Oh, That's Our Shortstop

       "That's our shortstop," bellows Mr. D'stefano to his wife and three little kids over the Yankees broadcast as I skirt the living room of their ramshackle  pink  house on Longwood Avenue. "Grab a beer from the keg out there!" "Here you go, Bates," hails Heinzy from the kitchen as he hands me a red plastic cup. "Debbie and April are tending if you catch my drift."      I barely caught it even though I'd glimpsed Ray and JoAnn making out in the shadow of a hedge on my way in. My only experience had been fumbling around with three successive girlfriends in eighth grade. They had been best friends who remained  so even after taking two-week turns with my thirteen-year-old lips.       I had even less experience with alcohol. On the previous New Year's Eve, after our mother went to bed, my sister and I were bored watching the drunken crowd at Times Square. We decided to join the revelry we were seeing on television by...

     "Hey D'St, hey D'st, hey D'st, you da beast," I jabber as Anthony D'stefano takes the mound against Manville in the top of the seventh inning at the Codrington Park field. "Stunad!" Heinzy groans, stifling a scowl at the steaminess of a May evening in central Jersey while stepping off the pitcher's rubber to check the runners at first and second base.      The one thing I didn't like about being a shortstop was infield chatter, but it was a part of the game in those days. Baseball historians say it developed to cheer on the pitcher and harass opponents. I think it was more about keeping the infielders awake in a deathly slow inning, and for me it was adding insult to injury when I had to do it for a pitcher who wanted to throttle me.      Another thing I didn't like about JV baseball was losing our best players to the varsity. Centerfielder Mike Gubitoso and pitcher Jim Budnick had just been called up, leaving us with just Heinzy and...