I have asked her several times about the unexpected daytime guests—the Bulldogs cap, the transistor radio, and the amazing Dodgers tickets. She remains very hush-hush, except to say that she approved the visit and the gifts, including the baseball tickets. I find her measured silence strange and unsettling. It’s as if she is taking her lead from the Sergeant, the great mystery man, the one who rarely gives me a straight answer about anything. When I get this kind of shuffle treatment, it makes me feel bad, like I’m unworthy of the truth.
The Sergeant is always impossible to figure out, but this time Lucinda does reveal something about what might be inside her. When circling around my question, she gives up a pained smile that seems to hint of regret or hopeless resignation, or possibly even camouflaged hurt feelings. Maybe deep down Lucinda is saddened by my general enthusiasm for the Sergeant and Miss Cherry? Our mother is so disengaged from our daily lives, never having returned to us after Matthew died, that it doesn’t seem possible she might feel jealous about her remaining sons becoming attached to another adult. Who knows, maybe she wants to go to the Dodgers game with us? I can’t figure her out.
I do not believe Luke and I ever consciously exclude her from anything. We simply coexist on a parallel dimension and the independent nature of it obscures any thoughts of inclusion. Like so much missing or unmarked on the charts of my small inward existence, this is beyond my ability to navigate. So I turn further inward, retrim my sails, and try my best not to let it run me onto the rocks.
We arrive at Chavez Ravine two hours before game time. My stomach is plagued with butterflies over the possibility of seeing Duke Snider up close. When Queenie saunters up over the rise on Stadium Way, my heart swells with pride. Despite all the anticipation and my powerful imagination, the first glimpse of the new stadium catches me completely unprepared.
My eyes behold a beautiful sight, a gleaming Brooklyn-blue castle grandly shooting skyward, launching the dreams of Abner Doubleday far into the future. The stadium is so far beyond what I had pictured, I cannot grasp the full splendor of what I’m seeing. I am in awe—or perhaps in Oz. So this is how Dorothy felt when she first set eyes on the Emerald City!
As I peer out the car window at the newest wonder of the earth, utter bliss tickles my insides with a sugary rush of excitement. “Man! This is as good as life gets!”
Luke is equally dumbfounded. “Yippee! Look at that, Wade!”
“It is absolutely amazing!”
My mind reels as I imagine the Duke already sequestered somewhere inside the castle, royalty that he is.
The splendor of Dodger Stadium is rivaled only by the stunning beauty of Miss Cherry. Riding in the front seat ahead of me, she occasionally looks back and smiles. Every time her eyes meet mine, my heart speeds up. This is becoming the best day ever!
Queenie hums across a sea of newly laid blacktop and delivers us through a phalanx of wooden sawhorses and concrete barricades. She noses her way up to a security gate upon which a sign hangs that reads: AUTHORIZED OFFICIALS AND PERSONNEL ONLY. The Sergeant shows his police badge to a guard, who seems to recognize him, and the guard immediately waves us through.
As we move past the smiling sentry, the Sergeant glances over his shoulder at me. “This is where the players park.” He nods up ahead and cranks the wheel to the right. “That’s Duke Snider’s Corvette over there.”
A tingle rattles down my spine, and I giggle from an overflow of nervous energy. I never thought I’d get this close to Duke’s Corvette. Two seasons past, Luke and I ventured to the Coliseum for Duke Snider Night, when Duke received the car and other gifts in honor of his outstanding career.
“I’ll remember this night for the rest of my life,” he had said in an emotional address to the crowd.
I stood in the stands and cried as my heart overflowed with respect and honor for my great hero. “I’ll remember this night for the rest of my life too, Duke,” I called out to him from deep within the throng of over fifty-one thousand admirers.
It was a doubleheader. Duke didn’t play in the first game, but in the second game we got to see him hit a smash homer over the centerfield fence before an usher caught us and roughly expelled us from the Coliseum. We didn’t have tickets for the game and had managed to slip through the turnstile by crowding in with a family with a bunch of kids. We used every penny we had for bus fare, but it was well worth it.
