Run (home) Run

            The year was 1978. Jeremiah was a bullfrog and the New York Yankees were in a pennant race with the Boston Red Sox. I was an eleven-year-old New Yorker who thrived on a diet of cold pepperoni pizza, smiles from Julie Valestrino, and baseball games in Tommy Padilla's back yard. The brown three-story house (we counted the basement) I lived in with my parents, sixteen-year-old sister, and grandpa was smack dab in the middle of Pennington Way, a fish hook shaped street in danger of being swallowed up by the surrounding communities.

            To the north of Pennington Way was Blueridge Court, a short, stubby street where the Hassidic Jews lived. Even though I was Jewish I thought they were the weirdest people on earth. It seemed like all of them, even the women and children, had long black hair and beards. South of Pennington Way was officially called Fourth Street, even though everyone in our town called it Mafia Heights. My best friend Bobby Esposito told me that his father told him that you had to be connected to live in Mafia Heights. At the time I didn't know what "connected” meant, but I knew I was supposed to so I didn't ask. To the east of us was the place where mostly Puerto Ricans lived, who I knew a little about because Tommy Padilla was Puerto Rican and my grandpa spoke Spanish since his accident. Most of the Blacks lived to our west, in a place that was called The Hill, even though it was pretty flat except for a big dirt mound where people threw their old tires. The only Black kid that I hung out with was Chris Clifford, a good center fielder and lead-off man. Chris didn't talk much because he was always mixing up his letters and saying things like, "I weally rant to hit the ball to wight field." We didn't make too much fun of him though, because he usually did.

            Those of us not ethnic enough to live anywhere else were stretched out across Pennington Way, where people didn't care if you celebrated Christmas or Chanukah, ate meatball heroes or enchiladas. But there was one common bond that held our street together tighter than crazy glue. Baseball. Our street was full of baseball fanatics. Most every kid could put the wood to the laces before taking a first step. Kids played in little league, parents coached and played in night leagues, and grandparents bitched that the game was never the same after The Babe stopped playing. In September of '78, baseball fever reached an all time high on our street when the Yankees came from fourteen games back to force a one-game playoff with the Red Sox. Everyone on our street, even my grandfather who still complained about the Dodgers leaving Brooklyn and Shawn Smurlo's mom who was a Met's fan, wanted the Yankees to win.

            If your parents weren't dumb enough to buy a plot of land with a lot of trees or ditches when they moved to Pennington Way, chances were good that a baseball field could be set up in the backyard. Every Saturday and Sunday, unless it rained, snowed, or we had little league games, the kids from Pennington Way played baseball in Tommy Padilla's backyard. We didn't play there just because Tommy's yard was perfect for baseball; every hour or so his mom would bring us out cherry Kool-Aid and miniature Nestle crunch bars. Also, Tommy's dad, who once played alongside Roberto Clemente in the minors, would sometimes come outside and pitch to us. Hitting off his dad meant you were almost as good as Clemente.

            I woke up earlier than usual the morning the Yankees were set to play the Red Sox and smiled because it was Saturday. Since the Yanks weren't playing until noon, we could play ball for a couple of hours. I walked out into the kitchen and found my grandfather watching the tube and nursing a cup of hot tea. Our 150 pound bull mastiff Ludwig, who always managed to have something in his mouth, was on the floor chewing a tennis ball. I never understood why grandpa got up so early, but I figured the older you got the less sleep you needed. Of course, this rule didn't hold up for my psychotic sister who slept until eleven on weekends and still woke up in a bad mood.

            "Buenos Dias, Reggie. Que Tal?

            "Muy bien, grandpa.

            My grandpa had lived with us for five years, since the car accident which had killed my grandma and put him in a coma for two days. The doctors had written him off, but my dad said that if grandpa could survive Aushwitz he could pull through a car accident no problem. We were all at the hospital when grandpa woke up and said, "Donde Estoy," which wasn't a particularly strange thing to ask except that grandpa didn't know a word of Spanish before his crash. The doctors ran every test possible but nothing came up positive. When a neurosurgeon found an article about a man in Florida who got struck by a lightning bolt and spoke fluent French for a month, they sent us home with grandpa and told us his English would probably return soon. Five years later, grandpa was still speaking Spanish and the rest of us did our best to understand him.

