Yom Kippur on Ebbets Field

Today was a day of great challenge for Julius. He had promised his father and himself too that he would fast till sundown. He had also promised his father to stay in the synagogue the whole day and chant all the prayers with the rest of the congregation.

But today was also the day of great challenge for the Brooklyn Dodgers at Ebbets Field. Today was the day that decided who were to be the new champions-the Brooklyn Dodgers or the Washington Senators.

It so happened that he, Julius, had saved up enough money for a ticket to Ebbets Field. Never in his life had he yet been at fabled Ebbets Field, and never in his life had he seen his beloved Dodgers in action . . .

“And I repeat, my son,” said his father softly but emphatically before they started for the synagogue on Thatford Avenue, corner of Belmont, “you are no longer a child. You are thirteen years old already, and today on Yom Kippur, the day of God's judgment, you can prove that you are fit to be called a good Jew.”

Julius tried very hard to prove that he was fit to be called a good Jew, not so much in the eyes of the Almighty, who is unseen and far away in the heavens, as in the eyes of his pious father, whom he loved so dearly. So he prayed with all the, fervor of his young heart. He even swayed to and fro as the adults were doing. The boy didn't understand the meaning of the Hebrew words, but he felt they were holy, made holy by the three generations before him who had prayed from the same tear-stained prayer book in the old country. The swaying to and fro heightened his fervor, made him feel exalted, and took his mind away from all earthly things like Ebbets Field, Dodgers, the brilliant sunshine outside.

But after an hour or so, a drowsiness overcame him, and his eyes began wandering to the window flooded with golden brightness. He sighed sadly and resumed praying and swaying with greater ardor. But the golden windows were teasing him: “Come outside! Come outside! It was never so beautiful as today.”

Suddenly, he saw Johnny through the window. What was his Irish friend doing outside near the Jewish synagogue? Johnny probably missed him, he thought pleasantly, and he was now waiting and hoping that he, Julius, would come outside too.

“I'll go outside for just a few minutes.” The boy looked at his father hopefully and pleadingly with his big dark eyes.

“But remember, only for a few minutes,” said his father reluctantly.

“Of course, just for a few minutes.” Julius had no other thought in mind, for he didn't want to hurt his very pious father. He had already hurt him more than once by promising to pray every morning and skipping it many times, and promising to say a blessing whenever he partook of food and forgetting it many times. And many other promises.

Yes, he would be out for only a few minutes . . .

“And I'm fasting today,” Julius announced to his Irish friend, “a whole day long.”

“All day long?” Johnny was somehow skeptical.

“It's nothing.”

“Bet a nickel you won't.”

“Bet two nickels I will.”

“All right, it's a bet.” Johnny jingled his pocketful of coins.

“Okay with me.” Julius too jingled his pocketful of coins.

“Where'd you get so much dough?”

“Where'd you get yours?”

Where Johnny got his was understandable, for Johnny was already an earner. He sold papers evenings and week-ends on the corner of Saratoga and Pitkin Avenue. But where Julius got his money was not so clear. Even to Johnny, his best friend, he couldn't tell the whole truth. It was a very I complicated matter. Part of it was his own, which his father .gave him now and then, and part of it—the greater part of it too—was not entirely his own. God forbid, it wasn't stolen money - but forgotten money. It was a certain kind of accounting with his mother. If she sent him to the grocery to buy something and there was change left after the purchase, he forgot to return it to her when she forgot to remind him.

So both Brownsville friends were showing off for each other with their big capital and talked grandly about all the good things that could be bought with their riches . . . Then Johnny let fall two words. And the two words—magic words—were Ebbets Field. Why really shouldn't they go to Ebbets Field? They were both so rich!

“Said and done.”

Yes, it was easy for Johnny to say “Said and done.” Yom Kippur didn't mean anything to him. He hadn't promised his father “Only a few minutes.”

Before Julius dropped his nickel in the slot of the turnstile, there was still time to turn back. Even after he dropped the nickel into the slot of the turnstile, it wasn't too late either. But up above, on the platform, the skies were so blue and so free.

The train roared in and carried off the two Brownsville chums. At first, they were the only ones in the car, but at further stations more and more people came rushing in through the doors-young, excited and hopeful for their beloved Dodgers. Among them, Julius noticed a few Jewish boys, and he felt a bit happier. They too, he thought, probably had left their fathers in stuffy synagogues for the great game on Ebbets Field.

