Veterans' Circle

It was usually quiet when these gentlemen met to shake hands and to relive some moments of shared sacrifice. It was always the same – in amongst tress and seated around an oversized redwood picnic table. It began with twelve, and now the years had taken half of them away. Nevertheless, each Memorial Day remained theirs to remember the joys and the pains of their camaraderie.

Veterans’ Circle

Some hadn’t cried

up until then

Welled up feelings too frequent

now did abound

A first tear finds its way down

This deepest dam had been breached

Decades of storage released

overdue

Sixty-one years of burden

Questioning

Softly

Why me

some shared

was I the receiver of mercy

Given all of life’s allowances

Forty thousand others… forever stilled

Sitting in a circle

Men of dissimilar cloth

Unmistakably the same

Veterans all

 

Able to speak to veterans

Looks understood

Arms around each other’s shoulders

Comforting

Not needy men

though all in need

It was called the Forgotten War

Fought by forgotten men

each in their own degree

Had bourn witness

Tragedy seen without boundary

Questions forever remaining unanswered

With circle growing smaller

Ever smaller

Fewer left to be understood

Their proud country sent them to war

To a place called Korea

They so gallantly stood

-HK May 31, 2012

There's a Person in Here

Easy, there’s a person in here.

With no inclination to stop, they pushed their way past.

My mind’s eye: “MME”

There’s a person in here.

Who cares anyway? No need to look inside. Judgment is easy when derived by way of the superficial imprint of one’s human appearance.

Calabasas where lifestyles are those most only dream.

I had found a wonderful parking spot directly in front of the Corner Bakery for us and William & Sonoma, for her – the latter being of little consequence as far as I had been concerned. Eating, yes; cooking, not for me! This particular eatery on the other hand was not only a marvelous place for breakfast or lunch, but it also offered a senior discount. On the first day I became aware of the discount, it came as a little bit of a shock to me. I wasn’t in the habit of inquiring about senior discounts. It has always seemed ludicrous for a man as youthful and as virile as I am to have anything to do with the benefits of age. Asking for anything that depicted any form of decay was never part of my makeup. When a person is a modest man, he falls out of the habit of asking for things; people like that often times volunteer.

        

The Corner Bakery is the kind of a restaurant where you wait in a cafeteria-style line to place your food order. The people taking your order stand directly behind individual cash registers and the procedure is extremely convenient. We both ordered our breakfast and listened as the server repeated our order (in case a mistake has been made) before announcing the cost of the meal. It was at this point that my wife, who reads everything having to do with food, announces in a charmingly loud voice (sounding exactly like her Midwest Mother), “Make sure to get your Senior Citizen’s Discount.”

OUCH!

While I usually don’t embarrass easily, the smirk adorning the face of the woman in line with her husband directly to my right did make me a little self-conscious. Not knowing or understanding the prospect of me having a person within me, she blurted out to my wife, “Does he qualify to receive the discount?”

My wife, again, and as stylish as her own Mother would put it, dutifully informs the world that, “Oh, he qualifies.”

I immediately turned to the woman and her husband and said (as a quip), “Only when at least one of the partners has remained sexually active.”

No laugh followed. Not even a smile from either of them. The kid manning the cash register gave me a satisfaction wink.

The Corner Bakery proved itself during the ensuing months as an ideal place for me to refine my self-rewarding game of “There’s a Person in Here.”

I guess it makes me a strange sort of duck, or maybe not. After almost a lifetime of playing my own prescribed games of internal and singular participation, it probably won’t come as a surprise to anyone who knows me that I’ve decided to continue on within my own zone. Going along with the premise that just thinking about something will never cause another any harm, it frees me and allows for a great many of the mystical dreams and assertions I so greatly enjoy.

As an example, my reminder of the fact that there’s a person in here, serves my purpose of justification for the extremes my thought patterns allow. Like anyone else out there, I’m free to think anything I like. This allows me to internalize some of the most exaggerated concepts, as I said earlier, without hurting anyone else.

