Still Pitching (20 page)

The ‘55 Yankees had struggled all season. In the end, it took an eight-game winning streak in September for them to finish a few games in front of the Indians and Red Sox. Heading into the Series, it looked like the Dodgers might finally have the edge.

But that illusion was quickly dispelled. The first two games were played at the Stadium, and the Yanks won both. At the time, no team had ever lost the first two games of a World Series and come back to win. So when the Series shifted back to Brooklyn, it looked like it would be a replay of the past five encounters.

Athletes and coaches are always pontificating about “defining moments.” For the Dodgers, this most certainly was one of them. If they lost again, they would forever be remembered as the team that couldn't win the big games. Perhaps they sensed what the stakes were, because they played all three of their home games as if they were possessed. They won them all. But with a chance to wrap the Series up at the Stadium, they lost the sixth game.

Déjà vu. Nothing's changed, I thought. Somehow, they'd find a way to lose again. Would chronic failure become my m.o. as well? It was a chilling thought.

Losing game six set up another dramatic seventh game. In the bottom of the sixth inning, the Dodgers were ahead 2-0. Gil Hodges had driven in both runs, and Johnny Podres was pitching beautifully. Was it another occasion for false hope? I paced back and forth in front of the TV on every pitch.

When the Yankees got the first two men on base, it looked like the momentum was about to shift back to them. Yogi Berra, the Yankees' most reliable clutch hitter, was at bat. He reached for an outside change-up and lifted a twisting pop fly that was headed for the left field foul line. As soon as Berra hit the ball, Gil McDougal, the runner at second, started for third. Sandy Amoros, the Dodger left fielder, had a long way to run. Just when it looked like Berra's pop fly might drop in for a hit, Amoros reached down with his right hand and made a shoestring catch. Then he wheeled around and doubled McDougal up before he could get back to second base. The play killed off a potential Yankee rally and ultimately changed the course of the game.

From that moment on, you could sense that the Dodgers had a chance to win. I stood in front of the TV holding my breath as Pee Wee Reese threw Elston Howard out at first for the last out of the game. The final score stood at 2-0.

It was a fitting redemption. The Yankees had always seemed so invincible. It was also a confirmation of the Dodgers' resilience. A lot of teams would have faded into oblivion after blowing that thirteen and half game lead in ‘51.

The Dodgers' turnaround gave me a shot of renewed hope. Like them, I knew I'd have to pay my dues.

Working for Kerchman
that fall would be the first test. In addition to doing the coach's dirty work, I had to put up with a lot of crap from the senior managers and star players. It was even more humiliating than I'd anticipated. “Moose” Imbrianni sent me on a fool's errand to fetch a bucket of steam; I earnestly searched for a rabbit's foot for Leon Cholakis; and I came up with a pair of fuzzy dice for Angelo Labrizzi's convertible. Before games I taped ankles, treated minor injuries and sprains, and inflated the footballs. At halftime I cut the lemons and oranges. During games I'd scrape mud off of players' cleats, carry water buckets and equipment, and help injured guys off the field. After the games ended I stayed to clean out the locker room.

The worst jobs were being a water boy and stretcher bearer. It was bad enough that I had to run out there in front of thousands of people during the timeouts, but it was humiliating to have to listen to the taunts and jeers of my classmates. Whenever I heard “Hey water boy, I'm thirsty, bring the bucket over here,” or “Man down on the fifty,” or “Hey medic, get the stretcher,” I wanted to run off the field and just keep going.

When I wasn't at practice I deliberately avoided Peter and Mike. I was too embarrassed to face them. As often as I could, I took the public bus to school, and I stayed away from dances and neighborhood parties. I thought constantly about quitting, but I was already in too deep. If I quit now, I could kiss my baseball dreams goodbye.

In late October
, two other sophomores and I applied for a single internship on
The Chat
sports staff. I'd been waiting a year for this opportunity, and I was determined to get this position. To test our competence, Daniel Roth, the editor, asked us to write up the results of the first home football game. The best of the three, he said, stood a chance of getting printed in the next issue.