            I grabbed two chocolate Pop Tarts with sprinkles and an Orange Crush from the cupboard, picked up my baseball glove and Louisville Slugger from the closet, and made my way out the door.

            "Hasta Luego, Reggie."

            "Hasta. Luego."

            "Viven Los Yankees," grandpa called after me, and Ludwig followed me out the door.

            My best friend, Bobby Esposito, was already out front warming up his arm. Espo was the best pitcher in the entire little league and the only eleven year old I knew who could throw a fastball, curve, and slider.

            "Hey, Reggie Jackson," Espo yelled, because I always swung for the fences.

            "Hey, asshole," I yelled back, because I felt like it.

            Espo reared back and threw a fastball that cracked into his little brother's glove and made him pull his hand out and shake off the sting. "That’s what you’ll be seeing all day, motha fuckah," Espo said in my direction.

            I made some weak comment back but I knew Espo was right. Even though Espo was my best friend, or maybe because of it, his greatest pleasure was making me whiff. This happened pretty often because I was a sucker for a soft curve or change-up. Espo always had me guessing and I usually hit nothing but air. Sometimes I even missed that. Espo's dad opened the front door wearing shorts that were too small and smoking a cigar. His enormous belly fell over the shorts and his black, bushy eyebrows looked like they connected to his sideburns and ran down to his beard.

            "Hey Reggie," he asked. "How you like the Yankees' chances today?"

            "I think their gonna kick some ass."           

            "Some serious fuckin' ass," Espo agreed.

Espo's dad blew out a smoke ring and said, "I oughta wash both your goddamn mouths out. You little shits sound like you grew up in a fuckin' sewer."

            Espo and I laughed, picked up his two aluminum bats, and started heading to Tommy’s house.

            "Hey, Reggie," Mr. Esposito called after us. “We're all watchin' the game at your house tonight, right?"

            "Yeah."

            "I tried checking with your grandpa this morning but I can't understand a fuckin' word he says. I swear it's like talkin' to Ricky fuckin' Ricardo."

            "Yeah, grandpa knows everyone is coming over."

            Espo and I walked across the lawn but moved to the sidewalk when we got to the Krich's house. Mitch Krich was the bully of Pennington Way, and one of the meanest kids to ever walk the earth. He was a fourteen year old with the body of an adult and the brain of a squid. When we were all little, Mitch would come over to play with me and Espo. But as he got older, Mitch just went bad. First, he started lighting people's lawns on fire. Then he got caught stealing a bicycle from one of the Hassidic Jews and wouldn't even apologize. But the final straw came when he pulled his pants down on the school bus and showed everyone he had sprouted pubic hair. He even plucked one out and flicked it on Heather Heinrick, a fifth grader who had freckles and braces. Espo and I were impressed, but the principal wasn't, and Mitch Krich got sent to a military school in upstate New York. When he got home two years later, he had biceps, a full mustache, and a hatred of every kid on Pennington Way.

            We got in front of the Krich's house and saw his two sisters, who everyone called Bitch Krich and Witch Krich, out front playing cards and singing "Why Can't We Be Friends." Bitch looked at us and smirked but Witch didn't even bother. We side-stepped the sisters and saw Mitch in camouflage pants and army boots working on his go-cart. I made the mistake of looking at Mitch a second too long and he shot "What the fuck's your problem?" Sensing it was a rhetorical question, I turned and kept walking.

            Under our breath, me and Espo started singing the "Mitch Krich Song" we wrote:

            He is bad, bad

            Mii-tch Krich

            He is one bad son-of-a-bitch

            Doesn't know his right from wro-o-o-ong

            And he's got a hairy dong.

