The Hero Two Doors Down

by Sharon Robinson

  I was the school hero. News quickly spread that I’d brought Jackie Robinson to the school yard and he’d met a bunch of fourth and fifth graders. After the Dodgers front office called Miss Maliken, my whole third-grade class hugged me. Miss Maliken even pulled me aside and told me how happy she was with the change in my behavior. I was not the same boy who’d pushed her into that bush earlier in the year. That was because of Jackie.

  I felt sorry for Sena. She was in a different third-grade class and felt left out. “How come you didn’t get my class tickets, too?” she pouted on our way home from school.

  “Gee whiz, Sena! I didn’t forget you. Miss Maliken saved you two tickets so your mother can come with you.”

  “Yippee!” Sena shouted right there in the hallway leading to our classrooms.

  “When the game starts, I can sit with Mrs. Robinson or with my class.”

  “If I were you, I’d stay with Mrs. Robinson,” Sena suggested. “Her seats will be better.”

  The morning of June 24, I was up early. Mom and I walked over to the Robinsons’ home and found Jackie Senior playing stoopball with little Jackie.

  “Good morning,” Jackie called out as we approached.

  “Good morning,” Mom and I said in unison. I continued to play stoopball with little Jackie while Jackie Senior and my mom talked out plans for the day.

  “Are you excited?” Rachel asked after she came outside and Mom headed back home.

  “Couldn’t even sleep!” I answered, lifting Jackie Junior into the air.

  “Evie.” Jackie Junior giggled as I swung him around and around until my arms ached. “Down,” he said.

  I set little Jackie down. “Did you hear that the subway fare is going up to a dime on July first?” I asked.

  “I heard,” Jackie replied. “But we’re not taking the subway today.”

  “We’re not?”

  “It’s a special day,” Jackie replied. “We’re taking a cab to Ebbets Field,” Jackie Senior told Rachel. “Steve, hold Jackie’s hand while I grab us a cab.”

  A few minutes later, we piled into the backseat. Mr. Robinson pulled his son onto his lap. I sat between Rachel and Jackie as though I was a member of their family.

  We reached the player entrance and hopped out of the car.

  “Once we’re on the field, I’ll send for you,” Jackie said as he leaned in for a kiss from Rachel. “Steve, we’ll get you down to the dugout before the game starts. I’ll get a ball so you can get a few autographs. Sound good?” Jackie asked.

  “You bet.” I was smiling so much my cheeks ached.

  Jackie smiled back at me. “Shouldn’t be a problem,” he replied, lifting Jackie Junior up so he could give him a kiss. “Wish Daddy luck.” Little Jackie leaned over and planted a kiss on his dad’s cheek. “That’s my boy.”

  Jackie rushed off to the clubhouse to change into his uniform. And Rachel hurried us through the turnstile and into the belly of the ballpark. Our seats were several rows up from the Dodgers dugout. I could hear the players joking around with one another.

  I couldn’t stay in my seat. Luckily, neither could Jackie Junior. It was so early that the stadium was practically empty. Jackie Junior and I stood in our row and tossed a ball to each other. A couple of times the ball got away from us. Little Jackie clapped and jumped up and down.

  “Enough,” Rachel scolded the third time it happened.

  Jackie cried out in protest until his mom hoisted him onto her knees and pointed to his father on the field.

  The Dodgers were wrapping up their batting practice when we were escorted down to the Dodgers dugout. The players stopped by to greet Rachel and tickle Jackie Junior while I collected autographs from Arky Vaughan, Preacher Roe, and Gil Hodges.

  “Gee, thanks” was all I could think of to say.

  While the Pittsburgh Pirates took batting practice, Rachel got us hot dogs and orange juice. We brought bags of peanuts back to our seats in time for the start of the first game. I yelled from the moment the Brooklyn Dodgers took to the field. In the bottom of the first inning, Jackie hit a line drive into the right field, stole third base, and scored.

  Rachel turned to me and said, “You and your class are bringing Jack good luck!”

  “I hope so,” I said, beaming.

