If my interest in baseball had seemed dormant, it was awakened with a start when the Dodgers began the ’55 season with ten victories in a row. When the Dodgers’ first winning streak was stopped, they promptly forged a second one, this time winning eleven straight, twenty-two out of twenty-four, to give them a staggering nine-and-a-half-game lead over the Giants by the middle of May. During the streak, the Dodgers pulled every aspect of their game together: the hitting, the pitching, and the defense. Almost everyone in the starting lineup was hitting .300 or better, and the pitchers—Carl Erskine, Don Newcombe, Billy Loes, RUSS Meyer, and Johnny Podres—combined for an ERA of only two earned runs per game.
While the Dodgers were tearing up the National League, Elaine was in a state of anxiety over the Yankees, locked in a four-way fight with Cleveland, Boston, and Chicago. Casey Stengel had radically changed the team after its failure to win in ’54, acquiring pitchers Bob Turley and Don Larsen from the Orioles to join Whitey Ford in the starting rotation, and adding Elston Howard, their first black player. Billy Martin, who had missed the entire ’54 season, was still in the Army, however, and Elaine was certain the Yankees couldn’t win without him.
Though Elaine’s attraction to the shrill, wiry Martin remained inexplicable to me, in the name of our friendship I resolved not to mention his big nose, hot temper, or foul mouth. She kept Martin’s picture by her bed, and searched the papers each day for news of his impending return. When he was finally released from the service at the end of August, she was the happiest I had seen her in months. For years afterward, even after Elaine got her Ph.D. in English, married, and had children, her father sent her an annual Valentine’s card in the name of Billy Martin, bearing the inscription that always made Elaine laugh: “Aching for you, waiting for you, Billy.”
EVEN THOUGH the Dodgers were flourishing, and school was more exciting than ever, new tensions had developed at home, due, in part, to my own petulance concerning the simplest household chores. Though I had once found pleasure in putting away the dishes with my father or helping my mother hang out the clothes, I now found myself resenting each chore I was asked to perform. Embarrassed that our lack of an electric dryer left my underwear hanging out on the line for all to see, I was even more distressed by the possibility I might actually be seen fixing a clothes-pin to my bra or to my mother’s girdle. I rarely refused my mother’s requests directly: I simply claimed I was busy with something important and would get to it later.
Every Saturday my girlfriends and I went to the Fantasy Theatre, flirting with boys with ducktail haircuts and turned-up shirt collars. Elaine and I were enamored of the sulky young actor James Dean with his curled lip and troubled eyes. Later, we retreated to her finished basement to listen to Elvis Presley records and practice dancing.
My resentments were displayed more openly when my parents kept me from going to movies I wanted to see. As Catholics, we were expected to be guided by the assessments of the National Legion of Decency, established to protect Catholics from immoral films. Since 1934, parishioners had been asked to take an annual pledge, asserting that “I condemn indecent and immoral motion pictures and those which glorify crime or criminals… . I acknowledge my obligation to form a right conscience about pictures that are dangerous to my moral life. As a member of the Legion of Decency, I pledge myself to remain away from them.” The Legion classified films in three categories—those suitable for adults only, such as Marty and East of Eden; those objectionable in part for all ages like Sabrina, A Star Is Born, and Blackboard Jungle; and those decisively and ominously labeled “Condemned,” like Game of Love or Garden of Eden. There was a separate category for Martin Luther, deemed unacceptable because it offered a “sympathetic and approving” representation of the life and times of the Protestant leader. Seeing a film that the Legion had disapproved was not automatically a sin. But seeing a film that was immoral in the eyes of God was sinful. The purpose of the Legion was to help the faithful make the right judgment, and its proscriptions, though not decisive, were taken seriously in many Catholic households, including my own.