Leroy Brown had nothing on Mitch Krich.

            Espo and I crossed the street to Tommy's house and everyone chose us to be team captains. In order I chose Chris Clifford, Shawn Smurlo, Bruce Bruno, Debbie Ducket, some new kid who just moved to our neighborhood, and Tommy Padilla and his younger brother Peter because he was a good catcher. Espo took the rest of the players and the field. Chris Clifford led off for our team because he was the fastest and I batted clean up in the hope that I might actually get a hit off Espo. The rest of the team batted in no particular order, except for the new kid who we put up last because he was the new kid.

            My first time up Espo fanned me with three straight fastballs. I fouled off the first one, watched the second one go right down the pipe, and swung about two hours after the last one hit the catcher's mitt.

            "Too slow, my child," Espo said as I hit the ground with my bat.

            "Better not throw me a curve," I replied, hoping that he would take the bet. But he turned away from home plate before I could read his eyes. I came up to bat the second time with bases loaded and one out. When I got to the plate my team started chanting "Reggie, Reggie" which made me want to kill the ball. I whacked the bottom of my cleats with the bat and stepped into the box.

            "Ready to hit air again, asshole?"

            "Suck my, dick, Espo. I’m gonna hit this ball right down your throat."

            "You gotta be able to see it first, dickweed."

            It was the old bait and switch and I fell for it hands down. Espo set me up for some heaters but threw two soft curves and a change up that bounced before it even reached the plate. I was so far out in front of the last pitch that I almost fell down after swinging. Espo started laughing and their third baseman said, "Sucker!"

            "You oughta try softball, Reggie, I hear they pitch underhand." Espo smiled and threw the ball into his glove.

            I threw my bat on the ground and walked past the next batter who said, "Nice try, Reggie."

            "Yeah, whatever," I replied. I sat down next to Chris Clifford who was two for two with a single and a triple. I hoped some of his good luck would rub off on me. Chris pulled his Yankee cap over his eyes and said, "You weally should twy not to swing so hawd." I took a long deep breath and said, "Ruck Roo," which got some laughs from Shawn Smurlo and Tommy Padilla. Chris just shook his head and played with his batting glove.

            The next batter was Bruce Bruno who fouled off Espo's first pitch behind first base. It bounced once and landed within a few feet of Ludwig who dropped his tennis ball and scooped up the baseball. When Ludwig was younger, we used to be able to pry baseballs from his mouth. Now, the dog was like a slobbering vise grip and we had to bring at least two balls to Tommy’s house. Espo picked another ball up from the mound and threw a fastball. Bruce lined it to the gap in left field and drove in two runs. Espo cursed himself and retired the next three batters.

            Espo's team scored a few runs the next inning and loaded the bases before I made a diving catch in center field to end the inning. I got up slowly, brushed the dirt off my leg and jogged in like Reggie Jackson. On my way in I passed Espo who was standing on the mound just like Goose Gossage, shoulders back and eyes staring at home plate. We both laughed because we knew who the other guy was trying to be.

            "Last Bats," Espo said as I jogged by.

            "What time is it?"

            "Twenty till twelve."

            I nodded like Reggie and dropped my glove behind home plate. "Allright guys let's get some runs. This is our last ups."

            We were three runs back when our ninth batter, the new kid, stepped up to face Espo. He wasn't too bad at the plate, but made a bunch of errors at second base which meant he would find himself in right field for the next few months. I didn't know if Espo was getting sloppy or just trying to mess with him, but he threw a curve that never broke and caught the kid on his shoulder. The kid took it well, dropping his bat and running to first. Chris Clifford was up next and he hit a blooper to left field that dropped too fast for the outfielder but not fast enough to bump the new kid to third.

            "You guys better bring in some relief," I said. "This pitcher is done." Espo bent over and said, "Kiss my ass."

            Shawn Smurlo was up next and I was praying he'd drive in a couple of runs and take the pressure off me. I thought Espo was getting tired, but he threw two heaters for strikes and a third that Smurlo fouled off behind home plate.

