Snow in August (34 page)

“I say Greenboig gets da suit, whatta ya bet?” said the one named Louis.

The debate was erased by another roar, as the Dodgers took the field and everyone in Ebbets Field stood to cheer. Two Negro
men arrived at their aisle, carrying programs. One was very dark and wore a Dodger cap. The other was pale-skinned and wore
a Hawaiian shirt and had field glasses hanging from his neck.

“Scuse me, pardon us,” said the man in the Dodger cap. They were in the third and fourth seats. The one with the field glasses
sat beside Michael. He glanced at the
I
’
M FOR JACKIE
button and smiled.

“Great day for baseball,” he said.

“Sure is,” Michael said.

“Enjoy da game,” Rabbi Hirsch said.

A group of young men came up the aisle, laughing, posing, about six of them, and took seats across the aisle on the right,
a few rows higher than Michael and the rabbi. They wore T-shirts with the sleeves rolled up over their shoulders and tight
pegged pants. None of them wore a hat, and their Vaselined hair glistened in the light. They were all smoking cigarettes,
and one held a pint bottle in a paper bag. They reminded Michael of the Falcons.

For a moment he felt a coil of fear in his stomach. But he turned away and gazed down at the field. This was Ebbets Field
in broad daylight, not a dark street beside the factory. The Dodgers ambled to their positions. And Holy God, there was Pete
Reiser! Going out to left field! Back from the dead.
Furillo was in center and Gene Hermanski in right. But Pistol Pete Reiser was with them, down there on the grass. Michael
pointed him out to Rabbi Hirsch.

“He looks okay, boychik,” the rabbi said. “Maybe some prayers helped. And maybe some hits he’ll get.”

The outfielders were right below them, casually tossing a ball while the cheers faded and the organ played “Take Me Out to
the Ball Game.” Branca was throwing warm-ups to catcher Bruce Edwards. And the infielders were firing the ball, from Eddie
Stanky to Spider Jorgensen at third, from Jorgensen to Pee Wee Reese at short, and from Reese to Robinson.

“He looks cool,” said the man beside Michael, peering through the field glasses, talking to his friend. “Real relaxed. Like
he been playin’ the damned position all his life.”

Everybody stood for the national anthem. The Negroes put their hands over their hearts. The men behind Michael took off their
union caps, and Michael whispered to the rabbi to take off his hat. The anthem ended and there were shouts of “play ball”
and the game started. Branca retired the first two Pirates on ground balls.

“He’s got good stuff, dis kid,” the union guy named Jabbo said. “Pray for your
paisan
, Ralphie.”

“Let’s see what he does wit’ Kiner.”

Kiner hit the first pitch into the upper deck. Foul by a foot. The whole park groaned at the crack of the bat. Michael explained
foul balls to the rabbi, and then Branca struck out Kiner and everybody applauded.

“Scared da crap outta me wit’ dat foul ball,” the one called Louis said. “I thought it would land in Prospeck Park.”

“In Prospeck Park, it’d still be foul, Louis.”

Reese led off for the Dodgers and grounded out. That
brought up Robinson. There was an immense roar. The two Negro men stood up and applauded proudly.

“Here we go,” said the one with the field glasses.

Robinson dug in, his bat held high, facing the pitcher. And he was hit with the first pitch, twisting to take it on the back.
The crowd booed.

“They ain’t wastin’ no time today,” the man with the field glasses said. “Gah-damn!”

A voice came bellowing from the right. One of the young toughs. Wearing a black T-shirt.

“Don’t hit him in the head: you’ll break the ball!”

His friends laughed. The Negro with the baseball cap glanced at them and then returned his attention to the field.

“Forget it, Sam,” the one with the field glasses said. “Don’t you be gettin’ riled, now, hear me?”

Rabbi Hirsch was staring intently at the field. Hank Greenberg was playing first base for the Pirates, and Robinson seemed
to be talking to him. “I wish I could hear them,” Rabbi Hirsch said. “I wish I could know what Henry Greenberg says to Jackie
Robinson. A letter I should write him.” Then Robinson took a lead off first, hands hanging loose, legs wide, focused on the
pitcher. The pitcher glanced over his left shoulder at first, went into his windup, and before the ball reached the catcher’s
mitt, Robinson stole second. The place exploded. Michael’s heart pounded. This was Robinson, doing what he had to do. They
hit him with a pitch? Okay: steal second, and up yours, schmuck.

