A BROOKLYN FAMILY 1956
by Mary Miller Chiao
“It will never happen,” Dad stated, looking at me over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. “The Dodgers will never leave Brooklyn.” He placed his Chesterfield in the ashtray and turned to the next page in the Sunday sports section. Mom opened the window to let Dad’s smoke out, and, picking up the watering can from the yellow Formica kitchen counter, watered the geraniums on the fire escape.
Uncle Billy stopped ogling the full-page ad of candidates for Miss Reingold of the year. “Who would want ‘em anyway? The bums is Brooklyn, and Brooklyn is the bums. They belong here. That jerk, O’Malley, wants a new stadium. Ebbets Field’s not good enough for him no more.”
“But what’s the matter with Ebbets Field, Dad?”
“It smells like a pis hole,” sneered Uncle Billy, raising the Bud bottle to his mouth. He missed and hit his cheek. Beer dribbled down the front of his t-shirt, stopping when it couldn’t climb up his belly, which Aunt Bertha had dubbed Billy’s personal keg. Aunt Bertha hated baseball so Uncle Billy would watch all the games with us.
“If you’re going to talk that way with Susie around, Billy, you’ll have to leave,” Mom said. She opened the refrigerator door and pulled out some packaged cold cuts and a big green bowl with the potato salad she made earlier.
“Hey Mattie,” Uncle Billie said to his sister, “Did you hear Betty Crocker had an accident?”
“No Billie, I didn’t, what happened?”
“She burned her buns.”
Dad and I both laughed, but Mom didn’t say anything. I knew she had heard every one of Billy’s jokes at least thirty times.
Mom placed the cold cuts on a plate next to the potato salad and four tall glasses of Lipton Iced Tea. Her long brown hair was pulled up in a ponytail. A yellow apron with large pockets hid part of her green everyday dress that matched the avocado refrigerator behind her. A small run paralleled the stocking seam on her left leg. It was hardly noticeable, but I knew Uncle Billy would spot it and ask her again who made more runs, the Dodgers or the Nylons.
“I saw Pee Wee Reese’s wife in Grand Union yesterday,” she said. “Her shopping cart was filled to the top. I guess Pee Wee and the kids like hotdogs.”
“Nobody can run faster than Jackie Robinson,” I interrupted. “He just needs to get on first base and then he can steal all the rest.”
“Nah, Robinson’s too old to do that anymore.” Uncle Billy said.
“Duke Snyder hit 42 homers last year, and he’ll hit 50 this season.” At 13, I knew every statistic about the Brooklyn Dodgers and every fact about their personal lives.
“It says here in the paper that Don Newcombe’s pitching today, and Campanella’s hand is better so he’s back in the lineup,” Dad informed us.
We heard other TVs in the building broadcasting the pre-game announcements. Dad got up from the table and walked over to the counter and turned on our 16” black-and-white Dumont. Just as the cameras were showing the filled-up stadium seats, the screen changed and looked like a blizzard.
“Damn” moaned Uncle Billy. “There ought to be a law that no plane can fly over Brooklyn when the game is on.”
After a few minutes, the TV looked normal and Vin Scully’s voice rose over the roar of the crowd, “It’s a great day here in Brooklyn. The sun is out, and the Dodgers are ready to take on the world.”
“Dad, what will we do if the Dodgers ever leave Brooklyn?”
“You don’t ever have to worry, honey. The Dodgers will never leave Brooklyn.”
The End