. I'd already made up my mind. Gus reminded me too much of my old grade school teachers. Besides, Sally had the yellow ribbon.

“I want the younger one,” I said. I was startled by my own assertiveness.

“Nope, she's mine” Steve said, like it had already been decided. “I did the leg work, I get to pick.”

My heart sank. I thought this was about getting
me
laid.

Sally padded back into the living room.

“Just follow me boys,” she said.