right volume for the Mets games, but that was too loud when he switched channels to the Yankees. He’d click it down to 16, but that seemed a little too soft. The perfect volume for the Yankees’ channel was 17, but he’d never leave it at an odd number like that. So he lived with it at 18, despite the discomfort of the slightly-too-high volume.
One other thing about the noise level in the apartment: Even with the TV on, you could hear the music coming from the store downstairs. They were used to it, and the store closed at nine. So it never interfered with their sleep.
When both games were between innings and car commercials were playing, Jimmy asked his dad to switch to the weather station. “I’m hoping it’ll be a little warmer tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll be able to get in a better flow at the tryouts.”
The local forecast was just beginning as Dad switched. “Perfect timing,” he said with a grin, and though it was just music playing over a printed forecast, Dad upped the volume to 21.
“How come twenty-one is okay?” Jimmy asked. “That’s an odd number.”
“It’s divisible by seven,” Dad said. “Twenty-one is three touchdowns and three extra points. So it’s not a problem.”
“And twenty-five is fine, too?”
“It’s symmetrical: five times five. But that’s almost always too loud anyway.” Dad took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’ll explain it again. The acceptable volume range, depending on the station, is fourteen to twenty-five. All even numbers are okay, plus twenty-five.”
“And twenty-one.”
“Yes. As I just explained.”
“So we can’t watch TV at fifteen, seventeen, nineteen, or twenty-three?”
“Right. We can watch those channels, but not at those volumes.”
“I got it.”
Dad switched back to the Yankees. “Now watch how Menendez follows through. He’s a righty, but his mechanics are sound. See? Immediately into a defensive stance after the delivery. You gotta work on that, be ready for a line drive or a grounder.”
Jimmy nodded but looked back to the street. Two kids a little older than he was were standing outside Tienda de Amigo, a men’s clothing store. One was dribbling a basketball and the other was drinking a bottle of soda. A younger kid whizzed past on a skateboard. Above the store, in an apartment that mirrored his own, a woman was preparing dinner.
Dad took a handful of pretzels from the bag that was next to him on the couch and began to chew very slowly and carefully. It was another of his little quirks—always mindful of making too much noise.
“Dad, just chew ’em normal!” Jimmy said. “It ain’t gonna bother me.”
“You want to hear the game, don’t you?”
“Which game? I can’t concentrate on two of ’em at once like you can.”
“Like I said, if you time it right—”
“You can see every pitch. I know.” Jimmy got up and walked toward his bedroom.
“Where you going?” Dad asked.
“I’ll be back in a while.”
He left the tiny living room and walked through the kitchen, where the faucet was dripping steadily. His small bedroom was beyond the bathroom, with its flickering overhead light. Across the hall was his dad’s room, the length of Jimmy’s room and the bathroom combined but still only seven feet wide.
That was the whole place. The door between the bedrooms opened to a narrow stairwell, down to the alley behind the building and up to the third-floor apartment of Mrs. Murphy, an old woman who lived alone with the two cats she wasn’t supposed to have. The landlord, Mr. Espino, knew about the cats but let it slide because Mrs. Murphy was such a good tenant otherwise.
Jimmy was feeling antsy. There was so much going on out there on the street, but he was trapped in here, in an apartment that wasn’t much bigger than the garage at their house back in Pennsylvania. Except for school and now baseball tryouts, he wasn’t allowed to go out on his own. “Not until we know the town a little
One other thing about the noise level in the apartment: Even with the TV on, you could hear the music coming from the store downstairs. They were used to it, and the store closed at nine. So it never interfered with their sleep.
When both games were between innings and car commercials were playing, Jimmy asked his dad to switch to the weather station. “I’m hoping it’ll be a little warmer tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll be able to get in a better flow at the tryouts.”
The local forecast was just beginning as Dad switched. “Perfect timing,” he said with a grin, and though it was just music playing over a printed forecast, Dad upped the volume to 21.
“How come twenty-one is okay?” Jimmy asked. “That’s an odd number.”
“It’s divisible by seven,” Dad said. “Twenty-one is three touchdowns and three extra points. So it’s not a problem.”
“And twenty-five is fine, too?”
“It’s symmetrical: five times five. But that’s almost always too loud anyway.” Dad took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’ll explain it again. The acceptable volume range, depending on the station, is fourteen to twenty-five. All even numbers are okay, plus twenty-five.”
“And twenty-one.”
“Yes. As I just explained.”
“So we can’t watch TV at fifteen, seventeen, nineteen, or twenty-three?”
“Right. We can watch those channels, but not at those volumes.”
“I got it.”
Dad switched back to the Yankees. “Now watch how Menendez follows through. He’s a righty, but his mechanics are sound. See? Immediately into a defensive stance after the delivery. You gotta work on that, be ready for a line drive or a grounder.”
Jimmy nodded but looked back to the street. Two kids a little older than he was were standing outside Tienda de Amigo, a men’s clothing store. One was dribbling a basketball and the other was drinking a bottle of soda. A younger kid whizzed past on a skateboard. Above the store, in an apartment that mirrored his own, a woman was preparing dinner.
Dad took a handful of pretzels from the bag that was next to him on the couch and began to chew very slowly and carefully. It was another of his little quirks—always mindful of making too much noise.
“Dad, just chew ’em normal!” Jimmy said. “It ain’t gonna bother me.”
“You want to hear the game, don’t you?”
“Which game? I can’t concentrate on two of ’em at once like you can.”
“Like I said, if you time it right—”
“You can see every pitch. I know.” Jimmy got up and walked toward his bedroom.
“Where you going?” Dad asked.
“I’ll be back in a while.”
He left the tiny living room and walked through the kitchen, where the faucet was dripping steadily. His small bedroom was beyond the bathroom, with its flickering overhead light. Across the hall was his dad’s room, the length of Jimmy’s room and the bathroom combined but still only seven feet wide.
That was the whole place. The door between the bedrooms opened to a narrow stairwell, down to the alley behind the building and up to the third-floor apartment of Mrs. Murphy, an old woman who lived alone with the two cats she wasn’t supposed to have. The landlord, Mr. Espino, knew about the cats but let it slide because Mrs. Murphy was such a good tenant otherwise.
Jimmy was feeling antsy. There was so much going on out there on the street, but he was trapped in here, in an apartment that wasn’t much bigger than the garage at their house back in Pennsylvania. Except for school and now baseball tryouts, he wasn’t allowed to go out on his own. “Not until we know the town a little
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