My hometown - a Remembrance...

 

Vallejo Remembered

 

from Children of Vallejo

Vallejo, California, sits at the north end of San Francisco Bay where the Napa River empties into the Carquinez Strait. For nearly all its existence, Vallejo was a blue-collar, lunch-pail town, home to Mare Island Naval Shipyard, the first shipyard established on the West Coast. The city was founded in 1850 and the shipyard in 1854, but it doesn’t matter which came first. They grew to be one and the same, their destinies inextricably linked. If you lived in Vallejo, it is likely you either worked on “the yard” or you made your living providing services to those who did.

            During World War II, the ranks of civilian workers on the yard grew to more than forty-six thousand, and the work went on twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The workers who flocked to the government payroll were farmers fleeing the dust bowl states, blacks escaping poverty in the rural south, and people of every conceivable ethnic composition. Their overwhelming numbers put a strain on the local housing market and the federal government responded by building housing tracts that dotted the hills around the city. The tracts had names like Federal Terrace, Carquinez Heights and Chabot Terrace, and though they were called apartments, they looked for all the world like military barracks.

The people lived and worked together, and their children went to school and played together on the playgrounds and in the recreation centers. Kids grew up tough in the federal projects, tough and hungry to achieve. Many went on to be successful in business and politics, sports and the professions, but they never forgot where they came from. They never forgot what it was like to grow up in a hard place and fight to keep what was theirs. If a true melting pot existed in America, it was there in the tenements of federal housing.

Through it all, the shipyard prospered as one of the Navy’s major repair depots for the Pacific Fleet, and it earned its stripes as a shipbuilding facility. More than five hundred naval vessels were built there, including the USS California, the only U.S. battleship built on the West Coast. On November 20, 1919, when the California slid down the shipway into the muddy Mare Island Strait, the brake lines could not hold and she continued across the channel and onto the mud flats on the city side. She would find herself settled in the mud once again, on December 7, 1941, at Pearl Harbor. But the California would rise to fight in battles all across the Pacific, a history followed with great pride by all those who touched her at Mare Island.

When ships put into Mare Island for repair, their crews headed for town and some well-deserved liberty. Waiting for them there was an amazing enterprise zone. Georgia Street, the main street of town, ran east from the waterfront, and the west end of Georgia and several adjacent streets became known as Lower Georgia. Here the sailors found a vast array of cafes and shops, bars and honky-tonks, flophouses and brothels, all eagerly waiting to serve them. Lower Georgia became notorious throughout the Pacific Fleet as a place where anything goes. The city fathers did not interfere with commerce in this city within a city. Better to have the sailors doing business on Lower Georgia than chasing their daughters in the decent neighborhoods.

World War II came to a close and the troops came home and went to school on the G.I. Bill. Before long, the Korean War began to dominate the news and it looked as if the shipyard would be kept busy indefinitely. The prosperity of the Eisenhower years arrived and the Cold War heated up, giving the shipyard yet another boost. Mare Island built a series of nuclear submarines—seventeen in all—and sent them out to keep an eye on those pesky Soviets.

The city grew to the east, beyond Highway 40, which soon became Interstate 80. New housing tracts popped up everywhere and the shipyard workers began to buy the new two- and three-bedroom homes and move out of government housing. There was one catch: those leaving the barracks/apartments were white and those staying behind were, for the most part, black. Redlining wasn’t invented in Vallejo, but it certainly flourished there. And so, the former melting pot morphed into a ghetto and racial tensions at times reached the breaking point.

That was Vallejo during and after World War II. But all things considered, it was a good place to grow up. The city hummed to the rhythm of the shipyard, and every kid knew when the five o’clock whistle blew it was time to head home for dinner. The playgrounds and parks and gyms were busy with whatever sport was in season. There were miles of shoreline—from Southampton Bay, to the Carquinez Strait, and up the Napa River—to be fished for striped bass, sturgeon, and the lowly flounder. The hills to the north and east were there for hiking or hunting ground squirrels and jackrabbits, and there were a half-dozen abandoned mines to be explored—if you dared.

And if none of that was appealing, well, you could always invent your own adventure. Not a difficult task for the Children of Vallejo.

 

Vallejo Revisited

 

Can you go home again? With all due respect to Thomas Wolfe, sure you can. Just take the Georgia Street exit from I-80 and head east a few blocks.

The streets where you played touch football are very narrow and the houses that seemed roomy then look tiny now. The church your father helped build is still there at the corner of Georgia and Cedar. And across the street is the first school you attended with its formal rotunda that fronts the auditorium, the rotunda with Franklin Roosevelt’s four freedoms emblazoned around the cornice: Freedom From Want, Freedom From Fear, Freedom Of Speech, Freedom Of Religion—just as you remembered. Some things never change.

Of course, there are many changes and they are obvious as you drive into Vallejo today, beginning with the major amusement park sprawled across the space once occupied by the Lake Chabot Golf Course. Upscale homes now dot the hills that surround the city, extending all the way to the water’s edge at Glen Cove. Down from the hills and the gated communities, the flatlands appear to be somewhat long in the tooth, a little worse for wear. On the campus of Vallejo High, the stately two-story main building is gone, torn down over concerns about earthquake safety. In the downtown area, there is yet another attempt to rebuild and revitalize, and it looks like the effort has gained some traction. There is an attractive waterfront walk with a great view of the shipyard. And, the notorious Lower Georgia area is long gone, cleared out decades ago.

The biggest change, the one that will require generations to absorb, is the closing of the shipyard. The Navy decided in 1996 that Mare Island’s usefulness had run its course. The decline had been underway for many years, but it’s still hard to think of Vallejo and not think of the yard. Where will people work? How does a blue-collar, lunch-pail, Navy shipbuilding town transition to a bedroom community? How will kids know when it is time to head home without the five o’clock whistle? Now efforts are underway to “convert” the yard to private industry. Similar transitions around the country have met with mixed success. One can only hope that Mare Island will flourish in the private sector.