So there I sat, alone in a corner of the restaurant parked clearly within the sight line of the entry door, where all who entered were in perfect view. They took turns coming in and passing by my seat. Some slowly, some clamored, all with the latest electronics of the day. My coffee was particularly good that day. My thoughts were pleasingly mine, and completely internal.

LET THE GAMES BEGIN

MME

There’s a person in here.

Few if any looked back.

Even fewer returned the least of a passing glance.

I was playing my game again; observing all within my line

There for me to scold as I beheld them

Without gaining their permissions.

There’s a person in here.

What a truly great concept, don’t you think?

Oh, and just in case you’ve forgotten, please say hello to anyone who knows me.

Toughest Assignment

(Be Yourself)

The toughest assignment for an actor is to remain natural. As a young director, I was warned by mentors to try to avoid asking actors to be themselves. I was told that many actors haven’t a clue as to who or what they really are. In fact, I was told that many actors think they know who they are but are under a misguided conception of what their truth really is.

If you don’t want to discover and practice your individual truth, the chance of your becoming a professional actor will never come to pass. As an aside, while it may not make you happy to discover your truth as a human being, it will definitely give you a tremendous leg up as an actor.

In my travels, I have always been blown away when I’ve encountered an actor in an everyday situation. You know, I mean a chance meeting at some sort of function or whatever after which I come away with the feeling that this guy or gal came across as being on the shallow side. Some didn’t even have the ability to share their true feelings with me. When meeting that same person in an actor/director environment, I’m often times elated, as well as surprised, at their totally ability to tell the truth through the eyes of another. That “other person” I refer to is the character they happen to be portraying. What these actors don’t want to give in to is the fact that whatever they may think of as playacting is still a way of telling the truth.

Perhaps one of the greatest actors of all time said it as succinctly as any actor I’ve ever heard when he responded to the interview question: “What is your acting method?”

“Well, I just look the other actor right in the eye and tell them the truth. The truth was always evident in any role portrayed by that actor.” – James Cagney

Many actors who had the opportunity of being directed by Alfred Hitchcock were usually in for a big surprise when they discovered how little he offered in active direction. One day, when Cary Grant asked Hitchcock for some advice on how to interpret the meaning of a particular scene, Hitchcock responded with: 

“You’re here because you’re right for it.”

In his own way, Hitchcock was telling Cary Grant to be himself. And, that was the end of the acting direction. Hitchcock sought the truth and that’s what his actors gave him. During another Hitchcockian incident, a set visitor had the guts – or the stupidity – to endanger their life when he asked Hitchcock – without warning – to explain why he did not look at his actors during rehearsals of a scene. Mr. Hitchcock’s reply?

“I can hear what they look like.”

His response that day has become a major part of my professional career. For many years, I have earned my living listening to actors – being your audience and trying to hear the truth with my ears. If you tell me the truth, I will buy it from you and I will allow you to influence my life.

Just as a reminder, the Kalmenson Method was derived by means of a close study of one of the most successful actors who stayed the course in our industry for more years than I desire to call attention to.

Many of the attributes that the foremost talents have in common have become apparent to me. By and large, these actors weren’t what the general public liked to describe or hold in esteem as celebrities. These actors were – and still are – Journeyman Actors.

John Houseman expounded on his credo for success. He advised us to be journeyman actors, to practice and study our craft, to search for a way to grow everyday, to be an observer with your eyes and with your ears, and to find a way to tell someone – anyone – a story that they might believe.

Nothing we do is in the category of “winging it.” There is a prescribed method. We practice our scales everyday just the same way we’re asking you to practice your scales. Get the basics down. Get ‘em down so cold that ya don’t have to worry about where your fingers are going on the piano keys. Once you’ve achieved that, you will find that you will become very creative again which is, of course, all based on the truth.

Immigrant Heroes

No one loved American comic heroes more than our earliest immigrants. Across the board, almost without exception, the neighborhoods of our new Americans fell in love with the bigger-than-life characters who single-handedly were there, on this good earth, for the sole purpose of protecting them.