I've always loved having the inside dope on things. As a student manager, I was privy to information that the other two aspirants didn't have access to. So along with the game highlights, I wove in some pointed anecdotes about the star players, I explained a few of Kerchman's game strategies, and I added some of my own sideline and locker room observations.

Even I could tell that the piece had more authenticity and pizzazz than the typical generic story. Luckily for me, Roth wasn't a stickler for the conventional “who, what, where, when, and why” news report. He praised me, in fact, for making the story so personal and idiosyncratic. Naturally, I was thrilled when it appeared.

Two other stories followed, and by mid fall Roth had expanded my assignments. He asked me to do an exclusive interview/profile of Kerchman; and when football season was over he selected me to cover the basketball games in the winter.

My stories began to attract some attention—mostly from the sports nuts. I'd avoided them in school because they were so uncool, but it moved me a notch higher in the pecking order, if only in my own mind. And I couldn't deny that I enjoyed seeing my name in print again. Especially now, when I was so embarrassed by my other role.

Thought I hated the
degrading football jobs, watching Kerchman in action continued to engage me. In his pregame pep talks he invoked the names of past Far Rockaway football heroes, and he preached impassioned sermons on the value of courage, character, loyalty, and team play. His scrimmages were grueling tests of fortitude and stamina. When players didn't follow orders, he'd single them out for public ridicule. His favorite victim, it seemed, was poor Stuie Schneider, our best halfback.

At one practice session, it was getting late and everyone's butts were dragging. On a drop-back pass play, Stuie brush blocked Harold Zimmerman, the oncoming defensive tackle. Harold and Stuie were good friends. Neither wanted to injure the other, especially in a meaningless scrimmage. But Kerchman was on to them. He stopped play and walked right up to them. He sighed and rolled his eyes—clearly playing to the crowd.

“Let's see what you've learned this year Schneider,” he said.

Without pads or a helmet, the coach took a three-point stance on the defensive line and came charging right at Stuie. My encounter with Sullivan had put me wise to this tactic. We all held our collective breath. As scared as Stuie was, he knew what the stakes were. So he stayed low, dug his cleats into the turf, and proceeded to knock Kerchman right on his butt. Everyone, I bet, was inwardly cheering. We all looked down at the ground and pawed the dirt with our cleats, waiting to see what the coach would do. I was pretty sure what was coming next. Stuie had played right into Kerchman's hands. Did coaches talk to each other about stuff like this? Or was it just business as usual to them?

Just as I'd thought, Mr. K got up and clapped Stuie warmly on the shoulder pads.

“That's the way to hit son,” he said.

Then he turned to the rest of the squad. “This is football, not cheerleading practice,” he said. “You make the man pay.”

It didn't take long
to grasp what Kerchman was trying to teach us. In a late season game against St. Francis Prep, Stevie Berman, our star quarterback, was picking their secondary apart with his passing game. When we lined up offensively, their guys tried to unnerve Stevie by calling him “dirty Jew,” and “kike,” and chanting in unison, “the Jews killed Christ, the Jews killed Christ.” We'd heard it all before—in the streets and on the playgrounds. It only made our linemen block harder.

By the end of the first quarter we were ahead by three touchdowns, and everyone could sense a fight brewing. Sure enough, on the next offensive series their nose tackle deliberately broke Stevie's leg as he lay pinned at the bottom of a pile-up. It's a chicken-shit maneuver because it's so easy to execute. Before the ref can unscramble the pile-up, you just grab the guy's leg and twist.

There's a kind of perverse, unspoken ethic at work here. It's agreed upon that taunts and racial slurs are part of the game. But when you deliberately take out an opposing player, especially the quarterback, it's a declaration of war. As hard-nosed as Kerchman was, he'd never allow one of his own players to pull a stunt like that. But now that it had happened, he knew what had to be done.

As we carried Stevie off on a stretcher, Mr. K squeezed his hand and said, “Don't you worry pal, we'll get them back for this.” As if that was going to do Stevie any good.

