A Hero Grows in Brooklyn

by Jeffrey Rubin

A Hero Grows In Brooklyn

  By Jeffrey Rubin

  Copyright 2012 Jeffrey Rubin

  CHAPTER 1

  In the shadows of a leafy maple tree, a scrawny five year old pitches a pink rubber ball up against the steps of his dusty red stoop. As it bounces back, he pretends to be playing shortstop for his favorite team, the Brooklyn Dodgers. He bends slightly forward, reaches out with his hands, and smoothly makes the catch. Quickly he fires to first base. When the ball slams into the outstretched glove of Gil Hodges, a roar sweeps across Ebbets Field!

  “Nice play, kid!” Jackie Robinson calls out from third base.

  The boy tips his cap. The crowd begins to shout his name, “Steve! Steve! Steve!”

  Now, up on the pitcher’s mound, the boy wipes some sweat from his brow and then leans forward, copying the exact movements of Don Newcombe. As he begins his windup, a purring vehicle pulls up behind him. Turning around to get a better look, he sees his Uncle Ricky at the wheel of a midnight blue Ford pick-up. Suddenly, the summer’s biggest hit, “Rock Around The Clock,” comes bursting from the rolled down windows. The boy’s hips and arms begin to dance and he cries out over the thrilling music, “Uncle Ricky! Uncle Ricky!”

  “How’s it goin’, Steve?” Ricky yells back while he finishes parking.

  As the final words of the song are reached, Steve and his uncle join in, “We’re gonna rock, gonna rock around the clock TONIGHT!!”

  The pick-up’s driver-side door swings open, and Ricky steps out stretching his tall, lean, and muscular body. He’s wearing a short sleeve white shirt which is open at the neck and hangs just above the top of his white linen trousers. His bronze complexion provides contrast to the fine cloth in his outfit—as does his black hair, belt, and well-shined shoes. Steve runs over and leaps into his arms.

  Ricky lifts Steve, turns him upside down, flips him right side up, throws him way up in the air, and catches him. Steve is laughing and laughing. Now Ricky begins to playfully mess Steve’s golden highlighted dark brown hair.

  “Cut that out, or I’m gonna beat ya up,” says Steve.

  Ricky returns Steve to the ground and with twinkling eyes, crouches down, and throws up his dukes. The two dance around sparring.

  Steve takes a jab at his uncle’s chest.

  Ricky blocks it.

  Steve quickly follows with a swing to the shoulder and hits pay dirt.

  Ricky pretends to wince from the pain.

  “I got ya good that time, Uncle Ricky.”

  Ricky rolls his eyes around while looking like he’s about to topple over. Then he smiles, takes a comb from his back pocket, and slides it through his thick ebon hair. His Romanesque facial features are striking and it’s easy to imagine him a dashing young emperor. When he begins to speak, however, the way he mixes Italian words in with a distinct Brooklyn accent exclaims to anyone within earshot that the handsome young man standing before us is hardly some imperial leader.

  “Simpatico bambino, go on with ya stoopball. Show me how good ya are.”

  Steve steps into position, throws the ball up against the steps, and on the rebound makes a nice pick-up on a short hop.

  “Bene!” cries Ricky.

  Steve throws it again and this time the ball bounces off the edge of a step, lines back to Steve, who deftly sticks out his hands and nabs it.

  “Bravissimo!” Ricky cries out clapping his hands.

  Ricky watches for a few more minutes, his eyebrows rising each time Steve makes an impressive catch. Steve’s practicing for hours this summer has really paid off. He’s dazzling to watch.

  “Non c’e male,” says Ricky, “not bad.”

  “I’m pretty good Uncle Ricky, ain’t I?”

  “Bene! Mama Mia!”

  “You really think so, Uncle Ricky?”

  “Yes! Yes! But now let me tell you why I stopped by. I thought maybe you and me, we’d go up ta the Stadium today ta catch the Yanks.”

  As Steve makes out what Ricky has just proposed, his right hand, which had been cocked to throw the ball up against the steps and is now in forward motion, comes to an abrupt halt. He turns to his uncle. There are five seconds of silence. And then—”Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” You’d think Steve had fallen from a window. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

  CHAPTER 2

  Steve’s mom, hearing her son’s screaming screech, rushes out on the stoop with a hand over her heart, and she screams, “Sister of Mary!”

