Opening Day
Jem whispered in the dark to his older brother, Bobby, “We could sneak into the bleachers. You know, over on Flatbush Avenue where there’s a hole in the fence?”
“We could save up some money and buy box seats,” Bobby said, pushing Jem’s bed springs of the upper bunk with his barefoot. “We’ve never sat in the boxes. We could get right up close to Duke Snider and maybe get his autograph. We’d be sitting right behind Roy Campanella.”
“Yeah. We could reach out and touch ole Roy from those seats.” Jem, propping himself up on one elbow, peered down at Bobby from the upper bunk.
“Don’t get carried away. Those seats are far from home plate. They just look close on TV. Roy might walk back to the dugout though. Then we’d get a really close look. That’s it, Jem. We’ll get seats right behind the Dodgers’ dugout.”
They lay in silence for a minute, staring at the ceiling and dreaming about Opening Day at Ebbets Field sitting in box seats.
“Jeez, I can hardly wait,” Jem said.
“We’ll have to make some money. Box seats go for three-fifty each, plus train fare, hot dogs, and Cokes. We’ll have to make at least ten bucks apiece by the beginning of April. This year we’ll sit in the boxes right behind Snider, Erskine, and Pee Wee Reese. We could look’m right in the eye.”
Jem saw Bobby’s silhouette with arms folded behind his head, figuring out how to get to Ebbets Field.
“Hey, Bobby. There’s a good chance we’ll catch a foul ball sitting behind the dugout. We’ll come home with a genuine Brooklyn Dodgers baseball. Jeez, the other kids will go nuts when they see that. Can you imagine Joey Amidon’s eyes when he sees us with a Brooklyn Dodgers official baseball? He’ll flip.”
“Sure, Jem. We’ll keep it here in the bedroom and charge kids a dime just to look at it—a quarter to touch it. We can earn back the cost of going to the game.”
“Wait a minute. If we’re sitting behind the dugout, we can get Gil Hodges to autograph it! Holy cow! We’ll have an official autographed ball!” Jem’s voice rose with excitement.
“Easy, Jem. We might not even get a foul ball. They don’t hit that many over the dugout. If they do, you still have to catch it. We might get one, though. You never know. If we don’t, you can buy one at the concession stand. Those balls are official, too, even though you buy them. You might get Don Newcombe to autograph it. It’s possible.”
Even that possibility made Jem grin as he sighed and rolled over to sleep.
The following morning at breakfast, Jem’s enthusiasm was still high. He talked around a mouthful of cereal. “How about we go into the bike-fixing business? Kids are starting to ride their bikes again with the weather getting better. Most bikes rust. Sitting unused all winter screws’m up. We could charge fifty cents for a chain oiling and tightening, maybe seventy-five cents to fix a flat. I’ll put up a sign at school. I’ll bet we’ll make out like bandits. Kids are always messin’ up their bikes.”
“We’ll need tools and a shop of some kind.” Pensive, Bobby chewed his Cheerios, digesting the idea. “We’ll have to ask Dad if we can use the garage. It’ll need a good cleaning.” He nodded. “It could work. Our motto could be No Job Too Small. We’d get girls to come, too, from all over. They can’t fix anything. We could get ten cents just for straightening their handlebars. Good idea, Jem.”
“We’ll make a fortune with ‘Bob and Jem’s Bike-Repair Shop.’ We could issue stock like Pop talks about when he reads the paper, but only to our favorite patrons. It could become big business.”
“Forget big business. We just want to see Opening Day at Ebbets Field. That’s twenty bucks by the end of the month. Don’t get carried away.”
Days later in the Larkins’ garage, Bobby asked Janet Daniel, a neighborhood girl who was good at drawing, to make posters for them. She used three colors with ornate Roman lettering, and the final product looked very professional. Jem gave Janet his seal of approval with a nod after reading one of the new posters:
Larkins’ Garage
All Bikes Repaired - One-Day ServiceNo Job Too Small
Monday-Friday
3 PM-5 PM
Saturday
10 AM-4 PM
Jem and Bobby hauled old dressers to the attic, dumped used tires in the junk pile off Burnt Meadow Road, and collected a hundred tools from around the garage and hung them on pegboards. Organizing the sports equipment along the garage wall, they prepared to open shop. Their nostrils flared with the musty smell of hard work.
