A Game - April 17, 2019

It was his turn to throw. He took the rubber ball in both hands and worked his hands in opposite directions treating the rubber roughly to gain as much traction as he could between his hands and the rubber surface until they were one.  His hands would smell for a week. The older the ball the better the grip and the worse the smell; a mixture of synthetic rubber and every kid’s sweat on the street. His mother would sniff it out instantly and make him sit on the short stool with the tin bucket of warm sudsy water in front of him and soak those small hands until it was time for bed. It would all be worth it if he could get the grip he needed to have the ball spin at the right angle to curve off the stoop, drop steeply, then unexpectedly knuckle to make all his friends miss catching it. It was his last shot and they were down. He would try to aim at Mikey because Mikey had the slowest feet and would be last to react to the sudden change in trajectory. 

“Throw it already!” 

His friends had enough waiting and knew their moms would be screaming out the windows in no time. Chris took the rubber ball in his left hand and threw it with all his might against the upper step so to gain the most speed and the least trajectory. It hit the step perfectly and spun as planned toward Mikey who reacted quicker than he had ever before. Chris stood watching and all the kids were screaming. The ball hung a second longer than Chris had wanted and Mikey was now a step closer than anticipated but as the ball came down Mikey’s hands lagged behind and the ball hit the ground in front of him. Mikey was able to keep it there and caught the ball on one bounce without any bobble. The bench screamed single which means only one run scored and the game was tied. Both sides were screaming and ready for the last batter to decide who was who. A moment later Johnny’s mom’s head was out the window. She spotted him across the street in front of the curb, known to the kids as “The Outfield.” You were a legend if you could throw the ball hard enough for it to bounce over the starting side walk (home plate), the entire street (the infield), the opposing side walk (again, the outfield) and hit the buildings across the street (a homerun). Few 10 yr olds had done it and Christopher wanted to join that select group. He had a few months left to get it done. 

“Come inside and wash up!”

Like a wave, more windows opened further down the street and more mothers were screaming for their children to come wash up for supper. Chris grabbed Tommy from the watching pit that was the stoop next door and headed for home. 

“That was some curve you made!”

“Yes but I got too much under it.”

“Nobody noticed. It still fell where you were aiming.”

“I noticed.”

“Will you teach me?”

“Not in front of everyone. Maybe we can try out back.”

“You know momma will yell at us if we hit one of the coops.” 

“If you have any aim at all you will be fine.” 

They came upon their stoop and jolted inside. They climbed up the stairs two steps at a time, Tommy with a little more effort, until they were at their door on the 3rd floor and then inside their apartment. Mom was still cooking dinner and Dad wasn’t home yet. 

Their mother was a stay at home mom now but had worked as a military nurse for some time before. She still volunteers at the local meals for the elderly but most time she is home cooking, cleaning and raising two sons, something she admits is the hardest job she ever had. Her name was Annete, or Ann for short. She was born from Italian immigrants, her father from Lombardy, her mother from Sicily. This gave her a lighter complexion. Her hair a dark brown while her eyes a greenish blue. 

“You boys go wash up. Dinner will be ready in a minute and your father will be home in two.” She demanded. “When you’re done come in here and set the table.” .

They did as Mom asked and to this point were happy that the strong smell of the braising meat was drowning out the smell of Chris’ hands. They would have pot roast which was usually made from a fatty piece of beef, red potatoes cut four times, onion, carrot and several spices. Momma usually made 4 meals worth every time she made it; two dinners for the entire family and 2 lunches for the boys and dad. This was a treat for all of them. 

Dad was home no more than ten minutes later. The boys ran to great him at the door and he barely had time to put his briefcase down before the boys had jumped up onto his chest. “Chris, you are getting a little too big for me to catch you anymore. Actually, it could be tonight’s dinner that tips the scale.” He said as the first hint of the pot roast hit his nose. “And Tommy, you may only have a little time left if you keep trying to keep up with your brother at dinners.” “I’m almost 70 pounds!” , Chris said excitedly. This was a lie as he actually had no clue how heavy he was. He last had his weight taken at football tryouts last year and was about 60 pounds then so only assumes 10 pounds a year isn’t too far fetched. Dad bent down and whispered into his ear, “By the way, I could smell the rubber through the door, you’re lucky mom has been cutting garlic and onions. If you go wash your hands two more times you may be able to get it past her.” “Okay”, Chris responded and ran off. 

Dad took his hat off and placed it on the rack. He hung his long coat under it on the hook. He undid his tie and took of this jacket and laid both on his bed which was right past the living room. Mom and Dad’s bedroom was also the office as dad had refurbished a desk he found and put it beside his dresser. He placed his briefcase down on the desk chair.

They all gathered around the table. Chris and Tommy were placing the last of the silverware as Mom put the tray of pot roast on some oven mitts that lie on the table. Mom made string beans to go with the pot roast and cut a loaf of bastone and put a small amount of butter on the table. They passed around their plates and if you were sitting in front of something then it was your job to serve it. Mom platted the roast and potatoes. Dad buttered the bread. Tommy scooped the string beans while Chris held the plates. Before they ate they took each others hands, bowed their heads and said grace. 

Dad’s hands were rough like sand paper. They were callused by the pads of his hands and there were small cuts on the skin besides his finger nails. He worked as an Appliance repair man in the city. He carried a tool box the size of Tommy up endless flights of stairs everyday but Sunday. His job had it’s perks; he rarely worked the same spot twice, he got lots of exercise so was always in great shape, he was home by 5 most nights, and he got to meet lots of people. This was a major change for him after the war but he embraced his new role with a smile. 

“Amen”

The boys were scooping up potatoes before anyone could speak. 

“Chris can you pass the string beans,” mom asked. Tommy passed the bowl to Chris who grabbed the bowl with both hands and turned to hand it to Mom. 

“Once dinner is done you will go soak those hands.”