If you were born in the Naval Hospital at Mare Island and raised in this town, and your father and your uncle and your cousin worked there, as did the parents of most of your friends, then a walk along the waterfront can tug at your emotions. You look across the water and you are struck by the fact that it still looks like the great industrial complex it once was. It has that unmistakable profile, with the docks and the massive shops and cranes and smokestacks. But two things are clearly missing. First, there are no ships in sight on a cool fall evening, something unheard of in a history that reaches back to 1854. Second, and even more striking, is the dead quiet. Dead quiet where once there was the constant hum and clank and bang and hiss and rat-a-tat-tat that happens when you are in the business of turning steel into warships.

They say a memorial is planned for Mare Island and that is a good thing. People from all over should be able to come and learn about the history of the place. They should learn about the ships built there that helped win World War II, such as the destroyer USS Ward, or the battleship California. And what about the cruiser Indianapolis, repaired there before embarking on her final voyage, a mission that would change the course of history? And let’s not forget the seventeen nuclear submarines that helped win the cold war, including the Polaris sub Mariano G. Vallejo, one of the famous “Forty-one for Freedom.” It is a rich history and it should not be forgotten. As Casey Stengel liked to say: “You could look it up.”

You can go home again, but only to visit. In the end, you feel like an outsider, one of those who left hoping for bigger and better things. And yet there is no changing the fact that this place is a part of you, probably a larger part than you realize. Someone once said, “You can take the boy out of Vallejo, but you can’t take Vallejo out of the boy.” She didn’t mean it as a compliment, but that doesn’t matter. It turns out she was right.

_____

 

 

An old favorite from 2012 revisited...

 

The Day Joe Came to Town

 

from Yeah, What Else?

 

Vallejo Little League received its charter and held its first player draft in 1952. As I write this (April 2012), the league has just celebrated its sixty-first opening day. That’s a remarkable milestone, especially for those of us who were there for the first one. But the one many of us will never forget was opening day 1954.

That’s the day Joe DiMaggio came to town.

Joseph Paul DiMaggio. Joltin’ Joe. The Yankee Clipper. Thirteen seasons with the Yankees, thirteen times an all-star, and three times league MVP. Nine World Series championships. A lifetime .325 batting average. He of the venerable fifty-six game hitting streak achieved in 1941, arguably a record that will stand forever. The man who retired in 1951 at the relatively young age of thirty-seven because chronic injuries prevented him from playing like Joe DiMaggio.

He wouldn’t give the fans anything less.

First, a little background. Vallejo Little League played its first two seasons at an all-dirt diamond located at Tennessee Street and Highway 40, on land owned by Ed Case of Ed Case’s Minit-Man Car Wash. It’s pretty remarkable to think of it now. There were four teams, fifteen players to a team, sixty kids in total for the entire city of Vallejo. That very first year, the post-season All-Star team came within one win in Santa Monica of advancing to the World Series in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. But then Vallejo was a great baseball town, with talent developed on the sandlots under the recreation district program managed by Lyston Johnson. When you picked the best players from that talent pool, it’s no wonder they were successful.

But that was 1952. In 1954, we were moving to our permanent home: Callen Field at the corner of Amador and Florida Streets. It was a diamond with real grass in the infield and outfield, grandstands on both sides, and a two-story building behind the backstop that would house a snack bar, equipment storage, a meeting room, and a press box. From that second story perch behind home plate, Ray Denny would broadcast our games live on the local radio station.

Opening day 1954 was an occasion to be celebrated. As it turned out, it was a day we would never forget.

Al Manfredi was a twelve-year-old third baseman for Steffen’s Sport Shop, one of the four sponsored teams in the league. (The other sponsors were Marine Chevrolet, Case’s Car Wash, and The Optimist Club.) Al’s father, a respected pharmacist and businessman, happened to be a friend of Dominic DiMaggio. Dom was known as “The Little Professor,” one of three DiMaggio brothers, along with Vince and Joe, to come out of San Francisco and play major league baseball. Mr. Manfredi would see Dom from time to time at the family’s restaurant on Fisherman’s Wharf. They were discussing Little League baseball one day and he asked Dom if Joe would consider coming to opening day ceremonies. Dom said he didn’t know, but he would ask. About two weeks before opening day 1954, Mr. Manfredi received a call from Dom: “Joe says he will be there.”

That didn’t leave much time for planning, but I think everyone would agree that Joe made it as easy as possible. With teams lined up around the base lines and the stands packed with friends and family, he stood in the infield and made a few remarks. He posed for a picture with each team. He even posed for some small group and personal photos.

One of those shots included Ronnie Smith, Jerry Warren, and Bruce Bigelow of the Steffen’s Sport Shop team. Bruce had that picture blown up and framed, sitting where everyone could see it in his home. Eddie Hewitt, who played for the Optimist Club, remembers a photo that appeared in the Times-Herald showing Joe holding a bat, giving batting tips to my teammate Steve Cox. Steve hit a homerun that day. I’ll bet Steve held on to that picture too. [Author’s note: I’d post the photos but they’ve gone missing. Dang!]

Joe also sat for an interview with sportswriter Don Gleason that appeared in the Times-Herald, our local newspaper. Of course, Gleason had to ask the question that was on everyone’s mind: “So, Joe, where is Marilyn?”

Joe and Marilyn Monroe were married in January of 1954, and their stormy relationship was still in the honeymoon stage. Joe’s answer was that Marilyn was off making a movie. Checking her filmography, my guess is that she was shooting There’s No Business Like Show Business, released in December 1954. Her next film would be The Seven Year Itch, which began production in September of that year and included the famous scene of Marilyn standing on a subway grate, the wind blowing her skirt up over her head. The filming of that event, through repeated takes, reportedly made Joe furious and the couple had a horrendous fight as a result.

