We all knew about Tom Sullivan’s reputation for hazing Belle Harbor Jews. If you were lucky, the guys in the clique said, you might not get him for Guidance or Hygiene, the two classes he taught. Yet in spite of the scary rumors, I was strangely excited when I found out that next term I’d be in both of Sullivan’s classes. This way, maybe I could learn something that would give me an advantage with him when VFW tryouts rolled around in June. I needed to somehow convince Sullivan that I was different from all the other Belle Harbor kids.
“Big Tom,” as the greasers called him, was in his mid to late thirties—a broad shouldered, thick necked, World War Two vet. Every day he wore the same outfit: a white or light blue oxford shirt and a rep tie, dark brown or navy blue wool pants with cuffs, and spit shined brown wingtips. He had a prominent jaw, thinning sandy blonde hair, and a Marine style butch crew cut. And it was no surprise that he ran his classes just like a platoon leader.
Teachers, parents, and coaches have their favorites and their scapegoats. It was clear from day one that Sullivan favored the toughest kids in the class, the Irish Catholic and Italian guys from the surrounding neighborhoods, several of whom were on his
Peninsula League football team. And it was equally obvious that he had a thinly veiled contempt for the rest of us.
For the first few weeks I watched as Sullivan singled out the most insecure and easily intimidated kids from my neighborhood. As soon as he sensed their fear, he upped the ante. Whenever guys like Elliot Reiss or Danny Klein screwed up even the slightest bit during Phys Ed, he made them take extra push-ups and run laps. He also called on them repeatedly in Hygiene class. Just as Ira and Billy had said, Sullivan would snidely refer to those two guys as “candy ass sugar babies.” We all knew that was his euphemism for “Belle Harbor Jews.”
I hated it when he deliberately picked on guys like Reiss and Klein. But I knew I couldn’t ally myself with the likes of them. So I steered clear of the victims and made a conscious effort to buddy up to the guys from Arverne and Hammels.
Every once in a while he’d single out Burt Levy, Mike Rubin, or me and call us sugar babies. My strategy was not to talk back to him and not to flinch whenever he picked on me. Let him play whatever games he wanted to. He’d see what I was made of when tryouts rolled around.
If I didn’t get to pitch for the VFW team, there was virtually no chance of making the high school varsity. So in early March I decided to pass up eighth grade softball. It wasn’t an easy decision. Coach Barrows had given me a chance last year, and now I was letting him down. But, like my father said, I needed to think about myself. If I played softball, I’d fall behind the guys who were gearing up for VFW tryouts.
By late April I was practicing outdoors with my old PAL teammates, Mike Rubin, Rob Brownstein, Ronnie Zeidner, and Burt Levy. Lee was even talking to me again. Things were back to normal—whatever “normal” meant at that age.
By Memorial Day weekend I was back into my old routine: going to Ebbets, studying big league hitters and pitchers, running on the beach every day, throwing hundreds of baseballs through the hole in the sheet, and pitching to Rubin and my kid brother. By the time tryouts came around, I was as ready for Sullivan as I’d ever be.
Say what you will about Sullivan, he knew how to whip a team into shape—and fast. He didn’t waste any time with motivational speeches. By the end of the first session, infielders and catchers were already turning double plays, fielding bunts, and covering bases on steals. Outfielders were attempting to throw runners out on the bases and learning to hit the right cut-off man on relays. There was so much simultaneous activity, you couldn’t relax or think straight. Which is exactly what Sullivan had in mind.
When infield and outfield drills were over Sullivan would stand at the plate with a bat in his hand, while a backup catcher fed him one baseball after another. If a hit and run was on, the pitcher and catcher had to decide right on the spot whether to throw a pitchout or try to make the hitter bite on something just out of the strike zone. On a bunt or a grounder to the right side of the infield the pitcher had to get over to first in time to take the throw. If you screwed up, you did it again until you got it right.