CIRCA 1930

At a time when little or nothing was known about birth control, each ethnic group took a special pride in their ability to procreate. The more kids there were, the more necessity for heroes and the widespread practice of hero worship.

First, the comic book depiction of these wonderful bully busters was quickly followed by radio, television, and then the movies.

As young kids in our neighborhood, we placed these gladiators on altars suitable for the greatest leaders the world would ever know. 

Superman, the Lone Ranger, and Batman were the most important protectors of their time. And the silver screen was alive with the heroic likes of Tarzan, Tom Mix, Hop-Along Cassidy, Roy Rogers, and even detectives like Sherlock Holmes, and the inimitable Charlie Chan. All took their respected places on our worship parade.  Amazingly, what began a century ago is still going strong today – look around you, there’s still Batman, Superman, and all the rest who were originated in and at a time when they were as purposeful as any army.

But, what the comics gave all of us was of the greatest importance. And, even more importantly was what the immigrant families gave themselves with those comics – a down to earth richness of purpose. Survival was the most cipherable drive of the day; to make it in the good ol’ USA was indeed a credo. 

And surely, what each and every family had was the family itself. No matter how the day went, there always seemed to exist a comic release. We talked about everything imaginable.

Most families didn’t have a phone. Word of mouth was never taken for granted. By that I mean that wherever you looked on the street, conversations were taking place. Often the conversations would be raging; arguments over who interpreted Dick Tracy the “right way.” What about that Captain Marvel? Who the hell cares about Tarzan anyway? The schmuck lives in a jungle -- but that Jane is some little shtick. If I had a wife like that, I too would be swinging from a tree…

The corner candy stores were the gathering grounds for all the neighborhood big shots. These were the guys who knew absolutely everything about everything. Without question, dependent on the age of those gathered in discussion, there were four main topics: comics, sports, the movies, and girls.

On December 21, 1937, the animated feature film Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs was released for distribution. History reports: it was an instant hit.  Adjusted for inflation, it remains one of the all-time box office smash hits. And, it wasn’t just a financial success – it took the residential neighborhoods by storm. Men, women, and children joined in on a seemingly never-ending discussion. Everywhere you looked an impression of the Snow White characters was taking place.

The main dialects in our area of Brooklyn were Italian, Irish, Yiddish, and a sprinkling of German. Try to imagine the humor in listening to a woman with a rather heavy accent delivering the Evil Queen’s lines: “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?”

At the film's opening, the Magic Mirror informs the Evil Queen that Snow White is now the fairest in the land. The jealous Evil Queen orders a reluctant Huntsman to take Snow White into the forest and kill her…

So on and so on… you get the idea. But now, a new ingredient to our corner -- music in all its glory! Snow White was not only being discussed, but it was also a living, breathing, neighborhood musical.

One of the first songs I was able to sing and whistle as a four-year-old child was….

The bottom line was simple – we talked to one another. What a concept, don’t you think? People actually having conversations. No phones, no televisions, and many families were not yet privy to radio. The neighborhood had a variety of service providers. The Iceman, the Coal Man, the Milkman, the Junkman, and many other men who, more often than not, could all whistle the tune “Whistle While You Work.”

Can you imagine a man dragging a block of ice up four floors? Coming into our modest apartment, setting a forty-pound block of ice in our icebox, and all the time smiling and whistling?

“How are you today, Mrs. Kalmenson? Have you seen Snow White?”

He spoke English, or American as many of them called it with a rather heavy Irish brogue. My Mother was one of those who was multi-lingual, but free of accent. As he left the apartment, he complemented my Mother on how wonderfully clean her home always was. With a charming lilt to go along with his handsome smiling face, it was communication at its highest level. Or, perhaps I should say “blarney.”

        

***

I find myself thinking, and mainly wondering, if there would have been any chance for me to be in this business of mine, if I were to have grown up in today’s era. Would I be able to recapture what I was never privy to? I think not.