  Jackie’s great performance continued. The fifth inning had us on our feet from start to finish! Dick Whitman got on base with a walk. Jackie hit a ground ball to left field, and Vaughan scored!

  Little Jackie and I jumped up.

  “Sit down, boys,” Rachel told us as Carl Furillo stepped into the batter’s box. We watched quietly as Furillo grounded out. We were back on our feet when Pee Wee warmed up.

  “Pee Wee! Pee Wee!” we shouted. Pee Wee’s fly ball sent Jackie to third base.

  A wild pitch by Elmer Riddle gave Jackie the opening he needed. With expert timing and speed, Jackie stole home.

  The fans were on their feet, screaming with joy. It was so loud in the stadium that Jackie Junior covered his ears. Rachel lifted him in her arms.

  “He did it, Jackie,” she told her son. “You and Steve brought Daddy luck.”

  The Dodgers beat the Pirates 6 to 2.

  My whole class and Miss Maliken wrote a letter to Jackie and Rachel to thank them for the tickets. Miss Maliken said she could see the positive influence spending time with Jackie had had on me.

  The baseball game was the best birthday present I could have asked for. But my parents had also gotten me an incredible gift. They had given it to me on my birthday, a few days before the game. It was wrapped in bright silver paper. I tore into it and revealed a Cleveland model kit for the L-17 airplane. I couldn’t believe it!

  On Sunday, June 27, Dad and I went down into the basement to work on our model airplane. “Steve, this L-17 model is a major step up from the kids’ model airplane kits you’re used to,” Dad began. “I’ve watched you closely and feel that your building skills merit this upgrade.”

  “Awesome,” I said, studying the photo of a sleek chrome plane on the front of the box. It cost a dollar instead of ten cents like my other models. “How come this kit cost so much?”

  “This model is more complicated to build. We can add a fuel tank and landing gears. It won’t fly, but this is the real deal. We’ll have to work on this one together. It will take time and lots of patience. Are you up for that?”

  “You bet,” I replied. I was used to making model planes all by myself in an afternoon. “How much time do you think it will take?” I asked.

  “Most of the summer,” Dad replied.

  “Jeez . . . that is a long time.”

  Dad and I began to work that same night. We studied the plans and mapped out a strategy to build our plane.

  “They used this type of aircraft during World War Two. It was built for reconnaissance, and to carry both soldiers and light cargo. Our model will look just like the real thing except it’ll be made out of balsa wood.” Dad looked up at the framed cover of a Saturday Evening Post that hung on the wall over our workbench. It was dated December 9, 1944. The cover picture showed a boy building a model plane, with the headline ALL BOYS WERE EXPECTED TO MAKE MODEL AIRPLANES.

  “Let’s start building the basic plane by cutting out the parts printed on this large piece of wood. I’ll cut out the pieces, and you can sand the edges until they’re smooth and the exact shape of their outline. As soon as you were born, I dreamed of this moment,” Dad said.

  “What moment?” I asked.

  “The moment when you and I would build our first model plane,” Dad explained.

  “Why was it so important?”

  “I grew up loving baseball and building model airplanes and couldn’t wait to share those two favorite things with you. It’s a dream come true, son.”

  Tears came to my eyes. We quit talking and finished sanding the last pieces of wood.

  Dad and I worked together on the plane most Sundays. We’d spend hours cutting and sanding pieces. We’d stop briefl
y for lunch, then get back to work until Mom called us for dinner. Some evenings I worked alone.

  A month into our summer project, the wings and tail were complete and we’d begun to work on the fuselage. The body of the plane was the most complicated because of the curves. It took two more weeks to finish fitting small pieces of balsa to the open rectangles that formed the body of the plane.

  One hot afternoon I came home from stickball and headed straight for the basement. My father was down there bent over our model airplane.

  “Hey, Dad,” I called from the staircase.

  “Hi, Steve,” he replied.

  I knew immediately that something was wrong. “How come you didn’t wait for me?”

  Dad looked up. His eyes were red. “Sorry, Steve. There was some bad news today, so I came down here as soon as I got home and started working,” he replied.