The last activity of the day was “situation” batting practice where Sullivan would set up simulated game situations for the hitters and pitchers. Each pitcher would pitch the equivalent of three innings to a rotating group of hitters.
By the end of the first day I’d acquitted myself pretty well. But I knew I hadn’t exactly dazzled Sullivan with my brilliance. Therefore, it wasn’t a complete surprise when after the first round of cuts, he picked Lee, Rob Brownstein, and Ronnie, plus two of the Wavecrest guys—Larry Moshan and Bob Milner. He also added Ducky Warshauer, an outfielder from Laurelton, and Bubba Murphy, a third baseman from Broad Channel. You couldn’t really second-guess any of those picks. They were the seven most talented players at tryouts.
Still, I was a little disappointed that I wasn’t in the first group. Especially after seeing the coaches’ final two choices: Frankie Ortiz and Hughie Whalen, neither of whom I’d ever heard of. Rubin, Levy, and I—along with about a dozen others—were told to come back next Saturday morning for final tryouts.
Naturally, I couldn’t sleep all week. Yet, I felt strangely optimistic about my chances. You could see by the way he ran tryouts that Sullivan was big on preparation and knowledge of the game—two of my strongest assets. One thing still bothered me, though. Rubin, Levy, and me were all Belle Harbor Jews. Was that a good or bad sign?
I got my first clue that something was up when Sullivan stopped me after our Hygiene final and told me to meet him on Saturday morning ten minutes before tryouts. What could he possibly want with me?
Sullivan’s office, if you could call it that, was a steam-heated compartment above the St. Francis de Sales gym. Amidst the banging and hissing of the old pipes, he told me in no uncertain terms that if I wanted to make this team I’d have to convince him that a Belle Harbor sugar baby had what it took to play ball for him. I’d anticipated he’d be testing me sooner or later, I just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon.
Tryouts were held on the St. Francis de Sales field, right behind the church. I was out in the bullpen when I heard Sullivan yell out my name. The bastard didn’t even give me a chance to warm up. Just as I was running in to the mound, I heard Sullivan ordering Burt Levy to get loose and Mike Rubin to grab a bat. Then he gave me ten warm-up tosses and told Rubin to get in the batter’s box.
So there I was on the mound of the church field staring down at Mike, who stood sixty feet, six inches away nervously taking his practice cuts. So many thoughts were racing through my mind. I’d been preparing for this moment for the last nine months. I didn’t want to blow my only shot. Last year’s team almost made it to the state finals at Cooperstown. They got eliminated in Westchester County—one game away from the regionals. With the talent Sullivan had assembled, there was no telling how far this year’s team could go. Then there was Coach Kerchman. Sooner or later, he’d be scouting this team, looking for next year’s rookies.
But what about Rubin? We’d played on every team from sixth grade to PAL. This would be his last chance to make the VFW team. Next year we’d all have to try out for American Legion ball, a tougher, more competitive league.
Goddamn it. Why did it always have to come down to bullshit like this? Why can’t it just be about your ability to play?
But I knew I couldn’t let it get to me, like it did last season with Lee. I had to get the Rubin dilemma out of my mind. I needed to calm down and start thinking about what I was doing. And fast.
Over the years, Rubin had seen my entire repertoire of pitches. And, of course, he knew exactly how I thought. But I was aware of every one of his weaknesses. And I had the ball. Within seconds, I knew just how I’d work him.
Rubin had an open stance and he always stood deep in the box, a few inches off the plate. Hughie Whalen, the catcher, went into his crouch and signaled for a high inside fastball. That’s how much he knew. Up and in was right in Rubin’s kitchen. High inside fastballs were just what I didn’t want to throw. If I threw him low-breaking balls away, my stock-in-trade, he was finished. Kaput. But if I deliberately pitched him too fat, Big Tom would know it. Then I’d be history too.
