The Creeds that Move Men's Hearts

by Melody Veltri

  The streetcar is packed. I wonder if all of these people are going to the game. At every stop from Sharpsburg to Oakland, more and more people try to squeeze on. I’m starting to feel very cramped with everyone standing shoulder to shoulder, and I wish the driver would quit stopping for more.

  Just as I was starting to think that Mama was right, that maybe I shouldn’t have come, the streetcar stops, and nearly everyone gets off for the ball field. Giova shows someone our tickets, and we are directed to the standing-room-only area. The ballpark itself is sold out, and the number of people standing is staggering.

  Forbes Field is more magnificent than anything I could have imagined. Giuseppe and I both are overwhelmed. I’ve never seen so many people in one place, and everyone is electric with anticipation. I squeeze Giova’s hand, and he smiles broadly at me and chuckles.

  “Magnifico!” says Giuseppe, waving those hands up in the air again. “Baseball Americana.”

  It’s still raining on us, but no one notices or cares. I can see the players warming up on the field, can actually see their faces. I didn’t realize that we would be this close. Every crack of the bat, every thud of the baseball hitting the catcher’s mitt heightens our anticipation. Finally, the crowd is told to rise for the National Anthem. It’s the first time that Giuseppe has put away the soppressata.

  In the first inning, the Washington Senators score four runs. For the pumped up crowd, it’s a deflating start.

  “Don’t worry,” says Giova. “We have a long way to go.” He keeps explaining the game to both Giuseppe and I, sometimes in English and sometimes in Italian.

  “Now watch,” says Giova. “The pitcher’s going to throw a curve ball this time.”

  I try to watch, but curveballs, knuckleballs, fastballs, drops—they all look the same to me—a white blur. Giuseppe seems to have caught on, though, and he’s now imitating the speed of the ball with his hand and arm.

  I’d rather watch the outfielders. It’s much more exciting to me when the ball is hit into the field, and the players slide and skid in the wet, muddy field to catch it.

  In the third inning, the Pirates start to turn the game around, and the crowd roars. They finish the inning, finally hitting Walter Johnson’s pitches, with three runs. The score is 4-3, Washington. The excitement of the crowd is contagious—I find myself hooting and hollering and enjoying the comradery.

  By the eighth inning, the score is now 7-6 Washington, and the rain has been steady all afternoon. It’s like the fans don’t even notice. Giuseppe’s wild hair is actually flat against his head. Our paper bag has dissolved, but Giuseppe put the food in his pockets for safekeeping. Giova has pulled the collar up on his coat, but it does no good. The rain sneaks down our necks and under our clothing. Occasionally, I have to wipe the river of water from my eyes just to see, and it is starting to become dark outside as night approaches. Even my shoes are saturated.

  For the players, the rain is even worse. The bats are wet, the baseballs are soaked, and they, themselves, are drenched. They are up to their ankles in mud, and now and then their slides turn into complete falls.

  With the Pirates up at bat, Smith hits a double to left center, and the crowd screams. Yde is sent in to run for him. Next up is a player named Brigbee. While he is drying off his bat with a towel, Giova tells us that everyone thinks Brigbee is just about washed up as a Pirate. Giuseppe misunderstands “washed up,” and Giova tries to explain again using different words.

  Brigbee surprises the crowd with a two base hit to the left, and Yde ties the game by running in. The crowd couldn’t be happier. People are even watching from the rooftops of the nearby buildings.

  Carey comes up to bat and hits a “hopper,” that’s what Giova calls it, to Peckinpaugh, the shortstop. The fans all groan in disappointment. Peckinpaugh picks it up easily and throws it to Bucky Harris, the first baseman, but it’s an overthrow, and Harris has to leave the base to retrieve it. Carey gets on first, and the bases are loaded! The crowd is on its feet!

  “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you.” That’s what I’m praying under my breath.

  With the weight of the world on his shoulders, Kiki Cuyler comes up to bat, cool as a cucumber. On his first swing, he hits the ball straight into center field and sends Brigbee and Moore over home plate. The crowd goes wild! As for the rain, who notices? It’s a minor inconvenience for the happy fans.