            Everyone thought another fastball was coming but Espo reared back and threw a change up that moved so slowly I could see the seams. Smurlo swung so hard that he lost the bat and nearly took off the third baseman's head. Strike three.

            I said "Fuck you" to beat Espo to the punch but he just laughed and rolled some dirt between his fingers.

            "It's mister 0 for eternity."

             I walked up to the plate.

            "Want me to pitch to you lefty?"

            I dug my cleats in.

            "Want me to bring the outfielders in?"

            I took two practice cuts and one check swing.

            Espo's first pitch was a head high fastball that I shouldn't even have looked at. Strike one. I stepped out of the box, then back in and pulled my cap on straighter. All of the infielders were chanting, "No batter, no batter, swing no batter." Espo's next pitch was a change up in the dirt that I managed to pull back from.

            "Ooooh ladies and gentleman, Reggie Jackson almost went fishing for that one." Espo took his glove off and kneaded the ball between his hands. I knew he was going to come with a fastball or curve and I guessed curve. Espo kicked his left leg high and threw a fat curve that took about a month and a half to break. I bit my lip and waited for it to cross the strike zone. As soon as it dropped, I lifted my right leg, turned my hips, and swung right through the ball.

            CRACK!

            As soon as I connected everyone knew it was a home run but nobody knew how far it would go. I hit the ball on the sweetest part of the bat. On the sweetest part of the sweetest part of the bat and it took off like a missile. Espo dropped his glove and the right fielder just watched it fly. I hit the ball farther than any kid in our neighborhood had ever dreamed about. Maybe, I thought, farther than any eleven-year-old since the beginning of time. The ball flew out of Tommy Padilla's yard, over Pennington Way, and right toward the Krich's.

            I remember thinking to myself there is no way it will happen. Even as I watched the ball fly toward Mitch Krich I believed it would miss him. What were the chances? For a second, it looked like I had hit it way right of Mitch or his house but lefties are known to hook the ball, and suddenly it was like an arrow looking for a target. I felt my stomach quiver and prayed Please God Don't Let It Hit Mitch Krich. I tried not to look but even if I hadn't I would have heard the thud when the ball richoted off Mitch’s head and the crash when it broke the windshield of his dad's new Cadillac.

            "Holy fuckin' shit" from Espo.

            "What a hit" from Shawn Smurlo.

            "Wun! Wun!" from Chris Clifford.

            If that ball would've hit any other kid in the world, it would have knocked the English right out of him. But Mitch Krich just wiped his head, checked his fingers for blood, and then turned to see me standing with a bat in my hand. For a split second, Mitch didn't know what to do. But the light bulb flickered on when Witch yelled, "Go kick that little shit's ass!"

            Even from across the street I could tell Mitch was pissed off. He peeled off his shirt and threw some tool into his go-kart. It looked like every muscle in his overly developed body was flexed. I wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go and Mitch would have caught me eventually. I dropped the bat and felt my hands still singing from the hit. Mitch Krich crossed the street without even looking both ways while his sisters screamed at him not to let me get away. I looked over at Ludwig who was laying on his back chewing a baseball and wished my folks had bought a German Shepherd, Doberman, or even a poodle with an attitude.

            When Mitch got to the edge of Tommy's lawn he punched the air and said "I'm gonna rip your head off, you little kyke." I knew his comment should have pissed me off but I was too busy looking at his army boots and wondering how they would feel lodged in my face. Espo rushed to my side and picked up the baseball bat. Friends to the death. Without even looking at him, Mitch growled, "Drop it, you fuckin' wop or you'll be next." Espo weighed his options, dropped the bat and got the hell out of the way.