Marilyn filed for divorce a month later. The marriage lasted just nine months, or in Joe’s case, for the rest of his life. It is the stuff of legend now. How they were rumored to be getting back together again, just before her death in 1962. How he claimed her body, took over the arrangements for her funeral, and kept it small, quiet, and dignified. How for twenty years, he had roses delivered to her crypt three times a week.

In 1967, The Graduate was released. It was the film that launched Dustin Hoffman’s career and it included an evocative soundtrack by Simon and Garfunkel. One of the songs, “Mrs. Robinson,” included the following lines:

 

Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio

Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you

 

What’s that you say, Mrs. Robinson

Joltin’ Joe has left and gone away

 

I remember Joe being interviewed on television and being asked what he thought Paul Simon meant by those lines. Joe said, “Ya know, I have no idea.”

I think he was being modest. We all knew what Simon was getting at. The war in Vietnam was at its high point, with more than five hundred thousand men and women deployed there. It was the age of the credibility gap—that vast disconnect between what we were being told at home versus what we could see every night on our television screens. Paul Simon was saying, Where are our heroes? Where are the men and women of integrity? Where are the people we can count on?

Funny thing: that was a long time ago, but the questions remain the same.

So here we are at opening day 2012. I wonder if Vallejo Little League had any special guests, and what words of encouragement they had to offer? I wonder how many kids were there in uniform, listening to the adults ramble on, itching to get the ceremony over with and the games underway? And I wonder what those kids—and the adults—would say if you told them Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio stood on Callen Field on its very first opening day in 1954?

I wonder…

_____

 

 

An old favorite revisited...

 

High and Tight

 

from Spitball – the literary baseball magazine

 

            Sarge Martin looked around his hotel room, running down a mental checklist, nearly ready to head for the lobby. He grabbed the small duffle bag he had packed and was on his way to the door when the phone rang.

            “Hello.”

            “Hi, Sarge, it’s Shelley Goldstein.”

            “Hi, Mrs. Goldstein. I was just heading out to meet Barry. We’re gonna share a cab to the ballpark. Looks like a great day for a ballgame.”

            “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Sarge. Do you think…are you sure Barry is ready?”

            “Absolutely, ma’am. You know I’ve been with him all the way, from Arizona on, through A and Double A ball, and believe me, he’s ready.” He hoped his voice didn’t betray any of the doubts.

            “It’s just…well, you know, Sarge, if he ever got hit again…”

“We’ve spent hours on that, Mrs. Goldstein. You’ve just got to trust it now. And we’ve got the helmet I had made for him with the extension that covers his cheekbone.  He’s gonna be fine.”

“I know, I know. You’ve been a godsend, Sarge. I don’t think Barry would even have tried if you weren’t there with him. You’re a real mensch.”

“Now, you know I’m just a coach, Mrs. Goldstein, just a batting coach. I say, ‘do this, try that.’ Barry had to do all the work.”

“Sarge, after all this time, can’t you please call me Shelley?”

“Uh…yes, ma’am.” That made her laugh and he laughed along with her. But he had something more to say, something he needed to tell her, if he could find the words. “You know…Shelley…I don’t have any kids. I was never blessed with any of my own. But if I had a son, I’d want him to be the kind of man that Barry is. And if I had a daughter, Barry is the guy I’d want her to bring home. Barry is the mensch.”

“Oh, Sarge…” she said, and he heard her blow her nose softly.

They said their goodbyes and he hung up the phone and headed for the lobby. He had coached Barry Goldstein on his way through the minor leagues the first time around, and there was just something special about the young man. He was glad he was able to tell Shelley how he felt about her son. And he meant every word.

***

Barry stood in front of the mirror, the bath towel fastened snugly around his waist, waiting for the steam to clear. As his face came into focus, he leaned forward and looked closely at his left eye. Kudos to the doctors, he said to himself, admiring their work. His cheekbone looked fairly normal now, the left side almost a twin to the right, and the scars from the surgeries were fading nicely. You had to be close and know what to look for to understand what he’d been through.

He wasn’t worried about the scars. He’d wear them like a warrior. It was his vision that had been the real battle. For many months, his left eye had provided nothing more than a blur, and that’s why it had taken so long to reach this day. You can’t hit a baseball, not at the pro level, with only one good eye. At least Barry Goldstein couldn’t do it.

Next week would mark the two-year anniversary, though there’d be no celebration. You don’t celebrate being stupid. All he had to do was turn with the ball, turn his left side and his left shoulder in, roll with the pitch, take it off his shoulder, or at worst off the back of his helmet. It’s one of the first things his father taught him, when he was barely big enough to swing a bat. Turn in with the pitch, turn hard and quick if you have to, get down and hit the dirt. The last thing you want to do is open up, open your face and your chest and your cojones to a fastball. But that’s exactly what he’d done. The ball caught him flush on the left cheekbone, and then the world went black. When he tried to open his eyes, only the right one seemed to work, and the red sticky stuff all over his face and uniform he soon realized was his own blood.

His season ended right there, a season that began with such promise, with talk about an All-Star Game selection and possible Rookie of the Year honors. Then came the surgeries and the battle to save his left eye, and with it the realization that he might lose more than his rookie season. He could lose an eye. More than likely, he would lose his career.

Barry looked in the mirror again, clear-eyed and confident. It had been a long, hard road, and he wasn’t all the way back, but he was damn close. Today would be his first game since the promotion to Triple A. He was one step away.

Bonnie came into the bathroom, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, wearing one of his long T-shirts with a faded team logo across the chest. “Hey, you,” she said, “everything okay?” She moved in close behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest. He could feel her head nestled between his shoulder blades and her long, lean body pressed against his backside.

“I’m good,” he said. “You sleep okay?”

“Hmmm,” she said, rocking gently against him.

Some people said he was unlucky, that he’d caught a bad break. How could they say that when this amazing woman was in his life, loving him unconditionally and oh so well? It didn’t matter if he played ball or sold magazine subscriptions door-to-door, Bonnie was there for him and she always would be. He turned to face her and gathered her in his arms.

