A Life On College Hill

by Lawrence F. Dooling

  Looking at Mrs. Collins, I said, “Mom, this is something you and Alex can do in your back yard.”

  She beamed at the thought of being able to do something to help her son. We had three weeks to get ready for the season. Alex showed up early for every practice. As he gained confidence, we switched to the hard ball used in the games. When I thought he was ready, I told him I was going to toss the ball directly at his face. I showed him how to position his glove and move his face out of the way, so he could look the ball into his glove. Next, we worked on turning his body and back handing the ball thrown to his right.

  By the time the season opened he was on a par with most of the other kids on the team. His enthusiasm and willingness to work had produced results. I think there had always been a baseball player inside Alex; he just needed some help to bring it out.

  Nine-year-olds have limited physical ability. In the course of the season their hitting and fielding would only improve to the limits of their physical capabilities. Their ability to learn the game was significantly greater. My practices stressed learning the game of baseball.

  We constantly practiced game situations. I would put runners on base and give the number of outs. What do you do if the ball is hit to you? I must have asked each player a hundred times. What do you do if there are no outs, if there is one out, if there are two outs?

  Likewise, I preached base running. What do you do if the ball is hit on the ground? What if it is hit in the air? When is there a force play? When is there a tag play? Know the situation! Know the situation! Know the situation! I repeated it until they were sick of hearing it.

  Alex successfully fielded a couple of grounders and caught a pop up in the first games of the season. He even chipped in a few base hits. One thing the extra work didn’t produce was a smile. I didn’t know if he was serious or sad, but I never saw him smile. When I asked his mother about it, she said he just missed his dad.

  The season progressed, and I began to doubt that my goal of winning as many games as we lost could be achieved. Remembering that a good coach finds ways to motivate his players, I made an offer to the team. We needed to win three of our last four games to break even. If we accomplished that, I promised cheeseburgers and ice cream at Chet’s for the whole team. The kids’ focus immediately sharpened. We arrived at the last game of the season one win away from our goal.

  The game came down to the final inning. We were clinging to a one-run lead in the bottom of the sixth and final inning. The home team had runners on second and third with one out. Their clean-up hitter was at the plate, and I knew our pitcher was overmatched.

  He hit a line drive on the first pitch, and my heart sank as I realized we would lose the game. The runners, seeing a sure base hit, had broken for home at the crack of the bat.

  Second baseman Alex Collins took two quick steps to his right and laid himself out parallel to the ground. With a desperate lunge of his glove hand, he speared the ball out of the air. He landed heavily but bounced up as if on springs. Alex then calmly walked over to second base and stomped on the bag.

  The runners vainly tried to scramble back to base, but it was too late. The umpire barked, “The batter’s out!” Quickly followed by, “The runner’s out!”

  The elapsed time from the crack of the bat to the bark of the umpire was equivalent to a flash of lightning followed by a clap of thunder. The field would not have been more stunned had it been a bolt from above. Several heartbeats elapsed before anyone realized the game was over.

  A roar arose from the bleachers as the shock wore off. Sitting next to Mrs. Collins, in the stands, was a man in a crisp white naval uniform. Alex’s dad made it home for the season finale. Looking up into the stands and seeing his dad, cheering wildly, Alex finally smiled. His teammates mobbed him, and Alex started to laugh. I’m not sure which of us felt better at that moment. The baseball demons that had haunted me were instantly exorcised.

  We lined up to shake hands with the opposing team. We repeated the time-honored refrain—good game, good game—and I walked across the infield without feeling like a fraud. I had finally accomplished something in the game of baseball.

  Gathered with the team in the dugout, I gave a quick end-of-season speech thanking players and parents alike. The date for cheeseburgers and ice cream was announced, and I wished everyone a good summer. The first parent at the dugout door was Alex’s dad.

  “That was a great catch and a smart play to double up the runner,” he said to Alex.

  Alex replied with the coolness of a seasoned veteran, “Well, Dad, you just have to know the situation.”

  One by one the players filed out to meet their parents. There was a chorus of, “Thanks, coach, great season, coach.”

  I was putting the equipment away when I realized one parent had remained behind. Alex’s teary-eyed mom stood alone at the dugout entrance. A feeling of panic overwhelmed me. Tears are contagious! I can’t start balling here in the dugout.

  Too emotional to speak, she mouthed a thank you and walked away.

  It’s an amazing game that makes a sad kid laugh and a happy mother cry!

  The next day we were making our way east on Interstate 80, heading for the Pennsylvania Turnpike. My thoughts bounced back and forth between the finish to the baseball season and the soon to be realized vacation at the Jersey Shore.

  I believe it’s possible to experience a taste of heaven on earth in a place called Stone Harbor, New Jersey. Stone Harbor is a small barrier island community sandwiched between the much more well-known towns of Wildwood and Ocean City.

  The happiest days of my childhood were spent there in the 1960s. My grandfather owned a modest two-bedroom cottage there, and we had use of it for one magical week each summer. The happiest and saddest days of the entire year were experienced during each one-week vacation.

