Tale of an Unlikely Pediatrician

By Paul Winick, MD

This is the story of an adolescent being pushed by his parents and grandmother into being a doctor. As he had no other plans for his life, other than being a baseball player for which he had no talent, he acquiesced. Even after finishing medical school, he felt like a failure. However, during his internship he developed a passion for pediatrics, as he bonded with a terminally ill eleven-year-old boy through their mutual love for baseball. Along the journey we meet a number of his patients, and learn their interesting stories.
The book is also about forgiveness--how the adolescent, who thinks he caused his mother’s death because of an argument they had the night before her fatal stroke, struggles, before forgiving himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728325798

Paul Winick, MD

Paul Winick MD practiced pediatrics for thirty years, and then taught on a part time basis at the University of Miami School of medicine for fifteen years. He currently holds the rank of full professor of pediatrics. He lives in Hollywood Florida with his wife Dorothy and near his two children and five grandchildren.

Book preview

PART ONE

Agony

CHAPTER ONE

Isolation

T HERE WERE TWO of us on each side of my cadaver, Dead Fred, dissecting his vital structures so we could identify them. When it was my turn, I inserted my scalpel into the slippery facial planes of Fred’s neck, trying to identify the internal carotid artery.

My lab partner Sonia screamed, Stop! It was too late. I had severed the artery before we could delineate its relationship to other structures. Why don’t you let me do the dissection? she said.

I nodded. I don’t want to do this. Be my guest.

The smell of formaldehyde was everywhere. It soaked into my clothing and pores. When I belched, I could even taste formaldehyde. I had just started medical school in the fall of 1959 and Dead Fred lay on a metal table, one of several rows of corpses, lined up like monuments in a cemetery. Every night we entombed the remains simply by closing the metal covers, except no prayers were said. I played jokes to relieve the tension, like putting one of Fred’s fingers into the pocket of Sonia’s white lab coat. Despite this I often went home and cried. Why was I here?

I wasn’t cut out to be a doctor. When the results of the first anatomy test were posted on the bulletin board, I found out that I had failed both the written and practical portions.

My father was not very sympathetic. The reason you failed is because you’re spending too much time with that girl. You’re not studying enough.

She has a name, Pop. Her name is Lesley and she’s not the reason I flunked. My father was talking about a young lady from Barnard that I had met at Woods Hole, Mass. I had won a prize on graduating college, to study for the summer at the Marine Biological Labs. Lesley was pert, freckle faced and wore her straight hair in a ponytail. We fell in love and if truth be told, I was spending a lot of time with her, because of the newness of the relationship and my lack of interest in what I was doing.

I didn’t want to go to medical school in the first place, I said. I just did it to please you. I absolutely hate medical school. Who cares if an artery goes under or over the nerve? I hate being in the anatomy lab. I reek all the time. Maybe I should quit.

You can’t do that. Passing anatomy is a means to an end. Spend less time with that girl and study harder. I know you can do it, and you’ll love medicine, just like your brother does, when you finish.

Since there really wasn’t anything else that I wanted to do, I agreed to stay in school and try harder, but I wasn’t going to give up Lesley. I studied hard and passed the second and third anatomy exams, still needing to pass the last test in order to get a passing grade in the course. The night before that exam I started taking uppers in order to stay awake. I pored over the anatomy books and popped a pill every four hours. I sat in the exam shaking, the result of fear and too many pills in my system. I had trouble concentrating, but to my surprise, did quite well. It was more an academic exercise than any love for what I was doing and an ego that wouldn’t let me fail. I hated medicine and hated Downstate Medical School.

After the results of the test were in, I said to my father, I’m going to Washington to spend the holidays with Lesley and her family.

Don’t go, he said. Why don’t you study and get a jump on histology? You’ll be ahead of the game.

I stared at him, shook my head, and made plans to leave for Washington the next day. I didn’t sleep for three nights, partly because of my anger at my father and also because it took that long to come off the uppers.

Fortunately, I found histology, the microscopic study of normal tissue, a fairly easy course, which left me more time for Lesley. I was living at home and she visited more frequently. We sequestered ourselves in my room, ostensibly to study. One night, I reached over to kiss her. Lesley pulled away. Don’t you have to study? she asked.

I embraced and stroked her. I’m studying anatomy, I said.

My father was not happy about this state of affairs, but said nothing. When I took the midterm in histology, my father asked, So how did you do?

