Read Online Fear Strikes Out by Jim Piersall, Hirshberg - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jim Piersall, Hirshberg
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to tell her everything at once. I was terribly anxious for her to know and understand me—the sooner the better.
Suddenly, I realized what I was doing and stopped, embarrassed because I had poured my troubles into her lap.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Why?”
“I’ve talked all about myself. I must have been boring you.”
“You haven’t bored me, Jimmy. I want to know more.”
“What about you? I don’t know anything about you—except that you’re in training to be a nurse. Tell me about yourself now.”
“There isn’t very much—”
She told me about her dad in Wilkes-Barre, and her younger brother Harry and still younger sister Ann. Her mother had died when she was eleven, and from then on there had always been a housekeeper. Her father had a good job. He was a dragline operator at a surface mine. A dragline, she explained, was a sort of super-steam shovel which was used to scoop up piles of coal residue. It took a skilled man to operate one—a man with keen long-distance eyesight and quick reactions.
“My dad’s a little man, but he runs one of the biggest machines at the mines,” she said. “And you know what, Jimmy? He’s a great baseball fan. He goes to all the Wilkes-Barre games he can. He’s seen you play.”
“I can’t have your dad rooting for Wilkes-Barre.”
“He won’t be. He’s coming here to live in a few weeks—as soon as the kids get out of school.”
I liked Mary’s father. As she had explained, he was a small man, but he didn’t seem small, for he carried himself with dignity. He had merry eyes which glinted with good humor, and a leisurely manner of talking which gave the impression that he never was in a hurry to finish a sentence. It was easy to see where Mary had acquired her smile. Her dad’s eyes never stopped smiling, and his mobile face relaxed often into a wide grin. His real name was Harry, but for no particular reason, I started calling him George. Mary and I both call him George to this day.
I went with Mary all summer. Realizing my hunger for peace of mind, she was always trying to quiet me down and softly telling me to take it easy. She knew I was moving too fast, and time and again she said, “It’s a long life, Jimmy. Don’t try to use it up all at once.”
We grew closer and closer, and I was happy in the knowledge that I had found the girl I wanted. Mary was my kind of person—a member of my faith, a child of a working-class family and a product of a medium-sized city. We understood each other so well that we drifted into talk of marriage as naturally as we talked of everything else.
One night I said, “We could be happy together.”
“Could we?”
“Yes. Only—”
“Only what, Jimmy?”
“Well—I don’t have very much money. And I’ve got to take care of my folks.”
“I know.”
“We might even have to live with them.”
“That’s all right.”
“Someday, Mary—not this year, but maybe next—all right?”
I went back to work for the silver company in Meriden during the winter of 1948–1949, and, to make sure that Mary wouldn’t forget me, I bought a second-hand car and commuted between Waterbury and Scranton every other weekend. It was a tough, eight-hour trip over winding, mountainous roads. I would drive to Scranton Saturday, stay there until Sunday evening and then go directly to Meriden, walking into the plant on Monday morning without any sleep. It was not recommended routine for a boy suffering from nervous tension, but, even though I was usually too tired to take Mary anywhere after arriving in Scranton, I thrived on it. I was more relaxed that winter than I had been for years.
I was apprehensive about my father’s reaction to Mary, so I didn’t tell him how serious I felt about her. But between his illness and my own new-found independence, he no longer could frighten me with his roaring temper. He told me what he thought I should do, and if I thought his advice was good, I followed it.
When it came
Suddenly, I realized what I was doing and stopped, embarrassed because I had poured my troubles into her lap.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Why?”
“I’ve talked all about myself. I must have been boring you.”
“You haven’t bored me, Jimmy. I want to know more.”
“What about you? I don’t know anything about you—except that you’re in training to be a nurse. Tell me about yourself now.”
“There isn’t very much—”
She told me about her dad in Wilkes-Barre, and her younger brother Harry and still younger sister Ann. Her mother had died when she was eleven, and from then on there had always been a housekeeper. Her father had a good job. He was a dragline operator at a surface mine. A dragline, she explained, was a sort of super-steam shovel which was used to scoop up piles of coal residue. It took a skilled man to operate one—a man with keen long-distance eyesight and quick reactions.
“My dad’s a little man, but he runs one of the biggest machines at the mines,” she said. “And you know what, Jimmy? He’s a great baseball fan. He goes to all the Wilkes-Barre games he can. He’s seen you play.”
“I can’t have your dad rooting for Wilkes-Barre.”
“He won’t be. He’s coming here to live in a few weeks—as soon as the kids get out of school.”
I liked Mary’s father. As she had explained, he was a small man, but he didn’t seem small, for he carried himself with dignity. He had merry eyes which glinted with good humor, and a leisurely manner of talking which gave the impression that he never was in a hurry to finish a sentence. It was easy to see where Mary had acquired her smile. Her dad’s eyes never stopped smiling, and his mobile face relaxed often into a wide grin. His real name was Harry, but for no particular reason, I started calling him George. Mary and I both call him George to this day.
I went with Mary all summer. Realizing my hunger for peace of mind, she was always trying to quiet me down and softly telling me to take it easy. She knew I was moving too fast, and time and again she said, “It’s a long life, Jimmy. Don’t try to use it up all at once.”
We grew closer and closer, and I was happy in the knowledge that I had found the girl I wanted. Mary was my kind of person—a member of my faith, a child of a working-class family and a product of a medium-sized city. We understood each other so well that we drifted into talk of marriage as naturally as we talked of everything else.
One night I said, “We could be happy together.”
“Could we?”
“Yes. Only—”
“Only what, Jimmy?”
“Well—I don’t have very much money. And I’ve got to take care of my folks.”
“I know.”
“We might even have to live with them.”
“That’s all right.”
“Someday, Mary—not this year, but maybe next—all right?”
I went back to work for the silver company in Meriden during the winter of 1948–1949, and, to make sure that Mary wouldn’t forget me, I bought a second-hand car and commuted between Waterbury and Scranton every other weekend. It was a tough, eight-hour trip over winding, mountainous roads. I would drive to Scranton Saturday, stay there until Sunday evening and then go directly to Meriden, walking into the plant on Monday morning without any sleep. It was not recommended routine for a boy suffering from nervous tension, but, even though I was usually too tired to take Mary anywhere after arriving in Scranton, I thrived on it. I was more relaxed that winter than I had been for years.
I was apprehensive about my father’s reaction to Mary, so I didn’t tell him how serious I felt about her. But between his illness and my own new-found independence, he no longer could frighten me with his roaring temper. He told me what he thought I should do, and if I thought his advice was good, I followed it.
When it came
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