Despite the warning of the Legion of Decency, I did not see how there could be any harm in seeing East of Eden. Its recommendation didn’t say the film was bad, only that I was too young. And every one of my girlfriends had seen it and enthused breathlessly about James Dean, who played Cal Trask, an angry young man vying for his father’s approval. I had already read John Steinbeck’s saga, retelling the biblical story of Cain and Abel through two generations of families in California’s Salinas Valley, and I could see no reason why the movie should be off-limits. After much persuasion, my parents relented. Elaine and I went and were immediately enamored of the sulky young actor with his curled lip and troubled eyes. Every Monday, we haunted Brand’s soda store in the hope that James Dean would be featured in Photoplay or Modern Screen, the glossy movie magazines that we now perused as eagerly as we had once sought the newest comic books.
I made less headway with my parents when it came to Blackboard Jungle, the story of an idealistic teacher in a slum-area high school, a film which introduced “Rock Around the Clock,” the hit song by Bill Haley and the Comets. The Legion of Decency objected to the film, the Long Island Catholic reported, because “it glorified crime, condoned immoral actions and contained suggestive dancing.” The Legion found particularly disturbing a scene in which the teacher tries to introduce his students to classical jazz, only to have his precious record collection smashed to bits. “Even when the hero, (played by Glenn Ford), finally breaks through the animosity of his students, you are not encouraged by his prospects,” the Legion advised. “Before that, the hoods are shown raising hell in classrooms and corridors. Hoodlums are glorified on screen in such a way as to promote delinquency.”
When my parents refused to let me see the movie after I had badgered, cajoled, and pleaded, I blew up. I turned to my mother in a flash of anger and said, “You’ve always told me I should form my own opinions and not let other people do my thinking for me.”
“It’s not about opinions,” my mother said. “It’s about stupid, excessive violence.”
“But how do you know?” I shouted. “How do you know it’s offensive? You haven’t even, seen it.”
Here my father intervened, informing me in a very low voice that he found my tone to my mother offensive. Furious, frustrated, I raced to my room, slammed my door, and turned up the volume on my radio as high as it would go. For hours, I sulked on my bed, hoping the sounds of Alan Freed’s rock and roll music on WINS would filter down into the living room and disturb my mother’s peace as she played the piano.
Every dollar I earned that summer was spent on 45s. “Shake, Rattle and Roll,” “Sh-Boom,” “See You Later, Alligator,” “Blueberry Hill,” “Chantilly Lace,” the Everly Brothers, Little Richard, the Platters, and of course Elvis Presley. When Elaine and I weren’t watching baseball, we retreated to her finished basement to listen to rock-and-roll records and practice dancing. Our parents had sent us to dancing school to learn the waltz, the fox-trot, and the two-step, but our formal lessons had taught us nothing about moving to the beat of rock and roll. Occasionally Mrs. Friedle would appear at the head of the stairs to tell us that our repulsive music was actually shaking the house, but normally we were allowed to practice without trespass so long as we stayed in the basement. More than ever, I wished that we had our own finished basement, a place where my friends and I could escape the watchful eye of my parents. Everything about my parents had become a source of humiliation, from my mother’s dowdy aprons to my father’s excessive pride in my accomplishments. I yearned for a room of my own larger than my tiny bedroom.
IF THERE WERE NOW occasional blowups, the general atmosphere in our household remained relatively undisturbed: we still played Scrabble every Sunday night, worked together on the Times crossword puzzle, and, most of all, shared the transcendent play of the Dodgers. By the middle of July, the Dodgers were more than thirty games above .500. Week after
week, they continued to win, and the roar of the crowd emanating from our black-and-white television filled our house all that glorious summer.
At the end of the day on Friday, July 22, as I was preparing to go to the movies with my girlfriends, my father called me excitedly to tell me he had managed to get us tickets to the thirty-seventh-birthday celebration of Pee Wee Reese. “A consummate professional,” he would always say when talking about Reese, “a gentleman who lives by a code, a work ethic that delivers the goods day in and day out.” Even though I was mildly disappointed at the thought of missing a movie date with my friends, I didn’t want to dampen his enthusiasm. When he suggested we go an hour or so early to see the pregame ceremony honoring Reese, I decided to take along my autograph book. As it turned out, I was glad I did.
