endowed the joint. I fell in alongside him and as we met the first wave of teachers and fathers, Grandpa put a hand lightly on my shoulder and turned into Clark Gable. His stutter disappeared, his manner softened. By turns he was gracious, funny, self-deprecating—and sane. I introduced him to Mrs. Williams and thought within minutes that she might have a crush on the old gent. “We’re expecting big things from JR,” she gushed.
“He’s got his mother’s brains,” Grandpa said, clasping his hands behind his back, standing ramrod straight, as if a medal were about to be pinned on his chest. “I’d rather see him concentrate on the baseball. You know, this boy has a rifle for an arm. He could play third base for the Mets someday. That was my position. Hot corner.”
“He’s lucky to have a grandfather who takes such an interest.”
The students served the fathers scrambled eggs and orange juice, then joined them at long tables set up in the middle of the classroom. Grandpa’s manners were impeccable. He didn’t dribble crumbs down his shirtfront, didn’t make any of the explosive noises that normally indicated he was full and digestion was under way. Sipping his coffee he educated the other fathers on a variety of subjects—American history, etymology, the stock market—and gave a sensational account of the day he saw Ty Cobb go five for five. The fathers stared, like boys listening to a ghost story around a campfire, as Grandpa described Cobb sliding into second base, “screaming like a banshee,” the blades of his sharpened cleats aimed at his opponent’s shins.
When I brought Grandpa his fedora and helped him into his topcoat, everyone was sorry to see him go. In the Pinto I let my head fall back against the seat and said, “Grandpa—you were amazing.”
“It’s a free country.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Don’t tell anyone—they’ll all want one.”
At home Grandpa went straight upstairs while Grandma and my mother sat me down in the dining room and debriefed me. They wanted every detail, but I didn’t want to break the spell. And anyway, I didn’t think they would believe me. I told them everything went fine and left it at that.
Grandpa didn’t reappear until later that afternoon when the Jets game started. He sat down in front of the TV wearing his stained chinos and oatmeal-crusted shirt. I sat beside him. Every time something interesting happened I looked his way, pointedly, but he didn’t flinch. I said something about Joe Namath. He grunted. I went to find Grandma, to discuss my Jekyll-Hyde grandfather, but she was busy making dinner. I went to find my mother. She was taking a nap. I woke her, but she said she was tired, and asked me to let her sleep a little while longer.
My mother had good reason to be tired. She was slaving to pay for our Great Neck apartment. But in early 1975 we discovered another reason. She had a tumor on her thyroid.
In the weeks before her surgery Grandpa’s house was actually quiet, everyone filled with dread. I alone remained calm, thanks to my mantra. I wore out my mantra. When I overheard Grandma and Uncle Charlie whispering about my mother, and the risks of her surgery, and the chance that her tumor would be malignant, I shut my eyes and took a deep breath.
I will not worry about something that will not happen.
On the day of the surgery I sat under the pine tree in Grandpa’s backyard, saying my mantra to the pinecones, which Sheryl once told me were the “pine tree’s babies.” I wondered if the pine tree was the mother or the father. I placed the pinecones closer to the tree, reuniting them with their mother-father. Grandma appeared. A miracle, she said. My mother was out of surgery and everything was fine. What she didn’t say, what she didn’t know, was that I’d done it. I’d used my mantra to save my mother.
Bandaged around her neck, my mother left the hospital a week later, and our first night in Great Neck she
“He’s got his mother’s brains,” Grandpa said, clasping his hands behind his back, standing ramrod straight, as if a medal were about to be pinned on his chest. “I’d rather see him concentrate on the baseball. You know, this boy has a rifle for an arm. He could play third base for the Mets someday. That was my position. Hot corner.”
“He’s lucky to have a grandfather who takes such an interest.”
The students served the fathers scrambled eggs and orange juice, then joined them at long tables set up in the middle of the classroom. Grandpa’s manners were impeccable. He didn’t dribble crumbs down his shirtfront, didn’t make any of the explosive noises that normally indicated he was full and digestion was under way. Sipping his coffee he educated the other fathers on a variety of subjects—American history, etymology, the stock market—and gave a sensational account of the day he saw Ty Cobb go five for five. The fathers stared, like boys listening to a ghost story around a campfire, as Grandpa described Cobb sliding into second base, “screaming like a banshee,” the blades of his sharpened cleats aimed at his opponent’s shins.
When I brought Grandpa his fedora and helped him into his topcoat, everyone was sorry to see him go. In the Pinto I let my head fall back against the seat and said, “Grandpa—you were amazing.”
“It’s a free country.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Don’t tell anyone—they’ll all want one.”
At home Grandpa went straight upstairs while Grandma and my mother sat me down in the dining room and debriefed me. They wanted every detail, but I didn’t want to break the spell. And anyway, I didn’t think they would believe me. I told them everything went fine and left it at that.
Grandpa didn’t reappear until later that afternoon when the Jets game started. He sat down in front of the TV wearing his stained chinos and oatmeal-crusted shirt. I sat beside him. Every time something interesting happened I looked his way, pointedly, but he didn’t flinch. I said something about Joe Namath. He grunted. I went to find Grandma, to discuss my Jekyll-Hyde grandfather, but she was busy making dinner. I went to find my mother. She was taking a nap. I woke her, but she said she was tired, and asked me to let her sleep a little while longer.
My mother had good reason to be tired. She was slaving to pay for our Great Neck apartment. But in early 1975 we discovered another reason. She had a tumor on her thyroid.
In the weeks before her surgery Grandpa’s house was actually quiet, everyone filled with dread. I alone remained calm, thanks to my mantra. I wore out my mantra. When I overheard Grandma and Uncle Charlie whispering about my mother, and the risks of her surgery, and the chance that her tumor would be malignant, I shut my eyes and took a deep breath.
I will not worry about something that will not happen.
On the day of the surgery I sat under the pine tree in Grandpa’s backyard, saying my mantra to the pinecones, which Sheryl once told me were the “pine tree’s babies.” I wondered if the pine tree was the mother or the father. I placed the pinecones closer to the tree, reuniting them with their mother-father. Grandma appeared. A miracle, she said. My mother was out of surgery and everything was fine. What she didn’t say, what she didn’t know, was that I’d done it. I’d used my mantra to save my mother.
Bandaged around her neck, my mother left the hospital a week later, and our first night in Great Neck she
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