father had once had a subnormal fever; he placed the thermometer on top of the radiator so that it would look as though histemperature had risen and he could go to school. Colds went away, he reminded us. Mind over matter.
In Riverside Park he played baseball with us, and explained the physics of a swing and how a pitcher could achieve maximum velocity.
âStep into the ball,â he said. âThink about physics.â
But I wasnât interested in physics. I was interested in playing for the New York Mets. In the park, as the sun began to set and the pigeons fluttered above us while my father hit us grounders, I could smell beer and peanuts. I pretended I was Tommie Agee and my father, in left field, was Cleon Jones. My mother waved to us from the balcony of our apartment. She looked like a fan in the bleachers. I pictured the whole neighborhood out on the balconies, everyoneâs mother rooting me on.
Over dinner, sweaty and spent, my father taught us how to chant from the Torah. That was our deal. He played baseball with us, and in return we agreed to learn the notes. My fatherâs brother Marvin, who lived in Chicago, was the best Torah chanter my father had ever heard. He was the champion Torah chanter of the Windy City.
âThere are no champion Torah chanters,â Jonathan said.
âHeâs my champion,â said my father.
We had potential, he said. We had good voices and good minds; with a little practice weâd chant as well as Uncle Marvin.
âWho cares?â said Jonathan.
âI do,â I said. Now I felt bad, because Jonathan and I were supposed to be in this together. But I did care. I wanted to be like Tommie Agee. Iâd be the first Jewish center fielder the Mets had ever had, the only player who could chant from the Torah. Iâd be older but the same, gazing up at the planes as they dipped toward La Guardia, and at the stands where my parents would be cheering.
I thought of my father growing up on the Lower East Side, where heâd played stickball on the streets. His family had come from White Russia, eleven consecutive generations of Eastern Europeanrabbis. As a child, heâd walked from kosher butcher to kosher butcher along Essex Street, past shops that sold mezuzahs and tefillin. At home he spoke Yiddish, on the streets English. On Passover, he said, you couldnât find breadânot a crumb in any store. He had a fantasy in which the president of the United States was Jewish and all the hot dogs at Yankee Stadium were strictly kosher.
This was my fantasy: Iâd be the starting center fielder on the New York Mets, and at the peak of my career Iâd boycott Shea Stadium. Iâd boycott every stadium in major-league baseball until they all sold kosher hot dogs.
Then I thought of Roberto Clemente, who had died in a plane crash on a charity mission. What was the point of keeping kosher if God could let that happen? Was this the moment that I started to doubt God?
In ninth grade, Jonathan and I discovered girls. We each had a girlfriend, and sometimes the four of us went bowling together or stopped at Carvel to eat ice cream and play pinball, breaking up into teams.
âWe could play couple against couple,â Jonathan said.
âOr brothers against nonbrothers,â I suggested.
Sometimes after school I went to the movies with my girlfriend. As the images flashed across the screen I dropped Raisinets into her open mouth and let her lick my fingers. I took her to The Deer Hunter , and when the scary scenes came on I rested my hand against her thigh until, gently but firmly, she removed it.
One time Jonathan met me when the movie was over. He had spent the afternoon at his girlfriendâs apartment listening to Bruce Springsteen. Jonathan liked the line from âBorn to RunâââStrap your hands across my enginesââbut he and his girlfriend had to leave the door open whenever they were in her bedroom
Kathi Mills-Macias
Echoes in the Mist
Annette Blair
J. L. White
Stephen Maher
Bill O’Reilly
Keith Donohue
James Axler
Liz Lee
Usman Ijaz