Read Online The Gathering by William X. Kienzle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William X. Kienzle
Ads: Link
the story could break at any time. Yes, Manny could tell Mike.
Manny engaged his dad in a game of catch in the back alley. It was early evening. They had just eaten—meatballs and spaghetti again. Maria good-naturedly shooed them out of the house so she could wash the dishes and clean up in the kitchen.
’Fredo sported an almost-new catcher’s mitt. He needed the protection for his hand, he admitted—pridefully; his son, though still young, had a stinging fast ball.
Even with the mitt, after some thirty minutes, Mr. Tocco cried uncle.
Father and son sat on the front porch glider, absorbing the peace and tranquillity of a late summer evening. ’Fredo fingered the baseball, then dropped it in what Manny called his glove box. ’Fredo reached into the box and took out what looked like a large marble bag. Out of the bag ’Fredo took another ball, a ball that held fond memories.
It was a major league ball. They’d gotten it some two years back at Briggs Stadium. They couldn’t afford to go to many Tiger games. So when they did go, ’Fredo made sure they had excellent seats.
For this game, their seats were along the third base line just behind the Tiger dugout. In a late inning, Hank Greenberg hit a towering foul ball that just reached the seats. Many fans wanted that ball, but ’Fredo had to get it—for his son. So, although he was not very tall, he had more intense desire working for him. He leaped as high as he could and speared it. He brought it down, clasped it close, plopped into his seat, turned, and carefully handed it to his son.
To Manny, his dad might as well have been Greenberg, Gehringer, Higgins, and all the rest of those superb professional athletes rolled into one. Manny and his dad: two people in a crowded ballpark who took pride in and loved each other.
Words unspoken, Manny knew the next move was his. At game’s end Manny scrambled across the dugout roof and stretched out prone at the spot where Greenberg would pass on his way to the locker room. As Greenberg neared the dugout, in a hurry to shower and leave, Manny waved the ball at him.
There was something in the boy’s eyes. Greenberg couldn’t resist. He stopped, took the ball, and reached for the pen Manny held out to him. The boy always brought a pen to the park—just in case. The lines around Greenberg’s eyes, begrimed with sweat, crinkled. He signed the ball, handed back the pen, then reached out, dropped the ball in the boy’s outstretched hand, and in the same movement, tousled the boy’s hair.
Manny vowed he would never again wash his hair. It was a vow no one in his family would let him keep. But from that day on, anyone who bad-mouthed Hank Greenberg had to answer to an aggressively faithful Manny Tocco.
As for ’Fredo, he would never forget the look on his son’s face, and he would be forever grateful to Hammerin’ Hank.
’Fredo twirled the ball, stopping at the sacred signature. “Remember this?”
“How could I forget?”
“Maybe, someday … well, you never know … I keep thinking that someday you’ll be out on the mound for the Tigers. Or the Yankees or the Red Sox. Some kid will ask for your autograph, and you’ll remember Hank and what he did for you.”
There was a long pause. The glider rocked back and forth.
“Ain’t many priests playin’ in the majors,” Manny said at length.
“It’s an even longer road getting to be a priest than it is getting to play ball in the majors,” ’Fredo commented.
“Nothing personal, Pop, but extra-large is not a measurement that runs in our family. Most of my uncles and my cousins are kinda small. Even you, Pop—no offense intended.”
“That’s okay. But you don’t have to be seven feet to play ball. You’re strong. Just look at how you handled that bully the other day. Ask him if you’re a contender or what.”
Silence.
“And on account of you I had to spring for a new catcher’s mitt. You got some arm, kiddo. And, what are you—thirteen
Manny engaged his dad in a game of catch in the back alley. It was early evening. They had just eaten—meatballs and spaghetti again. Maria good-naturedly shooed them out of the house so she could wash the dishes and clean up in the kitchen.
’Fredo sported an almost-new catcher’s mitt. He needed the protection for his hand, he admitted—pridefully; his son, though still young, had a stinging fast ball.
Even with the mitt, after some thirty minutes, Mr. Tocco cried uncle.
Father and son sat on the front porch glider, absorbing the peace and tranquillity of a late summer evening. ’Fredo fingered the baseball, then dropped it in what Manny called his glove box. ’Fredo reached into the box and took out what looked like a large marble bag. Out of the bag ’Fredo took another ball, a ball that held fond memories.
It was a major league ball. They’d gotten it some two years back at Briggs Stadium. They couldn’t afford to go to many Tiger games. So when they did go, ’Fredo made sure they had excellent seats.
For this game, their seats were along the third base line just behind the Tiger dugout. In a late inning, Hank Greenberg hit a towering foul ball that just reached the seats. Many fans wanted that ball, but ’Fredo had to get it—for his son. So, although he was not very tall, he had more intense desire working for him. He leaped as high as he could and speared it. He brought it down, clasped it close, plopped into his seat, turned, and carefully handed it to his son.
To Manny, his dad might as well have been Greenberg, Gehringer, Higgins, and all the rest of those superb professional athletes rolled into one. Manny and his dad: two people in a crowded ballpark who took pride in and loved each other.
Words unspoken, Manny knew the next move was his. At game’s end Manny scrambled across the dugout roof and stretched out prone at the spot where Greenberg would pass on his way to the locker room. As Greenberg neared the dugout, in a hurry to shower and leave, Manny waved the ball at him.
There was something in the boy’s eyes. Greenberg couldn’t resist. He stopped, took the ball, and reached for the pen Manny held out to him. The boy always brought a pen to the park—just in case. The lines around Greenberg’s eyes, begrimed with sweat, crinkled. He signed the ball, handed back the pen, then reached out, dropped the ball in the boy’s outstretched hand, and in the same movement, tousled the boy’s hair.
Manny vowed he would never again wash his hair. It was a vow no one in his family would let him keep. But from that day on, anyone who bad-mouthed Hank Greenberg had to answer to an aggressively faithful Manny Tocco.
As for ’Fredo, he would never forget the look on his son’s face, and he would be forever grateful to Hammerin’ Hank.
’Fredo twirled the ball, stopping at the sacred signature. “Remember this?”
“How could I forget?”
“Maybe, someday … well, you never know … I keep thinking that someday you’ll be out on the mound for the Tigers. Or the Yankees or the Red Sox. Some kid will ask for your autograph, and you’ll remember Hank and what he did for you.”
There was a long pause. The glider rocked back and forth.
“Ain’t many priests playin’ in the majors,” Manny said at length.
“It’s an even longer road getting to be a priest than it is getting to play ball in the majors,” ’Fredo commented.
“Nothing personal, Pop, but extra-large is not a measurement that runs in our family. Most of my uncles and my cousins are kinda small. Even you, Pop—no offense intended.”
“That’s okay. But you don’t have to be seven feet to play ball. You’re strong. Just look at how you handled that bully the other day. Ask him if you’re a contender or what.”
Silence.
“And on account of you I had to spring for a new catcher’s mitt. You got some arm, kiddo. And, what are you—thirteen
Similar Books
