“But, Mom . . .” I moaned.
“Whoever moves into 5224 obviously wants privacy. They have to deal with fans at the ballpark. When they come home, they’re family men just like your dad. He’ll want time for his family. You will have to respect that, Stephen. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Mom. I won’t be a pest,” I promised.
The next morning, we walked over to greet our new neighbors. It was cold, but I was sweating under my jacket. Would Mrs. Palin tell us who was renting her top floor? Would I be disappointed if it was an unknown player? Or would I get the best news of my life?
Mrs. Palin opened the door on the first ring.
“Good morning,” Mom began. “My name is Sarah Satlow and this is my son, Stephen. We are your neighbors. We wanted to welcome you to Tilden Avenue.”
“How lovely and unexpected,” Mrs. Palin proclaimed. “It’s nice to meet you both. My name is Elinor Palin. Stephen, you’ll see my children around the neighborhood. They’re a bit older than you and go to Tilden High School. You must be at the elementary school, right?”
“Yes, Mrs. Palin,” I replied politely.
“We know how chaotic it is to move, so I baked a pot roast for you and your family,” Mom said, handing Mrs. Palin a covered pan, still warm, along with brownies wrapped in wax paper.
“It smells divine,” Mrs. Palin said. “Thank you.”
Sweat dripped down my neck. Should I risk making my mother angry by asking Mrs. Palin about her future tenant? Or should I keep quiet?
“Are you a Brooklyn Dodgers fan, Stephen?” Mrs. Palin asked.
“I’m a big fan,” I replied, relieved that she brought up the subject.
“Who are your favorite players?”
“Jackie and Pee Wee are my top two. But I also like Ralph Branca and Carl Erskine. Why?”
“Just curious,” Mrs. Palin replied, with a twinkle in her eye.
“But—” I started to push, then looked up at my mom and shut my mouth.
“I know there’s a rumor that one of the Dodgers is moving in upstairs,” Mrs. Palin said.
I nodded.
“Well, Stephen. My husband made me promise not to tell anyone who our tenant is going to be. So we’ll all just have to wait to see who moves in,” Mrs. Palin said with a warm smile.
I almost fell to the ground and screamed out in frustration. Not another person telling me to wait. No, I couldn’t stand it! I barely heard my mother say good-bye. Tears in my eyes, I followed her back to our house.
I trudged up the stairs, feeling mad. “Why didn’t she tell us?”
“For all the reasons we discussed earlier,” Mom said.
“I still think it’s Jackie.”
That night I was sitting on the front stoop when Dad came home from work. He saw me staring down the block at our new neighbor’s house.
“Your mother told me you met the Palins today.”
“Yes.” I nodded.
“I’ve been debating about when was the right time to tell you this,” Dad said.
“Tell me what?”
“I now know who is renting from the Palins,” he replied.
“Who is it, Dad? You’ve got to tell me. Please?” I begged.
“Until they move in, we won’t know for sure,” Dad teased.
“Is it who I’ve been wishing for?”
Dad chuckled. “I think you’ll be very happy,” he said.
“Dad, are you telling me that Jackie Robinson is going to be my neighbor?”
He beamed. “I saw Mr. Palin today. He told me that Jackie and his family have signed the lease for April first.”
I couldn’t believe it! Jackie Robinson! I jumped into Dad’s arms, yelling with joy. But Dad’s laughter worried me. It was almost April 1 and he loved a good April Fool’s joke. I pulled away from him. “Are you making up a story?”
“I wouldn’t do that to you, son.”
“Is it really true, Dad?”
“It’s true, son. Mr. Palin said that Mrs. Robinson is driving their Cadillac across country with her brother, Raymond, and little Jackie Junior. They’re expected in New York sometime between April fifth and seventh—”
“What about Jackie?”
“He’s still barnstorming with the team, Steve.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s right. Is Jackie Junior my age?” I asked.
“I think he’s younger than you. You’ll know soon,” Dad replied.
“I’ll bet they’ll be here tomorrow. Can I stay home from school?”
“I’m not even going to respond to that question, Steve.”
I laughed it off. “All right, Dad, but will you come get me out of school the minute the moving van pulls up?”