In the first hour, customers streamed in. Bobby fixed Janet’s crooked seat and oiled her chain. When she offered him fifty cents, he declined.
“After all, you made the posters.” He shrugged. “Fair’s fair.”
She kissed his greasy cheek, making him blush. Jem snarled.
“Back to work, Jem!” Bobby said, wiping his cheek.
Bobby shrugged off payment from little kids with tricycles, as well as from Friends who simply borrowed tools to fix their own bikes. Their classmates hung around to talk and assist with repairs.
One day, after repairing a flat, Jem realized the job took one hour. Frustrated when he collected seventy-five cents, he took Bobby aside to state his case.
“After we get the wheel off, find the hole, pump the tire, and stick it in water to see where the bubbles come from, we still have to rough it with the scraper, glue a patch in place, and remount and inflate the tire. That’s almost half a day!”
“Come on, Jem. Remember, we’re going to Opening Day at Ebbets.”
“Yeah, but you spent the whole morning fixing flats for those two snobby girls
from Chukanutt Place and pocketed only a dollar-fifty!”
Bobby wrinkled his brow and shook his head.
Later that day, Jem slumped in a sagging cardboard box in the back of the garage.
The smell of chain oil, dust, old newspapers, even a dead mouse, made him complain.
“The heck with this,” Jem said. “This is slave labor. We aren’t getting anywhere.
We took in two seventy-five, but we laid out two bucks for patches and chain oil. What a stupid idea this turned out to be.”
Bobby finished tightening the reflector lights on a little kid’s tricycle. The five- year-old boy stared at him with a big smile.
“Remember, you have to keep pedaling around corners, or you’ll tip over every time you make a turn,” Bobby told him.
The kid nodded, but Bobby kept repeating his words, because it was clear the kid didn’t understand.
“Listen to me, Taylor. If you come into the corner fast, and you aren’t pedaling as you turn the wheel, you’ll turn over. See what I mean?”
“Uh-huh.” Taylor nodded.
“I don’t think you get it, Taylor. Even if you’re going slow, just keep pedaling around every corner, then you won’t tip over. I don’t want to see you coasting around corners anymore, OK? Get it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Look. Pedal around here in the garage. I want to watch you do it, right here.
Go ahead. Show me.”
Taylor climbed on his red and blue tricycle, staring and smiling at Bobby as he pedaled continuously in a circle.
“You see?” Bobby asked. “You’re pedaling and turning at the same time.
Do that all the time. If you do it on the sidewalk, you won’t fall over when you make sharp turns. OK?”
“OK. I will.” He looked at Bobby with admiration.
Taylor and his friends looked up to Bobby as if he were an Olympic tricycle coach. Bobby pushed the kid out of the garage and down the drive, then he turned back to Jem, who was still sitting in the collapsed cardboard box.
“What are you griping about now?” Bobby asked.
“I’m not griping. I’m just looking at this realistically. We won’t make any money if we keep running tricycle-riding clinics for little kids and fix their bikes for nothing. We have to get down to business. Fixing flats is a killer. We’ll never make it this way. We’re ruined. I’m exhausted, and we haven’t made any money.”
“Jem, you aren’t seeing this right. You aren’t picturing Jackie Robinson trotting right past your nose into the dugout.” He stood up straight and held his hands against his stomach in a traditional pitcher’s stance. “You aren’t thinking about Newcombe’s wind-up and lightning-fast release.” He hauled back and threw an invisible ball to Jem.
“But Bobby—”
“You’ll be so close to the action, you’ll hear his fastball smack into Campanella’s mitt.” He punched his fist into his open palm. “You aren’t thinkin’, Jem. You’re losing it already. Stay with Opening Day, with Hodges, Snider, Furillo, and Reese. You’ll be there, Jem, on Opening zippidity-doo-da Day at Ebbets Field. Jeez! What a day that’ll be for us.”
Bobby moved around the garage, picking up invisible grounders and throwing them to an invisible first baseman. Jem lay in the box, watching him act out Major League Baseball as if he owned it. Jem’s obvious apathy made Bobby start announcing an imaginary game.