Texting is not listening nor is it enjoying the charm of a beautiful smiling face. I grew up admiring the looks of women and the way they sounded whether mad, or happy. The charm of listening to this marvelous dialect of Beatrice Burke (my nanny) was the epitome of Ireland at its very best.

Always, it was the talk. The face-to-face talk. Looking into the eyes of the person you were communicating with and – think about this – sometimes not having to say a word.

My Father purchased his first automobile in 1939. It was a two-door 1937 Chevrolet. No power steering, no air conditioner, heater, or defroster, no power windows, and it held five people comfortably, regardless of what their dialect happened to be.

Fathers and Sons -- Boys of a Feather -- #42: A New Joy to Share

Humbly forwarded without your request, a simple opinion of the “what’s missing in today’s society” and perhaps, also the “what’s missing in the new flick 42.” I haven’t seen the movie yet, but God forgive me I’ve become one of the things I dislike most, a critic. The only difference between me and the other ogres is I’m not being paid to criticize another’s creative work. In actuality, this is probably the first time I’ve placed my feelings in writing regarding a movie. Here is my problem folks, from the bottom of my heart: I can’t imagine a portrayal of Jackie Robinson remotely able to bring to the surface the dynamics of this man, and the brutality of what he endured as a human being. 

When I was privileged to see “Jackie Robinson” for the first time, I was one amongst 33,000 attending a simple game of baseball at a small bandbox and historical institution called Ebbets Field, located in the most worthwhile village in the world: Brooklyn, New York. 

“Have you ever seen or heard so many people showing a display of interest for anyone else in the world?” Dad asked me. 

Honestly, I can’t vaguely recall much of the dialogue between us that momentous day. But, I can report with complete accuracy the apolitical atmosphere that existed inside the ballpark. Jackie may never be considered as one of the greatest ballplayers of all time, but who he was and what he was placed him in a world and field apart from the average man of the day. 

That day, we were all introduced to a different human calling. Not a slave, not a servant, not a subservient, not an average baseball player, and definitely not a white man. It was our time to experience for the first time, up close, a black man who was not only our equal, but a man with unequivocal leadership qualities. 

We had a winner on our team. 

All of us kids immediately loved it; the adults would quickly learn to do the same. 

One man entered the scene and created an immediate synergy throughout an entire country of baseball lovers. There were those who were racists – some on his own team – who actually requested and were granted quick discharge from the Dodgers. But, it never discouraged any of the fans. They came out to cheer – and jeer all the same. The underlying and unifying factor was Jackie Robinson himself. He was the one who began bringing in the “turn-away” crowds. Tickets to Ebetts Field became a very hot item. 

There were few cities in the United States who could legitimately boast a true understanding of the game of baseball; Brooklyn was one of them. We knew what was happening on the field. When a player made a mistake, he heard about it from the fans. Along with the understanding came a love for the players. Nothing at the time resembled today’s fickle era of money-meaning-everything-for-the-players. That’s not to say that the ballplayers didn’t strive for the better things in life. Perhaps, it was just the opposite. 

What faced all of the players, as well as the new man on the block, was the inability of the ballplayers to control their own future. In other words, when an athlete signed his contract with a team, the team controlled every aspect of his future. There weren’t any special clauses in the contracts the way they exist today. The team, meaning the owners, were in complete control of the athlete’s destiny. There was no such thing as Free Agency. 

SUNDAY, APRIL 14 

Yesterday, Cathy and I saw the movie 42. It was obvious the movie was the story of how and what Jackie Robinson experienced as the first African American playing professionally in the Major Leagues of our national pastime – baseball. 

On numerous occasions during the year 1947, I was privileged to watch Jackie Robinson play my favorite game. We came to the park as excited kids, all of us looking forward to his exploits on the base paths. More than anything else, watching Jackie run was a personal highlight for me. 

I suppose for the many who didn’t have the opportunity to see Jackie Robinson perform as a baseball player, the movie portrayal by Chadwick Boseman would have been much more than adequate. But, the problem for any actor in such a demanding position is the sheer and almost unbelievable skills of Jackie as an athlete. Not before or since, have I seen a person run the way Jackie Robinson did. 