Just before the celebration was to begin, I caught Jackie Robinson’s attention as he headed slowly to the dugout. I didn’t care that Robinson’s hair was now almost totally gray. The aging warrior remained my favorite player. I had traded for Robinson’s autograph with Eddie Rust, but I had never made direct contact with him myself, never looked him in the eye, and I wanted his name linked to me in a more intimate way.
I leaned over the railing, and with my most beseeching smile waved my autograph book, opened to a page with an empty space surrounded by a wreath of florid messages: “Let’s never forget one another… . Remember me until rubber tires and Niagara falls… . May you have a succession of successive successes… . I will always cherish our relationship.” Before signing, Robinson scanned these silly, affectionate sentiments, and I could feel my face reddening. Then he wrote for a long moment. “Well,” he said, “I can see I’m in good company.” He closed the book, handed it back to me, and, with a laugh, descended into the dugout. I was settled beside my father and the special celebration had already begun before I dared to open the book. My heart beat faster until I felt almost dizzy, for there in the middle of my dearest friends’ messages were the words:
Keep your smile a long, long while. Jackie Robinson.
I would not let the book out of my hand as I watched baseball executives and Reese’s teammates gather for the ceremonies. As Reese approached home plate, I thought about the very special relationship which existed between Robinson and Reese—the black pioneer and the Southern captain. When Robinson first came to the Dodgers, it had been Reese who quashed the petition against him by his teammates. And on an overcast day in Cincinnati, with fans yelling racial epithets and hurling containers toward the grim-faced Robinson, the respected Reese—team captain and Southern gentleman—called time, slowly strode across the infield, put his hand on Robinson’s shoulder, and spoke to him softly, one man to another. The crowd was quieted, as were the members of the Cincinnati team, and the story soon spread through the world of baseball. It was a pivotal moment in Robinson’s struggle, and, in retrospect, one of the finest moments in the history of baseball. Now, as Reese walked forward to receive the tributes of his peers and the loving acclaim of the crowd, Robinson reached out in a swift, barely noticeable gesture and put his hand on Reese’s shoulder. “Reese and Robinson,” my father remarked, “they’re a lot more than great baseball players.”
After tributes of mixed eloquence were spoken, birthday gifts were presented, including a new Chevrolet, three thousand dollars in war bonds, a television set, golf clubs, cameras, and fishing equipment. The master of ceremonies was Dodger announcer Vin Scully, who had replaced Red Barber the previous year. Scully guided the emotional Reese to the microphone. “When I came to Brooklyn in 1940, I was a scared kid,” Reese began. “To tell you the truth, I’m twice as scared right now.”
After the fifth inning, an enormous birthday cake was carried onto the field and the lights in the park were turned off. That was our signal to light the candles we’d been given when we arrived, and to join Gladys Gooding on the organ to sing “Happy Birthday.” The thirty-three thousand candles flickered in the night like the Milky Way. Not only did the Man of the Hour double twice and score a run in the Dodgers’ 8-4 victory, but the generous wit of Jackie Robinson had given me an unexpected moment I would treasure for the rest of my life.
That night with my father, Reese, and Robinson remained fixed in my mind as the Dodgers continued their extraordinary season. On September 8, 1955, they clinched the National League pennant earlier than any team since 1904. The game was their eighth straight victory, and they finished seventeen games ahead of the second-place Braves.
In the American League, the Yankees remained in a close struggle with the Indians, the White Sox, and the Red Sox. Throughout August and the early part of September, no team was able to build a lead of more than two games. While the race seesawed, Dodger fans debated which team they would rather play in the World Series. The debate was resolved when the Yankees, sparked by the return of Billy Martin, as Elaine had known they would be, won fifteen of their last nineteen games to clinch the pennant on September 23. So, once again, the two ancient adversaries prepared for the contest I most wanted and most feared.
Below: Each team with its best pitchers in the first game of the 1955 World Series, Yankee Whitey Ford and our own Don Newcombe. Following page, top: Campanella homers during the Series. Following page, bottom: The ever-amazing Robinson stole home in the eighth inning of the first game, but the Yanks won 6-5.