Leon Cholakis, our 275-pound, all-city tackle lived for moments like this. I winced at the thought, but we all knew what was coming. Cholakis had been waiting all game for Coach to turn him loose. Kerchman nodded in Leon's direction, and on the first play of the next offensive series, Cholakis hurled himself full-force on their prone quarterback. Even on the far sidelines, you could hear the guy's collarbone snap. It was a clean break. When they carried the guy off, I had to turn my head away. The refs of course tossed Leon out of the game.

By now, things had gotten way out of hand. The crowd was yelling obscenities at us, students were throwing glass bottles out on the field, and fistfights were breaking out all over the bleachers. The South Arverne Boys Club, a Rockaway street gang, was mobilizing behind the stands in preparation for a sure rumble.

I wondered how we were going to get out of there alive. But Kerchman was way ahead of me. He quickly dispatched Krause and me to the locker room.

“Krause, find out how we can get the hell out of here the back way,” he said. “Then, report back to me.”

“Stein-berg, as soon as we know where to go, alert the bus driver where to pull up. Then let Krause know. Wait for us. We'll be there in five minutes.”

By the time the St. Francis fans had spilled out on the field—some of them brandishing rusty tire irons and duct taped zip guns—our team had already snuck out through the basement boiler room door. We made it to the bus before anyone could figure out where we'd gone.

On the ride back to school I felt nauseous and dizzy. But a piece of me was grateful to Kerchman for protecting us. And for having the presence to get us out of there.

By the end of ‘55
, rock and roll had become part of most every urban teenager's identity. It validated our deepest passions and anxieties. For me, in particular, it was a retreat from all the ongoing disappointments and frustrations.

Vocal groups like the Moonglows, the Platters, and the Flamingos were expanding and refining the doo-wop sound—crooning songs about unfulfilled longing and unrequited love (our teenage anthem). At the same time, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, and Fats Domino were raising the stakes. Songs like “No Particular Place to Go,” “Maybelline,” “Blueberry Hill,” “Rip it Up,” and “Havin' Me Some Fun Tonight” lyricized our yearnings and curiosities about sex and lust.

In response, parents, the media, politicians, teachers, and spiritual leaders actively campaigned against the music, calling it “lewd,” “anarchistic,” “scandalous,” “offensive,” and “distasteful.” Which of course only increased the music's currency with us. Rock and roll had given teenagers a voice and a common language. We were beginning to think of it as our own personal music.

Alan Freed was now the most visible disc jockey in the country. Teenagers lined up for hours to buy tickets to Freed's live stage shows at the Brooklyn Fox and Paramount. The first time I went, I watched with envy as kids my own age danced in the aisles, screamed, and sang along while Chuck Berry did the “duck walk,” or Jerry Lee Lewis set his piano on fire. When the teenage heartthrob acts like Pat Boone were on, the girls shrieked at the top of their voices and jumped up and down in their seats, skirts flying above their knees. I could feel my whole body pulsing with desire. They looked exactly like the wholesome, pony-tailed girls in my classes—the pretty, popular ones I'd been day dreaming about since junior high—the girls who only let you get to first or second base.

Even at basement make-out parties, I'd never seen anything as openly uninhibited as this was. For the first time it dawned on me that those girls had the same kinds of desires as I did. Watching them gyrate to the beat of the music reminded me of the erotic jolt I felt at football games whenever the cheerleaders and boosters screamed and jumped up down as they rooted the team on.

Now more than ever, I wanted to be a part of the State Diner jock clique.

At the season-ending
banquet in December, Kerchman announced the names of the players who'd won individual awards. It was no surprise that Cholakis won the John Kelly Award, the gold medal that traditionally went to the team's inspirational leader and most valuable player. But when I walked up to the podium, I could see that Kerchman was holding a varsity letter in his hand. As he handed it to me, he shook my hand and said, “Nice job, son, see you in the spring.”

It would have been a breach of decorum for me to wear a varsity football letter. But Kerchman's gesture disarmed me, and my baseball hopes soared.

On February fifteenth
, more than 100 jittery dreamers turned out for baseball tryouts in the dingy, grey high school gym. No surprise there. Far Rockaway was the only high school on the peninsula, which meant that Kerchman always had his pick of the best athletes. More than 250 had tried out for football last fall.