Oh, That's Our Shortstop

        "Everybody out and make it fast!" exhorts Coach Martin with an uncharacteristic squeak in his husky voice. "Come on Gooby," beseeches Jim Budnick. "I think I hear a train!" "Hustle up," goads the coach as we scramble over the tracks and line up behind the bus. "On three push with all you've got!"      It was every coach's nightmare that a school bus under their charge would stall while crossing railroad tracks. That bad dream came true at an elevated industrial crossing on the way home from Budnick's second win at Piscataway.       The Romano's Bus Service driver had dutifully stopped before the railroad line, looking both ways instead of trusting the upright wooden smashboard. Nothing was visibly approaching so he ground the long yellow bus into gear, stalling out on a shift at the crest over the tracks.      "Lean into that bumper," coaches Heinzy as Vennie, Gooby, Joe Flis, and I line up beside him a...

       "Listen up back there!" booms Coach Martin in a baritone voice somehow emanating from his falsetto body.  "Shhhh," hisses Jim Budnick elbowing the ever kidding Mike Gubitoso on the back bench of the yellow Romano's school bus. "Gambino's going up to varsity so Malave will take Ray's position at third base." "No!" sloe eyed Gooby moans as the coach wobbles his way back to the front of the bus. "JoAnn will take Debbie and April to Ray's games just when they're about to take off their winter sweaters."      He wasn't just joking that the three girls would probably follow handsome and hefty-hitting Ray Gambino to the varsity games that were played simultaneously to our JV contests. He'd had three hits in four at-bats including a towering homerun through the Frezza's picture window in our season opening loss to Basking Ridge. JoAnn was a magnet for both boys and girls with her blond beauty, outgoing cha...

       "Vischetti, get out there behind the plate!" I hear from a long way off as my vision shifts into the eyes of a big black bird flapping toward the greening top of First Watchung Mountain. "On the mound it's D'stefano," calls Coach Martin as the taller blond of the three girls hisses "Leave him alone Heinzy!"      It hadn't registered with me at the time, but the vehemence of Heinzy's response to my faux pas was amplified by the presence of those three girls at our first game. They were there to watch us play, and not one of us was going to do or put up with anything that might tarnish our images in their eyes.      It's called dissociation when one retreats from a current painful reality into an altered consciousness. Those undergoing near-death experiences often report dissociative out-of-body visions afterwards. I'm not sure if my fourteen-year-old brain hanging over an iron bar called on this defense mechanism, but it was a...

     "Want to play a trick on Heinzy?" snickers Jamesy Budnick on the walk from our west end neighborhood to Codrington Park where we're about to have our first JV baseball game. "It will definitely make him laugh!" "Why not?" I reply, trusting my childhood friend to get me into the good graces of Anthony D'stefano, one of those big and tough guys trying out for catcher. He's also the red-headed leader of the feared Longwood Avenue gang.  "Tell him 'Hi there, I'm Heinzy's father' when you see him at the field."      What I didn't know about Heinzy was that he really wanted to be a starting pitcher when he wasn't catching. After the last practice the pitchers and catchers had stayed late for a little extra work before the opening game. Coach Martin was behind pitcher's mound evaluating Jamesy Budnick's pitches when a muddy builder's truck pulled up. A massive man stumbled out and ambled onto the infi...

  Costello: Another guy gets up and hits a long fly ball to Because. Abbott: Yes Costello: Why? I don't know! He's on third and I don't give a darn! Abbott: What'd you say? Costello: I said, I don't give a darn! Abbott: Oh, that's our shortstop! (1)      "Hey, that's my spot!" grumbles Ventura Malave coming back to shortstop from shallow left where he'd fielded a cut-off throw. "Come on, Pitch!" is all I say, leaning into position with knees bent, hands open, and body ready to go any which way on the next hit.      It was the spring of 1973 and we were vying for the starting lineup on the Bound Brook Junior Varsity baseball team. In ninth grade the best players from the fourteen Little League teams of the twin boroughs of Bound Brook and South Bound Brook converge on the high school's JV team.      The largest and toughest of the bunch go out for catcher, a position that requires heavy gear and strength of heart to withstand...