“No,” my dad said. “I’ll be at work and you’ll be at school. You’ve got to give the Robinsons privacy, Steve. Promise me you won’t drive Mrs. Robinson crazy with questions about Jackie.”
I slid down to the step below my dad. I honestly didn’t know how I’d react to Jackie Robinson’s living so close to me. It was just too important. None of my friends would even believe me until Jackie actually moved in. I looked up at my dad and shrugged my shoulders. “I’ll try not to be a pest,” I promised.
I jumped off the stoop. “Time me,” I insisted before racing to Jackie Robinson’s new house and back. “How long did that take, Dad?”
“Thirty seconds, tops,” Dad said.
“Just think, I’ll be living that close to a Brooklyn Dodgers player!” I shouted.
Every day after school, Sena and I would race home hoping to find a moving van parked outside of 5224 Tilden Avenue. Wednesday, April 7, I got my wish. We broke into a trot, reaching the truck just as two men lifted an off-white couch from the back of the van.
My heart pounded so hard I was sure the men would see it beating under my coat. I wanted so badly to peek inside the house, but Sena wouldn’t let go of my hand. Instead, we stood back and watched for a glimpse of the Robinson family.
We stood out there for what felt like forever without seeing anyone.
Finally, Sena had to get back home. I knew my mom wouldn’t want me to be out there trying to see the Robinsons, so I headed home, too.
This wait was driving me crazy! I kicked a small stone in frustration as I walked toward my stoop.
“There’s a moving truck outside the Robinsons’,” I reported as soon as I got inside and Mom shut the door.
“I know, honey.”
We sat in the kitchen snacking on crisp carrots and apple juice. I was antsy to get back outside and continue looking for our new neighbors. “Can I ride my bike?”
“You promised your father that you wouldn’t pester the Robinsons,” Mom reminded me.
“I just want to make sure it’s them. That’s all,” I protested.
“Move-in day is stressful. Give them space. Saturday, we can pick cherry blossoms and bring them over to Mr. and Mrs. Robinson. How does that sound?”
“Fine,” I muttered. “I’ll just sit on the stoop.”
“You may not leave the yard,” my mother told me.
“I won’t.”
I sat on the top step until the workmen brought the last piece of furniture into the house. I spotted Mrs. Robinson and her son once, but there was no sign of Jackie. I was being cool and staying at a safe distance from the Robinsons’ home. But I couldn’t guarantee how I’d react when Jackie appeared. My stomach was in knots. I almost cried when the moving van pulled away from the curb and Mom called me inside.
Saturday morning, I was up before sunrise. I opened my bedroom window and stuck my head out. I stayed there until Mom pulled me back inside.
“Stephen,” she scolded. “How many times do I have to tell you not to lean out of the window?”
“Oh, Ma . . . I was just looking for Jackie.”
“Get dressed. After breakfast, we’ll pick some cherry blossoms from the tree in our front yard and take them over to the Robinsons’ house.”
I jumped into my mother’s arms, ki
ssing her generously on both cheeks. She hugged me tight. “Thank you, Mom.”
Chuckling, my mother reminded me that Jackie might still be traveling. “Try not to show your disappointment, Steve.”
I looked up at her, wondering how to pull that off.
All this waiting to catch sight of Jackie was wearing on me. He’d been my favorite player since Dad announced that I was old enough to start listening to Dodgers games with him on the radio. That was on my eighth birthday last June, during Jackie’s rookie season. Dad said that would make me into a true Dodgers fan! Then maybe I could go see a game live at Ebbets Field.
I’ll never forget it. It was a warm Brooklyn summer night. Mom agreed that Dad and I could have dinner on the stoop. She fixed us a picnic meal of fried chicken, French fries, salad, and Kool-Aid. We ate with the small transistor radio between our plates. Dad sat on the top step. I took my position just below his knees. We turned the radio up loud and I chewed softly. I didn’t dare talk.
By the time the game got under way, the porches of our neighbors were filled with eager Dodgers fans. A few women were scattered in folding chairs, supervising as kids played on the sidewalk. Part of me wanted to play, but my father’s voice kept pulling me back to the game.
