On a foggy Saturday afternoon in April, Tom pulled up at PS 21 in his old gray Pontiac, with Amon at his side. Unhappily, he noticed Harry the Horse warming up earnestly on the pavement, firing blazing fastballs and sharp knuckle curveballs. His blazing pitches hit the rectangular strike zone marked on the paved handball court wall, filling the school yard with loud rhythmic thuds as the rubber Spalding smashed against the rigid concrete wall.
“Looks like you got your good stuff today,” Tom called out as he and Amon walked toward the concrete wall, which faced south toward Walker Street.
Tom carried several Spaldings, two broomstick bats, and his well-worn baseball glove. Amon had a kid’s baseball glove, which was made of plastic, plus an old Brooklyn Dodger baseball cap. Fortunately, the sun began to peak through the low-lying clouds, and broad shafts of sunlight illuminated the paved school yard.
“Damned right. You better start swinging with my windup, ’cause you’ll never catch up to my fastball,” the Pied Piper of Elm Park replied.
After a coin toss, which Harry won, Tom and Amon batted first. Tom struck out on three pitches. Amon managed to foul off two of Harry’s fastballs and was fooled on a changeup, swinging too early.
Smiling at his own ineptitude, Amon exclaimed, “You’re a tricky pitcher, Harry. But I’ll get to you eventually.”
“It’ll never happen. I’m undefeated at fast-pitch stickball.”
“Ain’t true, Harry. Mike Palermo and I beat you when Mike hit a ninth-inning home run off you a few years back,” Tom retorted.
“Ten bucks says it’s not going to happen today.”
The stickball game proceeded uneventfully, with Tom baffling Harry with an assortment of overhand and sidearm fastballs, mixed with tailing curveballs and some sharp knuckle curves. Harry was unstoppable as a pitcher, with Tom managing only some foul tips and one ground ball single. Amon hit two screeming line-drive doubles and a towering pop-up, which Harry caught after a long run. The game remained a scoreless tie until Amon got hold of one of Harry’s fastballs in the eighth inning and sent it over the fence, across Walker Street into the cemetery.
“Holy shit!” Harry yelled. “I’ve never seen anybody hit a Spalding that far. It must have traveled three hundred feet.”
In the bottom of the eighth, Tom felt something give in his shoulder when he tried an overhand fastball. Changing to a sidearm delivery gave no relief to the skinny science teacher, so Amon had to relieve him. Beckoning to the Mariners Harbor resident, Tom ran to the outfield while Amon warmed up, using an unorthodox no-windup delivery. His first few warm-up tosses were off the mark, missing the rectangular strike zone by a lot. In addition, his pitches appeared to lack the velocity of Harry’s and Tom’s heaters.
Eagerly setting himself at the plate, Harry called out, “Just get ready to duck, Amon. Harry’s gonna give that baby a ride!”
Then Amon cut loose with a fastball that whizzed by Harry at blinding speed. Harry had swung hard but did not connect. The same result occurred with Amon’s next two pitches.
“Are you friggin’ kidding me? Where did you learn to throw like that?” Harry exclaimed, completely overpowered by Amon’s fastball.
Amon replied that he was a novice at stickball. “We didn’t play stickball where I came from.”
“The guy throws like Sandy Koufax and never played the game before. Shit, you should go to Shea Stadium and show the Mets your stuff. They’d sign you with a bonus—no questions asked.”
“Beginner’s luck. Besides, I have no control throwing baseballs. Just ask Mrs. Eggert on Pulaski Street. I broke her window.”
“Good for you. I hate that woman. She was gonna call the cops on me after that guy broke her window,” Harry replied, pointing at Tom.
“Amon fixed her window and did some home repairs. Now she loves him,” Tom declared. “Even Granny Schmidt smiles at him.”
“And you lifted that heavy beam off my chest like it was a plywood plank. No wonder they call you the Mariners Harbor Messiah,” Harry said, scrutinizing Amon for the source of his physical powers.
“That came from the local papers after I rescued someone who jumped off the Staten Island ferry,” Amon replied quietly.
“I think his girlfriend, Mary, was the first to use that pseudonym talking to a newspaper reporter, and it stuck,” Tom chimed in.
Tom suggested they go for a few beers at K. C.’s to cool off, to which both men agreed—Harry emphatically and Amon reluctantly. Tom chose K. C.’s rather than Kaffman’s because of Bonnie Rosolio’s remarks about his frequenting that busy saloon on weekends.
Entering the hazy, sour-sweet–smelling bar, the three men were greeted by Pat McDean, owner of K. C.’s. “Well, the prodigal son has returned with his entourage. What are you drinking? The usual Ballantine beer brewed right here on the Island or something a little stronger?”
“Ballantine’s good. There’s nothing better than an ice-cold beer to celebrate a big win,” Tom exclaimed.
“Don’t rub it in, Teach. Without this guy, I would have beaten you easily.”
“You’re absolutely right. I had thrown out my arm, overhand and sidearm.”
“It could have gone either way. The main thing was that it was an enjoyable experience. You can’t call yourself a New Yorker unless you’ve played stickball,” Amon said.
“I wonder if they play stickball in Chicago or Detroit,” Tom replied.
“I tell you what, Tom. You go to those cities and find out for us. Next time I visit those bush-league places, I’ll bring my stickball bat with me.”
Amon said he had never heard of stickball before coming to the Island.
“Amon’s a pretty good basketball player too. Gave me fits under the basket, and from the outside there’s no stopping him,” Tom commented.
“Basketball’s a game I haven’t played in recent years, though I like watching it on TV. I saw those big guys Chamberlain and Jabbar going at it the other day,” Harry observed.
“There will never be another dominant center like Wilt Chamberlain. He once scored a hundred points against the Knicks in 1962. And that year he averaged more than fifty points per game,” Tom replied.
“Jabbar is a better shooter and quicker. Wilt couldn’t stop his skyhook. But my favorite player is Elgin Baylor, driving to the basket, faking the other guy out.”
“Baylor is a one-man show. He’s changed the game of basketball from what it used to be. Slow white guys with two-hand set shots and banked layups,” Tom said, ordering another round of Ballantines for his two companions.
“What’s wrong with the set shot? I had a deadly one in my day,” Harry responded angrily.
“I’ll have to challenge you to a game of twenty-one next time you’re free.”
“Shit. You with your friggin’ challenges. Stick to teaching, and leave the ball games to talented athletes like me and Amon,” Harry said, downing his beer and getting ready to leave K. C.’s.
“Tom’s an instigator, but he’s a good guy. He’s helped me more than I can count and still manages to teach those Curtis kids,” Amon chimed in.
“Yeah. He’s harmless—like his Elm Park buddies I used to play stickball with on Pulaski Avenue,” Harry replied, shaking Amon’s hand and slapping Tom on the back before exiting the hazy bar.
Amon also got ready to leave K. C.’s. Tom asked him about speaking to Curtis students about volunteering. “I spoke with my principal. Many of them have heard about you from the local papers. I’m sure you’d get an enthusiastic reception from them.”
“I don’t know. I’m not much of a speaker,” Amon replied, seemingly lost in thought. “But my time is running out. So I’ve got to do what I can before—”
“Of course. But what is this weird stuff about time running out?”