The Hero Two Doors Down (12 page)

As Dad finished speaking, my grandfather stepped forward to repeat the prayers in Hebrew. My bubbe cried softly and Dad slipped his hand in mine.

While everyone gathered in small groups to eat and talk, I sat beside Jackie and wondered how to say good-bye to him.

“Are you looking forward to the next baseball season?” I asked.

“Very much, Steve,” Jackie replied. “I have a feeling 1949 will be our best season ever!”

“How come?”

“We've come a long way as a team and as a league. I no longer have to prove that I can succeed in the Major Leagues. Now we can concentrate on making it back up to first place,” Jackie said.

“And you'll be living in your own house, right?”

“I hope so,” Jackie said, looking directly at me. “We've got to find the right house first. Wherever we are, you'll be welcome. You know that, don't you, Steve?”

“I just needed to hear you say it,” I replied.

I pulled the Lionel train set, which the Robinsons had given to me as a gift for that 1948 Hanukkah, out of the box my father had saved for me. I still have the most amazing memories from the celebration. My favorite was watching Jackie charm my bubbe into accepting the tree as a symbol of friendship and shared humanity. I also loved watching my father pray for peace, understanding, and friendship and then turn to Jackie and smile. I learned that whether you are Christian or Jewish, we both pray to God. Jackie asked for equality and justice. Was that different from asking for peace?

For the first time, I beat my cousins at the dreidel game. Rachel's delicious apple pie was a hit. It was a holiday I will never duplicate or forget. Two months later, I received a package with hundreds of thank-you letters written to me from children throughout Israel. I read every one of them. At school, I shared the personal war stories with my class. My entire school raised thousands of dollars for UNICEF.

After the New Year, the Robinsons moved to St. Albans, Queens. I took the move hard, but I remembered that solid friendships are forever. When I had my tonsils out, Jackie visited me in the hospital. For my sixteenth birthday, he sent a baseball signed by all the 1955 World Champion Dodgers—after years of just falling short, the Dodgers had finally won a World Series!

Dad and I would see Jackie before games at Ebbets Field and on his occasional visits to Tilden Avenue. But Jackie retired from Major League Baseball after the 1956 season. He was thirty-six. He and Rachel had built a beautiful home in Stamford, Connecticut, and lived there with their three children, Jackie, Sharon, and David. Dad drove us up to visit them a couple of times so Jackie Junior and I could fish and take the rowboat out to the middle of the lake. Jackie loved the six-acre property. He said it gave his family the privacy and space they needed. As my father predicted and Jackie promised, we remained friends for life.

Reaching deeper inside the box, my fingers found a photo of dad and me at a Brooklyn Dodgers game. I carefully placed that picture in a pile on the floor on top of the opening day ticket stubs from when I had first met Jackie and Roy all those years ago. There were other photos of my father with his parents and some of us with Mom. I pulled out a small jewelry box and opened it to find Dad's gold signet ring. I slipped it onto the ring finger of my left hand before continuing to plow through the box, where I found a crushed and faded Brooklyn Dodgers cap. I shouted with joy when I pulled out the baseball autographed by the entire 1955 World Champion Dodgers team.

At the very bottom of the box, I retrieved the mitt Jackie had given me when I was eight. The leather was stiff. The size was still wrong, but it brought back such wonderful memories.

Lying next to the mitt, wrapped in layers of tissue paper, I found the angel from my one and only Christmas tree. A breath caught in my chest. It was so thoughtful that my dad had saved all my childhood treasures. I left them scattered about my room and went downstairs to find my mother. We sat quietly in the dimly lit living room until I was ready to talk.

“Think Jackie knows about Dad?”

“I thought you should be the one to tell him, Stephen.”

I looked at my mother's face, tired from the emotional ride she had been on recently. “Thank you, Mom.” I said. “I'll go give Jackie a call now.”

 

The next day I met Jackie at his Lexington Avenue office. He'd switched uniforms from Dodgers blue to a sharp-looking tailored black suit. He was a businessman now, leading employees and making a difference in their lives as he'd done in mine.