“Jackie Robinson is a rookie, Steve,” Dad said. “The Dodgers are in first place and drawing big crowds to Ebbets Field. Jackie’s got a lot to do with that. He’s batting over .300 and has four homers so far. He’s been hit six times by pitchers and been insulted plenty just because he’s a black man in a previously all-white game. Jackie hasn’t let the pressure get to him. The whole country knows about Brooklyn now. We’re special. That’s something to be proud of, son.”
Dad stopped talking right when the announcer introduced Jackie. Then he said softly so we wouldn’t miss a second of Jackie’s at-bat, “Listen closely now, Stevie. You’ll hear what I’m talking about.”
I bent down until my right ear practically touched the plastic box. Jackie’s hit got him on base, and within minutes he was threatening the pitcher from third base. Boy, is he fast, I thought.
“Jackie Robinson takes a large lead off third base, waits for the Pirates’ Fritz Ostermueller to take the full windup, and breaks for home!”
I sat up straight. Tension permeated the hot air. I fixed my gaze on my dad’s face, seeing the joy in it as Jackie stole home base for the first time in his Major League Baseball career! Dad jumped to his feet and lifted me high into the air. Our screams of joy were echoed throughout the neighborhood. At that moment, I knew Jackie Robinson was my guy!
That was a year earlier. Since then, I’d read Jackie’s book, My Own Story, and studied his baseball cards until I was an expert on Jackie’s first year in baseball. The 1947 Dodgers were the first time that a racially mixed team ever played in the championship.
Now with the 1948 season looming, I wondered how Jackie would do this year. More important, I looked over at the house where Jackie was set to live, I wondered what he was really like. The closer I came to actually meeting Jackie Robinson, the more I worried that I’d be disappointed. I really wanted to like him and to have Jackie like me. But what if he was too busy to notice me? Or what if he saw me and didn’t care to get to know me better? Was it even possible for a boy to have a famous man as a friend? I was driving myself nuts trying to figure out who Jackie was, so I decided to ask my mother.
“Mom, do you think Jackie’s nice?”
We were cleaning up my room. Mom stopped vacuuming the rug and looked over at me. “I guess so,” she said. “He’s definitely a strong and courageous man.”
“And a great baseball player,” I added. “He’s gonna play second base this year. Dad says that’s his best position. I can’t wait to go to Ebbets Field to see Jackie and Pee Wee work together.”
“Your father told me last night that the Dodgers opening game is on April twentieth against the Giants. The Dodgers home opener is April twenty-third,” Mom said.
“That’s less than two weeks away!” I exclaimed. “Think Dad will take me to the Dodgers home opener?”
“Not sure, Stephen. But keep up your good behavior at home and school and anything is possible,” Mom replied.
“I’m doing my best,” I said.
“Yes, you are,” Mom agreed. “Now put on your shoes and come down to the kitchen for breakfast.”
I followed my mother to the kitchen. Dad was already at the table with his newspaper in hand. We ate together. Since it was Saturday, I didn’t have school, but my father had to work. Saturdays were Dad’s busiest day. Mom and I were walking Dad to the stoop when I had an idea.
“Dad, you make and sell custom shoes, right?”
“That’s right, son.”
“Do you think you could make a special shoe for Jackie? I bet he’d like that! A cleat that would protect him in case a mean player tried to spike him again.” Dad told me once that players often slid into second base with their cleats pointing forward. It was dangerous and could lead to a serious injury for the second baseman. I didn’t want to see Jackie get hurt!
“You know, Steve, that is a wonderful idea,” Dad said as he waved good-bye.
Mom and I picked the brightest cherry blossoms off the giant tree in our front yard. It was still too early to drop by the Robinsons, so we sat at the kitchen table and read the Archie comic strip. Mom and her friends liked the love triangle between Archie, Betty, and Veronica. I liked all the crazy things Jughead would do.
While we cleaned up the kitchen, Mom chatted on and on about Mrs. Robinson. I could tell she was nervous about meeting a famous woman.
“You know, Steve, I admire Mrs. Robinson as much as you do her husband. She’s so elegant and beautiful.”