  Pirate pitcher Red Oldham manages to hold the Senators in the ninth inning, and the Pirates win the series, 9-7. The fans are storming the field, and Giova is swinging me off my feet. Giuseppe is doing a dance and kicking up his legs.

  It takes several tries before the three of us are able to find a streetcar with room for us. All the way home, Giuseppe cuts us pieces of soppressata and cheese, and we relive the highlights of the game.

  When we walk through the door, Mama throws her hands up in despair.

  “Madonna Mia! You are soaked, all three of you! Get upstairs and get those clothes off. Quickly, quickly.”

  We’re dying to tell Papa all about the game, but there will be no living with Mama until we are dried off. After she rounds up all of the wet clothes and hangs them on a line in the basement, she grabs a towel and starts to rub down my hair.

  “You’re going to have pneumonia. What was I thinking to let you go?”

  “Mama, I’m fine. Really. I had a good time, Mama. I’m glad that I went.”

  “Well, that’s the last time you go out in the rain for five hours. Come downstairs now and have some hot coffee.”

  Giova, Giuseppe, and I drink our coffee and retell the game to Pa, talking over each other the whole time. Actually, Giova and I talk while Giuseppe provides the hand motions. Eventually, Mama makes me go to bed, and I reluctantly leave the ballgame talk.

  Dear Diary, October 15, 1925

  The Pirates won the World Series, and I was there! Now I know how it feels to be one of the men at the barbershop talking about baseball. I had no idea that it is such a wonderful game. I could watch baseball every weekend. To think that the boys have gone while I have stayed home to help Mama around the house. I’ll never do that again—any game they go to, I’m going, too. Giuseppe and I had the time of our lives! I always have felt lucky to have a big brother like Giova. I’m starting to feel like I have two big brothers now.

  * * *

  The next morning, Sunday, I’m coming down the stairs and see Papa reading the paper with his pipe in his mouth.

  “Buon giorno, figlia mia!” says Pa, looking at me over his glasses.

  “Morning, Papa. Where’s Mama?”

  “She went to mass with Sara.”

  “Why didn’t she didn’t wake me up?”

  “You were in a deep sleep. I think she wanted to be sure you had enough rest after that chill you got last night.”

  “Oh, I’m fine, Papa. Hey, can I have the sports page?”

  Papa laughs at me. “Since when do you read the sports page?”

  “Since the Pirates are the world champions!” Now we’re both laughing.

  According to the paper, there were almost 43,000 people in the seats and another 4,000 standing. The game was a huge sellout. The article details every play of the game, just like I remember.

  “Listen to this, Pa.” I have found something in the article that is almost as good as the game itself!

  It was a fitting day for the Jolly Rogers to accomplish their deep, dastardly purposes. The decks were wet and slippery, and the black flag of piracy flopped about viciously in the cold cutting wind. The Buccaneers came in fighting with their cutlasses unsheathed. Ruthless and suave they were, as pirates should be.

  “Isn’t that great!” I exclaim.

  “That’s great, all right.”

  “I didn’t know baseball writing was so clever.”

  “There are lots of great sports writers.”

  “He says ‘It was Pittsburgh’s greatest moment of joy.’ That’s just how it was, and I was there for it!”
>
  “And I’m glad you were. You had a good time, didn’t you, figlia?”

  “The best. And Giova’s the best for taking me.”

  “He’s a good brother and a good son.”

  While we finish the paper, Mama comes in with Sara. They’re hooked arm in arm, like always when they go to mass, holding their purses in their free hands.

  “Well, look who is finally up!” she says. Sara gives me her typical smile, and the two of them go into the kitchen to make coffee and breakfast. When Sara doesn’t go home after church, it means that Luca is gone. I hope he is gone for good.

  Later in the day, Giova and Giuseppe announce that they’re going out for a while.

  “Going out? But it’s Sunday,” says Papa. “Where are you going? Nothing is open.”

  Giova looks uncomfortable for a second. “Just out, Pa. You know, just down the street to see the guys.” They leave quickly, grabbing their coats. Giuseppe doesn’t even say goodbye.