I think okay. It wasn’t too difficult.

My father smiled, pleased by the news.

Several days later, I stood in front of my mailbox at school. I reached in and pulled out a letter, shaking as I read, Your work in histology is below par. Please come to see me on the thirteenth of March, at 10:00 A.M., in room 203. It was signed by the head of the department. How could that be? I was so sure that I had done well.

When I told my father about the letter, he was livid. I told you that girl will be the ruin of you. You’re going to flunk out if you don’t stop screwing around.

This time, I really couldn’t argue with my father. I had spent more time with Lesley than studying. If truth be told, I enjoyed screwing around. But even though I had no passion for medicine, I didn’t want to flunk out. What else would I do? I shrugged at my father and sheepishly walked away.

Three days later, I walked to the appointed room with my head bent and eyes riveted on the floor. I had been unable to study since receiving the letter and took solace by spending more time with Lesley, which further angered my father. When I realized that room 203 was the auditorium, I thought there must be some mistake. I reread the letter confirming I was in the right place. When I walked in, one of the young teaching assistants told me to have a seat. I couldn’t believe there were over sixty students in the room, more than one third of my class. The teaching assistant said, We’re going to call you up to the front one at a time so that we can discuss your performance in histology on an individual basis. We’ll do it alphabetically starting with Abrams.

He’s got to be kidding, I thought. It will take him at least an hour to get to Winick. As they called out names and classmates marched to the front, I became more and more agitated. I wiped my brow and squeezed my hands together. What a terrible way to do things. When my turn came ninety minutes later, the auditorium was nearly empty. I trudged down to the front, quivering with every step.

The teaching assistant said, Winick, let me see. He fumbled through his papers until he came to my name. You got 100% on all three quizzes. You got 186 out of 200 on the written portion of the midterm and a 79 on the practical. You’re running a solid B in the course and if you can improve your practical work, you’ll get honors.

I wanted to say, why the fuck did you scare the shit out of me, but asked instead, Why did I get a letter stating my work in histology was below par?

We told the secretary to send out letters to anyone who received less than eighty on either the written or practical portions of the midterm exam.

I walked out of the room asking myself why medical school had to be so dehumanizing. This whole episode left an even more sour taste in my mouth. I was sure I hated medicine now.

When I told my father, I expected him to be happy. He just shrugged and reaffirmed my need to get rid of Lesley. In fact, a month later he sold the house and moved from Brooklyn to an apartment in Manhattan. I was forced to find a room in a private house near the school. In retrospect, I think my father made this move partially because he didn’t want me to have a place to bring Lesley. If this was his motive it succeeded, at least for the rest of my freshman year. He would have been dismayed to find out that the nice Jewish old lady that I rented the room from, disturbed my studying more than Lesley. She sat in the living room all the time watching professional wrestling, screaming, Kill him, Haystack!

I took my finals at the end of my freshman year, ill prepared because I had spent too much time with Lesley, had no interest in what I was studying and no desire to be a doctor. I was tired of pleasing everyone in my family, but still didn’t want to fail. I sat in my room listening to the grunting and wailing from the wrestling on TV. I wrapped my arms around myself, drew my knees to my chest and stared out the window as black clouds rolled in spitting rain, and wondered how I had gotten into this predicament.

PART 2

Pressured

CHAPTER TWO

A Professional Like Carl

U NCLE CARL WAS a professional. Actually, he was a dentist, but Grandma always referred to him as a professional.

I was only ten when Carl and Uncle Leo returned safely from service in the Army air Corps in World War II. Carl had been a fighter pilot, Leo an aircraft mechanic. Their arrival spawned the first of a series of Friday night dinners at our house, a gathering that eventually became a family tradition. The diners assembled around our breakfast room table included my parents, my grandparents, Carl and his family, Uncle Leo and, of course, me.

On a Friday night in 1946, only a few months after the end of the war, I savored a second portion of borscht, cold beet soup with a dollop of sour cream, and pretended not to be interested in a one-sided discussion between Grandma and Uncle Leo.

So, it’s settled she said. You’ll go back to school and become a professional like Carl.

Leo pushed out his already puffy cheeks and shrugged his shoulders. And how am I going to do that? I haven’t even finished high school. Remember, they threw me out for cutting up before I went into the army.