            I remembered Espo's dad telling us to always throw the first punch in a fight, so when Mitch got close enough I stepped forward and threw a Sugar Ray Leonard jab that connected with Mitch's belt buckle. I was set to follow with a left hook but Mitch grabbed me by the throat and threw a Muhammad Ali cross that hit me square in the nose. I threw an uppercut that missed Mitch by about two and a half miles and got caught by a left hook that opened a gash above my eye. Whoever said that southpaws have an advantage in the ring never met Mitch Krich. I never even saw the next punch until it was deep in my cheek and had planted me in the ground. Next to my sister, Mitch threw the hardest punch I ever felt. I think he would have stopped there, but Bitch Krich said "Make him cry, Mitch" and Witch Krich added, "Make him kiss your feet and call you uncle."

            I looked up at my friends and they all looked helpless. They were around us in a tight circle, but there was nothing they could do.

            "Get up, Jew boy."

            I got up on one knee and tasted the blood from my nose or eye. I tried to stand, but I was dizzy and my head was on fire. Bitch Krich, who was enjoying seeing me down, leaned forward and spit in my face. Espo yelled, "You fuckin' whore," but Mitch stared him down. Then Mitch reached down and pulled me to my feet. I closed my left eye which wasn't swollen shut and waited. But the next punch never came.

            "Leave him alone, Mitch." I didn't even have to turn around to know who it was. Mitch softened his grip a bit and looked over my head at the figure standing behind me.

            "Don't fuck with me, Mitch, I'm serious."

            I had never been so happy to hear my sister's voice in my entire life. Although my sister was at the age where she never liked anyone younger than fifteen or older than seventeen, she was still my sister and I guess she figured that only close relatives had the right to beat the shit out of me. Standing over 5'’ 10” without boots on made my sister a definite force to be reckoned with. But it was more than the height. Everyone on Pennington Way knew that my sister had a mean streak and a good right hook. I knew better than anyone, having been on the receiving end of a few punches thrown with the intent to kill. Mitch Krich was staring into the eyes of a fifteen-year-old girl who had little fear. If he fought and lost, he would never live it down. If he won, everyone would get on him for beating up a girl.

            Espo pulled me out of Mitch’s grasp and said, "Watch out Krich or she is gonna whip your ass." Mitch took a step toward my sister, but then backed off and flipped her the bird. I wiped the blood off my face and tried to smile but it hurt too much. My friend's started cheering for my sister but it was a short-lived celebration. When my sister started walking away, Witch walked up and pushed her in the back of the head.

            "What's your fuckin’ problem, Janet?"

            "You're my fuckin’ problem, you long legged bitch!"

            Staring at Witch, I don't think I ever hated anyone more in my whole life. She wore bell-bottom Jordache jeans with a red comb in the back pocket, a tube top, and no shoes. She had a dopey grin with a space big enough between her two front teeth to drive a Cadillac right through.

            My sister said, "Fuck you" and walked away but Witch Krich just wouldn't leave it alone. She picked up a big dirt glob and hurled it at the back of my sister's head. Before I could yell "duck" it hit her full force and all of the Krichs starting laughing. My sister turned around, wiped the dirt from her neck and charged. Espo yelled "kick her ass" and Mitch Krich smiled. Witch threw the first punch but my sister ran through it and tackled her to the ground. My sister got a few good shots in, but Witch grabbed her hair and nearly pulled it all out in one vicious yank. My sister didn't even scream. She spun around with an elbow to Witch's mouth and followed up with a punch to her stomach.

            When they both got to their feet Witch said she had had enough. She didn't look too bad, but a hard shot to the stomach can take the fight right out of you.

            She reached her hand out to shake my sister's, but when my sister reached, Witch stepped in and grabbed my sister's breasts with both hands. My sister tried to punch her way out of it but Witch just dug her claws in and twisted. I saw my sister's face turn red and then she let out a deep moan and fell to her knees. Before Witch finally let go, she twisted her nipples and left my sister doubled over clutching her chest.