As we roll past the Duke’s sporty carriage, I am almost close enough to reach out and touch the fender. I feel compelled to bow and renew my pledge of fealty as Queenie finds a vacant stall and eases herself in.
I open the car door and hesitate for a moment before placing my shoes on the pavement. I am about to step on hallowed ground and want to savor the moment before taking what feels like the final step of a lifelong pilgrimage. I say a private entreaty of esteem and thanks, take a deep breath, and slowly get out of the car. Wow! I’m at Dodger Stadium!
“You’re awfully quiet.” The Sergeant sidles up next to me on the ramp climbing up from the parking lot.
I smile as one might smile while beholding a renowned work of art. “This is the greatest day of my life. Thank you for making this possible, sir.”
He puts his arm over my shoulders and squeezes me in kind of a fatherly hug. “It’s my pleasure, son. I know this means a lot to you and Luke.”
The word son rings loud and sounds more than wonderful. I try it on for size, knowing full well he only meant it as a figure of speech and did not intend to imbue the special meaning I would dearly welcome.
“I really appreciate it.”
He squeezes my shoulder again. “I think you and Luke are in for a special day indeed.”
I catch that all-knowing look and can’t help but wonder what he really means by special.
We walk to a turnstile with an overhead sign that reads: VIP CHECK IN. A portly man dressed in bleach-white pants, an equally bright starched white shirt, blue blazer, and a dashing red tie gladly checks our tickets.
Friendly as a car salesman, he says, “Field level box, row one, third base side.” He laughs heartily, almost like Santa Claus, and gregariously chimes, “You’ll be able to hear Mr. Alston think from these seats.”
“Oh…my gosh!” Luke blurts.
I glance up at the Sergeant, shock smeared all over my face, and mouth, “Row one dugout seats?”
He nods and grins just the way he did at that cop, Lieutenant Shunkman, the night of the hazing on Billy Goat Hill. “We want only the best for the Parker brothers.”
I do a Luke and squeal at the top of my lungs and dance in place till my feet hurt.
Programs, popcorn, and peanuts in hand, we gleefully head into the infield tunnel. This special tunnel is no storm drain under Highland Park, nor is it a subterranean dungeon or illusory playground offering false hope to wayward souls. In this tunnel there will be no flash flood or visions of hooded monks. The light at the end of this tunnel is brilliant with the beaming animus of baseball, luminous enough to brighten my spirit and fill my needy heart with monumental satisfaction.
Luke is beside himself, too.
Man oh man, this is so great!
As we emerge from the interior portal, a whole new level of awe pours over me. I am seized in the grip of a baseball epiphany. My eyes roam like voracious conductors taking in everything, flooding my already overloaded brain with images of a great sports icon. My concept of Oz now appears glamorously before my dazzled senses.
A meadow of emerald green abounds far and wide, a living carpet so rich and luxurious only a wizard could have made it so. The sight of the infield makes me giddy. Hybrid clay, groomed to perfection and warmed in the life-giving sun, glows with radiating tinges of conquistador copper. The base pads stand out like mother-of-pearl tuxedo buttons, formal, resolute, classy adornments in the honored wreath of competition. Ivory talc baselines converge at home plate, like a twin-tailed comet resting its head on the seat of business. And out in front, fain to commence the cannonade, the pit
cher’s mound sits as a solitary bulwark centered in the field of battle.
Oh, baseball—what a magnificent game you are!
Slowly I turn and nourish myself with the majestic panorama of Dodger Stadium. “My gosh,” I whisper as my eyes fill with the massive decks, staggered four high, looming like a stair-stepped mountain behind home plate.
The stands fan out in a gargantuan horseshoe from foul line to foul line. And hovering high above are towering stanchions of artificial sun that shine all around the glorious field. Bleacher sections, standing proudly left and right of centerfield, wear matching scoreboards surmounted with giant orange Union 76 globes. Bunting elegantly draped from nearly every horizontal place declares through its colors that we are in the land of the free and the home of the brave. Old glory, the California Bear and brightly colored baseball pennants everywhere, lazily wave in the breeze. The colorful decorations are nice all right, but unnecessary carnival trappings, mere window dressing. The true beauty is the game itself.