It’s all been taken care of. I had a nice talk with the principal and told him you’ve been a good boy since you’re back. He agreed to give you a trial.

Mom, I don’t want to go back, Leo said. I learned to be an airplane mechanic while I was in the service. That’s what I want to do.

And what kind of job is that for a nice Jewish boy? First you finish school, then we’ll see.

Wow! My grandmother can do anything, I thought. I don’t know why I was surprised that she could get Leo back in school. I had listened to the stories about her and knew about her powers of persuasion.

The Chief, as my father called my maternal grandmother, Fanny, was the family matriarch who ruled her roost with benevolence and, always, with love. She was the product of traditional Jewish, old-country values, where marriages were arranged, husbands worked sixteen hours a day to support the family and made the major decisions, such as joining the League of Nations. Wives made the minor decisions, anything dealing with the family.

I remembered a recent time at grandmother’s house when Leo was teasing my grandmother. Hey, Mom, he said to her as he flipped a coin. Let’s play heads I win, tails you lose. If you’re right you keep the dime, if not you have to give me a dime.

He flipped the dime and if my grandmother called heads and it was heads he’d say, heads I win and if she called tails and it was tails he’d say, sorry tails you lose.

After losing four or five times in a row she would smile and say to him in Yiddish, Fadray dein own cup, which loosely translated means make your own head sick.

When Leo left, my mother asked, Mama, why do you let him get away with it?

It makes him happy. So what’s the harm?

That was really the philosophy my grandmother lived by. As long as nothing interfered with her plan for the family, she would take the position, that if it makes him happy, what’s the harm? I wondered what my grandma’s plan for me was and hoped it would be something I would be interested in doing. Maybe playing for the Dodgers, but I was sure it was being a professional, a doctor that she and my parents always alluded to.

Leo continued to argue with Grandma, but I realized this was one of those family moments she would insist on, not one of those, So it makes him happy, what’s the harm moments. Exasperated, Leo heaped a mound of mashed potatoes on his plate and ate it with a tablespoon. I guessed that he knew he had no choice but to be a professional like Carl.

After I finished dinner, I tiptoed into the dining room to watch the men play pinochle for money. My uncle Carl had a hand consisting of a spade flush—ace, king, queen, jack, ten and nine, and the aces of all four suits, which was a very good hand indeed. When he bid four hundred, I asked, Why not four-fifty?

Carl said, Quiet, kibbitzers are meant to be seen not heard. When I asked a second question, he opened the dining room door and pointed, Out you go. I wondered if he was afraid that I’d cost him money, and with Carl, everything was about that.

I looked at my father who just shrugged. Why doesn’t he stand up for me? Why is Carl treated like the Messiah? Whatever he says goes.

I pouted, went into the kitchen, and stuffed my chubby cheeks with a fistful of cookies and two pieces of honey cake.

That summer, we were going to see Uncle Carl in Fallsburg, New York, the heart of the Catskill Mountains. He was taking three weeks from his dental practice to vacation at Grossinger’s Resort. We drove up Friday, after my father finished work, to visit for the weekend. The narrow two-lane road cut through dense foliage. The lush maple and oak trees formed a canopy over the road, but gave the appearance that they could crush and swallow all oncoming traffic. My father had no patience for slow-moving vehicles and was constantly jamming on the brakes when hedged between creeping cars and approaching traffic.

Move over, damn you! he yelled at the car in front. I don’t have time for this foolishness. Then he stepped on the gas, whizzed past and just managed to get back in our lane before colliding with an oncoming car.

By the time we reached Grossinger’s, my stomach was rebelling. I got out of the car and retched. That evening at dinner, I didn’t even ask for seconds.

Uncle Carl said to his daughter Peggy, who was two years younger than I and even fatter, Ipish, I’m going to take you and Paul for a plane ride tomorrow. Ipish was not an endearing term, but in his vernacular meant worthless. Peggy’s lips quivered, but she said nothing. He looked at me. Is that okay with you?

Uncle Carl needed to maintain a pilot’s license by flying the requisite hours whenever he could afford time from his busy dental practice. I was excited about going on my first plane ride, but wasn’t sure my stomach was up to the occasion.

I saw the flush and look of anticipation on my cousin’s face and didn’t want to spoil things for her. I’d love to go, Uncle Carl. I said. Thank you. I thought Peggy was as excited about spending time with her father as she was about taking her first plane ride.