The train, with the golden sun on its window-panes, ran in the open only a short distance and then plunged into the mouldy stuffiness and gloomy blackness of the long tunnel. Julius's heart too plunged into gloomy blackness. The red and green lights along the narrow passage winked at him and reminded him of a certain promise he had given his father on the holiest of days. His father, he knew, wouldn't lay hands on him; he would only look at him with such sad eyes, and that would be worse. He ought to turn back . . . yes, he ought to . . .

Music at Ebbets Field. A brass band was playing lively marches. People were streaming, thousands upon thousands. From everywhere they came—from the center, from the sides, from the very top, climbing, descending, marching the aisles. It was exactly like the movie show about a baseball game that Julius had once seen.

“Peanuts! Hot dogs! Sodas!” shouted the vendors in white jackets, baskets slung from their shoulders.

“Don't, Johnny. Don't buy peanuts,” pleaded Julius.

“Why not?” Johnny was at first puzzled and then smiled mischievously. “I'm not a Jew, and I don't have to fast.” Really, why shouldn't Johnny buy peanuts? He wasn't a Jew, and he hadn't promised his father he would fast till sun-down.

But what irked Julius was that his friend crunched the peanuts so loudly, smacked his lips so noisily, and exclaimed all the while, “Mighty good! And they're warm too. Want a peanut?” No, he didn't want a peanut. He wanted that his thoughts shouldn't run back to his father in the synagogue; he wanted to be at peace with himself.

It seemed to Julius the thousands upon thousands of seats were all taken, but people were still marching in the aisles and still climbing the steps. He was again looking for Jewish faces, and there were so many. After all, he was not the only one.

The multitude began to clap, whistle, boo and scream. And louder than anybody, Julius and Johnny clapped, whistled, booed and screamed. They clapped and whistled for the beloved Dodgers, and booed and screamed at the haughty Senators. If only they could sit a little lower, their joy would be complete. From the top, the players below on the field looked like midgets. A few times the two friends tried to steal down closer to the field, but they were turned back by the ever-watchful ushers.

Glen, the great pitcher of the Dodgers, whom Julius knew so well from the corn-flakes boxes, took his position in the ,middle of the field, and again a thunder of clapping and shouting: “Glen! Glen! Good old bum! Show them! Show them!”

Glen caressed the ball, rolled it in his hand, wiped his nose, hunched his right shoulder, then his left, turned his head from side to side, and Julius and Johnny, with fluttering hearts, followed his every motion. It was a sacred moment—the moment when the high priest of baseball made himself ready for holy service.

And when the ball flew with the swiftness of lightning from Glen's magic hand, the two boys held their breath. And when the Senator swung his bat and hit the empty air, their hearts leaped with joy. When Glen struck out the Senator, the two friends and everybody there shook the roof of the stadium with their roars.

When the second Senator came up, a hush fell upon vast Ebbets Field. He was one of the most famous batters. Planting himself firmly with his two muscular legs, gripping the bat with his two determined hands, he kept an eye on the flying ball with the sharpness of a hawk. With the impact of a sledgehammer, with the swiftness of lightning, he hit the ball. For a fraction of a second, no one knew what had happened to that ball, but right away, they spotted it high in the clear golden air. It flew straight for the top rows, and people sprang to their feet with hands outstretched . . .

The Senator's home run made Julius very unhappy. All of a sudden he felt very cold. His teeth started to chatter; his nose began to leak; and on top of that, hunger began to torture him. He pressed his stomach with his hands.

Johnny mockingly offered him his bag of peanuts. Julius angrily pushed it away. But in a certain weak moment, not knowing what he was doing, the nearly fainting boy grabbed a peanut, put it swiftly into his mouth, gave a crunch, and before he could come to his senses, the delicious salted goodness was down in his yearning stomach.

“You lost! Two nickels!” Johnny triumphed.

So he had to give him the two nickels, and since he had already committed the sin and he was a lost soul anyway, why not buy the real thing—a hot dog dripping with mustard? And there was no greater joy in the world than a hot dog with plenty of mustard, washed down by a bottle of coca cola at Ebbets Field . . .

Late in the day, after the baseball game, Julius slid into the synagogue. He still got in a bit of praying. His father, prayer shawl over his head, didn't stay a word to him. He was completely lost in prayer to God, the God of his ancestors, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Julius prayed with ardor from the tear-stained old prayer-book and fervently hoped that his father still loved him and would not judge him too harshly.

The sun was setting. The window panes caught fire. It was hot and stuffy, and the congregation, although faint from fasting all day, redoubled its fervor and swayed energetically to and fro, intoning all the while: “Vaikra beshem Adonoi”—and he called with the name of God . . .

And the boy was so sad—sad that he wasn't fit to be called a good Jew, and still sadder that his beloved Dodgers had been beaten by the Senators, eleven to five.