Just strolling on google maps. Found myself on Sheridan Avenue; it is an avenue that runs from about 161 street to 173rd in the Bronx, a block or two east of the Grand Concourse. Of course, when I was growing up it was a mostly Jewish area---looked at the apartment houses, then my mind went back to David Arnauer. Who was he? My best friend in camp in 1954--we bonded together at the end of the summer. David lived on Sheridan near where I googled, I remember him telling me about the firsr time he and his friend were allowed by his parents to cross the Concourse so that they could walk to Yankee Stadium. It made sense---the concourse had alot of traffic and many lanes---I could see how the parents of a 9 or 10 year old might not allow a young child to cross that street by him or herself. We promised to continue our friendship during the winter---my Bronx neighborhood was about a half hour north of his, but really accessible.But we did not see each other until April--when he visited me at my home.. Things went all right---not great---and I returned the visit to his apartment on Sheridan in May. Most of these visits were made on the weekend, but for some reason this was an afternoon into evening visit. I must have eaten supper at his house, but in the next hour we went over to the school yard across the street from where he lived, and played stickball. Funny, I don't remember much of our conversation that day, but I remember hanging in the school yard in the early evening--the picture of it in the early darkness stays in my mind. Around nine o'clock it was time to go home.
My trip home was the way I usually came home from a friend who did not live nearby. My father, who was very good about this, picked me up. It must have been around nine o'clock. I was feeling contented, I had had a nice time; I don't remember David's parents, but I assume they were warm and friendly. On the trip home, my father gave me the news: Herb Score--a young pitcher of tremendous promise who played for the Cleveland Indians had been hit in the eye by a scorching liner off the bat of Yankee Gil MacDougald. I remember my father telling me that MacDougald said that if Score lost the eye, he would quit baseball. I loved the game of baseball---followed it closely---accidents that destroyed or stopped careers of great players happened very rarely. Yet it had happened that night. Score recovered, pitched one or two seasons more, with some success, but never reached the heights that seemed possible for him before the accident. Later, I believe he became an Indians broadcaster. But something about a lost career, stopped in one moment, mades me incredibly sad.
David and I returned to Camp Merrimont the next summer, but somehow our bonding never returned. We never saw each other after that, and of course, I have no idea where he is now. Sheridan avenue where he lived is an all black and hispanic neighborhood now--the school across the street from him serves a very different community then when he attended and I visited. Yet when I look at those street pictures on google, my mind goes back to that time---the neighborhood, for a moment becomes all Jewish again, and I-----well, here I am. Not much more to be said.
Just returned from googling the Score-MacDougald incident. I found out that it took place in May of 1957, two years after from my afternoon-evening to David. Yet in my mind it is clear that the two took place on the same night? I know my father gave me the news, and I remember it being in our car. Strange how memory works--I can't unhinge and separate the two incidents---they MUST have happened on the same night. Oh well, in my mind, they always will---in the car with my father on the way back to our apartment--memory never ends.
No comments:
Post a Comment