            All my friends started jeering and I said, "You're a fuckin' dirty ass fighter, you bitch." But she wasn't nearly done. First, she walked over and kicked my sister in the ribs. I could tell it hurt by the oomph sound my sister made. Witch was as bad as they came, but nothing could have prepared us for what came next. Witch let out a low growl, rolled my sister over, and burrowed her face into my sister's shoulder. Ludwig stood up and barked, but no one else knew what Witch was doing. But when my sister tried to stand up, we could see that Witch had grabbed on to her shoulder like a pit bull. I picked up the baseball bat but Krich grabbed it out of my hand and kicked me in the gut. My sister squirmed and screamed but there was no way to get loose. Bitch yelled, "Bite her goddamn arm off," and for a minute I thought she would. When she finally let go, my sister was on the ground crying and Witch had a mustache made of blood. Mitch let go with a hideous laugh and threw my baseball bat as high as he could into the street. I felt sick to my stomach, and knew that my sister felt even worse.

            Witch said, "Don’t fuck with our family" and Mitch punched Espo in the chest as they made their way back to their house. It had been a total defeat and I didn't know if I felt worse for me or my sister. My friends grabbed their stuff and started going home and Ludwig sat down next to my sister and licked some blood off her arm. It was the first time my sister had ever gotten beaten up and she just sat on the ground not knowing what to do. I rubbed my fingers over the crusted blood on my eye and knew it would be shut by morning.

            Witch turned back after crossing the street and said, "Hope you learned your lesson, little Jew girl" as Mitch and Bitch laughed and gave each other high fives. The smartest thing my sister could have done was keep her mouth shut and walk away. Instead, she got to her feet, gave the international salute, and said, "Lick my crack," which was a new one even for her. Normally I would have appreciated the creative use of the word "crack" but I dropped my head when the Krich's made a sudden u-turn. Espo said "Oh shit", pulled off his cap and put it on backwards. All of my friends started running back to the yard. Morbid curiosity at its best.

            We started walking back to our house and I prayed that we would make it there or that an adult would come out to see what was going on. I felt a rock fly by my right ear and knew the Krichs meant business. I could hear them coming up behind us and tried to read the expression on my sister's face. I was hoping she had a plan, or at least some fight left in her.

            When Witch got a few feet behind us she asked, "Didn't you learn your lesson yet, little Jew girl?" But my sister kept her mouth shut and kept walking. "I'm talkin to you, kyke. Are you deaf or something?" I looked at my sister’s face and saw what looked like a combination of fear and embarrassment. It looked like she was ready to start bawling.

            At that moment, within a few feet of my front door, my grandpa seemed to appear out of nowhere. My sister looked up at him and their eyes locked for what seemed like a few hours. I stopped, the Krich’s stopped, I’m pretty sure the whole world stopped. My grandpa, old and somewhat frail, seemed to be growing taller and stronger in each passing moment.

            When my sister finally turned around everyone except for my grandpa, who had already disappeared, gasped.

            Maybe it was the pain.

            Maybe it was the humiliation.

            Maybe it was the holocaust.

            Whatever it was, my sister was not of this world. She was taking slow deep breaths and coiled like a rattler. Her body was shaking but her eyes were glued to Witch's. I stepped back in absolute fear and Ludwig whined. The first punch my sister threw must have broken Witch’s nose because I’ve never seen blood flow so freely. Witch fell backwards and my sister was on her like a disease. She pinned Witch on her back, put her knees on her arms, and threw Bruce Lee combinations into her face and neck. My friends were screaming and I kept thinking to myself hit her harder. HIT HER HARDER. Bitch moved in to pull my sister off but she got an elbow right to the teeth that sent her home crying. Mitch tried to take a cheap shot but Chris Clifford threw a split-fingered fastball that knocked Mitch Krich's balls up into his throat.

            "Don't call me a taw baby you wacist asshole!"

            Witch was crying, "Leave me alone, please leave me alone," but I don't think my sister even heard it. Ludwig was wagging his tail and barking and Mitch was rolling around on the ground. Espo was jumping up and down yelling "Finish her off" and I was trying to figure out what my sister was going to do next when she brushed the hair back from her eyes, planted one knee in Witch's chest for leverage and said, "You wanna bite, bitch?" What came next has gone down in history as the strangest event to ever occur on Pennington Way.