  
Jackie didn’t run; he appeared to attack. From the time he became a Dodger, every one of us attempted to emulate his every move. We even walked like Jackie Robinson. 

I can remember my Mother asking me if I had hurt myself while out there playing with my friends. She was, of course, referring to his naturally pigeon-toed gait. There were definitely ballplayers in the League who could run faster, but none could emulate his driving dynamics. 

As kids, we always got on the opposing pitcher. After all, that’s what good fans are expected to do, especially if Jackie Robinson was on base. Jackie would be there on first base and everybody in the park knew he was going to try and steal second, then third base, and some days he’d even dash for home plate. 

Jackie was fearless.

Chadwick Boseman was a marvelous choice to play the part of Jackie Robinson but, in my opinion, his athleticism paled in comparison. 

 *** 

There came to pass, following the enormous breakthrough of Jackie Robinson, another man who ran and played with the same reckless abandonment. He arrived and thrived with the Dodger’s arch rivals -- the then New York Giants. 

His name was Willie Mays. 

  
The man who was to be Willie May’s first manager was the very same man who managed the Brooklyn Dodgers when Jackie Robinson stepped over the color line into the fastest lane of all. His name was Leo Durocher. 

Through his ensuing years in baseball, Willie made it a point to call attention to the unbelievable possibilities created by one of his idols, Jackie Robinson. 

“Every time I look at my pocketbook, I see Jackie Robinson.” -- Willie Mays 

Jackie Robinson’s famous number was 42. Willie Mays wore the number 24 his entire career.

I wonder… 

NOTE: Yankees closer Mariano Rivera is the last player in Major League Baseball still allowed to wear No. 42, which the sport retired in 1997 to honor Jackie Robinson, above. All players and managers in the league, however, can wear No. 42 on April 15 for Jackie Robinson Day, which was initiated in 2004.

Aromas

Even non-coffee drinkers will admit to enjoying the first smell of coffee as it wafts its way to wherever they happen to be. Think about it, when have you ever heard someone complain about the awful aroma of that stinking dark black stuff?

Walk into any recording studio early in the morning and the usual first sensory stimulation will be that of aged dust. It can’t be avoided; all those damn ugly wires that have purposely been hidden in walls, behinds books, in cabinets, under rugs, and anywhere possible to keep them out of sight – in order to beautify an otherwise mildly pleasant ambiance. But, then the same force that allows for the dusty odor now offers a familiar pleasure; comes now the joyful delight of everything good. You can’t help yourself. Reflection takes you by storm.

Is there anything you may think of that brings with it a more pleasant retrospect than personal reflection?

Our squad had been out all night in a moist and dank, subterfuge of a farm, known as a rice paddy. For those of you unfamiliar with the makeup of a rice paddy, simply stated, the rice is planted under water or on ground soon to be flooded. In most of the Far East, human wastes are used as fertilizer. The stench is overpowering. I don’t care who you are – walking around in it is not a fun-filled event. Getting tired? Forget about it, which of you would possibly choose to sit down and rest in a field concocted with human waste? A generally morose attitude takes over; don’t you think? 

But then, an automatic amongst young American soldiers kicks in. From the seemingly depths of discomfort, the joking begins. What takes over is similar to the effect of not being able to stop hiccuping in a nervous system where a human being senses that they are no longer in control.          

North Korea – it would be like going on vacation to a place that wasn’t even first, second, or third on your list of places to go. The fact is, it wasn’t even one of my considerations. I was a member of the United States Army at the time – it was their consideration.

No sweet smells of coffee to greet me this particular morning. The aroma of a freshly cultivated rice paddy, especially on the nostrils of a 19 year-old soldier attempting to fight off the despair of exhaustion and hunger at the same instant, is not a joking matter. To add insult to injury, I was all of 155 pounds at the time. The mine disposal equipment would have easily been a tolerable weight for a strong young man to handle, if it weren’t for the fact that I was weighed down by the additional cargo of normal clothing and equipment. As an example, my M1 rifle by itself, weighed in at 9½ pounds. Give or take a pound or two, little da harv was toting around tonnage totaling 75 pounds with him. I was 5 feet 8½ inches tall, and getting shorter by the moment. You couldn’t describe what I was doing as “walking;” I was schlepping one leg after another through a quagmire of wet shit.