  Ricky quickly runs his hands through his hair and looks up to her. “Ciao, Marie,” he says with a smile.

  The crunched up forehead and lowered eyebrows that Marie had when she first came running out is now easing into relief. And in that relief, we see a very pleasant face with smooth, olive-brown skin, and dark eyes that sparkle. Her nose is well proportioned and she can often be found with a sweet, sweet smile. It is true that she is a bit heavier than the models in the fashion magazines, but she has nearly come to accept this about herself.

  Here on the stoop of this four family brick house, Marie aims a frown at her brother-in-law. “Whadaya have Stevie all worked up about, Ricky?”

  “I thought I’d take him up to the Stadium today,” he responds with an altogether good-natured smile. “The Yanks are playin’ a double header ‘gainst Boston.”

  Marie rubs her arm. “Taking the boy to see the Yankees,” she says. “Mike’s a Dodger fan. He’ll think you’re trying to turn him into a traitor.”

  “Uncle Ricky, how come you ain’t no Dodger fan like Dad?” asks Steve. “You’re from Brooklyn like the rest of us.”

  Ricky crouches down so he’s eye to eye with our young hero. “Steve, the Dodgers got Carl Furillo, Jackie Robinson, Pee Wee Reese, Gil Hodges, Roy Campanalla, and The Duke. They’re a great bunch of boys. Why I’m a Yankees fan? Hmmm.” Ricky’s forehead creases. He slides his right hand through his hair. “Well, to tell ya the truth, I ain’t really sure. Ever since I remember, your dad loved the Dodgers and I loved the Yanks. I guess for me it’s got somethin’ ta do with Joe DiMaggio. When I was a boy he was the Yankees' centerfielder, and wow, I went for him in a big way. Every day I’d find out how he made out—and well, he was a paesano, a paesano with viva forza! And well, then he retired. By that time I guess I just got used to rooting for the Yanks.” Ricky shrugs his shoulders. “So there ya have it. Ya still wanna go see ‘em today?”

  “Yeah! But what’ll Dad say?”

  “Well, let’s go see,” says Ricky, and he straightens up and leads the way from the stoop into the apartment. Heading toward the kitchen through a hallway with old black and white family pictures hanging on the walls, Ricky breathes in deeply. “Mmmmmm. Smells like garlic, olive oil and tomatoes. Ya making some of your great sauce, Marie?”

  She turns to Ricky beaming. “On Sundays, I like to make a big pot before the heat sets in so in the evening, and a few times during the week when I get home from work, I can get supper together a little easier.”

  “Your sauce,” says Ricky, “it sings in the mouth.” With this, he puts his right hand’s thumb, pointer, and middle fingers together, kisses their tips, and points them up to the sky.

  Steve’s dad, Michelangelo Marino, who is called Mike for short, is sitting at the kitchen table in a white undershirt, his arm muscles rippling as he sips a cup of coffee and bites into a donut. He has remarkably broad shoulders, just a hint of a pot belly, and his nose looks like it’s been crushed at least a half dozen times. It is just as he reaches for a lit cigarette that is burning in a heavy glass ashtray when he notices his younger brother, Ricky. “Dio mio!” he flares. “What the hell do you want?”

  Ricky attempts
a response but Mike harshly interrupts—

  “Ya come down here to say I told ya so ‘bout last night’s gad damn poker game?”

  “No I ain’t…”

  “Va all’ inferno!” Mike screams.

  “Calma,” Ricky softly replies, and with great effort he restrains himself from repeating the sentence he had told Mike a few months earlier—There’d be nothing wrong with the poker game if the guys ya play with played nickel, dime, quarter, but they’re all trying to make out like they’re a bunch of gaddamn Rockefellers.

  “Dio mio!” Mike hollers pounding the table. “I couldn’t pull a decent card all night. Bastardo!” Mike glares down at the table, pounds it again, moans, and turns silent.

  Ricky waits patiently.

  Steve lets out a long sigh, runs to Ricky, then to his mother, and then back to Ricky. He pulls on Ricky’s sleeve while looking wide eyed into his eyes.

  “Soon,” Ricky whispers.

  Steve puts his hands on his head, and then flings them in the air.

