The World Series

Lois Grippo
Jul 27, 2017 · 4 min read

So, here’s a story about something that happened before my mother died. I was five at the time. Mom and Grandma are peripherally involved, but as usual, my father has the starring role.

THE WORLD SERIES

My mother and I were living in Brooklyn with her mother, my Grandma Lena. Why my father wasn’t there, I don’t know. Perhaps they were separated. Maybe he was broke and my Grandma wouldn’t let him in the house. He always used to say that she had a fortune hidden under the mattress and would never give him a penny.

One story about Grandma Lena that Dad told me so often that I think I even remember it happening. It was about the time that he had the chance to own a successful Miami Beach delicatessen. Why we were in Miami, I don’t know. But my Dad needed money to invest in one of the many sure things that slipped through his fingers because someone failed him. He called Grandma, or had my mother do it, and told her that he needed a loan — right away. He always needed money right away — a day later, and all was lost. Grandma came up with the money. She didn’t wire it to him instantly, but put thousands of dollars in her black pocketbook, rolled up her compression stocking, slipped into her black orthopedic shoes, and took the train to Miami. She got there too late. The deal was closed. Another opportunity lost. Millions down the drain. Lena paid for us to take the train back to Brooklyn. According to Dad, she wouldn’t pay his fare, so he had to hitchhike back to New York — although I suspect he lost his train fare on a sure thing at Hialiah.

That’s how Mom and I wound up in Grandma’s house in Brooklyn. I was happy there. Grandma and I used to sit on the sun porch with our hands under a sun lamp rubbing butter cream on our hands for her arthritis. We used to listen to “Portia Faces Life” on the radio and she would give me a lump of sugar soaked in coffee as a treat. Dad was only mentioned as part of an aria of Yiddish curses. I don’t remember my mother doing much of anything, beyond staring out the window. Grandma was my family. Grandpa was rarely mentioned. When I asked about him, I was told that he was in Florida. When I got a little older, I realized that when members of my mother’s family died, they moved to Florida. When my mother thought that I was grown-up enough to know the truth, she told me in the way her family probably told her. My grandfather was not happy, so he walked out the window. My uncle Al walked out the window, too. Walking out the window was some kind of family ritual.

Sorry for the digression. Back to the “anecdote.”

Just as I was getting used to “Life at Grandma’s,” everything changed with a single ring. The ring of the doorbell. I opened the door and there stood Daddy in a double-breasted suit, a snap-brim hat, a bow tie, and sunglasses. I jumped into his arms and he twirled me around and whispered that we were going to do something very special today. He had a car and driver waiting outside, he had tickets to the World Series, and he was going to take me out to the ball game. Grandma and Mommy looked as if they were struck by lightening. They didn’t exist for me anymore. Daddy had come to get me.

Daddy and I had box seats at Yankee Stadium. I knew nothing about baseball, so I cheered when he did and shouted curse words at the umpire just like Daddy. Much later, I learned that this was a famous World Series game. It was Brooklyn against the Yankees. Brooklyn was leading 4–3 with a chance to tie the series. The pitcher threw a strike, but Mickey Owens, the Dodger catcher dropped the ball and the batter reached first base safely on the error. Then the Yankees exploded for four runs to beat the Dodgers 7–4. Of course, this was yet another in a long series of bad breaks for Daddy. He bet big on the Dodgers and somehow this Mickey Owens’ thing was my fault, or at least I thought so. No more car and driver to take us home. We took the subway. He didn’t say a word to me on the train and walked quickly ahead of me as I ran to keep up with him down the street to Grandma’s house. He dropped me off at the front door, turned, walked away, and disappeared into the Brooklyn night. I don’t think I saw him again for months. In years to come, he would brag to his friends about taking me to the game in which Mickey Owens dropped the ball.

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