Nice.

Our squad consisted of twelve, equally barely-distinguishable human beings stretched out over an area no more than 25 yards long in any one direction of the triangle formation we tried to maintain. Being one of the shorter and stronger men in the squad meant I would usually be at the point. I guess the army figured da harv was less of a target than a Magic Johnson might be.

Good thinking, don’t you think?

The way the triangle worked was that the point of the triangle moved in the intended direction and the two side points brought up either flank. At certain prescribed intervals, the point man would be relieved.

We were coming to the end of the “sweep,” as it was called, and our sergeant in charge came alongside me in order to become my relief. At this point, I was literally dead in the water. I was so weighted down with muddy boots, that I was more of a statue than anything else.

“How you making it?” He asked.

My Instant and sarcastic response, “I do believe I’ve lost my sex drive.”

It was a funny-bone grabbing moment. We became a laughing triangle.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” our sergeant shouted. “We’re going home.”

Of course, he wasn’t referring to coming home to the United States, he meant back to our own company area. I had a full 15 months left on my tour of duty in Korea.

It has been years, upon years, upon years since my escapades in a rice paddy located 35 miles north of the 38^th parallel in a place once again making the news. It’s called North Korea -- the frozen chosen -- I’ve listened and paid close attention to what our great and virtuous people have enabled the South Korean people to accomplish. Yes, we did expend life, limbs, minds, and enormous financial treasures as well. Make no mistake, without the Unites States of America there would not be a South Korea, as we know it today.

It’s all in the history books for everyone to behold -- the story of what we did, and when and how we did it. When the Chinese hordes poured into North Korea, it was because there was nothing left of the North Korean Army. Without the benefit of the Chinese insurgency, North Korea, the way it exists today, would have been impossibility.

        

Those of us who were there somehow never seem to forget in total… How can we?

Over 54,000 Americans lost their lives. Over 8,000 were wounded and over $50 billion dollars was added to the intense human suffering. The untold suffering of our prisoners of war at the hands of the North Koreans equals the inhumanities inflicted by any other tyrants in world history. Perhaps then, it should be remembered that these are the same North Koreans who now promise to attack South Korea, as well as the United States. There are some 500,000 Korean War veterans still alive. I wonder how many of them, if any, have been asked their opinion of the North Korean leader’s attitude.

History reports unequivocally that most promises made by dictators to their assumed enemies should not go ignored. The North Korean leader has proven he has little regard for the welfare of even his own people. The people of North Korea remain as a backward Third World Nation, while its leader builds bombs and makes verbal representations of pending war.

Some things never seem to change. The marvelous aroma of early morning coffee brings joyous reflections and a pleasing anticipation of the first sip. On the other hand, the rice paddies of North Korea remain vile with the stench of human wastes.

        

South Korea continues to blossom. There are 28,500 American troops still on guard there, committed to the retention of a small country’s democracy.

If you’d like to know the truth, ask a Korean veteran.

Number 42 - But Who's Counting?

Lincoln Terrace Park - Brooklyn, New York

A ten to twelve mile hike - who knew?

As I abruptly dug the hole for my brand spanking new, fifteen gallon Ficus Benjamina tree, I figured it out. Dad had been up to one of his many tricks as we walked and we talked on the way home after a more than glorious day at play together.

In case you’re wondering, I do some of my best thinking when I’m digging a hole to plant a tree. Trees make me smile. Noisy kids don’t, which is probably the reason I do some of my least productive thinking while trying to digest my food in a restaurant where kids are allowed. I also lose concentration when I’m told by an extremely detached waiter, “Yes, you did order it,” when I didn’t.