  The absolute best day of the year occurred when the family station wagon was packed up for the drive to Stone Harbor. The most I can say about that day is that I looked forward to it more than baseball. The saddest day of the year always occurred one week later when we packed the car for the drive back to Philadelphia.

  Stone Harbor is the kind of town where you don’t have to lock your doors at night. I’m sure crimes occurred, or they wouldn’t have a police department. In reality you didn’t even have to close the front door. Windows and doors were often left open at night to allow the ocean breezes to cool the house.

  The beach was the main attraction for me. A beach is like a baseball field in so many ways. I wanted to be the first person on the beach each morning. Arriving before the lifeguards, I would stay until long after they were gone. Every evening the beach would be deserted, for a brief time, as people returned home for dinner. When I was the last person on the beach, it was time to call it a day.

  An empty beach was too much like an empty baseball field. It would be too depressing for me to stay any longer. I’d walk back to our house, but it’s not like I had to be home for dinner. My parents were usually deeply engrossed in cocktail hour by five-thirty each evening. Ricky and I were given a couple of dollars and free run of the town.

  My favorite activity was miniature golf. Ricky’s baseball prowess didn’t translate to the sport of mini golf. It was the one sport I could beat him on a regular basis. Afterward, we’d buy ice cream and walk across Third Avenue to the bay. We would skip stones across the water and see who could get the most bounces. The competition would usually last until the sun disappeared into the bay.

  One of our favorite activities was beachcombing. My brother and I would be up with the sun and roaming the beach. Every morning we’d set out to see what had washed in with the tide. We imagined every piece of driftwood was from a sunken ship. We’d guess at the destination and cargo of each passing freighter. It was an absolute certainty that a pirate treasure was buried somewhere in the sand dunes. It was the perfect place to be a kid.

 
My grandfather passed away when I was in high school, and the shore house was sold. I hadn’t been back to Stone Harbor in twenty years, although I had often dreamt of it. It took some convincing to make the shore our vacation destination. Meghan’s parents owned a lakeside cabin in the Pocono Mountains. The little time we had for vacation was usually spent at the lake. It’s a beautiful place, and it didn’t cost us anything to use. That’s a tough combination to beat. In our part of Pennsylvania, the battle between the Jersey Shore and Pocono Mountains is as heated as Phillies versus Pirates.

  Halfway through our drive, Meghan felt the need to give me a hard time. “Tell me, again, why we’re not going to the cabin. At the cabin we have a lake and a boat. What are we going to do on a beach?” She was half serious and half unhappy.

  I told her, “During the day, the boys are going to swim in the ocean, ride the waves, and play on the beach. At night, they’re going to roam the town and give us some time to ourselves.”

  She seemed to like the idea of having time to ourselves. There were a few more items on my agenda.

  “During the day, you and I are going to sit on the beach and watch the tide roll in. Then we’re going to sit on the beach and watch the tide roll back out. After the sand has absorbed every last trace of stress from our consciousness, we’re going to have drinks on the deck.”

  With a smile, she said, “Okay, we’ll give it a try.”

  We drove down the causeway from the mainland and crossed the drawbridge over the bay. Entering town on Ninety-Sixth Street, it seemed as if I had traveled back in time. Ninety-Sixth Street is to Stone Harbor as Main Street is to Central Valley. My brother and I had spent many a summer night here wandering among the stores that stretched from the beach to the bay.

  Many of the stores were just as I remembered, but large sections of the street had been razed and rebuilt. My first thought was to look for my grandfather’s old house. I turned south on Third Avenue and drove the eleven blocks to One Hundred Seventh Street. As a boy I had walked these same blocks so many times that I knew every crack in the sidewalk. Turning onto One Hundred Seventh Street, I found the house just as I remembered it. It seemed wrong for someone else to be living there.

  Our first day on the beach was exactly as I had hoped. The weather was perfect, with a very pleasant ocean breeze keeping the temperature comfortable. The boys had a blast riding the waves on their boogie boards and playing soccer on the beach.

  Nicholas lost some of his mother’s favor when he was overheard telling Robbie the ocean was much better than the lake. As was my custom, we were on the beach early and we stayed late. When the lifeguards had gone and it was nearing time for us to leave, a very relaxed Meghan made a concession.

  “Okay, I get it now,” she said. “We can come back tomorrow.”

  The beach seemed so familiar; it felt as if I had been here the day before. It didn’t seem possible that twenty years had elapsed since my last visit. While there had been many changes in the town, the beach seemed eternal.

  Looking to the south, the view of Wildwood was just as I remembered. Wildwood represented the Promised Land to me as a kid. The huge boardwalk was clearly visible, and at night the lights on the rides beckoned me to experience paradise. It seemed so close that I was sure I could walk there on my own. Unfortunately, a large body of water called Hereford Inlet stood between me and my goal.

  Like Moses, I was destined never to reach my Promised Land. My dad was not a fan of boardwalks, and no amount of pleading could change his mind. Besides, taking the kids to Wildwood would have interrupted his cocktail hour.

