The Hero Two Doors Down (9 page)

“Sure, Dad,” I agreed, climbing onto a stool next to my father. I knew he was upset, but I hoped that working on this with me would make him feel a little bit better.

We worked in silence. When the fuselage was finished, we sanded the model plane and covered it with layers of tissue paper and fabric, then final thin strips of balsa wood. Before going to bed, we painted our plane chrome and finished it off with a red stripe down the middle. It was a beauty!

The next Sunday, Dad took me to the field where people were showing off their model planes. We set ours up on a folding table and waited for someone to notice it. Dad circled around the other tables and I manned ours.

“That's an L-17, isn't it, boy?” an older man said as he approached our table.

“Sure is,” I replied with pride.

“The finish is nice and smooth. It looks like it could fly,” the man said.

“My dad and I still have some work to do. We don't even have landing gear,” I told him.

“I was an air force pilot during the Second World War. I delivered cargo to North Africa in one of these babies.” The man ran his fingers over the fuselage. “You did a good job.”

“That's because I made it with my father,” I replied.

“That's right,” the man said. “Stick around. Some of the boys will be flying their models this afternoon. For such a young boy, you're taking this hobby seriously. I like that,” he added.

By the time Dad came back to the table, I was beaming. “Dad! Tons of people came by to admire our plane.”

“I'm proud of you, son.”

“Can we build one that flies?” I asked.

“Sure.”

It wasn't as if we forgot about the Dodgers that summer. Building the model plane just gave us something to do with our hands while we listened to games on the radio. It also kept us from being too anxious when the Dodgers went from last place to third in late August.

The Dodgers left Brooklyn for a long stretch of away games. I overheard Rachel tell my mom that when Jackie was playing out of town, he wrote her long letters and sent flowers on Fridays. Mom said that her husband needed to take some romance lessons from Jackie. The two mothers laughed a long time over that one.

I told my father about the conversation between Mom and Rachel. Dad reminded me that since he worked in Manhattan, he didn't need to write his wife love letters. I had to agree. My father worked long hours, but he came home every night. I counted myself lucky.

On August 29, Jackie “hit for the cycle” with a home run, a triple, a double, and then a single in the same game! Jackie also stole a base, scored three runs, and knocked in two others. Seven wins in a row sent the Dodgers into first place. Boy, did we celebrate that night!

The new school year started up after Labor Day. A new class and a new teacher!

After a few tough breaks, the Dodgers ended their season in third place. We were heartbroken about their missing the playoffs. I refused to cry, but it took me a whole day before I could even talk about how sad I felt.

Sena and I were on our way home from school. We'd been fourth graders for a whole month. As we turned onto our block, I spotted Jackie.

“Hi, Steve,” Jackie said as we walked toward him. “Is this your friend Sena?”

“Sure is.”

“Nice to finally meet you, Sena,” Jackie said, extending his right hand to her. “Steve talks about you all the time.”

“He talks to me about you, too, Mr. Robinson. You're his hero,” Sena said.

“I'm his friend, Sena,” Jackie replied, rubbing my shoulder. “How's fourth grade?” he asked.

“Pretty tough. A lot more homework,” we told him.

“Do you see much of Miss Maliken?”

“I pass her in the hall every day,” I replied. “She asked if you were still my neighbor. She told me to keep up the good work.”

“Sena, did you have trouble with Miss Maliken last year, too?” Jackie asked.

“You bet,” Sena replied. “She had a right to be tough on us.”

“From the stories Steve told me, I guess you're correct.”

“Were you okay with the Dodgers' record this season?” Sena asked.

“My only disappointment was that we ended up in third place. We could have done better.”

“But you led the league in hits, doubles, triples, total bases, and runs scored. Plus, you were rated the best second baseman in the National League. You've got to be happy with those statistics,” I reminded Jackie.

“Baseball's a team sport,” Jackie replied. “No individual player can rest on his performance alone. Our team had a chance to be first and we blew it.”

“What's next for you?” Sena asked.

Jackie rested his hands on his hips and stared down at Sena and me. “One thing for sure,” he said, “I won't be eating as much as I did the last winter break.”

Sena and I cracked up.

“Are you and Rachel going to California to see your families?”

“Not this year, Steve. We're staying in New York. Campy and I are going barnstorming for a month. We'll be playing with a Negro League team, the New York Cubans. But we'll be back in New York by November to work at the Harlem YMCA.”

“Phew,” I said, relieved. “I thought you'd be away for months.”

Jackie smiled down at me. “As a matter of fact, Rachel and I have decided to plant some roots here in New York.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, feeling happy and hopeful that the Robinsons would remain my neighbors.

“We're house hunting. It's time we bought a house with a yard so Jackie can play outside.”

“You mean you're moving off Tilden Avenue?” I asked.

“At some point,” Jackie replied. I couldn't believe it. Jackie and I had just become friends and now there was a chance he might move away? I was crushed, but I didn't want Jackie to see that. Sena and I said good-bye and I went home.

The next day, I was sent to the principal's office because I bloodied a classmate's nose. I hadn't been in trouble since last spring. I could tell right away that Mrs. Wexler was very disappointed in me.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” she asked me.

“Joel deserved it,” I muttered, still angry about the fight.

“Stephen, no one deserves to get punched in the face,” she told me. “Did you two argue about something?”

“Joel told me, ‘I'll bust your chops.' So I beat him to it,” I said defiantly. “Last week, he called me a chicken just because I said it was too cold to play football.”