“There’s a sharp ground ball to short,” Bobby said. “Reese is up with it and over to Hodges at first for an easy out!” He caught his own throw like Hodges, stretching out and reaching one hand high over his head then he strutted to the center of the garage to resume his pitcher’s stance.
“Newcombe’s in his wind-up—and the pitch! Strike one, over the inside corner!”
Finally, Bobby’s antics got Jem into the spirit of the game.
“There’s the wind-up, and the pitch. Outside! Ball one!”
Jem groaned with disappointment.
Bobby dusted off his pants and wiped his forehead like Newcombe would between pitches, then he resumed the wind-up stance and stared at his imaginary batter. “Newcombe’s ready. The wind-up—then the pitch! Whack! There’s a long fly ball towards the left field wall. It’s going, going, gone! It’s a home run!” Bobby watched the imaginary ball fly over the wall.
Jem snapped out of his dream state, scrambled from the box, and jumped on
Bobby as he pretended to round the bases. “You bum! Nobody knocks a homer off
Newcombe!” He tried to punch and wrestle Bobby to the ground.
Bobby laughed, fending him off. “Hey, Jem! Cut it out! It’s not my fault some guy hit a homer!” He laughed so hard, he couldn’t keep Jem off of him.
Jem rolled him onto the floor and mussed his hair. Bobby’s contagious laughter made Jem laugh, too. Out of control, they laughed and wrestled to exhaustion. Finally,
Jem sat on top of Bobby’s legs, while Bobby lay on the floor with his arms crossed behind his head with a grin on his face.
“Opening Day, Jem,” Bobby said. “Let’s keep goin’ for it. We’ll fix every bike in town if we have to. We’ll make enough money if we stick with it.”
One week later, all the hard work and little money deflated Jem’s waning enthusiasm again. He and Bobby lay in bed in the dark. Every few seconds, Jem sighed loudly.
“What’re ya doin’, Jem? I’m trying to sleep. Cut it out.”
“Oh, sure. You can sleep like a baby, but this bike-repair business isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. Kids are cheap. They ask you to fix a hundred broken parts on their crummy bikes, then they say all they’ve got is fifty cents. Some promise to pay next time they get their allowance or some other lame excuse.
There are a million bikes in the world, and none of the parts fit from one to the other. Whose dumb idea was that? Just when you’ve spent your last two cents on a final nut or bolt, some fancy kid rolls in with an English racer that his big-shot father bought him. Worse than that, my partner keeps helping every Tom, Dick,
Harry, and Sue with a freebie!”
Bobby sat up, silhouetted against the window by the streetlight outside.
“Is that all you’re huffin’ and puffin’ about?”
“After two weeks, we’ve made a cool eight bucks after parts, lunches, and
Cokes. Yeah, I’m discouraged, but you’re havin’ the time of your life. When girls come in with a minor job, like crooked handlebars or something, you straighten them out for free. If a little kid can’t afford our going rate, you ask him how much he has, then you charge him only that. The tricycle charity never slows down. Mothers come by to thank us for helping their little darlings, but we’re gettin’ nowhere fast.”
Jem turned on the light. “We’ll never get to Opening Day if you keep giving everything away. We need to start makin’ money, or we won’t ever see Ebbets Field.”
Bobby smiled and replied calmly, “If the bike business doesn’t do it, we’ll think of something else. We’re sitting in those boxes at Ebbets on Opening Day.
Nothing’ll keep us away. Go back to sleep and stop worrying.”
By necessity, they expanded their business to repairing wagons, shopping carts, roller skates, and even a few baby carriages.
One night at ten o’clock, Jem stretched and wiped sweat from his dirty face.
“Jeez, Bobby. It’s late. Give it a rest.”
“Nah. I’ll finish these three bikes before eleven o’clock. Go to bed. I’ll sleep better knowing I finished them all tonight.”
For many late nights, when Jem peered down from his bedroom window at the garage, he saw the lights still on and he heard Bobby rustling about, working tirelessly.