Like many people, waiters and restaurants annoy me. What runs through my mind in a busy, and therefore noisy, restaurant would not be suitable for print. Years ago, under my Father’s tutelage, I learned how to protect myself from everything except trees. Trees please me.

I know I mentioned my affection for trees earlier on, but since I’m the one writing, and you’re stuck merely as a reader, it becomes my call. In the event I occasionally repeat myself, do the smart thing – don’t read my redundancies.

Everything I guess has its ups and downs, and sometimes even its sideways. I wish I could just say, screw it this is what I’m going to do for the next few weeks, or even a month, or a full day free from interruptions. What follows is a short compilation of a mind going off into abstract land. If you like, take my tribulations seriously; if not its only one paragraph out of a lifetime of disorder. Read on for more semi insanity; after all isn’t that what life is all about?

(By now, your seething has subsided and I can carry on undisturbed by what you may be thinking.)

        

Dad always took great pride in having a son who was an athlete. See, we weren’t just dedicated to criticizing everything we came in contact with – I was a reflection and presented him with a great possibility. I’d be the family member who made it as a baseball player. If you think it’s tough making it to the top as a professional ballplayer in today’s marketplace, think again. Tough is what the aspiring immigrant Major Leaguers faced.

In 1927, the year Babe Ruth held the number one spot as the home run hitter of all time, there were only sixteen major league teams – eight in both the American and National League. Today, there are a total of thirty. The population of the United States tripled during my Father’s lifetime. More people in our country and almost every place in the world, made the competition for a spot on a Major League baseball team an incredible personal challenge. In other words, it wasn’t easy.

But, if you want to try on a tough shot, examine this one. When my Dad took me to Ebbets Field, in the borough of Brooklyn, I became privy to one of the most auspicious occasions I would witness in my lifetime. That day would stand-alone as a tribute to the perseverance of a human being.

The number on his back was 42.

Can you possibly imagine what his heartbeat was thumping out?

My Father had this gentle and prideful look on his face as we watched the game together. Dad had far more the intellect than the average man. He knew what was taking place. The thought of him sharing it with his son would remain his ongoing life’s emblem of success. Without words, he allowed me to drink in this epic. He understood the change that was taking place, not just at a ballpark but the change that would create the architecture for us as Americans for the rest of our lives. Jackie Robinson was far more than a baseball player making a team. He was a man on a road of such enormous magnitude, not even he could fathom it all until much later in his life. 

Harold "Pee Wee" Reese, Jackie Robinson & Preacher Roe

Sixty-six years ago, Jackie Robinson played his first game at Ebbets Field for the Brooklyn Dodgers on April 15, 1947.

I can’t truthfully record the exact date that I watched him play for the first time. But, what I do remember vividly was the aura of a very special human being.

It was a night game. The Dodger’s were clad in the whitest satin uniforms you could imagine. My Dad and I made our way up the steel ramp towards the general admission seats; it was well in advance of game starting time. I had never seen that many people come to a game that early. When I caught sight of the field, I understood why they arrived early.

The Dodger’s were busily taking batting practice. Gladys Gooding kept a continuous flow of organ music as an upbeat background for the activities taking place in every nook and cranny of the park. From the moment my Dad raised his full height of 5 feet and one and a half inches straight up into the air to allow his extremely dexterous left hand to snatch a foul pop up off the bat of Pee Wee Reese, my second hero was instantly established. From then on it was Pee Wee Reese, the “Little Colonel,” the Dodger Short Stop who shared top billing with my Father for hero worship.

The so-called insiders were talking about how Robinson would never be able to handle the pressure of being the fist black man in the Major Leagues. All of my buddies shared what they had heard their Dads talking about at home. 

Brooklyn Dodgers V.P. EJ "Buzzie" Bavasi & Dodgers Harold "Pee Wee" Reese, Jackie Robinson & Roy Campanella

Get this picture, if you can. Most of the fans that frequented Major League baseball games had never even seen a black guy play the game, let alone in a Major League uniform.