  I stepped in closer. “What happened?”

  “Babe Ruth died today of cancer,” Dad said.

  “Gee, Dad, that’s terrible.”

  “His body will lie in state at the main entrance to Yankee Stadium for two days. I’m going over there tomorrow.”

  “Can I go with you?”

  “It’s going to be very crowded with long lines. Besides, you have school.” Dad paused.

  “Did you ever get to see him play?” I asked.

  “It was a little before my time,” Dad replied. “The Babe was a baseball legend. Did you know he hit 714 home runs in his career? He was a real New York character. Everyone loved him . . . even Dodgers fans. We’ll remember August sixteenth as the date we lost one of MLB’s greatest,” Dad said, blowing his nose into his handkerchief. “Come on, son. Let’s see if we can finish up this fuselage today. I know it’s tedious work, but we’re getting close.”

  “Sure, Dad,” I agreed, climbing onto a stool next to my father. I knew he was upset, but I hoped that working on this with me would make him feel a little bit better.

  We worked in silence. When the fuselage was finished, we sanded the model plane and covered it with layers of tissue paper and fabric, then final thin strips of balsa wood. Before going to bed, we painted our plane chrome and finished it off with a red stripe down the middle. It was a beauty!

  The next Sunday, Dad took me to the field where people were showing off their model planes. We set ours up on a folding table and waited for someone to notice it. Dad circled around the other tables and I manned ours.

  “That’s an L-17, isn’t it, boy?” an older man said as he approached our table.

  “Sure is,” I replied with pride.

  “The finish is nice and smooth. It looks like it could fly,” the man said.

  “My dad and I still have some work to do. We don’t even have landing gear,” I told him.

  “I was an air force pilot during the Second World War. I delivered cargo to North Africa in one of these babies.” The man ran his fingers over the fuselage. “You did a good job.”

  “That’s because I made it with my father,” I replied.

  “That’s right,” the man said. “Stick around. Some of the boys will be flying their models this afternoon. For such a young boy, you’re taking this hobby seriously. I like that,” he added.

  By the time Dad came back to the table, I was beaming. “Dad! Tons of people came by to admire our plane.”

  “I’m proud of you, son.”

  “Can we build one that flies?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  It wasn’t as if we forgot about the Dodgers that summer. Building the model plane just gave us something to do with our hands while we listened to games on the radio. It also kept us from being too anxious when the Dodgers went from last place to third in late August.

  The Dodgers left Brooklyn for a long stretch of away games. I overheard Rachel tell my mom that when Jackie was playing out of town, he wrote her long letters and sent flowers on Fridays. Mom said that her husband needed to take some romance lessons from Jackie. The two mothers laughed a long time over that one.

  I told my father about the conversation between Mom and Rachel. Dad reminded me that since he worked in Manhattan, he didn’t need to write his wife love letters. I had to agree. My father worked long hours, but he came home every night. I counted myself lucky.

  On August 29, Jackie “hit for the cycle” with a home run, a triple, a double, and then a single in the same game! Jackie also stole a base, scored three runs, and knocked in two others. Seven wins in a row sent the Dodgers into first place. Boy, did we celebrate that night!

  The new school year started up after Labor Day. A new class and a new teacher!

  After a few tough breaks, the Dodgers ended their season in third place. We were heartbroken about their missing the playoffs. I refused to cry, but it took me a whole day before I could even talk about how sad I felt.

  Sena and I were on our way home from school. We’d been fourth graders for a whole month. As we turned onto our block, I spotted Jackie.

  “Hi, Steve,” Jackie said as we walked toward him. “Is this your friend Sena?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Nice to finally meet you, Sena,” Jackie said, extending his right hand to her. “Steve talks about you all the time.”

  “He talks to me about you, too, Mr. Robinson. You’re his hero,” Sena said.

  “I’m his friend, Sena,” Jackie replied, rubbing my shoulder. “How’s fourth grade?” he asked.

  “Pretty tough. A lot more homework,” we told him.

  “Do you see much of Miss Maliken?”