While I was trying to figure out what to do, Sullivan called timeout and ordered Frankie Ortiz to be the runner at third. This was not a good sign. Ortiz was one of Sullivan’s football goons. He was a bruiser from the Arverne projects, and he could hurt you. That’s when Sullivan shouted out. “Game situation, ladies,” and he called for a suicide squeeze. It’s a risky play, and it’s meant to work like this: as soon as I go into my windup, Ortiz will break for home and Rubin will square around to bunt. My job is to make certain Rubin doesn’t bunt the ball in fair territory.
Instead of tossing me the ball, Sullivan swaggered out to the mound. As he slapped the grass stained baseball into my glove, he deliberately sprayed black, bitter tobacco juice across the bridge of my nose. Then he motioned Whalen, his other football thug, to the mound.
Sullivan and I were inches apart. I could feel his breath on my right cheek. His nose was red and swollen, and slanted to the right, broken three times in his college football days. Just as Whalen arrived, Coach rasped, “Steinberg, when Ortiz breaks from third, throw it at his head.”
He meant the batter, Rubin. Why would I want to throw a baseball at my friend’s head? It wasn’t the right strategy. It was another one of Big Tom’s stupid tests of courage.
“At his head, coach?” I said, stalling for time.
Sullivan gave me his that’s-the-way-it’s-done-around-here look.
It wasn’t like I didn’t know what he was doing. Everyone knew that if you wanted to play ball for Big Tom you did what you were told and you kept your mouth shut. So why was I being such a smartass? It wasn’t like me. Why was I so willing to risk it all, right here, right now?
I tried to calm myself down, remind myself what the costs were. Just cool it. Try and think it through, I said under my breath. Pretend to go along with Big Tom’s program. The whole time, though, I could feel the knot in my stomach twist and tighten.
Sullivan glared at the third base bleachers where the final ten guys fidgeted nervously, waiting for their chance to bat. Then he looked back at me. With his cap pulled low, the coach’s steel blue pig eyes seemed all the more penetrating. He smiled. The lower part of his jaw was distorted from taking too many football hits without a facemask. So the smile came off looking like a mocking leer, which rattled me even more. I could feel my palms getting clammy; my armpits were already drenched with perspiration.
He looked at the guys waiting in the bleachers and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Steinberg, let’s show this wet nosed bunch of rookies how the game is played.”
Then he grabbed his crotch with his left hand. It was the old comrade routine. He was giving me a chance to look like a leader by pretending we were buddies. We weren’t. Big Tom and I didn’t operate in the same universe. He was a bull-yock Irishman from Hell’s Kitchen, a high school juvi who learned to fight in the streets. His platoon had fought in the Pacific, and the pride still showed in his eyes. To him, guys like Rubin and me were too privileged, and he resented us for it.
I turned to glance at Rubin. He looked like a Thanksgiving turkey on the block. I was embarrassed for him. Maybe the wind was just blowing at his sweatpants, the stiff ocean breeze we get on the Long Island south shore. Then again, maybe his knees really were shaking.
“Let’s get the goddamned show on the road,” Sullivan muttered. I thought about quitting. But what if Kerchman found out? The two coaches were like an Australian tag team. “Bad cop, bad cop,” I once heard an ex-player say. But everyone here would have sold his own mother into slavery if it meant that Sullivan would put in a good word with Kerchman. That’s why those two bastards could jerk us around like this.
Whalen trotted back behind the plate and Sullivan turned to leave. To him this kind of stuff was routine. I wanted to refuse, but I kept reminding myself that this is my only chance to make the team, to maybe pitch at Cooperstown. In my mind’s eye, I could see my dad, brother, and Kerchman sitting in the stands at Doubleday Field.
I tried to buy some time, thinking maybe I could reason with Sullivan. Convince him there was another way to do this. I was red-in-the-face pissed, hoping it looked like windburn.
“You want me to stop the bunt, right?” I said. It came out sounding too timid.
He turned. What the hell was I saying? Nobody second-guesses the coach. Sullivan walked back to the mound and spat another wad of chew on the ground, making sure to splatter some on my new spikes. He looked at Whalen, then at Ortiz. Then he turned to me and shook his head from side to side.