“Still no reason to hit another person, Stephen,” Mrs. Wexler reminded me. “Your mother wasn't home, so I've called your father. He's on his way to the office to get you.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “You made my father leave work to come and get me?”

“That's correct,” Mrs. Wexler said. “This is a serious offense. A parent has to be notified. While you're waiting for your father, you can write a letter of apology to Joel.”

“Does Joel have to write me an apology letter, too?”

“I'm meeting with Joel after lunch,” Mrs. Wexler replied.

An hour later, Dad marched into the office and snatched me up from my chair. “We'll talk about your behavior at home,” he growled.

The walk home was brisk and silent. I could tell my father was furious with me and especially for being called out of work.

“I thought you'd learned not to overreact, Steve,” he yelled at me as soon as we stepped inside the house.

“Don't I have the right to defend myself?”

“Not with your fists, Stephen.”

“You mean I wouldn't have gotten into trouble if I'd called Joel a fathead or sissy?”

“Don't talk back to me,” Dad shouted. “School is a place for study, not fighting of any kind. You are to be respectful to your teachers and your classmates. Do you understand me?”

“What do I say if one of them disrespects me?”

“Tell your teacher and let her handle the situation.”

“And have the whole class laughing at me? No way!” I said.

“Then be prepared to spend the entire fourth grade on punishment. No stickball. No building model airplanes. No sledding. Is that what you want?”

I shook my head. “No,” I said quietly. “Dad, I'm one of the shortest kids in my class. I've got to stand up for myself. Just got to,” I said, sinking down to the floor in frustration.

Dad pulled up a chair beside me. “What's gotten into you? Your mother and I haven't had any trouble from you in a long time. Are you angry about something?”

I started to cry. “Jackie's moving off Tilden Avenue. I won't ever see him again,” I said between sobs. Jackie was already away barnstorming, and I wouldn't see him for weeks. I couldn't imagine what it would be like when he was gone for good.

“Come here, son,” Dad said, pulling my arm so I'd stand up. “Dry up your tears. You've made a special friendship with the Robinsons. They don't have to live next door for you to continue being friends. We'll help you stay in touch.”

“You mean I can see the Robinsons even when they move away?”

“That's right,” Dad said. “Plus, we'll go to Ebbets Field when the Dodgers are in town. You can write letters to the Robinsons. And I'll bet you can even visit.” Dad paused. “It won't be the same as having them as neighbors, but you'll always be friends. As you get older, son, you'll make lots more friends. That's the way it works.”

“I hope so,” I said, reaching over to hug my father.

“Promise me you'll settle back down at school. That's your job now. You can't afford to be pulled out of class for misbehaving, and I certainly can't afford to miss work. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Dad,” I replied. “I'll finish my letter to Joel now. I'm going to tell him that name-calling doesn't solve a problem. Maybe we can start being friends.”

 

A month later, I was outside playing football with some of the kids in the neighborhood when Jackie returned home from barnstorming. It was a warm, early November afternoon. My friends and I had taken over the block for our game.

“Jackie!” I yelled as he stepped out of the cab.

Jackie dropped his bags on the stoop and walked over to us.

“Hey, Steve!” he said to me, then greeted the others.

“Glad you're back,” I said.

“Me too,” Jackie replied.

“Throw me a pass, Jackie,” I pleaded.

“Just one, Steve,” he agreed.

I handed him the football, then turned to run down the street. When I'd reached a nice distance, I turned back around and skipped backward, waiting for Jackie to release the football. I lifted my arms to catch the ball, suddenly realizing that this was a ball spiraling in my direction, thrown by a professional athlete who'd played semipro football with the Honolulu Bears! Yikes!

My heart pounded. My knees buckled. My hands began to sting, and the ball hadn't even reached them yet. Was I crazy?

The ball came in so hard against my chest that it literally knocked me over.

I hit the ground with a thump.

The ball was still cradled between my hands and my chest. I lifted the ball high above my head and let out a roar!

On Sunday, December 19, we were walloped by a snowstorm that lasted twenty hours, leaving behind almost twenty inches of snow and record cold temperatures. I watched the whole thing from the windows of our house, counting down the hours before Sena and I could go sledding.

While I was dreaming of snowball fights and racing down the big hill in the park, my mother was making plans for our big Hanukkah gathering. This year, Hanukkah would begin on December 26. The first night was a big deal. Our house would be filled with grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins. I loved everything about Hanukkah except getting dressed up for dinner and being beaten in the dreidel game by my older cousins. Mom would make the potato pancakes, applesauce, and sugary donuts first thing in the morning; set out the bowl of wooden dreidels and foil-wrapped chocolate Hanukkah gelt; then place the menorah and candies on the dining room table just before company arrived.

Naturally, the very thought of getting eight gifts made me giddy. Mom pretty much knew what I wanted, but I made a list and gave it to her when I came down for breakfast.

“Can I go sledding today?” I asked as soon as I walked into the kitchen.

“Please eat your breakfast, and then we'll discuss plans for the day,” my mother said.

“Okay,” I replied.

“How about scrambled eggs with your bagel?”

“No, thank you.”

My mother was standing next to the counter with a wet cloth in her right hand and our menorah in front of her.

“Did you sleep well?” Mom asked.

“Yep,” I replied, settling into my chair and slapping jelly on my bagel.

Mom looked at me as though she had something important to say. “Steve, you know that there is a war in Israel,” Mom began.