I do note one thing that is less than perfect—the outfield wall. It is clearly a pitcher’s helper. Not the distance, the color. Baby blue just won’t do; it is far too light. Of course, I favor the hitters, and hitters need contrast in their field of vision. It’s difficult enough to hit a small white ball with a round stick when it’s coming at you at ninety-five or one hundred miles per hour. If it were up to me, I’d paint the outfield wall a darker blue. Not to worry, Duke will tell them.
Dodger Stadium. It is all so perfect, antiseptically clean, comfortable, and secure. I am safe here inside this temple of baseball, my new citadel. Nothing else matters at the moment.
“We’re this way,” the Sergeant announces after consulting with a smartly dressed usher.
“Oh gosh—it’s a ways down there, isn’t it?” says Miss Cherry.
The Sergeant leads the entourage, and I traipse along following Miss Cherry. Luke has been straggling four or five paces behind me since we left the parking lot. I glance back at him often, remembering my own folly with Earl at the Rose Bowl seven years earlier. I don’t want to waste one minute hunting for Luke today.
As we make our way down the steeply paced stairs, members of the Cincinnati Reds trickle out of the first base dugout and gather around the cage set up at home plate.
The Sergeant pipes up. “Batting practice, boys.”
I take a gander toward the field, and my eyes momentarily leave my footing. I stumble forward down the steps and regain my balance only by inadvertently grabbing Miss Cherry’s waist. It is an involuntary reflex, completely unintentional, and wholly embarrassing.
Miss Cherry’s startled squeal echoes off the underside of the mezzanine deck like feedback from the public address system. Her popcorn shoots up in a volcanic plume showering down around us like flash-cooled buttered pumice. Luke flinches hard, fearing for an instant that a squadron of deadly catbirds has amassed for an all-out blitzkrieg. The Sergeant, caught at mid-sip, dumps half of his icy beverage down the front of his shirt. And me, well, I do the only thing that makes any sense under the circumstances—I sit on the steps and laugh…nervously.
Miss Cherry turns around, unflappably calm. She leans over, bending at the waist, preparing I fear to vehemently chastise me for my ungentlemanly behavior. I sense a coming monsoon, but it is too late to skedaddle now. To my surprise she only smiles and playfully wags her finger in my face.
“Sorry, ma’am.”
I giggle at the popcorn decorating her new coiffure. She recently cut off her beautiful long hair in favor of a stylish new look. I don’t really care for it—short, straight, tucked behind the ears and swept across the forehead. The popcorn doesn’t help, and I can’t contain myself—I laugh some more.
The Sergeant turns around toward the commotion. He is dripping wet, soaked from chin to knees. If this had happened to Earl, he would be furious, and I would be looking for someplace to hide. But one look at the Sergeant and I laugh even harder. He grins and starts laughing, too.
“I tripped, sir.”
He booms back in the unmistakable voice of Scar. “He says he tripped, so how come I’m the one who got drenched!”
Then he wiggles his eyebrows just like Rodney Bernanos, and Luke busts a gut. Luke surely would have loved Rodney.
I spot him immediately. He is very close, standing just outside the dugout smiling and talking with Jim Gilliam. He removes his cap, and for a moment the sun lights up his head in a flash of silver. I am startled to see just how gray he really is.
I am sitting next to the Sergeant, and he nudges me to make sure I notice him. “There’s the Dukester.”
“Yes, I see him.” It is all I can do to keep the sudden build up of excitement inside me from breaking out in a scream.
“He’s looking awfully gray around the muzzle, isn’t he?”
“He’s always been gray,” I respond testily.
“Okay, already.” He gives me a wary look. “You’re a little wound up, aren’t you?”
“Sorry.”
“Hey, no sweat—as long as you’re happy.”
“I’m more than happy, sir.”
“Good. Duke is the pendragon this season. Did you know that?”
“What’s a pendragon?”
“It means he’s been appointed team captain, which is one of the highest honors in team sports.”
“Oh, cool.”