“Thaaat’s right, Steinberg,” he said, stretching out the words. “You stop the bunt. Now, let’s please execute the fucking play, shall we?” He muttered to himself through clenched teeth as he ambled back toward the bleachers.
It was out of my mouth before I knew it. More assertive this time. “Suppose I hit him in the head?”
Sullivan’s own head swung around like a tetherball, making that last tight twist at the top of the pole.
“Don’t worry, it’s not a vital organ. Pitch.”
I think Big Tom knew that he was undermining his credibility by arguing with a piss-ant kid. So he turned and silenced everyone’s murmurs with a long glare. As if rehearsed, the seven guys behind me started to grumble, distancing themselves from me and Sullivan’s wrath. Whalen stood behind the plate, looking at the ground, his mask pushed back on top of his head.
“Pitch the fuckin’ ball,” Whalen yelled.
“Do what coach tell you man,” spat Ortiz from third.
To those guys, especially, the coach was George God. If he told them to take a dump at home plate, they’d get diarrhea. But me? I’m like Gary Cooper in High Noon. Everyone’s watching, no one’s volunteering to help.
Then I noticed Mike, still frozen in his batter’s crouch. He looked like a mannequin with bulging eyes. Before I could think, the words slipped out.
“It’s the wrong play, Coach.”
It was my voice, all right, but it couldn’t have been me who said it. I’d never have the guts to say anything like that. Not to Sullivan’s face, anyway.
Dead silence. You could hear the breeze whistling through the wire mesh of the backstop. At first, Sullivan was too surprised to even curse me out. But after a long moment, he turned and strode up to Rubin, who was still frozen in the batter’s box.
Like all of us, Rubin was jackrabbit scared of the coach. And just like a rabbit about to be prey, he was riveted to the ground.
“Goddamn it,” Sullivan ripped off his cap, exposing his jetblack crew cut and sunburned forehead. He spoke like rolling thunder, enunciating every word.
“WHAT DID HE SAY, RUBIN?”
It was a calculated ploy. I’d seen it before, in the streets. Coach was going to punish me by humiliating my friend.
Rubin managed weakly; “Uh, wrong—wrong play. Coach?”
Louder then, like a Marine D.I. “NOBODY IN THE STANDS CAN HEAR YOU, RUBIN.”
“WRONG PLAY, COACH.”
My stomach turned over watching Sullivan humiliate Mike just for the amusement of the guys in the bleachers. And Big Tom knew it. Knew it oh so well.
Still advancing, Sullivan took it to the grandstand.
“ALL YOU LADIES, SAY IT!”
The accusing chorus rained down.
“WRONG PLAY, COACH.”
“AGAIN.”
“WRONG PLAY, COACH.”
Then he ran out to the mound yelling, “YOU, TOO, STEINBERG, YOU SAY IT.”
He was hopping up and down like someone had pranked him with a hotfoot. Adrenaline overcame me then, and before Sullivan could order another round I let the words tumble out in a single breath.
“If I throw a pitchout chest high in the lefthand batter’s box, Whalen takes two steps to his right and he has a clear shot at Ortiz.”
By this time, I was so shook up I had no idea if it was the right play or not. I was just trying to call Sullivan’s bluff by parroting what Coach Bleutrich had taught me last summer.
Sullivan squared himself and casually put his cap back on. He was trying to regain his composure. He’d let a snot nosed junior high school kid get to him, and now he had to regain control.
My stomach was in knots, Rubin’s eyes looked like marbles, and the whole team was hungry to see what would happen next.
Softly now: “That’s enough, Steinberg.”
Then to Rubin: “Get back in the box. Let’s do the play.”
And to be sure there was no misunderstanding, he took it right back to me: “My play,” he said deliberately. “My play, my way.”
He was giving me a second chance. Why didn’t I just fake it? I had good control. I’d brushed off plenty of hitters before. Maybe deep down I believed that Sullivan was right about me. Maybe I didn’t have the balls it took to play for him.