Bobby’s routine never changed. Jem felt he was watching an old home movie endlessly repeating. The tricycle brigade of little kids in groups of three or four circled the driveway in front of the open garage door. Taylor led each group, because he brought new customers to see Bobby every day. They waved to him and smiled to show off how they’d learned to pedal without toppling over.
Bobby tightened a few things on their tricycles, then they jumped on them and rode with renewed confidence and glee. When night came, they went home, but they stopped every few yards to wave good-bye to Bobby repeatedly. Bobby stopped working each time to wave back, then he returned to the grind.
In late afternoon, as the tricycle brigade turned out of sight onto the sidewalk, Jem wiped chain oil from his hands and slumped against an orange crate. “Don’t those little kids drive you crazy?”
“Nah. They’re just friendly.”
“After fixing Taylor’s seat three times a day even when it isn’t broken, I’d go nuts.”
Bobby didn’t look up from straightening the wheel on an upended red-and-gold Schwinn. “He thinks it’s broken, Jem. We can renew his confidence if we just fiddle with it for a minute. He rides away feeling good, and I keep working.”
“Jeez, Bobby. You keep fooling around with those kids, and you never stop working, even late into the night.”
“Maybe, but how much money do we have stashed away, Jem? I figure we’ve made it.”
Jem went to the cigar box under the workbench and counted the money. He held an imaginary bugle to his lips and announced, “Ta-ta! The grand Ebbets Field Brooklyn Dodgers bike-fixing total is twenty-seven dollars and fifty-five cents!” He bowed.
“Wow! We made it, Jem!” Bobby leaped into the air, ran to Jem, and gave him a bear hug as they danced around and slapped each other on the back, “We’ve made it, brother!” Bobby shouted. “We’re goin’ to Ebbets on Opening Day! Yahoo!”
The excitement made Jem dizzy, and he lost his breath as their chant-like celebration rang in his ears.
They collapsed on the garage floor, staring at the ceiling in a trance.
Later that night in bed, Jem and Bobby discussed the game they’d see as Opening Day came into focus as a tangible reality.
“Johnny Podres is my guy, Bobby,” Jem said. “He’s got a better fastball than Newcombe. He can mix’em up better, too, keeping the batters off balance. Newcombe throws too many curveballs and off-speed stuff. Don’t get me wrong. He’s good at it, but they can figure him out. Podres has more power. He can blow it by them better.
My money’s on him this year. Podres will make the difference.”
“It’s defense this year, Jem. The Dodgers’ defense is so strong, it’ll get them all the way to the pennant. I’m lookin’ at Snider, Reese, and Junior Gilliam, guys who’ll make it so tight, nothing will ever fall in for a hit. Walter Alston’s got the greatest defensive team in baseball. Watch those guys. That defense will take them all the way to the World Series.”
Jem lay in the dark, imagining the Brooklyn Dodgers announced by names and starting positions on Opening Day. The team scattered to their positions on the field and stood at attention, caps over their hearts for the National Anthem. He and Bobby stood directly behind the dugout.
Jem’s vision of them seated behind the dugout at Ebbets Field was jolted by the loud crack of a bat.
They jumped to their feet from their seats to catch a foul ball, but the roar of the crowd made Jem sit up in bed.
He turned to Bobby, who was already asleep. “Hey! How do ya know we’re gonna have seats behind the dugout?”
“Huh? I called and reserved the seat numbers we picked off the stadium layout from Dad’s old program. We’ve got to be there an hour before the game starts. Don’t worry. We’re all set.”
“Jeez. That’s great, Bobby. We’ll be there with the team on Opening Day, practically in the dugout with them.”
Jem drifted off to sleep, dreaming of Ebbets Field. He envisioned them sitting behind the Dodgers’ dugout. As Bobby called the plays, Jem admired his older brother’s knowledge of the game.
Just as the pitcher went into his wind-up, Bobby whispered, “Fastball? Yes!
Slip’em the curve on the inside corner. Slider, yes, Clem Baby. Slider. That-a-baby!
Oh, Jeez. Why’d he do that?”
Bobby coached the base runners and grumbled instructions to the manager.
Jem imagined them talking with Jackie Robinson over the dugout roof and waving to Duke Snider after he hit a home run. Jem saw a hot dog vender at the end of the aisle watched a steady stream of hot dogs pass from one fan to another until one wafted under his nose.