"I used to tell Jackie (Robinson) sometimes when they were throwing at him, 'Jackie, they aren't throwing at you because you are black. They are throwing at you because they don't like you." - Pee Wee Reese 

My Father was one of those people who would be classified as a true baseball nut. Along with Dad, we lived and breathed in every aspect of the baseball season. Morning, noon, and night, 24/7, we shared an unabashed love for the sport. When the Dodgers were playing away from home, “on the road” as they referred to it, my Father and I would attend Minor League, and Semi Pro games all around Brooklyn and the far outreaches of the other New York boroughs. The advantage we had by going to the Minor League, and/or Industrial League baseball games was that they were all played at much smaller venues, which meant we were always really close to the players on the field. Even though I might have been a kid, I had a far greater understanding of what black athletes were capable of achieving because of my Dad.

Jackie Robinson & Branch Rickey

So, when the time came for me to see Jackie Robinson play, my Father and I weren’t the least bit surprised at how skillful the man was. What I wasn’t aware of and what I was about to find out, like so many other Americans, was a simply stated fact of life. Jackie Robinson was so much more than a dominant baseball player. Branch Rickey wasn’t guessing. All that Mr. Rickey had explained to his confidants was going to come to pass and, not just in baseball. Jackie Robinson would arguably become one of our country’s greatest assets.

Of all the great things I will always remember about Jackie Robinson's prowess as an athlete, they remain a step or so behind Harold “Pee Wee” Reese's wordless response to the hatred directed at Jackie Robinson.

Jackie Robinson & Harold "Pee Wee" Reese

"I was warming up on the mound, and I could hear the Cincinnati players screaming at Jackie... and then they started to get on Pee Wee. They were yelling at him, 'How can you play with this n----r?' and all this stuff, and while Jackie was standing by first base, Pee Wee went over to him and put his arm around him as if to say, 'This is my boy. This is the guy. We're gonna win with him.' Well, it drove the Cincinnati players right through the ceiling, and you could have heard the gasp from the crowd as he did it. That's one reason Pee Wee was such an instrumental person contributing to Jackie's success, Pee Wee more than anyone else, because Pee Wee was from the South. Pee Wee understood things a little better... They became very close friends, and they understood each other." - Teammate / Pitcher Rex Barney 

This was an era of nastiness, a time when vile people became courageous with the crowds around them. The N word was used as a common matter of course. Make no mistake, racism wasn’t a product of our southern states exclusively, the north was also an equal opportunity vender of the vile.

Could you possibly imagine what would happen today if a fan blatantly encouraged his team’s pitcher to “Knock the N----r on his ass”?

What followed, was exactly what that degenerate fan asked him to do. But, it never stopped Jackie Robinson. I was there. I experienced the man taking it on the chin and then going on to lead his team to victory. 

"Thinking about the things that happened, I don't know any other ball player would could have done what he (Jackie Robinson) did. To be able to hit with everybody yelling at him. He had to block all that out, block out everything but this ball that is coming in at a hundred miles an hour and he's got a split second to make up his mind if it's in or out or down or coming at his head, a split second to swing. To do what he did has got to be the most tremendous thing I've ever seen in sports." -Pee Wee Reese

Jackie played well when he was mad.

***

It had been another of those fabulous Saturdays. Lincoln Terrace Park had been spectacular, jammed to the hilt with kids from Brooklyn. At this point, most of the men in the war had returned, maybe explaining the number of people in the park. Dad and I had competed with the world and were now on our way home, after first stopping at the malt shop, of course. By this time of day, I was tired and schlepping along. Once seated at the malt shop, my Dad asked, “The Dodgers are off the road this coming week, how would you like to see Jackie?”

Can you guess my answer?

***

The Jackie Robinson & Pee Wee Reese Monument outside KeySpan Park, Brooklyn, NY capturing the moment in May 1947, when Pee Wee Reese put his arm around Jackie on Cincinnati's field to show is support of his fellow Dodger - the first African American ballplayer in the Major Leagues.

Writer’s Note: To this day, Pee Wee’s picture hangs in a place of honor in my library.