I wanted to give in, get it over with. So I said, “I can’t do it.”
Sullivan slammed his cap to the ground, and in one honest, reckless moment, it all came out: “You fucking Belle Harbor Jews are all alike. No goddamn guts,” he yelled. “You’re a disgrace to your own people.”
Nobody moved. The wind whipped a funnel of dust through the hard clay infield.
So that’s what this was all about. It was no secret that Big Tom was a bigot. But it still came as a shock. He was a coach, a teacher. Some of the guys, I’m sure, had thought the same thing, but we were teammates and they’d never say it to my face. Even in my worst moments I believed that this stuff was for the anti-Semites from the sticks, the ones who say “Jew York.”
There was no chance Sullivan would apologize. He’d used tactics like this before—to get us mad, to fire us up. If I wanted be a real putz, I could report him to the league’s advisory board. My father knew some of the officers. But I knew I wouldn’t do it, because if I turned him in, it would confirm what he already thought of me, and I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Besides, I still needed him. And in some odd way I must have sensed that he needed me. If I said or did the right thing, I could still bail him out. For that moment, then, we were yoked to each other, like Sidney Poitier and Tony Curtis in that movie The Defiant Ones.
I think Sullivan believed that somehow I had made him say what he said. He was angry at me for making him look bad. So to cover his own ass, he had to make it seem like it was my fault.
“Get out of my sight, Steinberg,” he snapped. “You make me wanna puke.”
He motioned toward the bullpen. “Levy, get your butt in here and pitch.”
To my mind, Burt was more timid than either Mike or me. But, it was all part of Big Tom’s design.
Sullivan grunted; the cords of his muscular neck wound tight. Just as he reached to take the ball, something snapped inside of me. I pulled my hand back. Then an eerie calm began to wash over me. My stomach stopped churning, my chest didn’t feel as if it was about to burst, and my neck wasn’t burning. I could tell that Sullivan sensed something was going on, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Neither was I. Not yet, anyway.
“I’m not leaving, Coach,” I said.
Yeah, he sensed it all right. But he misread it. He waved Levy away. Maybe this was Sullivan’s obtuse way of atoning for the Jew remark, by allowing me to stay on his pitcher’s mound.
“Get back in the box, Rubin,” he snapped.
“No Coach,” I said
“What?”
“You grab a bat, Coach.”
A frozen moment. Was I really doing this?
Sullivan looked at me, then he looked at the guys in the bleachers and laughed out loud. We all knew he was going to do it. He ripped off his windbreaker and took a couple of practice cuts, his biceps rippling. He bowed at the waist when muffled cheers rose up from the third base side. Did it ever occur to Big Tom that they might be cheering against him? Or that maybe they were just morbidly curious to see what would happen? Anyhow, he was smiling that crooked ass grin of his. The players in the bleachers spilled into foul territory, inching closer to the backstop.
He stepped into the box and took a few swings.
Ok Coach, I’m thinking. You’re gonna get just what you asked for.
I was ready to play me some chin music. Chin music, where the ball whistles as it buzzes just underneath the batter’s throat. Before I went into my windup, Whalen took two steps up the first base line. He was sure I was going to throw the pitch-out. Can’t blame him. It’s what he would have done. It’s what anyone in his right mind would have done. Sullivan must have thought so too, that’s why he was still grinning.
It was the smirk that did it. Screw chin music, I’m gonna’ take his fucking head off.
As I brought both arms over my head, I saw Ortiz streaking from third toward home. In that split second I realized that this really was happening. When Big Tom squared to bunt, I zeroed in on the black line on the inside corner of the plate. Calm down, I told myself. Brush him back. Just let him know you’re here.
That’s what my head was saying, but when I started my motion I lifted my eyes from the plate and locked them on the bill of Sullivan’s cap. That shit-eating grin was still on his face. I pushed hard off the rubber, and cut loose. I watched the ball tailing in, in, in, right toward Sullivan’s head. But he didn’t back off, not even an inch. Maybe he didn’t believe I could throw hard enough to hurt him.