“Your dad was proud of you, Steve,” Jackie told me. “He said you're planning on going to medical school. Is that right?”

“That was the plan,” I replied. “Not so sure now.”

“Why's that?”

“How will we afford it?”

“Just do your part and keep both your ambition and your grades up. The money will be there,” Jackie assured me.

“Do you miss it?” I asked impulsively.

“Baseball, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Not at all,” Jackie replied. “I love being home nights with my family. I enjoy my work here and I'm raising money for the civil rights movement. My life is full and good. You can't look back, Steve. You've got to keep moving on and up. You'll become your best self if you stay focused, set goals, and don't let anyone stop you from making your dreams come true.” Jackie paused and looked at me. “Hanukkah and Christmas are a day apart again this year,” he said.

“How'd you know that?” I asked, surprised.

“I keep up,” Jackie said with a chuckle. “The year Rachel and I celebrated Hanukkah with your family was so special. Your grandmother gave me such a hard time over that tree.”

I laughed. “As I remember it, you handled Bubbe with ease. She talked about you for years after that.”

“That's it, Steve. When you reach out to others, good always comes back to you. I have a saying: ‘A life is not important except for the impact it has on other lives.' ”

“That makes sense, Jackie. Guess that's why I want to be a doctor.”

“You'll be a great doctor—and hurry up. I need help keeping my diabetes under control,” Jackie said.

“Give me a few years,” I promised.

“Steve, we'd love to have you and your mom over for Christmas. Jackie, Sharon, and David would be so excited! It would mean the world to Rachel,” Jackie suggested. “I'll ask her to make the arrangements with your mother. What do you say?”

“You mean in Connecticut?”

“That's right. Would you like that, Steve?”

“More than you know,” I said, feeling happy for the first time since losing Dad.

Standing and drawing me into a bear hug, Jackie thanked me for coming to see him. “I know that you're in pain, but I hope you feel some comfort in knowing how much your dad loved you. Be strong, son. We'll see you again soon.”

“Yes, see you again soon,” I told him. I turned and left. Jackie's strength and friendship meant more to me now than ever.

The Hero Two Doors Down
is based on a true story. It takes place in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn in 1948. Stephen Satlow truly lived two doors down from my parents, Jack and Rachel Robinson. In reality, Steve was Sarah and Archie's middle child. To keep the focus on Steve's relationship with Jackie, I left out his sisters, Paula and Sena. Steve's best friend is based on his sister Sena.

Since this story happened before I was born, my strongest memories are of my mother, father, and Steve's mother, Sarah, each sharing their reflections on the Christmas tree story. This family lore marked the beginning of a lifelong friendship between the Satlows and the Robinsons.

Steve did become a doctor and he and I have remained friends. Occasionally we ride horses on his Ocala, Florida, ranch, but mostly we sit back and marvel at the strength of the bond between our mothers. Sarah and Rachel are both deep into their nineties now, with hearing aids, strong legs, and determined spirits. They've become our heroes.

During these troubling times of global, racial, cultural, and religious unrest, I decided that this classic story of friendship and unity needed to be shared with the next generation of readers. While I maintained the integrity of the true story, this is partly a work of fiction. For example, Steve was actually six years old in 1948. He is an amazing storyteller. While we spent quiet afternoons on his ranch, he shared the richness of his Jewish Brooklyn childhood. Gradually, Steve's voice was firmly implanted in my head.

Throughout my life, I've encountered many passionate men and women who grew up in Brooklyn during the Brooklyn Dodgers era. The genuine affection for the Brooklyn Dodgers was matched by a profound sense of loss when the team moved west. But few stories could compete with the one told by Steve Satlow. In 1948, he lived the dream of millions of young boys. He lived two doors down from his hero.

Stephen Satlow, age seven, reading in 1949.
(Photo courtesy of Stephen Satlow)

Jackie Robinson, Rachel Robinson, and Jackie Robinson Jr. on the steps of their Tilden Avenue home.
(© Nina Leen Life Picture Collection/Getty Images)