Anniversary Gifts

                         Anniversary Gifts

I had was $1.87. That was all I managed to save from my allowance. The rest went towards buying baseball cards. Baseball wasn't just my hobby. It was my food. It was my air. It was my innards. It was my savior. I had all the greats: Hank Aaron, Willie Mays, Yogi Berra. And of course, Mickey Mantle.

And it was lucky, because I didn't have much else. I mean, I wasn't much good at anything.

The year was 1962. Baby boomers were crowding the classrooms. The principal decided that the solution was to skip kids a grade. So they skipped me a grade. That was the beginning of the end of my career as a student.

Sunday Evening

My stomach hurt….all the way through Bonanza, Ed Sullivan, Car 54 Where Are You—my favorite television shows. My stomach hurt all the way to Monday morning. I was what you'd call a C minus student. And everyone knew it.

Somehow I would get through the day, mostly by dreaming. 

“Steven, I said, who was the leader of the Confederacy?” The teacher looked straight at me.

“Joe DiMaggio,” I said out loud, waking myself up from my day dream. Sometimes my teacher just sighed, and sometimes she'd send me to the principal’s office. Sometimes I would meet my mother on the way there.

My mother was a school teacher. She was a teacher in the same school I was in. She was embarrassed because I was a terrible student. I could see it on her face. Disappointment stamped like a tattoo all over her face.

In short, I was a loser.

My father worked hard in the garment district. Every day he would come home, eat his dinner, and complain about the boss.

“The boss tells us to hurry, and we're going as fast as we can.” He takes a sip from his beer. 

My mother washes his feet. His feet sweated and itched.It drove him crazy It was from working in that steamy room at the garment industry. He was a presser. He pressed suits.

“Maybe they don't want quality work. Maybe they just want us to finish. I dunno,” He takes another sip of beer.

Sometimes he would go out and play poker with Harvey Goldstein and Morris Schweitzer and Marvin Fineberg. But Saturday afternoons were saved for me.

Saturday Afternoon

My father and I went outside in the yard. We played catch, or he'd pitch me a few, and I'd hit them out of the field. Way way out of the field. A home run. And everyone would cheer. All of the people in the stadium. All of the fans in my mind. I can still hear him call out,”Good one!” One time every Saturday he would call out “Good one”. My chest warmed up, and my ears turned red. Words worth millions. Wish we could have played outside all day, every day. Not just on Saturdays.

Monday Evening

“All you think about is baseball,” My mother scooped the tuna casserole onto my plate. “You should try harder in school.” The lecture was coming. “You really should…” She continued on in her teacher voice.I stared at my noodles. Baseball facts invaded my brain, coming fast like so many balls shooting out of a pitching machine. She kept on, and I retreated into the stadium of my mind.

The distance from the pitcher’s mound to home plate is 60 feet, 6inches. In between each base is 90 feet…Babe Ruth got sixty home runs in one season…Joe DiMaggio got a base hit in 56 consecutive games….Willie Mays in the 1954 World Series made the greatest catch in history. One player was so fast that he could turn out the light and be in bed before the room was dark.

The neighbor kids walked in. That saved me.

Sara and Michael and Joan didn't have a mother. My mother gave them tuna casserole and green beans.

“How are you, Sara?” My mother asked them questions. She worried about them. “How was your math test? What, you got a ninety? That's my girl!” Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.(When they grew up, Sara married a rich guy. Michael became a lawyer. Joan is a plastic surgeon. My mother continually tells me how successful they are.) 

                                     *

One dollar, eighty-seven cents. My parents’ anniversary was coming up, and all I had was $1.87 to buy them a present. I knew what I wanted to buy them.

“Come here, Steven,” my father sat on his special arm chair. He pulled the lever so that it went back, and he could lean back. We went through this every night. It was almost a holy ritual. “Untie my shoes laces.” I did just that, and then I took his shoes off. My father’s feet itched like crazy.

I wanted to buy him slippers. Nice, soft, slippers. Maybe brown, maybe green. That they should soothe his feet after his long day.

And for my mother, I knew what she wanted. 

We went shopping on Thursdays. We always went to the A and P. Right next door was a Walbaums department store. Sometimes we would go in there, browsing through the shop, passing the scarves and the ornate golden rings. We even passed the perfumes.We stopped at the hats. She would look longingly at the green hat. It had a little net on it. Maybe it reminded her of a movie star. That could be.

I wanted to buy her that hat.

She would never hug and kiss me, but maybe the disappointment would be erased for a few minutes if I bought her the hat as an anniversary present.

I went upstairs to my room. The brown dresser held all my clothes, neatly folded. I kept my drawers neat.

I opened the top drawer, moved aside my socks, and there they were, my precious baseball cards. I had bought and traded, and traded and bought. Our corner was called miniature Wall Street, right here in Queens.

I looked through them all until I came to the Commerce City Comet, the one and only, Micky Mantle.The brown frame around his face matched his tan. I knew that the brown frame made the card even more worthwhile. In five years it could be worth thousands, but I needed the money now. I wanted to buy them anniversary presents. I had been negotiating with Billy Mandelbaum for weeks. He would buy my Micky Mantle card for ten dollars. After school on Thursday, Billy was going to give me the ten dollars. Unfortunately, Wednesday was report card day.

Wednesday

I ran all the way home. Tomorrow I would sell my Mickey Mantle card.I would take the ten dollars and go straight to Walbaums. Tomorrow I was going to buy the beautiful green hat and some slippers for my father. Then, on Friday night I knew that my mother would make a nice dinner. Probably Joan, Sara, and Michael would come over, but never mind. My presents would be the height of the evening.

But first, report card day.

I handed the report card into my mother’s hand, like the waiter gives the customer the bill. Only I was pretty sure there would be no tip.

She opened it up.

“Oh, Steven!…”

In 1961 the New York Yankees defeated the Cincinnati Reds in five games in the World Series.Roger Maris and Mickey Mantle tried to beat Babe Ruth’s 34 year old single-season home run record of 60. Maris broke the record when he hit his 61st home run…

When she finished, I went to the kitchen, ate a cookie and drank some milk. I went outside to play ball with Billy and Tony Abelo . I didn't want to be there when my father came home.

                                      *

When I walked into the house, my father was nodding off in his chair, newspaper open. The television was on high volume, and Walter Cronkite was clamoring about Cuba and Kennedy. I expected my mother to be in the kitchen finishing preparations for dinner, but she wasn't there. I slipped past the living room and climbed the carpeted stairs, one at a time, quietly. How does the saying go? I did not want to wake a sleeping bear. I would have done anything in the world to avoid meeting my father that night, or any time for the next week. 

I entered my room and saw the red checkered spread on my bed. I looked around some more. My drawer was open. I drew closer to the dresser and moved the socks aside. My cards were gone.

“Mom!” I called out. “Where are you?”

I heard my mother's voice, muffled. Where was she?

“Steven, come here,” My mother was calling me. “Come into the bathroom.” 

There she was, standing over the toilet.I was frightened.

“Is something wrong?” I did not know what to think.

“Yes,” My mother answered.”Something is terribly wrong. You spend too much time on baseball. That's the end!”

She had something in her hand that I hadn't seen before. She began ripping them up, three or so at a time, and dropping them into the toilet. My baseball cards.

Joltin’ Joe

Say-Hey-Kid Willie Mays

Sal-the-Barber Maglie

Phil Rizzuto (“Holy Cow!”)

And of course, Mickey Mantle.