Chapter 15

Ebbets Field – 1947 World Series

I entered the famed portals of Charlie Ebbets ballpark with Dennis at my side.

We stood on the Italian marble floor under the baseball bat chandelier while the crowd swirled past us.

"Ever been here before?" Dennis inquired as we walked toward our seats.

"No, I've been to Wrigley of course, and Comiskey too. Caught a couple games in Detroit once and both ball parks in St. Louis. But although I've been to New York twice, I've never seen a baseball game here."

We came out into the open and a sea of green greeted us. It was, as it always is with me, a breathtakingly beautiful sight.

Before us, on the field, the batting cage was in place, and Pistol Pete Reiser was hitting. The Brooklyn pitchers, except for Hatten, the starter, were running in the outfield. The rest of the team lounged alertly on the field in their immaculate whites with the blue trim. Some infielders were in the outfield shagging the balls hit there and some outfielders and catchers were cavorting in the infield, making behind the back catches of pop flies.

"They seem relaxed after losing two straight," I said.

"That's in the past," Dennis said, "They're professionals; it doesn't matter if the Yankees kicked their asses 18-0 yesterday. Today is a new day and a new ballgame.

"Bobo Newsom's going today. I said.

"Yeah? Well several Dodgers see him real good," he replied.

An usher showed us to our seats behind the Dodgers dugout on the home plate side rather than the first base side. "These are great seats," I told Dennis.

"Yeah, well it's who you know."

"My guess is you know a lot of people."

"I've been around. You get to know people if you're around long enough."

"The fellow gave you the ducats seemed kinda nervous," I said, fishing for more information.

Dennis bit, and told me, "He had every right to be nervous. I caught him with the Mayor's right hand man's dick up his ass."

"Wouldn't that be more of a problem for the Mayor's man?"

"Might be if you weren't the City Comptroller."

"Hmmm, you have a point there."

"I always have a point, Roy. Now Robinson's going to take his turn, let's watch him."

We watched as the first negro to play in the major leagues in this century hit line drive after line drive to the farthest reaches of the ball park.

"Reminds me of Stan the Man," I said off the top of my head.

"Some, yeah," Dennis smiled. "More like Lajoie, you ask me. See how he looks like he's gonna fly apart as he starts his swing and then his bat levels off and meets the ball squarely? That was Lajoie."

"I never saw Mr. Lajoie hit," I said.

"Didn't see him field either, right? He was nearly flawless in the field. And him with that little-bitty glove they used back then."

"I've read that he was renowned for his defensive play," I replied.

"No one ever played a better second base, although some might argue Eddie Collins was better. Collins was great too, but better? I doubt it."

We watched Robinson hit another screaming line drive off the Schaffer Beer sign in deep left-center and then vacate the batting cage.

"Stanky will be gone next year," Dennis said knowingly.

"And you know this ... how?" I asked.

"They got a kid named Hodges needs to play. He'll move from back-up catcher to first. Robby will take over at his natural position. For that to happen Stanky has to go."

I didn't argue with him. His knowledge of baseball and its inner workings far surpassed mine. What he said made sense, Stanky, although one of the better second basemen in the majors was getting old; and if Hodges could hit with power ... well you'd be hard pressed to keep him on the bench. As for first base, Robinson was clearly uncomfortable there. It was entirely possible he would blossom at the four position with his speed and agility.

The crowd continued to file in, and the excitement rose with each passing minute.

"We missed seeing DiMaggio hit didn't we?" I said.

"That must have been about an hour ago," Dennis replied laconically. "Usually its only the kids get here that early. They catch one of his longer shots he might sign the ball after he's finished batting."

"That's nice of him," I said.

"He's a shy guy, but likes the kids. Adults make him uncomfortable. When he goes out its usually with an entourage. They fend off the bothersome types. He's a regular at Toots Shor's although you can't get near him. [1]

We each had a beer bought from a vendor bouncing up and down the steps while a Dodger coach swatted long, lazy fungoes out to the outfield. The crowd, mostly men, many of them with boys, scorecards clutched in their hands, filtered slowly into their seats.

Over the loudspeakers, Buddy Clark was singing "Linda." I sipped my beer as we listened to it. Dennis finished his cigarette and snubbed it carelessly with his foot into the stadium's concrete flooring. I saw that it wasn't completely out, and a small acrid twist of smoke rose from it still. I leaned across him and snuffed the butt until it was completely out.

"What do you think... ?" He started to say, but I interrupted him.

"Of the girls? I like the both of them. Why, do you favor one over the other?"

My question caught Dennis off guard. It may have been the first time I ever did so.

"Yeah, the girls; they'll put out, I guarantee it. And to answer your question, no, I don't care which one I wind up with."

"You, um, visited them?" I asked, suspecting as much.

That got me a wolfish grin. "Of course I did."

"And?"

"Like most women, their first consideration was are we matrimonial material? In that regard we passed with flying colors."

"But Lizbeth's married," I protested.

"He's in Germany. Might get killed at any time. Who knows? It doesn't hurt to have a fellow in the bull-pen, so to speak."

"How callous is that?" I said.

"The ladies think ahead. They have to look out for themselves."

"So, is Beatrice really a virgin?" I asked, knowing he had the answer.

"Surprisingly, yes. Her mother has kept the men at bay. It seems Lizbeth got the hots for guys early on. She had a close call with pregnancy at eighteen, and that was before husband number one. That had the mother on the alert to anything in pants. Anyway, Lizbeth married him just before her twentieth birthday, and got knocked up in a flurry of frenzied fucking just before he shipped out."

"What else is there to know about Beatrice?"

"I would add that Lizbeth is about as horny these days as a woman can possibly get. Did you see her checking our packages out?"

I had to admit that I hadn't, and said so.

"Well, she did. Took a long hard look too, and I mean at both of us. Beatrice saw her do it and almost bit her lip off, she was really surprised by her sister's actions.

But knowing women, they'll have a long, detailed discussion about us before we meet them tonight."

"You think Beatrice will tell Lizbeth what we were doing to her?"

"I'd bet on it."

"But why? How?" I blurted, unable to conceive of the younger sister telling the older what had gone on in the Pullman Car's powder room.

"She'll see how horny her sister is. She knows Lizbeth won't want to go out with us and will use her marriage as an excuse. But little Miss Beatrice wants to get laid. For that matter, so does her sister. They'll meet us and we'll wine and dine them."

"And then?" I asked like a love-sick teenager.

"We take them to our hotel room for a night-cap and fuck their brains out. I intend to screw each of them in turn. You can too if you want."

It had never occurred to me that we might share the sisters although I had fantasized about nailing each of them; only not the same night.