  “I don’t know about that, Lena—they are up to something,” says Pa.

  “Pietro, you think I worry. What can they be doing? Maybe they just need some air and want to take a walk.”

  “I hope you’re right,” says Pa, but I know that he doesn’t think that’s it.

  In the late afternoon, I’m starting to feel a little punk, like I have a cold coming on.

  “I think I’ll go take a little nap,” I say. I don’t want Mama to see me feeling badly. She’ll never let me go to a baseball game again.

  I wave goodbye to Sara and snuggle into bed with my diary.

  Dear Diary, October 16, 1925

  I wish I could write like that sportswriter in the paper. He captured it just the way it was—all the excitement and everything. From now on, I’m going to read the comics, the news stories, and the sports page. The radio announcers have a gift, too. I now realize what a job they have to help the listeners see the game in their heads. They are artists, really. So much can happen so quickly, and they have to relay it all—all the while using words that reflect the passion and excitement of the game. Nothing, however, takes the place of being there in person.

  * * *

  The weeks pass by uneventfully, and in no time it’s November. I think November and March are the dreariest of months. They are months that belong to no season as far as I am concerned. Both are colorless. Across the river, there are no leaves on the trees, no snow on the ground. Our small patches of earth lose their green. I actually prefer the brilliant white snow of winter to the crumbling dry leaves of November. Rarely does the sun shine in these months—the grayness extends to the sky. What I would give to see a rainbow in my lifetime.

  On one of these gray days, Pa rushes in from work and looks completely white.

  “Magdalena, get your things and hurry. We have to get to the hospital.”

  “What is it? The boys?” Mama’s voice is starting to crescendo, and I can see the panic in her eyes.

  “Not the boys. On my way home from work, I saw a crowd down by the tracks. An ambulance pulled away, and I asked old Mrs. Sarducci what was going on. She said that there was an accident. Something to do with Sara. They’re saying a train wheel rolled over her leg.”

  Mama put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, God. Oh, Mother of God help her.”

  She grabbed her coat and her purse and started to leave with Papa when she remembered herself and spun around.

  “Carolina, you’re the mama today. Watch the boys. I don’t know when I’ll be back. If you need something, go to the Marchetti’s.”

  This time it’s me who runs to the little shrine Mama has made.

  “Please Mother Mary, Lord Jesus, St. Jude—please help Sara. Please don’t let her die. Please save her. She’s a good person. She suffers enough. Please don’t take her away from Mama.”

  No one else is home. The little boys are playing somewhere—I’m hoping not at the tracks—and Giova and Giuseppe aren’t home from work yet. There’s nothing to prevent me from lighting the candles and saying a rosary by myself.

  Giova comes in, and I give him the news. He doesn’t say anything—he just closes his eyes and sighs heavily. He helps me to get dinner together for all of us, and when Giuseppe comes home, I hear Giova tell him that their plans for the evening are off. Another one of their secret meetings, I guess.

  Mama and Papa come home at about 9:00. Marcello and Lindo are already asleep in bed. They both look tired and anguished.

  “What happened, Pa?” asks Giova.

  “Sara had her left leg tucked up under her and her right leg straddling the track. She was looking down the river, not paying attention, working on the car in front of her. Another car was detached from a train, and she didn’t hear it rolling toward her. It cut off her leg.”

  “Oh, Mama!” I cry.

  Tears are streaming from her eyes, and she just bites her lower lip and nods at me.

  “Thanks be to God, a man who works for the Bell telephone company was taking a break and smoking a cigarette on the Highland Park Bridge overhead. He heard her cry out, I guess, and he threw his belt down to her and told her to make a tourniquet. Then he radioed for help.”

  Giova explains again in Italian for Giuseppe. I’ve never seen Giuseppe without a smile on his face, but he looks completely forlorn.

  “She’s not going to die, is she, Pa?”

  “She won’t die, but she lost a lot of blood. She’ll need to stay in the hospital for a while.”

  “And Luca? Did someone tell him?” asks Giova.