I yelled, “HEAD’S UP,” tucked my chin into my chest and shut my eyes. I heard a dull thud. I opened my eyes just in time to see his cap fly off his head. And as I watched him crumble, feet splayed in the dirt, I felt sick to my stomach.
Stunned players surrounded the fallen Sullivan, not knowing what to do. With leaden strides, I joined them, growing a little more lucid. Rubin shot me a “Man, you are dead meat” look, and I thought about suspension from school. Jail even. But the coach sat up. Jesus, was he lucky. Was I lucky. I must have clipped him right on the bill of the cap. Why was I so surprised? It was the target I was aiming at.
Sighs escaped as one breath. Legs and arms unraveled. Players backed away. Slowly, Big Tom lifted himself up and brushed the dirt off the seat of his pants. He shook his head like a wet cocker spaniel who’d just taken a dip in the ocean. Then he wobbled to the bleachers, looking like a young girl testing out her mother’s high-heeled shoes.
Before I could collect my thoughts, Sullivan’s voice boomed out: “All right, here we go again. Ortiz, hustle back to third, Rubin, up to bat, Steinberg, get your butt back on the hill. Suicide squeeze, same play as before. This time I know we will get it right, won’t we ladies?”
He’d caught me by surprise again. I should have known that he’d have to get the last word. But I couldn’t—wouldn’t—jump through his hoops. Not this time. I resigned myself to my fate. I took a deep breath, bowed my head, and slowly walked back toward the mound—all the time knowing exactly where I was headed. When I got to the rubber, I kept going. At second base, I pushed off the bag with my right foot and started to sprint. I was unbuttoning my shirt, and as I passed our center fielder, Ducky Warshauer, I tossed my cap and uniform jersey right at him. Ducky stared at me like I’d just gone Section Eight. When I stepped onto the concrete walkway outside the locker room, I heard the metallic clack, clack, clack of my spikes on the concrete floor. I opened the door and inhaled the familiar perfume of chlorine, Oil of Wintergreen, and stale sweat socks. For a moment I thought about going back out there; instead I headed straight for the shower and pushed the lever as far to the right as it would go. As the needle spray bit into my shoulders, I watched the steam rise up to surround me.
Walking home, I replayed the whole scenario. I did it, I told myself, because he provoked me. What else could I have done? It was a knee-jerk response.
All weekend, I brooded about the incident. Should I take what was left of my uniform to his office? Nope, all that would do is let him know he’d won. Ok, I’ll wait for him to ask for it. But what if he doesn’t? Will I lose my nerve and give in?
Sunday night, seven thirty, he called me at home. Ten minutes later I was back in that stifling office, the steam pipes hissing and banging away. Sullivan was sitting at his desk, head down, shuffling papers. He made me wait for about two minutes. Didn’t even look up. When he knew I couldn’t take the tension any longer, he said matter-of-factly—as if nothing had ever happened—“I’ll see you at practice on Saturday.”
Without taking his eyes off his papers, he handed me a paper bag with my cap and jersey inside and said, “Get your nasty butt out of here, kid. I got work to do.”
Of course I went back. That’s what you do when you’re fourteen and your identity is wrapped up in being a ballplayer. I had a pretty good season too. Rubin also made the team, but he sat the bench for most of the summer.
We didn’t win the state title, but we did make it to the final game in Cooperstown. We got bombed that day, but my father and brother got to see me pitch a few good relief innings at Doubleday Field.
While I was on the mound that summer I’d hear Sullivan razzing us from the bench. I always listened closely, curious to see how far he’d push me. But whatever else he yelled, I never heard him say “Jew boy” or “candy ass sugar baby” again.
I’d survived Sullivan. The last hurdle would be Coach Kerchman. And, as I later found out, Big Tom did indeed invite Kerchman to scout me that summer. He just never took the trouble to tell me about it.