“Oh, my,” she said, “I take it you’re glad to see me.”

“Uh huh. Do we have enough time?”

“Nooo…you’ve got to meet Sarge in the lobby in a few minutes. But keep that thought…for after the game.”

“Is that a promise?”

“You got it. And you’d better bring your ‘A’ game, Buster. Now can I please have the room? I gotta pee.”

***

Sarge stood behind the batting cage, watching the familiar progression of batting practice. Barry was slated to bat sixth in the lineup today, so his group of three would be hitting next. Sarge loved BP: the batting cage and the heavy tarp to protect the infield near home plate; the L-screen to protect the pitcher; coaches on either side of the cage, hitting fungos to the infielders and outfielders; players roaming the outfield, shagging balls and tossing them into a large screen behind second base; pitchers running along the warning track in the outfield, getting in their off-day work. It was a busy scene and Sarge was in his element.

“Well, if it isn’t Ernest J. Martin, otherwise known as Sarge!”

Sarge turned to greet Billy Condon, a baseball writer who’d covered the game for three decades. “My God, Billy! Still at it after all these years?” They clasped hands firmly and Sarge tightened his grip until Billy cried uncle. Billy shook the pain from his hand and they shared a good laugh.

“So, I hear Barry G is back, and you’re the man that got him here. All true?”

“Well, it’s a big step for him, Billy. We’ll know in a few days, maybe a few weeks, if he’s back or not.” He saw Billy scribbling notes on his pad. “Oh geez, are you gonna quote me on this?”

“Yep. I’m counting on you to fill up my notebook, Sarge. You know Buzz Adams is starting today. Should be a good test for the kid.”

“Buzz and I go way back. I hear he’s got a new pitch, gonna make another run at The Show.”

“Yeah, he says it’s part slider and part cutter. So, it’s a slutter. He just calls it ‘The Slut.’ I’ve seen him throw. He’s been hot lately. And what about you, Sarge? Gonna make another run at The Show?”

“What, me? Nah, Billy, you know it’s a young man’s game today. I’m a dinosaur. Look at me in this damn uniform. I look like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag.” He saw Billy writing furiously. “Come on, Billy, don’t write that down.”

Billy laughed and completed his notes. “It would help though, wouldn’t it, Sarge? A couple of years and you’d have your full pension.”

“Got me there, Billy, but it ain’t gonna happen.”

Barry’s group was moving into the cage now, gathering balls and loading them into the ball bag for their BP pitcher. Sarge’s face grew serious, his eyes concentrated on the activity in front of him. Condon’s interview with Sarge Martin was over until after his pupil was through hitting.

The pitcher was ready and Barry hustled into the cage. He bunted the first pitch down the third base line, bunted the second pitch down the first base line, and then hit the next two pitches hard on the ground toward right field, as though advancing a runner, just as he’d been taught. Now he was ready to swing away.

Sarge watched and listened, paying little attention to where the ball went. He looked for the coil of the hips, weight loaded on the back foot, the short smooth stride and the quick hands as Barry uncoiled into the pitches. He could tell from the sound of the bat exactly how well the swing had been executed, and the sound was sweet music to his ears. He believed that hitting a round ball with a round bat, and hitting it squarely, was the most difficult skill in all of sports. He felt a tingle run through his body. Even now, at sixty-six, he never tired of watching a great swing, and Barry Goldstein had one of the best right-handed swings he’d seen, certainly the best he’d ever coached.

Sarge Martin had a theory about hitting. Great swings are like snowflakes: no two are exactly alike. The trick was to know what a hitter was doing when he was hot, and then put him back onto it when things went bad. With a good film library, you could show a hitter the contrast between then and now, hot and cold. As Roy Campanella used to say, “A slump starts in your swing, goes to your head, and winds up in your gut.” Sarge could fix the swing, talk it out of a guy’s head and undo the knot in his gut. But it seemed that this was old school thinking, a theory that had gone out of style. They all looked at him now as though he’d passed away and didn’t know it. It’s definitely a young man’s game.

Billy strolled back to where Sarge was standing. “The kid looks good. Now let’s see if he can hit The Slut.”

***

Barry sat in the dugout, bat in hand, batting helmet firmly planted on his head. He would bat third this inning. As Buzz Adams took his warmup pitches, Barry let his mind drift back to that spring day when he had placed the phone call to the general manager of the big club, telling him that he was ready to play, or at least ready to give it a try. Terry Hines, a veteran GM and former ballplayer, listened carefully and responded with enthusiasm. It was great to hear that his former prized rookie was fully mended and ready to get back on the horse.

            Barry had one request: could Terry bring in Sarge Martin to work with him on the road back? He knew that Sarge was retired and living somewhere in the Phoenix area. Nobody knew his swing the way Sarge did.

            Within a few days, it had been arranged. Barry would meet Sarge at the club’s training site in Arizona and they’d go to work. That was mid-April and the season was already underway. Everyone understood it was a long shot, knew that the odds against Barry making it back to the majors were very long. But Terry remembered Barry’s rookie year, and he’d been in the press box when the ball made contact with his left eye. The thought of it still made him sick to his stomach. He had to give the kid a chance.

            And so it began, in the hot desert air: hours of banging balls into a net, first from a tee and then from soft toss. Then it was into the cage with a pitching machine, sweat pouring from his body, hitting until his hands were blistered and raw. In between these sessions, Sarge rigged a pitching machine to fire tennis balls at his body so that he could practice spinning out of the way, protecting his head, relearning the lesson he’d learned so long ago from his father. Then came the endless hours of batting practice with a corps of hired pitchers. And finally, the day when Sarge told him he was ready to play and they headed off for an assignment in short-season A-ball. Barry wore out the A-level pitching and within a month, it was on to Double A where the results were much the same. And now, in late June, nearly two years since his eye socket had been shattered, he was about to take his first Triple A at bat.