I was a bit surprised that my mother had paid such close attention to Mrs. Robinson. I’d never heard her talk about any of the other Dodgers wives.
“She and Jackie met in college,” Mom added. “I read a story about them in the Brooklyn Eagle last year. University of California, wasn’t it?”
“Jackie lettered in four sports at UCLA in just one year,” I answered. “He was a famous athlete even before he joined the Dodgers. I read his biography.”
“And Mrs. Robinson is a nurse, just like me.”
“Mom, it’s after ten,” I whined. I was impatient to meet our new neighbors. “Can we go?”
I was blown away when Mrs. Robinson opened their door and smiled down at me. She is pretty, I thought. And nice. A little boy clung to her leg.
“I’m Sarah Satlow and this is my son, Stephen. We live two doors down and wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood,” Mom said.
“How nice of you,” Mrs. Robinson replied. “I’m Rachel and this is my son. Jackie’s a little shy right now, but give him a few minutes and he’ll want to play. How old are you, Stephen?”
“I turn nine in June,” I said, then peeked around Mrs. Robinson so I could see into the living room. There was no sign of Jackie Senior.
“Jackie is almost two and a half,” Mrs. Robinson told me.
“Steve and I picked these from our tree for you,” Mom said, handing Mrs. Robinson the bouquet of flowers.
“They’re lovely! Thank you, Sarah and Steve,” Rachel said.
“Is Jackie—”
“Stephen!” Mom scolded me.
“I mean, Mr. Robinson at home?” I asked.
Mrs. Robinson chuckled. “No, Steve. But I’ll tell him that you stopped by. Are you a Dodgers fan?”
“You bet!”
“Great! Would you like to go to a game with little Jackie and me this summer?”
“You’ve got to be kidding? Would I ever!” If I couldn’t go to the Dodgers opening home game with Dad, at least I’d be able to go to a game with Mrs. Robinson. Pretty cool, I thought.
“I’m serious as long as your parents give you permission,” Mrs. Robinson replied.
“Please forgive my son, Rachel. Steve and my husband, Archie, share a deep love for the Dodgers and for your husband.
He’s thrilled to meet you and a bit too excited to have you as a neighbor,” my mother explained.
“I can imagine,” Mrs. Robinson said, then gave me another warm smile. “Jack and I love children, Sarah. You don’t have to apologize. I’d invite you inside, but we’re still unpacking boxes.”
“Of course. I understand completely. It was lovely to meet you,” my mother said, tapping me with her elbow.
“Nice to meet you,” I echoed.
“Thank you for the warm welcome and beautiful flowers,” Mrs. Robinson said. “We’ll see you soon.”
I was totally disappointed and didn’t feel like pretending. My head was hanging low as we left the Robinsons’ front yard. All I could think of was, would I ever meet Jackie Robinson?
Every day during the two weeks leading up to the Dodgers opening game, I woke up thinking this would be it. I decided that the only way I’d spot Jackie Robinson coming out of his house was to be visible. I came up with a plan.
On Monday morning, I got up at six, dressed for school, and had breakfast with my dad at seven o’clock. That left me with an hour before school to spot Jackie. I parked myself on our stoop, read the sports page, and kept my eyes on the redbrick house two doors down.
After school, I played stoopball and finished my homework outside. Waiting and hoping Jackie would come home while I was outside. No luck. Days passed without a single sighting.
“I can’t believe he’s two doors down and I haven’t bumped into him!” I vented to Sena on our walk home from school one afternoon.
“Stephen Jay Satlow, give it a rest!” Sena shouted at me.
I was shocked. Didn’t she get it? He was my hero. He was my neighbor. Spotting Jackie Robinson was the only goal. Speaking directly to him would be a bonus. My whole life depended on a handshake. A wave of the cap. Hearing Jackie say my name. “Oh, Sena,” I replied in disgust. “If you weren’t a Yankees fan, you’d get it.”
The closer we got to the home opener, the more obsessed I became. The Robinson family had lived in the neighborhood almost two weeks and I still hadn’t spotted Jackie.
The Hero Two Doors Down Page 3