“Dat’s da way,” the union guy named Louis shouted. “Good as a double!”

“Hold on to your hat, Sam,” the Negro with the field glasses said, smiling broadly.

Robinson was jittering off second base now, the number 42
on his back, taking short pigeon-toed steps, wary, alert, drawing a stare from the pitcher, waiting, now drawing the throw,
and abruptly stepping back on the bag. The batter was Furillo. As Robinson did his dance, Furillo took a ball, then another
ball.

“Jackie’s got him crazy,” the man with the field glasses said. “He’s losin’ control.”

Once more, the pitcher glared over his shoulder at Robinson. The park was hushed. The pitcher pitched. Furillo sliced it down
the left-field line and Robinson was racing around third, his cap flying off, and fading into a hook slide as he crossed the
plate in a cloud of dust.

Ebbets Field erupted into cheers and flying balloons and some brassy tuba music from a band near first base. The two black
men were laughing and applauding. The union guys, Louis, Jabbo, and Ralph, shouted:
Way ta go
and
Dat’s all we need
and
Call a doctor, da pitcha’s bleedin’
. Michael felt like he was part of a movie. And Rabbi Hirsch was jigging, clenching his fist, waving his hat, dancing.

“What a beauty is this!” he shouted to Michael. “What a beauty, what a beauty!”

The man with the field glasses turned to Michael, glancing at the Jackie button.

“You ever see him before?”

“No. This is my first time in Ebbets Field.”

“Take a look.”

He handed Michael the field glasses.

“You got to adjust them,” he said. “But don’t try to read the writin’ on them. I took them off a dead German.”

After adjusting the lenses, Michael could see all the way to first base, where Furillo was taking a lead; all the way to the
dugout, where Burt Shotton was sitting in a civilian suit and
Robinson was standing alone, with one foot on the top step. He could even see the dirt on Robinson’s uniform.

“Thanks,” Michael said, handing the glasses back.

“You got to see a great play, boy,” the man said, adjusting the lenses again for himself.

“I sure did,” Michael said.

The man said his name was Floyd, and he shook Michael’s hand and then introduced his friend, Sam—“We were in the army together”—and
then Rabbi Hirsch reached across Michael to shake hands with the two men. “My first time in Abbot’s Field too,” he said. “Like
Michael.” There was a great sigh as Hermanski grounded into a double play to end the inning.

In the top of the second, Hank Greenberg came to bat. A few people stood to applaud. So did Rabbi Hirsch.

Then they heard the voice:

“Siddown, Rabbi, don’t hurt your hands clappin’.” It was the youth in the black T-shirt. “This sheenie can’t hit no more.”

Rabbi Hirsch turned toward the voice and slowly sat down.

“This word?” he said to Michael. “What is it?”

“What word?”

“Sheenie.”

“Ah, it’s one of them dumb words.”

“A word for Jew?”

“Yeah.”

The rabbi turned again to glare at the young men. His face trembled. But then he turned back to Greenberg’s at bat.

The voice again, shouting at the Dodger pitcher: “Give dis Hebe a little chin music, Branca. He’ll quit right in front a ya.”

Rabbi Hirsch turned again to Michael; his early joy seemed to be seeping out of him.

“What means chin music?”

“It means, like, throw the ball close to his chin.”

“So they think, throw near Hank Greenberg’s head, he will quit? Because he’s a Jew?”

“That’s what
that
guy thinks.”

Greenberg took a ball, low and away.

“You said Hank Greenberg, he was a hero in the war. These young men, they don’t know this?”

Floyd heard him and leaned over.

“They are ignorant, Reverend,” he said. “They are stupid.”

But the loudmouth in the black shirt wasn’t going away. He bellowed: “Hit him in the Hebrew National, Branca. Let’s see how
big his salami is.”

A few people in the crowd laughed, but Louis stood up.

“Hey, whyn’t you bums keep y’ traps shut? Yiz are insultin’ people!”

“Ya wanta do somethin’ about it?” the young man shouted. His friends were all laughing now.

“I’ll come over dere and give you a fat lip, buster!”

“You and what army?”

Greenberg swung and lined a ball deep and foul. The whole park groaned in relief.

“His cousin caught it and sold it on da spot!” the young man shouted.

Now Rabbi Hirsch stood up and faced them.

“Please! The mouth, shut it up, please. This is America!”