            Buzz Adams appeared to have plans for spoiling the party. He’d put the Solons down 1-2-3 in the first inning, including two impressive strikeouts, and he got their number-four hitter on a weak popup to begin the next inning. That brought Barry out to the on-deck circle. He glanced up into the stands where he knew Bonnie and his parents were sitting and nodded quickly to them. Then he went to work, wiping the handle of his bat with the pine tar rag and sliding the weighted donut down onto the barrel. He took a few easy practice swings and studied Buzz’s pitches. It was clear that his new pitch, whatever he called it, was his best weapon today. The batter was called out on a sharp breaking ball and Barry made his way toward the batter’s box.

            Barry looked to the third base coach for a sign, though he knew there’d be no play on with two outs and nobody on base. It was time to hit away. He planted his right foot, stepped into the box, and immediately began to recite the mantra his father had taught him in Little League: A balanced stance tension free / Feet shoulder width with bended knee. He’d done this through his entire playing career and it always helped him relax. A little movement keeps you loose / Now you’re ready for the juice. Buzz started his windup and Barry continued his ritual. Bat back, weight back / Ready to stride. Now Buzz was uncoiling, striding toward the plate, and Barry saw the ball clearly as it left his hand. Now drive your weight to the pitcher’s side…

            Suddenly, Barry was spinning away from the pitch, diving back and away from the plate, the bat launched from his hands as the ball flew within inches of his head. He landed on his chest, his hands bracing his fall, and without a second of hesitation, he was up, grabbing the bat, planting his right foot back in the batter’s box, not even pausing to brush the dirt from his uniform.

            The crowd gasped at the sight of the near bean ball and the Solon’s bench erupted in shouts directed at Buzz Adams and at the umpire, demanding a warning—or an ejection. Joe Bettini, the veteran umpire, stepped out from behind the plate and ripped off his mask, glaring at Buzz Adams. He let loose a stream of expletives that began and ended with “sonofabitch.” Buzz shrugged his shoulders and motioned that the pitch had slipped out of his hand. Bettini stepped across the plate, his back to the mound, and brushed the surface clean.  “Tony,” he said, addressing the catcher, “if you’re throwing at this kid, I’m gonna run the both of youse…and see to it that you get fined. Got it?”

            “Hey, blue, it wasn’t me. Nobody called it. Just a slip, that’s all.” Tony didn’t sound very convincing.

            All the while, Barry was standing in the box, ready to hit, staring at Buzz Adams and mouthing the words kush mir in tuchas.

            The shouting died down and Buzz went back to the mound, ready for the next pitch. He went into his windup, kicked his leg high, and again uncoiled toward the plate. The ball flew straight and hard toward Barry’s left shoulder, the seams rotating tightly, biting the air for traction, finally breaking sharply down and toward the inside corner. The crack of the bat told the whole story, that and the fact that the outfielders barely moved before the ball disappeared beyond the left-center field fence. Barry rounded the bases, touching them all, and was greeted at the plate by his teammates, shaking his hand and pounding his back.

            Sarge saw it all, from the second the pitch left Buzz’s hand, watched Barry coil with that sweet smooth motion, watched the short glide and plant of the left foot, watched as the left shoulder stayed closed and firm, watched as the swing released in the lovely fluid motion that was Barry Goldstein’s snowflake. And then the sound, that beautiful sound when the ball meets the sweet spot on a Louisville Slugger.

            Now Barry was coming down the steps and into the dugout, greeted by more happy teammates. As he approached, Sarge reached out his hand. Barry ignored it and threw his arms around the old man’s neck.

            “Thanks, Sarge. For everything.” He moved on down the dugout, leaving Sarge speechless—but very proud.

            As it turned out, it was the only run the Solons scored. They lost three to one, and Buzz Adams earned his fourth straight victory. None of that mattered to Sarge Martin. He’d seen everything he needed to see.

***

            Joe Barty’s saloon was just down Broadway from the ballpark. It was a popular hangout for the baseball crowd, fans and players alike. The walls were lined with pictures dating back to the early days of the local franchise. Sarge scanned the framed pictures for guys he knew, stopping to smile at more than a few of the yellowing images. He slid into a booth near the rear of the bar and sat facing the door, waiting for his guest to arrive. It was quiet this particular evening because it was getaway day. Both teams would be leaving town, the Solons for an extended road trip and the Oaks heading home to the Bay Area. Sarge called to the bartender for a pitcher of beer and a couple of glasses just as the door swung open and Buzz Adams walked in. Sarge waved to him and he headed toward the booth.

            “Buzz! Great game today! That new pitch is gonna take you back to the bigs.” Sarge reached out his hand and Buzz shook it firmly.

            “Thanks, Sarge. I think your guy Barry had the only two solid hits all day.”

            The young bartender brought the beer and the glasses and placed them on the table between them. “Here you go, Mr. Martin…hey, great game today, Mr. Adams.” He turned and walked away.

            “How ‘bout that? Out there,” Buzz said, motioning toward the street, “we’re just a couple of mugs. But at Joe Barty’s, it’s Mr. Martin and Mr. Adams. Is this a great game or what?” Both men laughed out loud.

            “Listen, Buzz, thanks for what you did today. I really appreciate it. I owe you one.”

            “Well, tell you what, Sarge, it’s the first time in my career that a coach asked me to throw at one of his own players.” He laughed again and shook his head.

            “I knew somebody would come high and tight to him sooner or later, Buzz. I had to see how he’d react. I wanted it to be somebody I trusted, somebody who knows what he’s doing. Thanks again.”

            “Don’t mention it. And, hey, did you see what he did to my slutter? I thought sure he’d jelly-leg after I buzzed him. But he hung right in there. And hit the snot out of it, I might add. Frickin’ outfielders didn’t even move!”

            Sarge liked Buzz Adams; he always had. He was a real pro, and a great guy to share a beer and a few laughs with. They told war stories and drained the pitcher. Sarge started to order a refill but Buzz begged off.