The next morning, my stomach had settled, and after breakfast, we drove with my uncle to a local airport. He was driving fast and screeched onto the tarmac. I noticed he lifted his right foot from the gas and applied his left foot to the brake. How strange, I thought.

A small plane, propeller spinning, was idling on the runway. Carl laughed as Peggy tripped getting into one of the passenger seats. I struggled into the other seat, but managed to maintain balance. He gave us each a pair of goggles since we were flying in an open cockpit, and donned a brown leather flying helmet and goggles of his own. He jumped onto the wing, then into the pilot’s seat. Before we were comfortable, the plane accelerated down the runway, lifted off and banked sharply to the right. I didn’t have time to enjoy the scenery as my stomach rebelled again and waves of nausea took hold. I kept swallowing in an effort to keep breakfast in place. Peggy’s dark complexion had taken on a greenish tinge. Uncle Carl looked around at us and smiled. His attention returned to flying and he rolled the craft until it was upside down. He descended this way and flew close to a big red barn. Breakfast was released from my stomach, and pancakes, eggs, two bagels with cream cheese and various beverages flew into the air. Fortunately, the wind carried them away from the plane.

One more pass, Uncle Carl yelled.

Peggy and I grabbed the seats, our knuckles turning white, horror on our faces. As we went over the barn still upside down, I tucked my head into my chest. As we pulled back up, my uncle righted the plane and brought it in for a landing. After we had taxied off the runway over to a hangar, he jumped off the plane and asked, So how did you like your first airplane ride?

Peggy and I were too sick to answer and Carl merely laughed. He helped us off the plane and drove back to Grossinger’s like a novice race car driver trying to qualify for the Indianapolis 500. It was lucky that I had nothing left in my stomach. I spent the rest of the weekend in bed.

That fall, I got a pulsating pain in a canine tooth that had just erupted. I was alone in the house. Taking aspirin and sucking ice didn’t lessen the pain. The throbbing only intensified. I called my mother at her Hadassah meeting, but she had already left to have lunch with my aunt. I called my uncle Carl and told him about my predicament, hoping for a suggestion that would decrease my suffering. He was not helpful, nor was he reassuring. All he said was, Have your mom call me when she gets home.

I munched on a Baby Ruth bar, careful to chew on the opposite side, and waited for mom. When she arrived, she called my uncle, then whisked me by cab to his office in Queens. The leaves were changing, becoming a deep umber before turning red. Despite the chill, I was sweating as we pulled into the driveway of my uncle’s home, where he also had his office.

Uncle Carl instructed me to get into a dental chair and wait while he finished with another patient. His face was somber and his manner brusque. The smell of antiseptic caused my nose to crinkle. I talked with my cousin Peggy who was helping her father out.

Your dad’s in a bad mood, I said.

He’s that way every day. The only time he smiles is when he’s working on a paying patient.

My uncle walked in and said to Peggy, Ipish, get me a tray.

Uncle Carl stood over me and looked in my mouth. All I could see of him was his thin face highlighted by a Hitler-like mustache and fingers studded with calluses. He pushed a dental X-ray against my throbbing tooth and held it there with his index finger while Peggy pressed the button on the X-ray machine.

He developed the film and when he came back, he said, You have a nasty cavity that I need to fill.

Before I could say anything, he drilled into my tooth without giving me an injection to prevent pain. Ow, that hurts, I yelled.

It will be faster this way and it will only take me a few minutes.

My mother held my hand, and I squeezed it every time the drill hit a nerve ending. I thought the pain of having the cavity filled was worse than the throbbing I had been experiencing. When Carl was finished, my eyes were blurry with tears.

He’ll be okay now, Carl said to my mother. If he has any pain just give him a couple of aspirins.

Carl moved into the next examining room without hugging me or giving my mom, his sister, a kiss. She thanked him and whisked me back into a cab for the trip home. I rested my head on her shoulder while holding my hand on my cheek. I wondered why Leo or anyone had to be or would want to be a professional like Carl.

CHAPTER THREE

He Scares Me

I WAS NINE YEARS old in 1946, as I raced up the stairs of my house, anxious to show someone my report card. It had mostly outstanding grades on it. My pudgy feet touched every other step. I slid across the yellow linoleum floor of the breakfast room looking for my mother, when I remembered she was at a Hadassah meeting. My sixteen-year-old brother, Mickey, wherever he was hiding, was supposed to be watching me. I raced back down the stairs to share my report card with my aunt Evelyn. I spotted my brother playing with some friends and yelled at him to watch me cross the street.