  “Tell him? He’s long gone. There’s no way to get in touch with him. Why would we anyway? Why make a bad situation worse?” Pa is shaking his head and walking toward the kitchen. “Let’s make some coffee, Lena. I could use a cup.”

  Dear Diary, November 14, 1925

  How could this have happened? I try to imagine. Sara works by herself—was she daydreaming? Was she thinking about her childhood in San Donato, in the Alps of Belluno in northern Italy? Was she remembering what it is like to live high in the mountains and to feel the exhilaration of being close to the heavens? Was she looking at the dreary skies of Pittsburgh and the dirty little houses adjacent to the track and wishing she had never come to this country? Or was she thinking of Luca and wondering how she had ever ended up with him? Had he been a different man once? Had she loved him once, and was she wondering where the man she married had gone?

  This was a terrible, terrible day. Why, God? How you can watch and not do something? Isn’t it Luca who should be punished? This is a world of suffering for Sara. I don’t understand it. Poor Mama. I know that her heart is aching for her friend today. My heart aches for them both.

  * * *

  Normally, in the weeks before Christmas, Mama and I are making dozens and dozens of cookies—some to serve at Christmas and hundreds to give away to friends and relatives.

  With Sara in the hospital, Mama is spending a lot of time there. I know she’ll want to help Sara at home when she’s finally released. That leaves me in charge of a lot of the cooking and cleaning, but I’ve done enough of both, and I know what I’m doing. I can’t waste time seeing Sister Norbert, though, so I’ve had to cancel my lessons for a while.

  There’s a knock at the door, and when I open it, Mr. Marchetti is standing there with his hat in his hands.

  “Mr. Marchetti, please come in.”

  “Buon giorno, Carolina. Where-sa you mama?”

  “Mama’s at the hospital today.”

  Mr. Marchetti nods his head. His forehead is furrowed.

  “Tell her I-ma no go to work today. I-ma go to Sara’s house and see what needs to be done. Do you have a key to it?”

  I nod my head and hand him the copy. “I’ll tell Mama that you stopped by for it.”

  “Thank you. Say hello to your papa for me.”

  I watch him walk down the sidewalk and put his hat back on his head. I guess he’s seen enough heartache in his day. Mama can’t take care of everything, so I’m glad that Sara will ha
ve Mr. Marchetti’s help, too.

  An hour later, the boys run in the door breathless.

  “Carolina!”

  “What is it?”

  “Another accident at the tracks,” says Marcello, between gasps for air.

  “Old Fitz was run over by the train,” says Lindo, eyes wide.

  “No!” I cry, “Are you sure?” My heart is racing, and my eyes are flooding with tears.

  “Sure, we’re sure. We saw it happen!” says Lindo. His dirty face is tear-streaked.

  “You were supposed to come straight home after school,” I say. “What were you doing at the tracks?”

  “Marcello found a penny, and we wanted to flatten it on the rails. We were going to come straight home as soon as the 3:20 came through,” Marcello explains.

  “But it went by early today. Fitz’s head was on the tracks—he walked in front of the train, and it cut his head off!” says Lindo. Lindo starts to cry, and I throw my arms around him.

  “We were trying to get a look at it,” says Marcello, “but Officer O’Neal covered the head with a box and told us to run along home.” His voice is cracking, too, so I open my right arm and let him into the hug as well.

  “Don’t tell this to Mama—you understand me? You let her hear this from someone else. This is why Mama doesn’t want you at the tracks. That could have been you two who were killed.”

  “I don’t think so, Carolina,” says Lindo. “Fitz was waiting for the train. He stepped onto the tracks on purpose. That’s what the policeman said.”

  “Yeah. He said Fitz jumped on the tracks when he knew the conductor couldn’t stop,” says Marcello. “Why did he do that?”

  I’m thinking of all the sorrow and injustice in the world, and I can understand perfectly why he did it. But that’s not what I say to the boys. “He was drunk, that’s all. Probably didn’t even know what he was doing. Wash up now. After you eat, you have chores to do.”

  The boys are still talking about it to each other as they walk away. Something about Fitz’s eyes still being open.