LEONARD KRIEGEL
107
It is a warm Sunday in May , 1944 . In a week, I will turn eleven. In less
than two months , I will be in the hospital trying to stay alive , while the doctors
wonder whether the virus will settle for my legs or will claim the rest of me ,
too . But now I am in a taxi with my uncle and Mr. Kravitz , his friend. I love
riding in taxis. Uncle Morris tells the driver where to go. He doesn 't ask, he
tells. We are heading for Yankee Stadium and I am happy.
But first we stop at a small candy store between Jerome Avenue and the
Concourse , a few blocks north of the Stadium. My uncle tells the driver to
wait . "Why are we stopping?" I ask. Mr. Kravitz takes my hand and escorts
me into the candy store . He fishes in his pocket and pulls out a fistful of
pennies. I count the pennies . Seventeen. He hands them to me. Then he pulls
me over to a pinball machine set up in the shape of a baseball diamond.
"Play ," he says. " All you want ." He and my uncle walk to the back of the
store and are joined by another man . I play the machine . I can hear them
discussing the odds . Mr. Kravitz comes back . "You want a drink?" Without
waiting for my answer , he orders a chocolate egg cream. Uncle Morris returns
to us. I drink the egg cream. The other man is sitting at the end of the counter
jotting the transactions down in a small red looseleaf pad. I have eleven
pennies left. "Keep it, " Mr. Kravitz says .
"What did you bet?" I ask.
"Both games," Uncle Morris laughs. "And on the Giants and
Brooklyns, too . Only
you
don't tell
baba.
Understand."
"We 'll win," I say , privileged to share in the world of men .
"We," Mr. Kravitz snorts. "Look , he made himself a partner."
"Why not? " my uncle says . " Why not him, too? "
I spend the afternoon dividing my attention between what is happening
on the field and what is happening on the scoreboard . The Yankees take both
games from the Red Sox , whom my uncle insists on calling "the Boston
Americans." The Dodgers win their first game ; so do the Giants. I look at the
scoreboard as we leave the Stadium. My uncle looks down at the grass. In the
second game, the Dodgers are one run up in the bottom half of the ninth ; the
Giants are tied at the end of the seventh . The
air
breathes the richness of
possibility . I hold my breath. Uncle Morris and Mr. Kravitz discuss the
different combinations. They have already won big, for they have bet each
game individually . But if the Dodgers and Giants each win the second game,
it will be a six team parlay and they will have made a killing. The Dodgers win.
The Giants are beaten in the last of the ninth .
The candy store anchored the neighborhood and one entered its door
with the knowledge that he had come to the neighborhood's center. On the