  Looking to the north seemed like staring into eternity. The beach and ocean played out endlessly until they met the sky on the horizon. On several occasions, my brother and I attempted to walk to Townsend Inlet at the north end of the Island. After a mile or two, still with no end in sight, we always gave up.

  Now, folding my beach chair for the walk home, I realized I had forgotten one crucial element of a perfect beach day. The afternoon beach nap was essential, and I had been so excited to be back that I had neglected this requirement. Not to worry, there’s always tomorrow.

  Bottom of the Eighth Inning

  My mother told me each summer, as we packed the car to leave Stone Harbor, “All good things must come to an end.” Our summer vacation and our summer came to an end. Back at work I found myself caught up in the tides of the restaurant business.

  Year after year the tide of business rolled in and it rolled out. While the pull of the moon controls the tides on the beach, the school calendar controlled the tides of our business. Back-to-school shoppers kept us busy in the weeks before the local schools reopened. High school sporting events brought in large crowds.

  The biggest tidal surges always came from the college. Traffic backed up from Main Street to the Interstate when the dorms opened. Home football games drew thousands of people to Central Valley. The biggest weekend of the year was always homecoming. It’s like Mardi Gras as the streets fill up with alums. The best part was they all had to eat.

  Homecoming was my favorite weekend of the year. The restaurant was always filled with friends who returned to visit. One year, Stuart Samuels called and said he and Shellie were going to be in town. I hadn’t seen them since Meghan and I attended their wedding a few years earlier. Stuart said he wanted to introduce me to someone.

  Chet’s was packed on that Saturday night of homecoming weekend. People waited in a line that stretched out the door and down the block. A limousine pulled up to the front door and a familiar face emerged. It was Stuart, accompanied by the person I supposed he wanted me to meet.

  “Randy, it’s great to see you!” Stuart exclaimed. “We dropped Shellie off at your house, so she and Meghan can get current.”

  “That’s too bad. I was more interested in seeing her than you,” I deadpanned. “Just what was it she ever saw in you?”

  We both had a good laugh.

  “Is Chet around?” Stuart asked.

  “Chet discovered fishing,” I told him. “If it’s cold here, he’s fishing in the Gulf of Mexico. He spends half the winter there now that he and Dolores bought a beachfront condo. If it’s warm here, he’s on his bass boat somewhere on the Susquehanna.”

  Stuart turned to the gentleman who was accompanying him.

  “Randy, I’d like you to meet Bob Jacobs. He’s the CEO of Jacobs International Investors and my boss.”

  Bob reached out to shake my hand and said, “Pleased to meet you, Randy.”

  Then he smiled and said, “I’m going to call you Randy because Stuart tells me that Mr. Duffy is your dad.”

  I looked at Stuart and said, “Glad you remembered the ground rules.”

  I gave them a quick tour of the Viking Room and Grill, then I took the reserved sign off booth six as we sat down.

  “You have no idea how hard it was to keep people out of this booth,” I said. “These alums get pretty rowdy when they’re hungry.”

  Bob looked around admiringly and said, “This is quite a business you have, Randy.”

  “Well, we do okay,” I said. “You’re seeing us on our busiest day of the year.”

  “Don’t be so modest,” he replied. “Stuart has not stopped talking about you, Chet’s, or the best chili in the valley since he came to work for my firm.”

  Stuart looked embarrassed, but that didn’t stop Mr. Jacobs.

  “He’s even tried to convince me that our company needs to be in the restaurant business.”

  Remembering how much Stuart enjoyed the chili, I had two bowls brought over to the table. Stuart dove right into his, while Bob was a little more hesitant. He sampled a small spoonful as if it was a glass of wine. He must have approved of the vintage because a broad smile appeared on his face. His second taste was a heaping spoonful.

  “I can see why Stuart is a fan,” he said.

  He
finished the rest of the bowl and talked about the great job Stuart was doing for his firm.

  “In our business, you have to be good with numbers. Numbers, alone, don’t always tell the whole story. Stuart is especially adept at understanding what’s behind the numbers.”

  Stuart’s look of embarrassment persisted while he remained silent. Apparently, he knew when it was the boss’s turn to speak.

  “Stuart has done a good deal of research and convinced me that we should be in the restaurant business. He also thinks we should model our business after Chet’s. We were wondering if you would be interested in possibly helping us make that happen.”

  He caught me off guard with his request. I didn’t see what I could possibly have to offer.

  I hesitated before saying, “Mr. Jacobs, I’m flattered. Stuart already knows a lot about my business. Why do you need me?”

  They laughed in unison, and now it was my turn to be embarrassed, as I didn’t get the joke.

  Stuart looked at Mr. Jacobs and said, “I told you he was humble.”

  Mr. Jacobs said, “Let me try and explain how my company works.”

  He pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of his pocket and placed it on the table.

  “We have a lot of these. It’s just a piece of paper with a portrait and some numbers. The amazing thing is you can exchange this piece of paper for almost anything. You can pay your rent with it, fill your car with gasoline, or buy dinner here at Chet’s.”

  He picked the bill up and admired it.

  “Next year, it will take more of these to pay your rent or buy gasoline. Do you think you’ll be raising prices on your menu next year?”