  With a large wooden spoon, Marie stirs the sauce she has cooking in a pot on the gas stove as steam wafts upward toward the ceiling.

  When Mike moans again, Marie glances over to him. She notices how, in such a familiar way, he looks at his cigarette, flicks the ashes into the ashtray, and takes a long drag.

  The first time I saw him, she says to herself, we were teenagers in Angelo’s Pizzeria and he was smoking a cigarette exactly like he is now with the same angry expression. And then he turned, looked me over, and his anger turned into a wonderful smile; my how I fell for him. I remember thinking, if only I were fifteen pounds thinner.

  With this memory, her whole struggle with her weight flashes before her—all those hours with her back to her mirror crying her eyes out; all those desperate diets that all, ultimately, failed.

  As these recollections pass by, their tone begins to undergo a shift. Marie recalls how, over the years, she has encountered so many wonderful women that pleased without perfect physical beauty. Complete satisfaction with my weight, she decides, could have led to, well, a kind of contentment. Yes, I believe so. I’ve been developing higher character because of all that I’ve been through. And character is far more important than shallow appearances.

  After what seems to be a hundred years to Steve, Mike crushes out his cigarette, and looks up at Ricky. “Ya take Mom to church this morning?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ya know I would have done it but I didn’t get home till dawn. Did she say anything?”

  “She said she likes it when you take her. She was disappointed.”

  “Well, it’s good for you to go for a change, Ricky. Was Chris Bellona there? She’s always asking ‘bout you. What a looker.”

  Steve glances at his dad, and then his uncle. He spins around, flops down on a kitchen chair, leans forward, and puts his elbows on his knees, his eyes on the floor. Softly, he sighs and his cheeks begin to burn. Who cares about Chris Bellona, he says to himself. What about the Yankees!?

  “Yeah, she was there,” says Ricky. “When we got out of church, I was talking to Mom under the big maple out front and she’s by her car in the lot. After a couple of minutes, she calls after me. So I tell Mom I’ll be right back and I go over, ya know, to see what she wants. ‘Hi, beautiful,’ I says. Then she places her hands on my shoulder and leans into me, kinda snuggling. I can smell her perfume and feel her soft…” and his glimmering brown eyes lose focus on anything present in the room. An observer studying those fine glowing eyes at this moment would be at a loss to say exactly what they are seeing, and yet there would be no doubt they are looking in the general direction of heaven.

  “Well,” says Mike, “if you could get that far with Chris at church, think of how far you could get if ya take her out on a Saturday night. Ya ought da ask her out.”

  “A lady like that comes from a pretty well off family, I don’t think I can afford her.”

  “It’s your chance for amore,” says Marie. “Take her for a walk in Prospect Park, and then after, you could go to Juniors’ Restaurant. It’s a little more expensive than a typical deli, but not too bad. It would be very nice, and you can see, maybe amore is just waiting for you, Ricky Marino.”

  “I already know I like her. I like her a lot,” and as Ricky says this he brings his hands to his heart.

  “So,” says Marie, “what are you waiting for?”

  “The thing is, once I spend the evening with her I’ll be completely hooked and I’ll want to take her to the nicest places and I just can’t afford that right now.”

  “That’s no way to think,” says Mike. “If ya both like each other ya work it out, for Christ's sake!”

  Ricky pulls up a chair next to his brother’s and sits down. Leaning forward, his hands open, palms facing Mike, he says, “Ya see, it’s like this. I like being a longshoreman, the ocean air, the guys all working together loading and unloading the great international ships… work where ya get to use your arms and legs, I love that. It’s just, well, ya see, last week during my vacation I worked on the cabinet and I got this burning feeling that I want to work with wood in a sea side shop more than doing the dock stuff. When I make a table or a chair or a cabinet, I’m using my arms and legs, and to me, it’s not just a piece of furniture, it’s, well it’s a work of art, comprendo?”

  “If ya feel that way about it,” says Mike, “well ya already got most of the tools. What does it take to set up a shop like what ya want?”

  “Ten grand.”

  “Ten grand! Stupido! It would take ya ten years to raise that kind of dough! Ten years, for Christ's sake, Ricky!”

  Marie, rinsing some dishes off in the sink, looks Ricky over. He has his youth, she reflects. He won’t be twenty for another month.