I will, he said. As soon as I finish this game I’m playing.

I grew impatient waiting for him and ran down the block until I was opposite my aunt’s house. I knew that I shouldn’t cross myself, but I was eager to show her my report card. I looked both ways, as I had been taught, and streaked into the road. There was a squeal of brakes and then a thump. I was lying on the ground having just been hit by the bumper of a black Ford. I saw my aunt Evelyn slam her front door shut and race toward me. She was wearing a floral pink house dress, and her curly, flame colored hair flew in all directions. Are you okay, Bubbeleh? she asked.

My hip hurts, I answered. But otherwise nothing else bothers me. What I didn’t say was that I’m scared out of my mind—scared that I may be seriously hurt—scared my parents would be angry at me for not waiting until my brother helped me cross the street.

My aunt smiled and lifted my chubby body, which was an effort for her. She took me to the doctor’s office on the corner, all the while kissing me on the forehead. Everything will be fine, she reassured me.

When we walked into the waiting room, the receptionist told us to have a seat. The doctor will be with you as soon as he can.

The poor child is in pain. I demand for Dr. Zinsky to see him right away.

I had never seen my aunt so aggressive. She was usually mild mannered and never raised her voice, fearing the stress would bring on one of her frequent migraines. The doctor heard the commotion and beckoned my aunt to bring me into one of the examining rooms. I thought, this is not like my pediatrician’s office. There were no cartoon characters or sports posters, just a drab, blue striped wallpaper. The doctor himself had on a starched white coat and a dour expression on his pockmarked, lined face. His black hair with streaks of white was slicked back. When I looked at him, I couldn’t help thinking about the Frankenstein movie I had seen.

Doctor Zinsky put his cold hands on me without smiling. I don’t think there’s anything broken, he said. But we need to take an X-ray.

I shivered when they put me on the cold X-ray table, and my aunt stroked my hair. The machine made a grinding noise and the technician told us we were done and could go back to the examining room. I saw her hang the wet X-rays on a lit view box and shake her head. I was convinced there was something terribly wrong and scrunched my face. My aunt hugged me and reassured me that everything would be okay.

The doctor peered at the X-rays. You’re a lucky young man. There’s nothing broken. You just need to go home and rest. He turned to my aunt. If he has any pain, give him some aspirin. He didn’t smile. Be more careful next time. He left the examining room without saying good-bye.

My aunt carried me to her house, gently placed me on a bed and left to get me a glass of chocolate milk and Fig Newtons, my favorite cookie. My cousin, Sheila, poked her head in and offered me some of her comic books to read. She was shooed away by her mother. Leave him be. He needs the rest.

After gorging myself with the goodies, I felt better, but was still concerned about what my parents would say. Aunt Evelyn, my mama’s going to kill me.

No, she won’t. You just leave it to me.

Later that afternoon, when my mother returned home, Aunt Evelyn called her. He’s really scared about your reaction. Be easy on him. He knows he did wrong.

My mother came over to get me. She hugged me and heeded my aunt’s advice. She was so worried about my well being that there were no repercussions. The only thing my mother said was, Next time, young man, wait to be crossed.

I will, Mama. I will.

Before going home, I threw my arms around my aunt and squeezed. Thank you, Aunt Evelyn. I love you.

I know, Bubbeleh. I love you too. Just be careful.

I nodded, grabbed my mother’s hand and limped across the street.

Two weeks later, I was lying in bed, gorging on a bag of potato chips, trying to gain warmth from the chill of the first winter snow, and comfort because my mother had left me alone. I had stayed home, feigning illness, so that I could spend time with her.

You’ll be okay by yourself for a little while, she said. I have to go to a Hadassah meeting. Your brother will be home as soon as he’s done with his high school basketball practice.

But I don’t feel well. You can’t leave me by myself.

You’re not that sick, she said. She put her arms around me and hugged. I’ll be home early.

After she left, I shivered and pulled the blanket over me, but was still cold. Walking down to the basement to light the furnace, I stubbed my barefoot toe. It hurt, but didn’t stop me from continuing. I was not supposed to be doing this by myself, but I had watched my father and was sure I could mimic him.