Suddenly, he sat up in bed. “Jeez! I can taste the hot dogs. Bobby? You awake?”
“Yep.”
“What’re you thinking about?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you catching a foul ball tipped off Duke Snider’s bat. I imagined you getting excited and saw how nervous you’d be to ask him to autograph the ball after the game, but you did. You’d go out of your mind on the train ride home with that ball bulging in your pocket. Stuff like that.”
“No kiddin’?”
“Yup. You’ll love Opening Day.”
“Yeah, but I was thinkin’ about how I’m gonna love going with you, because you know so much about the game. Jeez. I can’t wait.”
“Me, neither.”
Later, Jem rolled over in bed towards Bobby’s bed and saw his rising figure silhouetted against the dawn sunlight coming through the window. With fond admiration, he watched Bobby dress quickly. Besides being Jem’s partner in the bike shop, Bobby worked at the local marina before school, from six to eight o’clock in the morning, making extra money for college in four years.
“See you later, Jem.” The rising sun shone on his familiar grin, etched for eternity in Jem’s mind, where he’d relive that morning following Bobby’s departure from home forever after.
Bobby walked to the marina as the sun rose. He listened to the sea gulls’ chatter and waved to old Captain Ebenezer at the clam docks, even though Cappy was blind. The old man recognized Bobby’s footsteps and called good morning to him.
“How’s your little Jem of a brother doing, Bobby?” he asked. “Fine, I hope?
He’ll be old enough to work for me this summer. Have him come around.”
“Great, Cappy. We’re going to Opening Day at Ebbets Field this week.”
Bobby walked along the docks, so serene with the bay lapping gently against the bulkhead. His chore that morning was to unhitch Mrs. Sismilich’s rowboat from the bulkhead and move it to another dock, a task he’d performed dozens of times for her and many others over the past weeks.
Bobby, tripping over a mooring cleat, bumped his head on the side of the boat he was pulling. He fell into the water, but no one was on the dock to see him fall in.
He was gone and would never come up for Opening Day.
Jem often imagined Bobby’s viewpoint from underwater, looking up toward the dock, where he saw Jem standing, helpless, unable to move.
I’m wearing my Dodgers cap, Jem thought. But our chance to go to Opening Day together is gone forever.
The day after Boby’s funeral, Jem removed the sign Janet made for their bicycle repair shop. As he turned around, he saw Taylor with his tricycle brigade. They came into the garage and rode in a circle around Jem. None of them spoke, but he watched all of them pedaling into their turns without falling.
Jem smiled and slowly replaced the sign. Taylor tugged on Jem’s shirt and handed him a typed note. All the little kids sat on their tricycles, their eyes glued on
Jem as he read the note:
Dear Jem,
Thank you for the trip to the baseball game. I enjoyed it so much. I’m sorry about your brother, Bobby. He was my friend, too. I didn’t have a chance to thank him for fixing my tricycle all the time, so I want to thank you instead. Thanks again for everything.
Your Friend,
Taylor Burke
The little kids sat on their tricycles, staring at Jem as he turned his back to them and walked into the garage. After taking a few deep breaths, he looked at the
Brooklyn Dodgers pennant hanging over the workbench at the back of the garage.
Then he looked at the crumpled box he’d sat in when Bobby pantomimed imaginary ball games. Something rattled in his chest, and he coughed nervously, fighting off tears before facing the little kids again.
He turned and placed his hand on Taylor’s head. “Who won the game,
Taylor?”
“The Dodgers.”
He squatted down to the boy’s eye level. “Did you enjoy the game?”
“Yup.”
“Did you see Duke Snider?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And Jackie Robinson?”
“Yup.”
“How about Carl Erskine?”
“Nope.”
“Ya didn’t? Are ya sure?”
“Nope.”
Standing, Jem said, “Thanks for coming, guys. I’ll see you guys later. Are your tricycles OK? Seats tight? Handlebars straight?”
“Yup!” they said in unison, heading in a caravan down the driveway.
Jem waved and shouted. “See ya later!”
“See ya!” they called, waving back and remembering to pedal into their turns as they vanished.
END