The sounds gently rose from the PS 19 schoolyard, directly below the kitchen window. Boyish shouts. A dull thwock, unmistakably the impact of a stickball bat against a Spaldeen. There is no other sound like it. The clatter of a wooden bat on asphalt, the shriek of a boy, the jangle of a chain-link fence. “Home run,” Nicky remembered. “Those were the sounds of a home run.” Music to his ears.
Nicky moved past Mom toward the kitchen window, toward the noise. He walked in a trance, as if hypnotized by something beautiful and magical. He was lured to the window. He walked like he did in his dream about Jane Jetson, the one where she blew kisses and crooked her finger at him.
“Do you hear that?” Nicky said to Mom.
“We need eggs,” Mom said. She stirred something thick and gloppy in a bowl. She was building up a sweat.
“They’re playing stickball out there.”
“Don’t be crazy,” Mom panted, grunting, putting her shoulder into it. “Nobody plays stickball around here anymore.”
Nicky parted the curtains and looked out at the sunny day. The schoolyard was empty. Not even a pigeon. And now the schoolyard was silent. The music had stopped. Nicky stared. He stared till his eyeballs ached. He wanted them to be there.
And they emerged, as if out of a fog. Icky Rossilli, pitching. Billy Braggs, hitting. Skipper and Fishbone, pounding their mitts, throwing long shadows onto the gray asphalt. Best of all, out in center field, a tall lanky boy shifted from foot to foot, and spit through his teeth, and tugged at his black baseball cap. Vintage Roy, from the good old days. From the pink of his cheeks to the rolled cuffs of his dungarees, Roy appeared to be roughly age thirteen. Nicky took in this scene from the beloved past, and the sweet sounds—thwock, clatter, shout—rose up again.
“I can really hear them. I can really see them,” Nicky said.
“Oh, THAT nonsense,” Mom said. She shook her head. “You’re starting your stupid shenanigans again.”
Mom knew that Nicky was seeing things. Lovely, old things. This was not a recent development. For years, Nicky had conjured scenes out of the past, right before his eyes.
“The last thing we need today is for you to start acting like a nut,” said Mom, clopping a knife on the Formica as she diced.
Nicky was sure he was not a nut. The visions didn’t haunt him or scare him. They didn’t command him to take a hatchet to his family or to eat cockroaches or bark at the milkman. The visions never came on suddenly. They were strictly voluntary. Nicky tuned in to them the way you tune in to a favorite radio program. He enjoyed seeing things from the past. As far as he was concerned, it was no different from looking at old photographs or listening to an old song. No different from remembering the good old days that went along with the photos and the songs. Nicky merely took the reminiscing a few steps closer to the slippery edge.
For example, one Sunday afternoon Dad, Roy, Nicky, and Mr. Greenblatt who lived down on the second floor took in a game together at Yankee Stadium. They sat in cheap seats, high in the third deck. The Yankees were in last place, and they were having a very bad day. They let fly balls dribble out of their mitts and they made throws that were too short or too long and they struck out or popped up whenever the moment called for a big hit. The small crowd on hand booed. It was like being at a party that turned bad.
Dad and Mr. Greenblatt were drinking Ballantine beer. They chattered on and on about the mighty Yankees of the good old days. They spoke of the Great DiMaggio, and their faces softened and their eyes got moist. The way they described him, the Great DiMaggio played center field for the Yankees as if he were a prince with angel wings. Mr. Greenblatt belched and said, “Joltin’ Joe was regal.” At that moment Nicky peered down at the current Yankee center fielder, who was picking his nose.
So Nicky concentrated and stared until his eyeballs hurt. And out of a fog trotted Joe DiMaggio, in the fluttery flannels from the newsreels. Nicky stared hard around the magnificent stadium and the crowd, no longer booing, was on its feet, cheering with mad delight. Everybody seemed happy. Nicky spelled out this grand vision for Dad, Roy, and Mr. Greenblatt.
“I see Joe D.!” Nicky exclaimed.
Mr. Greenblatt peered into the neck of his Ballantine bottle and said, “Did he get into the beer?”
“Don’t mind him. He sees mirages out of the past,” Dad said.
“He’s just plain nuts,” Roy said.
Mr. Greenblatt, who had a huge head and a thick Hell’s Kitchen accent, clapped Nicky on the back and said, “Awwww, he’s all right. The little fellow just has a craving to give the modern world the slip. Who can blame him?” And Nicky thought Mr. Greenblatt was a genius.
Now, as Mom cooked, Nicky looked out the kitchen window at the boys on the playground, and he was grateful for the view. It was a wonderful scene. Roy and his pals looked as innocent as stuffed animals. The old gang wore their old clothes—dungarees, white T-shirts, and canvas sneakers. Roy removed his cap and revealed a crew cut, flat and bristly. Nicky fondly remembered the crew cut. It was Roy’s trademark hairdo before he let his hair grow over his forehead, over his eyes, down his neck, the moppish hairstyle that boiled Dad’s blood. Nicky was comforted to see Roy’s old crew cut, thin layer of Brylcreem glistening in the sunshine.
Nicky watched Roy play stickball. He watched Roy swing the bat for a solid hit. He watched Roy take first base. He watched Roy lean his hands on his knees, just like the big leaguers. He watched Roy move smoothly off the base—his trademark little bounce and hop. Roy dancing in the sunshine. Nicky wondered, “I’m crazy? Who wouldn’t want to see this?”
Nicky withdrew his head from the kitchen window and said to Mom, “Guess what?”
“Oww,” Mom said sharply. She had clipped a finger with the knife.
“Know what I’m going to do this summer?”
“Right on the knuckle, as always.”
“I’m gonna play stickball this summer.”
Mom carried her bloody finger to the faucet and said, “Don’t be crazy. Nobody plays stickball around here anymore.”