            My sister flashed her front incisors and bore down on the left side of Witch's head. Witch tried to push my sister's head away, but it was too late. My sister shook her head back and forth like a tiger shark, pulled back hard, and came up with most of Witch's ear between her front teeth. My sister held it up like a prize and then spit it into the street. There was a moment of silence before Witch let out a scream that nearly deafened those of us with two ears and brought out nearly every parent on Pennington Way.

            Espo pulled his hat off, said, "Holy fuckin' shit" and grinned from ear to ear. Shawn Smurlo went pale and threw up all over the bushes in Tommy Padilla's yard, and Ludwig made a beeline for Witch. My sister wiped blood from her mouth, straightened out her shirt and walked home. Mitch Krich got himself in a crawling position and tried to get over to the ear to scoop it up but he was a second too late. Ludwig had dropped his ball, ran over to the ear, sniffed it once, licked it twice, and flipped it into his mouth. Mitch hobbled to an upright position, screamed, "Drop it, you stupid mutt," and tried to grab Ludwig around the neck. Sensing it was a game, Ludwig ran circles around Mitch Krich, moving just quickly enough to stay out of his reach. Soon, Ludwig who was being chased by Mitch, Andy, Espo, and Tommy Padilla's brother who moved pretty good for a catcher.

            Somebody must have called for help because suddenly a police car and an ambulance pulled down Pennington Way. By then, anyone who hadn't come out to see what was going on at least popped their heads out the window to check out the scene. When the police officer and ambulance driver stepped out of their vehicles they saw nine or ten guys chasing a bull mastiff with an ear in his mouth, Witch Krich lying on the ground crying, Shawn Smurlo puking in the bushes, and my grandfather yelling, "Ludwig, Ludwig, aqui! aqui!" Krich's mom grabbed the police officer and yelled at him to shoot the dog while the ambulance driver tried to figure out whether Witch or Shawn was in worse shape. Ludwig finally ran to my grandfather, collapsed next to him, and dropped the ear next to his foot. I guess Espo explained to the ambulance driver what was going on because she ran over, picked up the ear, and wiped off the saliva and grime.

            It seemed like half the neighborhood had poured into Tommy's yard to get the skinny when Mr. Esposito, who had been sleeping the entire time, opened his front door and yelled, "The Yanks are about to start playing." He didn't even look a bit interested in what was happening in our yard. The police officer quickly took down a few notes and jogged back to his car. The ambulance driver put Witch and her ear on a stretcher and sped down Pennington Way. Mitch Krich hobbled home and Shawn Smurlo sat under a tree trying not to puke again. I picked up my baseball bat that had cracked down the middle and slid my baseball glove back on. Grandpa yelled, "Vaminos" and most of my friends piled into our house to watch the game.

            Me and my friends sat on the living room floor and the parents sat in folding chairs or on the couch. Since my dad was away on business, Mr. Esposito sat in the Lazy Boy and put the chair all the way back. Tommy Padilla's dad and my grandpa cheered for the Yankees in Spanish and Mr. Esposito cursed out the umpires in English. In the third inning Mr. Esposito ordered large pepperoni pizzas for everyone and even my sister came down to watch the game. I thought I saw her give my grandpa a wink, but I couldn’t be sure.

            The Yankees were behind the entire game until the bottom of the seventh when Bucky Dent came to bat. With two outs and runners on first and second, Dent cranked only his fifth home-run of the year over the green monster at Fenway. Everyone in our living room got up and screamed and you could hear the echoes up and down Pennington Way. In the ninth inning with a 5-4 lead, the Yankees brought in their best closer, Goose Gossage, to face Yastremski who had already had a solo homer and a single. With runners on first and third, the Goose got him to pop up to Craig Nettles for the last out and the victory. Later that night, we had a huge street party where we ate hot dogs, talked baseball, and watched fireworks that were left over from the fourth of July.