            They slid out of the booth and were on their way to the door when the bartender called out to them. “Phone call, Mr. Martin.” Buzz waved and continued out the door while Sarge went to the corner of the bar where the young man had placed the phone.

            “Hello.”

            “Sarge, it’s Terry Hines. You weren’t in your room, so I figured you’d be at Barty’s. Listen, I got several things to hit you with.”

            He could picture Terry in his office at the stadium back east, the only light still burning in the entire place. He glanced at his watch and saw it was near midnight back there. As usual, Terry was in a hurry, like his hair was on fire.

            “Shoot, Terry.”

            “Okay, I spoke to Skip and he told me about the kid’s game. I got Shankman down with a broken ankle and I need an outfielder. I’m thinking about bringing Barry up. Whataya think?”

            Sarge paused, but only for a second, just long enough to let the grin break across his face. “Go for it, Terry. He’s ready.”

            “Okay, and I also got this. We’re making a change at hitting coach. The job is yours if you want it. Sarge?…Hello?…Are you still there?”

            “Yes.”

            “What? I could barely hear you.”

            Sarge cleared his throat. “I said, ‘yes.’ I’ll take the job.”

            “Okay, great. We’re making all the arrangements now. I’ll call you at the hotel tomorrow and we’ll work out the details. Congrats, Sarge. And welcome back to The Show.” With that he hung up.

            Sarge stood still for a few seconds, staring at the phone, until it became a blur as his eyes welled. He reached across the bar and grabbed a few cocktail napkins, dabbing his eyes quickly, hoping no one had noticed. He drew a mental picture of himself wearing a Sox uniform.

            “Damn,” he said, just under his breath. “I’m gonna have to drop a few pounds.”

_____

 

A tip of the cap to Ryan Zimmerman, retiring after a fine career...

 

Chapter 32

from One Pitch at a Time

 

October 31, 2019

Crusty’s Corner

by R.Q. Crutchfeld

 

The World Series ended last night with the Washington Nationals defeating the Houston Astro 6 - 2 to claim the trophy for the first time in franchise history. It’s always fun when the series goes to Game 7. After 162 regular season games and multiple playoff rounds, it all came down to one game. For a baseball fan, the anticipation was terrific, and the game did not disappoint.

Nats pitcher Stephen Strasberg was named the MVP, and rightfully so. And the series provided a showcase for many of the brightest young stars of the game. But for this old newsboy, the most satisfying outcome was to see two battle scarred veterans earn World Series rings. I’m talking about Howie Kendrick and Ryan Zimmerman.

Howie was a favorite of mine when he played for the L.A. Angels, always solid, reliable, and productive, if unspectacular. To see him contribute big hits throughout the postseason brought a smile to my face. His homerun last night gave the Nats a lead they would not relinquish.

In 2005, Ryan Zimmerman became the first draft pick of the newly relocated Washington franchise. His career has been plagued by injury, but he always found a way to bounce back.

Case in point: Zimmerman began the 2017 season with a hot streak. Through 32 games, he was hitting .410 with 12 homeruns. He went on to an outstanding season, including a start at first base in the All-Star Game and recognition as Comeback Player of the Year.

Here’s an interesting statistic: Walk-off Homeruns. Jim Thome holds the all-time record with 13. There are six guys tied at 12 (Babe Ruth, Jimmy Foxx, Stan Musial, Mickey Mantle, Frank Robinson, and Albert Pujols). And then three players tied with 11 (Tony Perez, David Ortiz, and Ryan Zimmerman). Yep, there’s that name again, and that is one hell of a list to be on.

The great ones don’t play the game with the goal of winding up on some obscure list. They play to be known as champions, to be on the field celebrating when the last out of the final game of the season is made. It felt right that Howie and Zimm got to celebrate last night at Minute Maid Park in Houston.

_____

 

A stroll down memory lane...

 Author's note: This story has a special place in my heart. It was the first one accepted for publication way back in 2010, after a long series of rejection notices. It is dedicated here to Beverly Scales Mitchell, the real Beth Scalini. 

-CWS 

Party Crashers

 from The Storyteller

 “So, whataya wanna do?”

“I don’t know. Whata you wanna do?”

“How ‘bout … nah, that’s no good. Whata you wanna do?”

Nick, Darin, and Brent stood on the corner under the streetlight, re-enacting the famous scene from the movie Marty, even though they hadn’t seen the film. It was a warm Friday evening in September and there were lots of possibilities to consider, including some old favorites from years past.

“Wanna harass the pachucos?” Nick asked, reaching back a few years for a golden oldie.

It was an activity that involved hiding in the bushes until some older guys came through the neighborhood, guys who dressed and acted like gang members and wore the pachuco uniform: unwashed Levis with the belt loops cut off, pulled down as low as possible on their hips; thick wedge-soled shoes with metal taps nailed to the heels; shirts and leather jackets with the collars turned up and a pack of Lucky Strike in the breast pocket; and of course, long hair slicked back in a ducktail, plastered down with lots of Dixie Peach Pomade.

When the pachucos walked down the street, Nick and his friends would jump out and yell, “Hey you rotten punks,” or whatever vile phrase they could come up with. The tough guys would reel around, see it was a bunch of younger boys and light out in pursuit, determined to kick some butt. There was no problem outrunning the wannabe gangsters. It was hard to run in those heavy shoes and leather jackets while holding up your pants with one hand. They usually gave up after a block or so, sometimes clutching their knees and gasping for air. It was great fun, but they knew they’d outgrown that particular game. After all, they were in Junior High School now.

“Wanna do ‘death scene?’” Darin asked, tapping another old favorite.

It was a game where they waited until they saw the headlights of a car several blocks away, heading in their direction. Two guys would pretend to be beating on the third, and as the car came closer, one of the beaters would make stabbing motions toward the victim. The beaters would pretend to notice the car and race away, leaving the victim to go into his “death scene,” falling to the ground, clutching his stab wounds. The objective was to get the driver to slam on his brakes and come to the victim’s aid. Then the victim would jump up and sprint away. But they knew this was another game they’d outgrown. Besides, most of the drivers in the neighborhood had seen it all before.