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ALTHOUGH OUR SCHOOL PRINCIPAL, Dr. Richard Byers, refused our request to pipe the first game over the PA system, we managed to follow the action at Yankee Stadium through portable radios, with notes passed from desk to desk, and by observing the reactions of classmates. When I saw a look of pain cross the face of my friend Moose Fastov, a devoted Yankee fan, I knew that something good must have happened. Paul Greenberg, who was listening via earphones to a radio surreptitiously tucked under his desk, had just signaled him that Jackie Robinson had tripled to left and scored on a single by Don Zimmer. The Dodgers were ahead 2-0. Barely ten minutes later, however, Moose’s fist shot triumphantly into the air when Elston Howard’s home run off Newcombe tied the score, 2-2. During the break between classes, Duke Snider homered off Whitey Ford to put the Dodgers up 3-2, but by the time French class had begun, the Yankees had tied it again. When the bell signaled the end of school, it was already the seventh inning and the Yankees led 6-3. Afraid of missing the decisive action if we dashed for home, we gathered on the outside steps of the school building to listen to the final innings. Liberated from the constraints of the classroom, I screamed when the ever-amazing Robinson stole home in the eighth. But in the end, the Yanks held on to win the game, 6-5.
Even though the Series had just begun, the voice of doubt now entered into confrontation with the voice of hope. “They’ve lost the first game.” said doubt. “It looks bad. They’re going to lose the Series again, just as they always have.”
“It’s only one game,” countered hope, “and it was in Yankee Stadium. It was a close game, they played well. Tomorrow is another day.”
But by the end of the following day, doubt, swollen by fear, was in the ascendancy. The Dodgers had lost again, by a score of 4-2, on a five-hitter by Tommy Byrne. Was the Series already gone? For the past thirty-four years, no team had ever come back to win a Series after being down two games to none. And Dodger history did not encourage dreams of a historic comeback. There’s more to life than baseball, I told myself, with the wisdom my twelve years had given me. There was the Sadie Hawkins dance, for instance, and my choice of a date. And there was my paper on Reconstruction.
“Don’t give up now,” my father admonished me. “They’ll be coming back to Brooklyn. Home-field advantage is a big thing, and nowhere is it bigger than at Ebbets Field.” And he was right. The Dodgers roared to life in the third game, banging out eight runs and fourteen hits. Surprise starter Johnny Podres pitched a complete game to celebrate his twenty-third birthday; Campanella hit a home run, double, and single; and Jackie Robinson ignited the crowd and his teammates when he unnerved Yankee pitcher Bob Turley w
ith his daring on the bases.
My pleasure over Robinson’s virtuoso performance and the Dodgers’ victory was cut short that night when Elaine called to me from her window. She was so overwrought I could barely understand her and feared that something catastrophic had happened in her house. “Just meet me outside,” she said tearfully. I ran down the stairs and met her under the maple tree. She threw her arms around me and told me she had just heard on the radio that James Dean had been killed. His Porsche Spyder had careened off the road between Los Angeles and Salinas. His neck had been broken and he had died instantly.
For a long while we barely talked at all. Then we talked half the night. No one was awake in either of our houses, and soon all the lights on our block were out. There was no banter about that afternoon’s game. We were two twelve-year-olds lying on our backs, surrounded by darkness, looking up at the autumn sky and talking fiercely about death and James Dean, who was not so much older than we were, grieving as perhaps only two teenage girls can grieve. Above us, the leaves of the maple tree rustled, and as we looked up at the night stars, the spirit of James Dean seemed very close.
I was exhausted the following day and watched drowsily as the Yankees jumped ahead with two quick runs off Carl Erskine. But when home runs by Campanella, Hodges, and Snider put the Dodgers ahead 7-3 in the fifth, my suddenly revived spirits dissolved all fatigue. In the next inning, the Yankees reduced the Dodger lead to 7-5, scoring two runs on a double by Billy Martin. But in the eighth, Campanella scored an insurance run and the Dodgers held on to win 8-5. The Series was now tied at two games apiece.