Bill Greenhut

Two Stories

Young passions.

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Lee Ann

I’m not sure what made her attractive to me. I know it wasn’t the fact that she was taller than most of the boys in our class. I didn’t find that, in itself, particularly appealing. Nor was it her long, straight dark hair that plunged down her back. It was probably the sprinkle of freckles that peppered a face that one might say was otherwise devoid of pigment. I had countless freckles on my own, more than any person I had ever seen, which was remarked upon, sometimes not so kindly, by many who knew me. “You should enter the Howdy Doody Look-Alike Contest,” was one of the more benign remarks I often heard, even from adults.

I was too shy to speak to her. But the onset of warm weather, when I could move about in comfort and not be dependent upon the school bus to take me home, gave me the idea to follow her after school and ignited my sense of adventure. I thought, as long as I was undiscovered and revealed it to no one, I could create a secret bond between us that would last indefinitely, or at least until the school year ended. 

The first part was easy. When school let out, I was just one of hundreds of kids leaving and turning left down 262nd Street. I hung back and followed her. I did have to pass the bus that usually took me home, which momentarily triggered thoughts of my mother expecting me earlier than it would take to trail Lee Ann and walk home late. But I knew she would be engrossed in her afternoon TV programs, something called “Okay Mother” or “The Kate Smith Show,” one of which was usually on when I got there. 

It was three blocks of wood shingled ranch houses, gray, white, pastel blue and brown, to the first danger point. If the light was green when she approached Union Turnpike there was no problem. She could cross and continue. But if it was red, we both had to stop and I would be a face in the mob, until she began to walk. Then I could proceed. 

It got trickier on the other side where Glen Oaks Village began. She could turn right toward 263rd Street or she could walk through the parking lots and past the garages behind the garden apartments, where anyone following would stand out. That would force me to be much more careful, concealing myself by ducking behind parked cars and dodging from one to the next. 

Instead, she turned onto 263rd Street, passing the office of my dentist, Dr. Miller, and his evil, nightmare drill, where there was heavy foot traffic and I was just one of many. At the next intersection, she turned onto 75th Avenue and I stopped on the corner and found a spot on the grass behind a small evergreen tree just tall enough to hide me from view. I watched as she ascended two steps and entered her apartment.

In school, I just froze when I thought about talking to her. I got sweaty and thought my legs wouldn’t support me if I rose from my chair to approach. It was so much easier to continue what I was doing after school. 

All through May and into June, I followed about once a week, choosing a day when there was no threat of rain or oppressive heat. More than that and I feared my mother would notice my lateness and become curious. I couldn’t come up with a good reason and I didn’t know what she would think. It seemed like every time I didn’t answer her truthfully, she knew, and informing my father was not an option I wanted to put into play. It was easier to avoid the situation. 

Lee Ann never looked back and, in school, I never approached her. I just didn’t have the confidence to tell her that I liked her. School ended and I was caught up in the usual things, spending most of the summer playing ball and going swimming. I thought of her from time to time and looked forward to seeing her when the new school year began. 

It wasn’t until then that I found out, from one of her friends, that her family had moved during the summer. Of course, I was very disappointed. Never again would I follow anyone home. To me, the girls in my second-grade class were just not as appealing.

My Best Friend

I stood tall on the mound and stared in at the batter. The count was three balls, two strikes. The bases were loaded. One more pitch could, one more out would end the game and preserve my shutout.

This was the final game of the regular season. In four years of Little League, I had never before pitched. I was the Tiger’s regular catcher and I guess, Dick, the manager may have decided he needed another pitcher for the coming playoffs for which we had already qualified, and I had one of the strongest arms. I didn’t ask; twelve-year-olds don’t question the manager. 

In the week preceding this final regular season game, which would have no bearing on the season’s outcome, he worked me out, throwing to him on the grass in the courtyard fronting the garden apartment where he lived, just down the hill from my house.

I preferred catching which engaged me on every pitch. Sometimes, when Dick wanted to get our other catcher in the lineup, he would move me to right field where I felt distant and detached and had to deal with erratic bounces on the poor surface, baked by the summer sun and chewed up by months of play. But this time, I would be the pitcher, the centerpiece of the team, all eyes on me, and I was excited.

There was a sizable crowd of families and friends standing behind the perimeter fence, not unusual for a sunny August Saturday morning. By the sixth, and last, inning I had given up only two hits but walked a slew of Orioles and had struck out even more. I threw hard but usually didn’t know where the pitch was going. Luckily, my center fielder had thrown out at the plate the only base runner with a chance to score and we were leading two to nothing. But having to concentrate and expend myself on every pitch in the summer heat was tiring. 

With two outs and the bases loaded, this was the Orioles’ last chance. The batter, who happened to be my best friend, Irv, was one of the top hitters in the League. We both idolized Mickey Mantle and fantasized about a situation like this. Irv was probably relishing this moment to emulate ‘The Mick,’ his hero, and bring victory to his team. His mouth was clamped shut, his batting helmet pulled low on his forehead, eyes focused on me. He held his bat high, hands tight as if he was strangling it to death.

I looked in from the mound. The count was three and two. I badly wanted the strikeout. Ready to go into my windup, faces set and serious, our eyes met. I don’t know who was first but we both smiled. I relaxed and had to back off. I took a moment to reset, quickly blanking my expression as did he.  

Again, I looked in, this time ignoring Irv and concentrating on the catcher’s glove. I was going to throw the ball as hard as I could. I went into my windup. My hands parted as I swung my left leg forward and stretched my right arm back. I pushed off with my right leg propelling myself toward home plate and simultaneously whipped my right arm forward with as much thrust as I could. My left leg hit the ground just before I released the ball and sent it home to determine our destiny.

As soon as it left my hand, I knew I had sacrificed accuracy for power and, high and inside, it would be ball four. But Irv, being the “good friend,” swung and missed. The game was over. I was elated. 

I can’t say I remember how Irv reacted. I was probably celebrating with my team. I do recall that he had a temper. I had once seen him strike out and angrily throw his bat, hitting the assistant manager in the shin. 

But it didn’t affect our friendship. After all, we had been playing together for years, sometimes for, sometimes against. We also occupied the same circle of friends and that was the summer we shared a burgeoning interest in girls. We did talk about it once, a few years ago when I visited him in Scottsdale where he practices law. A fond memory for me and something we chuckled about.

And the rest of that season? I did not start a game in the playoffs, which we lost two games to one to the Eagles. But I was the winner of our one when Dick had me pitch in relief. I came in in the fifth with the bases loaded and one out to face the two most dangerous hitters in the League. I got a force and a strikeout and pitched a perfect sixth as we came from behind to win. It was an abrupt and auspicious end to a brief but illustrious pitching career when I never knew where the ball was going.

From the author

I have always lived, and schooled, in and around New York City. When I graduated from college with a history degree, Selective Service was closely watching me so I enlisted. After concluding Infantry OCS, three weeks later I left for Korea where I was assigned to a mechanized battalion. Eventually, I was awarded a Combat Infantryman Badge and received a Purple Heart as the result of action while a platoon leader with the Second Infantry Division Quick Reaction Force. The bulk of my working life was spent in the field of diagnostic ultrasound, performing exams, supervising staff, lecturing and teaching at New York University, the State University of New York and the University of Medicine and Dentistry of New Jersey. Currently, I am a participant in the Veterans Writing Workshop at Fordham University.

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