The tough guys started singing the first lines of “America the Beautiful.” Sarcastically. Out of tune. Full of the courage
of superior numbers.

“Please,” the rabbi said. “The big mouth!”

Then Greenberg walked.

“Whad I tell you?” the young man shouted. “Dis old Hebe can’t hit no more!”

“All right, can it, shmuck,” Louis the union man shouted.

“Kiss my ass!” the youth replied.

That was enough. Louis was up, leaping across the aisle. He grabbed the young man by his black shirt and smashed him with
his right fist. The young man’s friends rose as one, throwing punches, and the two other union guys piled in, and then everybody
in the area was up. Floyd and Sam stood to watch, carefully, warily. Then they looked at each other. Without a word, Sam slipped
off his glasses and his wristwatch and tucked them into his pocket. Floyd handed the field glasses to Michael, who thought:
If I didn’t have this cast, if I only could swing at them, hurt them.… But now others were diving into the brawl, and the
young men were backing up as the union guys went at them. Jabbo knocked down a kid with red hair. Ralph kicked a sunburned
kid in the balls. The one called Louis grabbed the loudmouth by the hair and whacked his head into the top of a seat. The
young man squealed.

“I’m bleedin’! I’m fuckin’ bleedin’.”

“Wrong,” Louis said. “You’re fuckin’
dyin
.”

And banged his head again on the seat. Suddenly Rabbi Hirsch hurried over and tried to get into it, but now it was all fists
and feet and curses and he was shoved back. His glasses fell and he was groping for them on the concrete steps when two of
the young men started kicking him. Michael grabbed one of his crutches and hobbled toward them, but then Floyd and Sam pushed
him down in his seat. “Watch the stuff,” Floyd said. He grabbed one of the young men attacking Rabbi Hirsch, spun him, and
presented him to Sam, who knocked him down with a punch. The other one looked up, his eyes
wide with fear. Floyd bent him over with a punch to the belly, and then kicked him in the ass, tumbling him down the steps.

Suddenly it was over. The six young toughs were ruined. Bleeding, groaning, whining. Rabbi Hirsch found his glasses and looked
around in amazement. Floyd and Sam took their seats. The union guys sat down.

“Can’t even watch a fuckin’ ball game in peace no more,” Louis said.

“Hey, Louis, want a hot dog?” one of his friends said.

And now the cops arrived, ten of them, beefy and pink-faced and Irish, all in blue with their batons at the ready. Rabbi Hirsch
was still standing, baffled, his eyes wide. One of the cops looked at the battered youths and then at the rabbi.

“Did
you
do this?” he said.

“I wish,” the rabbi said.

“They went dattaway,” one of the union guys shouted. Floyd and Sam laughed for the first time.

“Who did it?”

“The Jewish War Veterans, Officer.”

The cops hauled the young men to their feet and led them away. The whole section burst into applause. Louis stood up, faced
the fans, lifted his hat, and bowed.

“What a rhubarb!” Rabbi Hirsch said, laughing and making a fist. “What a great big excellent goddamned rhubarb!”

O
n the Fourth of July, Michael watched the fireworks from the roof, where grown-ups cheered and the noise was like an artillery
barrage. Sonny and Jimmy were not there. They were in the streets, where they could believe what everyone else believed about
Michael.

In the days that followed, Michael heard laughter from those streets and the
phwomp
of spaldeens and the rise and fall of arguments. But he was no longer part of it. His world had shrunk to the apartment and
the roof, his room and the cellar, with occasional trips to the Grandview when his mother was working. In the dark theater,
he saw
Double Indemnity
and
To Each His Own
and
The Spiral Staircase
, imagining himself scheming with Barbara Stanwyck or waltzing in wartime London with Olivia de Havilland or protecting Dorothy
McGuire in a vast, evil mansion. When the movie was over, he was still on crutches, still facing the long hobble home through
streets
more dangerous than any in the movies. On that walk, he often felt like a five-year-old, guarded as he was by his mother.

Alone in the apartment, he read great hunks of the
Wonderland of Knowledge
. On the way to the Grandview with his mother, he stopped at the library and borrowed books and looked up names that were
not in the
Wonderland of Knowledge
. He devoured
Howard Pyle’s Book of Pirates
and
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
and
Captain Blood
. But he could not share these imaginary adventures with any of his friends anymore, the way he did in other summers. He couldn’t
tell them the stories or debate the heroism of the characters. He couldn’t try to make those books fit into the realities
of the street.