“How ‘bout the Auto Movies?” Nick asked.

That was one that never grew old. The drive-in theater out on Benicia Road was only a few miles away and they could always find a hole or a loose board in the wooden fence. Then they could let themselves in and hang out on the playground down in front of the screen, or stroll boldly up to the snack bar for some popcorn or a cold drink. As they got a little older, they discovered that if they walked through the rows of cars and saw one where the speaker was connected to the window but no heads were visible, they could sneak up and look in the window and get an eyeful. It was better than any sex education class they’d attended.

Once a girl opened her eyes, saw their faces at the window and screamed at the top of her lungs. That sent them running to their hole in the fence and out to safety, even though the boyfriend was in no position to give chase. Afterward they felt bad and hoped the poor guy hadn’t had a heart attack or anything. No doubt about it, though: having the drive-in close by was a constant source of entertainment, even if you never saw a movie.

At this point, Brent took charge, because he knew exactly what he wanted to do. “Let’s go by Nancy Dawkins’s party.”

“Are you nuts? We weren’t invited. I’m not goin’ there. No way.” Nick and Darin wanted nothing to do with a boy-girl party, especially when they were not invited.

“We’ll just cruise by,” Brent reassured them. “Nobody will see us. Come on, let’s go.” He didn’t mention his real reason for going there. Claire Ryan, a girl he was very interested in, would be at the party. Somehow this was like a magnet and he could not resist the pull. Brent kept up the pressure on Nick and Darin, and Nick at least was beginning to weaken. Nick knew that Beth Scalini would be there too. One party, two magnets: a hard combination to resist.

Brent’s arguments prevailed and before long they were rounding a bend in the street, approaching Nancy’s house. The lights were on in the garage and they could hear music floating on the balmy air. They stopped behind a car parked at the curb, peering around the vehicle like three poorly trained spies. From inside the garage came sporadic bursts of laughter and the sound of Fats Domino on the record player singing “Ain’t That a Shame.”

The headlights of an approaching car startled them and they quickly stepped away and began walking nonchalantly up the street. The car passed and they continued walking for a half block.

“Let’s go back,” Brent implored.

“Not me. I’ve had enough. I’m goin’ home. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” And with that, Darin took off, ignoring their pleas to hang around a while.

Brent nearly dragged Nick back to the car in front of Nancy’s house. A new record was on the turntable inside. It was Elvis singing “Love Me Tender,” and it was too much for Brent to bear. He thought about Claire and pictured her dancing close to him, moving slowly to the music. “Stay here,” he said. “I’m going to check this out.” He had his eye on the window in the door at the side of the garage.

“Are you crazy? They’ll see you.” Nick considered turning around and making a run for home before Brent could reach the garage, but somehow his feet were glued to the pavement. He watched Brent approach the door, look quickly in through the window, then pull his head away. He turned and looked in again. Suddenly, he spun around and came walking back toward Nick, his hands plunged deep in his pockets. The door to the garage opened and someone stepped out onto the walk. Nick recognized Steve Gray, a friend from school.

“Brent? Is that you? Come here, man. Are you alone?” Steve was walking toward Brent now, and there were other kids poking their heads out of the garage to see what was going on. “Hey, Nick, is that you? Man, am I glad to see you guys. There’s like seven girls here, but only three guys showed up. Come on in and join the party. We need you.”

“Nah, we can’t do that,” Brent said. “We weren’t invited.”

“I’ll talk to Nancy. I’m sure it’ll be okay.”

This conversation was relayed back to the garage and a few minutes later, Nancy approached them with the formal invitation. “My parents said it is okay if you guys want to come in and join us.” She said it with a smile that was hard to resist. Nick started to open his mouth, not really sure what he was going to say, when Brent took charge again.

“Okay, we’ll go home and change clothes and be back in a few minutes.” The deal was done, no way to back out now. As Brent said this, Nick saw Beth, standing by the door, looking every bit the pretty, popular cheerleader that she was. He felt his heart jump into his throat. A few seconds later, Nick and Brent were hurrying for home.

 

Nick’s parents were sitting in the living room, listening to the radio when he came in. He quickly explained the last-minute invitation to the party while they glanced at one another and stifled the smiles that were trying to break out. They gave their permission and Nick rushed off to get ready.

He went into the bathroom, ran warm water in the sink, stripped to the waist and scrubbed himself with a soapy washcloth. Then he went to work on his hair, realizing immediately that he was badly in need of a haircut. His flattop with longish sides would not cooperate, no matter how much hair cream he smeared on it. Finally, he stopped and stared into the mirror. Staring back was the face that only a mother could love, with the fuzzy hair, the nose still peeling from a summer in the sun, the freckles spread so densely across his cheeks that it looked like his face was dirty. Why would Beth Scalini even look at this face? He dropped his eyes in despair and wondered if there was a way out, a way to convince Brent to go to the party alone. Then he heard voices from the living room and he knew Brent was there, ready and eager to go.

Brent was waiting in Nick’s bedroom. “Come on, man, let’s go. Time is a-wastin’.”

“I don’t know if I’m going. Why don’t you just go?”

“What? Are you kidding me? Come on, get dressed. Here, man, I’ll help.” He went to Nick’s closet and pulled out a clean shirt and a pair of khakis. Before Nick could protest any further, he was dressed and they were out the front door and on their way to the party. When Brent was motivated, he was like a force of nature.

 

The Dawkins’ garage had been spruced up and organized for the party, with lawnmower and tools and the like all stowed away elsewhere. There was a table loaded with snacks and a cooler with cold drinks, and on another table across the floor was the portable record player with piles of 45-rpm records arranged next to it. All the girls were congregated around the record player, selecting records to be stacked on the changer, engaged in animated conversation. The boys gathered around the snack table, talking about happenings at school and the prospects for the football team. Each group made it a point to keep an eye on the other.

