Baseball And Doing The Building

     In 1956 Eisenhower beat Stevenson (again), Mickey Mantle won the Triple Crown, and the Yankees won the World Series  (again).  I followed baseball with a passion, and my step-father saw a potential for drawing me out of my shell a little bit.  So the summer after our carnival debacle Dad volunteered as a coach for the Emerson School Little League.

     Little League Baseball is designed for children (then only boys) aged eight to twelve. Everybody who wants to play is able to, and the children are grouped according to ability and age.   Coaches are all volunteer parents (then only fathers), and the uniforms and equipment are provided by community-minded companies.  The city provides and maintains the playing fields, and the children have their summers as full of baseball as they could possibly wish. 

     Dad was assigned to coach one of the "major league" teams in the league.  At the beginning of each season there are tryouts, and the major league coaches evaluate the players and bid against each other (from an equal allocation) for the players they want.   Each team is allowed a certain number of twelve-year-olds and eleven-year-olds, and each must take a certain number of ten-and-unders.  A coach's son is automatically assigned to his team, so I was "in the major leagues" in my first summer of organized baseball, despite the fact that I could not hit, throw,  catch, or run.  I played one inning of right field per game, and I practiced a lot.

     There was, during that summer, a special game between the minor league all-stars and the major league ten-and-unders.   I played left field, probably because there were two eight-year-olds on the roster even more inept than I was.  I made two errors and struck out twice, but I came to bat in the bottom of the sixth inning (the last of a Little League game) with the score tied 1-1.  I actually hit the ball, a soft grounder to third base.  It was a routine out, but I ran down to first base anyhow.  When I got there--miracle of miracles!--the first base­man dropped the ball, and I was safe on an error.  There was a reason, after all, why these boys were in the minor leagues.  The second batter tried to bunt and was thrown out at first base, but I made it to second.  The next batter hit a fly ball to right field, and I tagged up and ran to third after the catch, knowing that the right fielder (for I was one myself) couldn't possibly throw the ball that far.  That made two outs, bottom of the last inning, and I represented the winning run at third base.  I could hardly stand it, I was so excited.  

     This brought up the top of the batting order, a ten-year-old who everybody knew was the best athlete on the team.  He was one of our neighbors, who I'll call Art Schuester, and we were in the same class in school but on different teams in Little League.  Art hit a line-drive into left field that the defensive player fielded on one hop.  There was no chance to get the batter at first base, but the ball had been hit hard enough that there was still a chance to throw me out at home plate, and the left fielder gave it his best shot.  The ball flew toward home plate as straight as an arrow, and I ran as fast as I could, sli­ding as I had seen the Mick slide dozens of times.  The ball and I arrived together, and I had to look up at the umpire to find out whether I was safe or out.  When that man (another one of the boys' fathers) spread his arms, I nearly fainted with joy.  I was immediately surrounded by my teammates, slapping me on the back and shaking my hand.  Art, the real hero, walked slowly back from first base and joined in the congratula­tions.  Dad invited Art to join us for a hamburger and a malt after the game.

     Art Schuester was among the most popular boys in the Emerson School.  He wasn't only the best athlete in the fifth grade (and better at ten than most of the twelve- and thirteen-year-olds), he was one of the best students.  I was clearly the best student in my class, but I was a loner and not any good at sports.  It was Dad's idea to link the two of us up, and he thought he had a way to do it.

     Art's family was going through hard times.  His father was dead and his mother worked as a beauty operator in a working-class shop, barely earning enough money to keep the family together.  Art had a brother four years older who worked as a paper­ boy, and another a year younger.  He also had a sister who was seventeen and had dropped out of school to work in a grocery store.  The family needed more money, but Mrs. Schuester wanted the boys to get an education.

     Dad offered Art a job.  He and I--and that was an integral part of the deal, we would work together--would empty the waste baskets and ash trays, and sweep the floors, of all the offices on the second floor of the building across the street from their homes that Dad did maintenance for.  We would do it six nights (or early mornings--the choice was ours) a week, and Dad would pay us each the unbelievable amount of ten dollars a week!  We would also have a chance to earn some extra money once a month by waxing and polishing the floors, cleaning the windows, and so on.  Would we be interested?

     Art was wary.  He knew Dad was a Little League coach, but he didn't know anything else about him.  What else might the guy have in mind?  And he knew I was unpopular in school, always the teacher's pet.  Associating with me might tarnish his reputation.  He weighed these potential negatives against the lure of ten dollars a week--over five hundred dollars a year!  His Mom would sure like that.  He'd be able to buy his lunch every day and still have spending money left.  Art decided.  He would take the job.

     For the next three years Art and I dutifully "did the building" six nights a week.  There were a few complaints, at first, about sloppy work, but Dad soon got us under control.  After the first year a few offices on the first floor were added, and the pay went up to fifteen dollars a week each.  Each night we cleaned two doctors' offices, the Heart Associa­tion, the Cancer Society, an architecture firm, two insurance companies, a psychologist's office, and the Better Business Bu­reau.  The Cancer Society had a free Coke machine, so we were able to "supplement" our income with liquid refreshment night­ly, until the night when we had a contest and I drank six bottles and Art drank eight.  There were no more free Cokes after that.

     On a typical night I would get the keys to the building, go over to Art's house, and we would clean together.  Usually one would empty ash trays and waste baskets and one would sweep, and we would swap the next night.  Cleaning the Ladies' Room was rather worrisome, as we fantasized that there would be naked ladies inside each night.  There never were, of course, but the mystery of that forbidden place deepened with time.  On the other hand, cleaning the doctors' offices was an adventure for us both, since we never knew what we would find next (maybe an amputated leg in the trash?) and there were all of those neat pictures in the books we soon discovered.

     Away from the building we spent very little time together, without having much be said about it.  I understood imme­diately that I wasn't part of Art's world, and Art went out of his way to snub me at school, just so people wouldn't get the wrong idea.  But we had our secret life at the building together.

      After the seventh grade Art quit working for Dad to work in a grocery store for the summer, and I saw him only infre­quently.  We went to different high schools, where Art was a football star and I was the valedictorian.  Art got a football scholarship while I won a National Merit Scholar­ship, and while I struggled to make ends meet on a variety of fellowships and teaching assistantships in graduate school Art became a yeoman defensive back in the NFL, earning over six figures a year until his knees gave out.  At about the time I got my first real job as an assistant professor, Art became a college football assistant coach, earning roughly three times as much as his childhood friend.  He later became the head coach at a state university, earning three times as much as the university president.  If he met me on the street today, Art would probably not recognize me, and he retains only the dimmest memories of "doing the building" with his friend. For me, though, those memories are indelible.