  “I pass her in the hall every day,” I replied. “She asked if you were still my neighbor. She told me to keep up the good work.”

  “Sena, did you have trouble with Miss Maliken last year, too?” Jackie asked.

  “You bet,” Sena replied. “She had a right to be tough on us.”

  “From the stories Steve told me, I guess you’re correct.”

  “Were you okay with the Dodgers’ record this season?” Sena asked.

  “My only disappointment was that we ended up in third place. We could have done better.”

  “But you led the league in hits, doubles, triples, total bases, and runs scored. Plus, you were rated the best second baseman in the National League. You’ve got to be happy with those statistics,” I reminded Jackie.

  “Baseball’s a team sport,” Jackie replied. “No individual player can rest on his performance alone. Our team had a chance to be first and we blew it.”

  “What’s next for you?” Sena asked.

  Jackie rested his hands on his hips and stared down at Sena and me. “One thing for sure,” he said, “I won’t be eating as much as I did the last winter break.”

  Sena and I cracked up.

  “Are you and Rachel going to California to see your families?”

  “Not this year, Steve. We’re staying in New York. Campy and I are going barnstorming for a month. We’ll be playing with a Negro League team, the New York Cubans. But we’ll be back in New York by November to work at the Harlem YMCA.”

  “Phew,” I said, relieved. “I thought you’d be away for months.”

  Jackie smiled down at me. “As a matter of fact, Rachel and I have decided to plant some roots here in New York.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked, feeling happy and hopeful that the Robinsons would remain my neighbors.

  “We’re house hunting. It’s time we bought a house with a yard so Jackie can play outside.”

  “You mean you’re moving off Tilden Avenue?” I asked.

  “At some point,” Jackie replied. I couldn’t believe it. Jackie and I had just become friends and now there was a chance he might move away? I was crushed, but I didn’t want Jackie to see that. Sena and I said good-bye and I went home.

  The next day, I was sent to the principal’s office because I bloodied a classmate’s nose. I hadn’t been in trouble since last spring. I could tell right away that Mrs. Wexler was very disappointed in me.

  “What do you have
to say for yourself?” she asked me.

  “Joel deserved it,” I muttered, still angry about the fight.

  “Stephen, no one deserves to get punched in the face,” she told me. “Did you two argue about something?”

  “Joel told me, ‘I’ll bust your chops.’ So I beat him to it,” I said defiantly. “Last week, he called me a chicken just because I said it was too cold to play football.”

  “Still no reason to hit another person, Stephen,” Mrs. Wexler reminded me. “Your mother wasn’t home, so I’ve called your father. He’s on his way to the office to get you.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “You made my father leave work to come and get me?”

  “That’s correct,” Mrs. Wexler said. “This is a serious offense. A parent has to be notified. While you’re waiting for your father, you can write a letter of apology to Joel.”

  “Does Joel have to write me an apology letter, too?”

  “I’m meeting with Joel after lunch,” Mrs. Wexler replied.

  An hour later, Dad marched into the office and snatched me up from my chair. “We’ll talk about your behavior at home,” he growled.

  The walk home was brisk and silent. I could tell my father was furious with me and especially for being called out of work.

  “I thought you’d learned not to overreact, Steve,” he yelled at me as soon as we stepped inside the house.

  “Don’t I have the right to defend myself?”

  “Not with your fists, Stephen.”

  “You mean I wouldn’t have gotten into trouble if I’d called Joel a fathead or sissy?”

  “Don’t talk back to me,” Dad shouted. “School is a place for study, not fighting of any kind. You are to be respectful to your teachers and your classmates. Do you understand me?”

  “What do I say if one of them disrespects me?”

  “Tell your teacher and let her handle the situation.”

  “And have the whole class laughing at me? No way!” I said.

  “Then be prepared to spend the entire fourth grade on punishment. No stickball. No building model airplanes. No sledding. Is that what you want?”

  I shook my head. “No,” I said quietly. “Dad, I’m one of the shortest kids in my class. I’ve got to stand up for myself. Just got to,” I said, sinking down to the floor in frustration.