The record changed and a pretty ballad came on the player. Brent wasted no time. He went directly to Claire and asked her to dance. Steve chose a partner and joined them on the floor. Nick was in awe at how easy they made it look. All he could do was try to remain focused on the conversation in progress while glancing every now and then at Beth. And there she was with her short dark hair, her laughing eyes, and the smile that came so easily and made you feel so good. Why couldn’t he be like Brent and just walk over there and ask her to dance? And if she said, “No thank you,” then he could simply curl up and die right there on the floor of Nancy’s garage.

After a couple of songs, Brent went to the record player and began sifting through the 45’s. He stacked several records on the changer and then went back to Claire. The Platters’ recording of “Only You” started, the sweet black voices filling the garage. Brent and Claire moved slowly around the floor, talking and laughing, Brent’s eyes focusing on her pretty face. The next record was the Platters again with “The Magic Touch,” and now they were cheek to cheek and Nick could see that Brent was speaking softly into Claire’s ear. The record changed again and Elvis was back to reprise “Love Me Tender.” Brent had obviously stacked the deck for romance and it was working as planned. Now he and Claire moved very slowly together, their arms wrapped tightly around each other.

“Hey, look what I found!” Steve called from across the garage. He was holding a milk bottle over his head, the old-fashioned kind with the bulb at the top to collect the cream, the kind that the milkman delivered to the front porch. “Let’s play Spin the Bottle!”

Everyone gathered around in a circle, kneeling on the garage floor—that is except Brent and Claire who were nowhere to be seen—and the game began. After each spin, the couple would go out into the backyard for their kiss. Nick had barely settled into the circle when it was his turn to spin. He spun the bottle carefully, watched it rotate several times, then come slowly to rest. It was pointing directly at Beth.

Nick scrambled to his feet and watched Beth do the same. She smiled the tiniest of smiles in his direction and then headed for the door to the backyard. As Nick followed her, he was aware of the kids around the circle egging them on, the guys saying, “All right, go Nick!” and the girls calling, “Ooo, Beth!” And then he was in the backyard, on the Dawkins’ patio, his heart pounding out of his chest, face to face with Beth Scalini.

All of this should have played out in slow motion, like the famous commercial with the couple running toward each other on the beach. It might as well have been in super slow motion, because what happened next he would remember for the rest of his life. It’s a beautiful thing when your first real kiss is like that.

Nancy’s mother came out to the garage to check on things and promptly put an end to Spin the Bottle. Shortly after that, the party came to an end. Cars were arriving at the front of the Dawkins’ home, parents coming to pick up their kids. Beth was gone with a friend before Nick could plot his next move, not that he had any moves. He waited now while Brent said a long, lingering goodbye to Claire. When her father arrived, Brent opened the car door for her and even reached in to shake hands with Mr. Ryan and introduce himself. Vince Ryan sat there, slightly dumbfounded, with a look on his face that said who the hell is Brent Barlow and why is he shaking my hand?

Brent and Nick watched Claire and her father drive away and then started the short walk home. Brent was overflowing with excitement. He and Claire were officially going steady now, and he needed to give her a ring or a pin or something, and where could he get a ring, and maybe they could ride the bus downtown tomorrow to Newberry’s or Woolworth’s and he could find something nice but not too expensive, and on and on.

Nick was only half-listening, preoccupied with his thoughts of Beth. He decided not to share what had happened with Brent. He would keep Beth to himself for now. On Monday, he would have his friends talk to her friends and ask, what does Beth think of Nick Shane? And if her friends said, well what does Nick think of Beth, then what? He could tell them to say, he likes her. Or, he likes her a lot! Geez, what if they come back with, she thinks he’s a nice guy, but … Oh, man, what then? He’d have to talk to Brent about it—Mr. Smooth, Mr. Confident, Mr. Shake Hands With Her Dad. Brent will know what to do. But not now. Maybe tomorrow. Nick really needed to sleep on it.

They reached the corner of Buss and Russell and stopped for a few minutes to make plans for the next day. It seemed to Nick that it had been a very long time since they stood on this spot under the streetlight, trying to decide what to do with this warm September evening.

He was right. It was a lifetime ago.

_____

A little help from my friends...

Dear Faithful Readers,

It is nice to receive support from your fellow scribblers. Here are three "blurbs" from friends and colleagues regarding One Pitch at a Time. These comments warmed the cockles of my heart. And if you've ever had your cockles warmed, well...

"I loved the story... the basic goodness and breadth of the characters, each with his/her own personality and role to play. Great job!"

- Casey Dorman, author of: The Oedipus Murders; Murder in Nirvana; and (coming soon) Eziekel's Brain

"A nice variety of characters. Ramona, the aspiring nurse, and Crusty Bob, the old newsboy, stood out for me. Loved them and enjoyed the others as well."

- Tom Campbell, author of Badass - the Harley-Davidson Experience, and Travel On - Cycles of the Lifestyle Kind

"You’ve captured the pulse of the pandemic and tucked it into an interesting sports story, love story, and story about alcoholism. I cried when I read Ramona’s testimony to Webb on the boat."

- Brian M. Biggs, author of Prove My Soul - Another Side to the Vietnam War

And then there is this from the "Acknowledgements" page:

 I close with a special thank you to Billie Kelpin, who, without knowing it, became my development editor. We began exchanging chapters of our works in progress, and I learned Billie has an amazing eye for detail and nuance. And she grew up in Milwaukee as a devoted fan of the Braves and a “really cute” Hall of Fame third baseman named Eddie Mathews. Perfect qualifications for a baseball-themed story! Billie, I can’t thank you enough.

Billie is the author of Lucky, the Left-pawed Puppy, The Perfect Husband App, Polly and the Measuring Stick, and (coming soon) the novel Falling Idols. 

As the song says, "I get by with a little help from my friends..." 

CWS

_____