My hero is only yards away. At one point Duke looks in our direction. He seems to spot someone and waves. My heart pounds and the Sergeant can tell I am squirming in my seat.
“Don’t get too excited. His wife and kids are sitting right behind us about four rows.”
I want to turn and look but can’t work up the nerve. I have started to sweat. Restrained delirium best describes my state of mind.
The Reds finish their batting practice, and now it’s the Dodgers’ turn. Tommy Davis, Frank Howard, Johnny Roseboro, and Maury Wills all take their turns in the cage. Then Willie Davis, Ron Fairly, Wally Moon, and Larry Burright take some swings. All the while, Duke Snider stands off to the side, watching like an omniscient fox nestled in the grass.
Each player makes a point of talking to Duke after he finishes his turn in the cage, no doubt checking with the master for any words of wisdom.
Don Drysdale walks over and says something that makes Duke double over with laughter. I find myself laughing along with them, as if somehow I am privy to the joke.
Soon it is time for Duke to step into the cage, and my heart races a little faster. Yes, he looks a little long in the tooth, but dare tell that to the first ball that sizzles toward the plate. Smack! There is no sweeter sound on this earth.
“Incoming!” shouts one alert person standing among a group of blue-coveralled men huddling in the right field bull pen. I can hear the guy all the way across the field. Members of the grounds crew scatter like shadow spooked chicks in a barnyard as the leather-bound projectile slams into the ground right where they had been standing.
Frank Howard, both Davis’s, and Wally Moon have gathered around the cage ostensibly to heckle their esteemed captain. Now they howl with delight. Frank Howard, the giant power hitter, especially loves it. He grabs the chain-link screen and shakes it much like a caged gorilla might do to display his fearsome power. The Duke cracks up and apes back at his teammate.
I am surrounded by laughter and look around. Then I realize I have jumped to my feet and put on quite a display of my own mimicking Frank “the gorilla” Howard. Instantly embarrassed, I sit down to the applause of a dozen fans who have filtered in behind us. Chagrin contains me for the next few minutes.
“Hey! There’s my buddy, Leo!” The Sergeant scrambles to his feet. “Leo!” he shouts over the railing. “Leo, over here!”
Leo “The Lip” Durocher turns around and scans in our direction. Recognizing the Sergeant, he waves and comes directly over to where the Sergeant is leaning over the railing. They shake hands, laugh, and chat like old chums, while I watch with great surprise
. The Sergeant looks over at me as though pointing me out to Mr. Durocher, then turns back and chats some more, laughs some more, shakes hands with Leo again, and then comes back to his seat, and sits down.
Miss Cherry is surprised, too. “What was that all about?”
“Leo’s a friend of mine.” The Sergeant leans close to Miss Cherry and whispers something in her ear.
I never did like whispered secrets, and this time is no exception. Whatever he tells her, it makes Miss Cherry squeal almost as loud as she did when I tripped coming down the aisle, except this time she clamps her hand over her mouth. Then, with genuine surprise in her voice, she says, “Really?” The Sergeant nods and Miss Cherry promptly plants a big kiss on his lips.
Very weird. I sit and stew, knowing it’s no use asking them what is up.
Duke Snider keeps swinging and making solid contact with nearly every pitch. Several more baseballs sail over the right field wall. One threads the bleachers in centerfield, bounces hard in the staging area some 450 feet from home plate, and rebounds over the outer fence into the parking lot. All in all it is an amazing display of the awesome power still contained in the body of my number one baseball hero. In my heart and mind, I am swinging with him on every pitch.
When he finishes his workout, Duke cradles the Louisville Slugger on his shoulder, tips his cap to his youthful understudies, and strolls with the elegance of a peacock back to the dugout.
Leo Durocher intercepts him, and the two legends stop near the on-deck circle and talk. Number four has his back to me, but I can clearly see Mr. Durocher’s face and can tell he is doing most of the talking. My eyes are riveted on them and I wish I could read Leo’s lips, but nobody has ever been able to do that.
Leo probably knows Duke’s swing better than anyone. Since Duke is expected to play today, Leo is no doubt mentioning some subtle nuance about Duke’s stance or swing.
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