I limped to the boiler room while shaking my foot. Before lighting the pilot with the matches I had brought, I had to drain the hot water into a bucket by turning the spigot at the bottom of the furnace. The water poured out and splattered onto the top of my right foot. I cried out in pain and hobbled back upstairs.

Despite putting ice on it, my foot blistered. Opening the refrigerator, I took out a quarter pound stick of butter and smeared it on my foot. My mother had done this to me when I burned my fingers on the stove. The pain was unbearable so I cried. Taking an aspirin provided no relief. I hopped to the pantry, took out an unopened box of Oreo cookies and ate them one by one. The pain remained so I searched for more food. Mom, where are you? I need you. When you come home, please don’t call Dr. Zinsky. He scares me.

CHAPTER FOUR

Be A Doctor

W E LIVED IN Brooklyn, five blocks from Ebbets Field and I was a rabid Dodger fan. To paraphrase a future Dodger manager, when I cut myself, I bled Dodger blue. I was ten years old in 1947, two years after the end of the war. I could quote the statistics of all the players, including their batting averages, fielding percentage and ERA’s. I even knew how the prospects in the Dodger farm system were doing. My father wished that I knew as much about my school work.

During the season, I’d see the end of most home games because they let the kids in free after the seventh inning. I even managed to sneak into a few games after the first inning, when the ticket takers weren’t looking. I saw other children scream in their fathers’ ears as they watched the game. But I had never gone to a game with my father. When the Dodgers were on the road, I’d be out in the street, practicing my swing with a broomstick and a Spalding ball.

That year, I had high hopes for my Dodgers bringing their first world championship back to Brooklyn. I was devastated when they lost again to the hated Yankees. My father was unsympathetic. Why do you spend all your time on this foolishness? You’d be better off studying hard and make something of yourself—be a doctor.

I want to be a baseball player and play for the Dodgers, I said. The look of disappointment on my father’s face became ingrained in my memory. Why couldn’t he understand my love for baseball?

I asked Mickey why my father acted the way he did. He told me that our father had immigrated to this country at the age of eighteen, leaving his parents behind in Russia. He couldn’t speak English and he had no high school diploma. In seven years, going to school mostly at night and working during the day, he obtained a high school equivalency certificate, completed college and received a master’s degree in chemical engineering. That’s why he had no tolerance for wasting hours in nonacademic pursuits. At the time, though, I didn’t understand and was deeply hurt by his actions. I wished that I could share my passion for baseball with him.

When the 1948 season started, I continued badgering my father to take me to a baseball game. His response remained constant. I don’t have time for that foolishness. My reaction also remained constant. I pouted but didn’t let that stop me from sneaking into games or honing my baseball skills with my trusty broom handle.

When my teacher handed me the next to last report card for the year, it didn’t faze me. It was pretty much the same as all the rest. The report card was divided into two sides. On the academic side, I received outstanding for math, science and geography, and satisfactory for history, art, and English. On the deportment side, I had a number of unsatisfactory grades, including one for conduct. In the comment section, the teacher wrote, Runs with scissors, interrupts other children, chatters incessantly, particularly about baseball.

When I showed the report card to my father, his disapproval bore into me again. I expected him to yell. Instead, he said, I’ll tell you what I’ll do, young man. On your next report card, if you get outstanding in all the academic subjects and at least satisfactory in the deportment categories, I’ll take you to a baseball game.

I will, Pop. I will.

I sneaked into fewer games and put my broom handle into the closet. I memorized dates, times, places and vocabulary words. I tried to keep my mouth shut in class, which was difficult for me. I held my breath when the teacher handed out the report cards. My hands trembled as I looked at mine. I had done it—all outstanding grades in academics and satisfactory in all aspects of deportment. The teacher wrote in the comment section, Much improved!

I glowed as I handed my father the report card. He did too. You pick out the game and I’ll buy the tickets, he said.

I picked out a Saturday afternoon game with the Dodger’s cross town rivals, the New York Giants. I dragged my father there early on the day of the game so that we could watch batting practice. He bought me popcorn and a Coke. I had already come fortified with a box of Good-n-Plenty and a Baby Ruth bar. I hoped that I’d be able to get my father to show an interest in baseball.

We had great seats along the first base line. I had never been so close to the players. I saw Jackie Robinson, the first Negro player in the major leagues, and was excited because he had been the most