  “If it takes me ten years it takes me ten years,” says Ricky laughing as if he were bold and free. “I admit it’s gonna take a while, but I’m gonna make it happen, and only then I’ll be ready to start a family.”

  “Well, Michelangelo, that Italian artist I was named after, he had to create out of stone,” says Mike, “maybe you’re the Michelangelo of wood.”

  Steve had been patient; God knows he had been patient. And if there was any justice in this world, the recording angel ought to have written this monumental effort down to Steve’s credit. But, at this point, Steve gets up and walks over to the sink. “Mom,” he says softly while pulling on Marie’s apron and looking way up to her eyes. “Mom, when is Uncle Ricky gonna ask?”

  Mike looks at Steve, and then to Ricky. “So, why’d ya stop by, Ricky, if it’s not to give me a hard time ‘bout last night’s poker game?”

  “I thought I’d take Steve to see a ball game.”

  “Idiota! The Dodgers are in Pittsburgh this weekend,” Mike retorts pointing to his head and then to Ricky’s.

  “Yeah, I know. I thought we’d catch the Yanks’ doubleheader up at the Stadium.”

  “Can I go Dad? Please. I’ll never ask ya for anythin’ else ever. Please? Pleeeeeease?”

  “A Yankee game, for Christ's sake!” Mike hollers.

  “They’re playing the Red Sox,” Ricky says. “In one day the boy’ll get ta see not only Mickey Mantle but Ted Williams—two of the greatest ever lived.”

  “Mantle and Williams, Dad! Pleeeeease!”

  “Well, Jesus, if ya wanna go, ga ‘head,” says Mike. “But if it turns ya into a gad damn Yankee fan, better not let me hear ya rootin’ for them ‘round me or I’ll give ya plenty.”

  “I won’t! I won’t! I love ya Dad! I love ya.”

  “Bravissimo!” responds Ricky. “Go get ya mitt, Steve. Maybe you can catch a ball that wanders into the seats.”

  “If it’s a doubleheader, you better take along a jacket,” says Marie as she begins to pack up a bag for them.

  “The boy’s gonna have a super time, Mike,” says Ricky. “I got pretty decent
tickets from Caginesi.”

  “What’s the boss doin’ giving you tickets?” asks Mike.

  “Me and my pick-up helped him move his son, Frank, up ta Albany yesterday. Frank’s starting college there next week. I guess Caginesi was planning on going to the games but he decided he’d sleep over in Albany so he could spend all Sunday there. You shoulda seen his face whenever he talked about saying good-bye to Frank. Peccato. I guess it’s gonna be tough on him.”

  “What’s the big deal?” Mike asks. “Albany’s only a lousy three hours from here.”

  “Well, Caginesi, he’s had Frank living with him since he’s a baby, and now he’s eighteen.”

  “Hmmm,” says Mike as he picks up from the table a pack of Chesterfields. He slides a cigarette out, lights it with his stainless steel Ronson, takes a long drag, leans back on his kitchen chair, rests his eyes on his son, and thinks on this for a while.

  CHAPTER 3

  “There it is!” cries Steve. “There it is!”

  “Yeah,” Ricky responds, “Yankee Stadium—some ballpark!”

  They are approaching the three-tiered horseshoe colossus from Manhattan’s Harlem River Drive. Across the river over on the Bronx side, the massive structure swells as they come closer and closer.

  “Wow!” Steve keeps saying every few seconds. “WOW!”

  The boys leave the pick-up in a large parking lot beside the El. Steve is all eyes as he and his uncle follow the hordes of people heading to their shrine.

  Entering through a gate Steve hears cries of “Get ya scorecards heah!”

  People are streaming in multiple directions.

  Ricky checks the section on his tickets and looks up at a sign. “It’s this way, Steve,” he says motioning to his left.

  A few minutes later, a gray haired man is leading them to their box seats, just behind the Yankees’ dugout along the first base side of the field.

  “Momma mia,” cries Ricky, “dese are the best seats I’ve ever had by far! Duh boss must’ve laid down a bundle to get them!”

  Steve’s amazed at how enormous everything looks compared to the black and white TV picture he’s used to. The green of the field, the darker green of the grandstand seats, the blue of the sky, and the colorful characters all around him join together, filling him with unforgettable wonder.