TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 148

[Tobie Shapiro]

February 11, 2000000007


Dear Hearts,

	My daughter's friend, Alex, whom we've 
spoken about before, maybe even too much, has now 
informed Feyna that according to recent tests, 
exhaustive tests, that his doctor gave him, he is 
HIV positive.  Not AIDS, just HIV positive.  I 
will confess to you all that although I am 
ashamed of thinking this, I don't believe it. 
This guy has a crisis a day, and then something 
comes along to turn it around.  So many 
emergencies.  I've known people like this.  They 
are pathological liars.  It's a sight to behold.

	But what if I'm wrong and he's really HIV 
positive?  Well, then I feel terribly sorry for 
him, and will do what I can to support him. 
Feyna says he was afraid that if she told me 
about it, I would go wild and forbid her to see 
him, maybe get her autoclaved.  But no.  I had a 
friend, a good dear friend, Earl, who died of 
AIDS.  I brought Meyshe and Feyna to his house to 
crawl around on his bed when he was sick and 
lonely one time.  They were about ten months old. 
They are now nearly 20, and show no signs of 
coming down with the disease.  I'm educated about 
it.  Not down to the T-cell counts and inner 
workings of the cell structures, but I know 
enough not to be afraid of it being passed on by 
casual contact.

	How do I deal with this suspicion that 
he's invented another crisis, another story to 
keep straight (his stories don't always keep 
straight)?  I haven't told Feyna, and I won't. 
We'll just have to see.  Oy.




                              ÉEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
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Baseball

	Grampa Benny, my mother's father, took 
all of his grandchildren to baseball games.  He 
had season tickets and box seats.  Even though I 
never figured out what a box seat was, I knew it 
was better than what the regular people got.  All 
of us grandchildren, one at a time, had our day 
with Grampa.  When my family returned to 
California from back east, it was 1956, and the 
Seals were still the San Francisco team.  The 
Seals were in the minor league and they had 
Seals' Stadium right underneath the Hamm's Beer 
sign, the one with the thousands of light bulbs 
that lit up in a sequence to show a glass being 
filled with a golden liquid, a head of foam 
forming on the top, then the liquid settling and 
absorbing some of the foam.  Bubbles floated up. 
The sequence would repeat itself over and over 
again.  From the freeway into the city, it was a 
dazzling landmark.

	I went with Grampa to a Seal's game when 
I was nine years old.  I remember mostly sitting 
next to Grampa and asking him questions.  He knew 
all about baseball.  Then in 1958, the New York 
Giants were transplanted to San Francisco and the 
city started to build Candlestick Stadium for 
them.  But until 1960, they played all their 
games at Seals' Stadium.  What happened to the 
Seals after the Giants took over?  Did they all 
disappear into a bucket of minor league history? 
Did they move to New York?  Did they keep on 
playing in the great umbra of the Giants?  Grampa 
would know.

	My favourite ball games with Grampa were 
the double headers.  Your tushie got sore from 
sitting and when the seventh inning stretch came 
along, you really needed to use it.  We'd stand 
up and shake our bones out, let them settle where 
they should be, then sit back down in our box 
seats for the duration.

	Grampa Benny was the best Grampa in the 
world.  He loved us more than anyone in the world 
could love us.  He let us sit on his lap and he'd 
puff out his cheeks.  Then we'd press our little 
hands on both of his cheeks and he'd make a big 
noise blowing the air out through his lips.  He 
told us Silly, Tilly and Trilly stories right on 
the spot from his fertile mind.  Silly, Tilly and 
Trilly were three sisters who got into all sorts 
of adventures, but mostly in baseball adventures. 
That was what inhabited my Grampa's imagination. 
Baseball.

	Whenever we got Grampa presents, for his 
birthday, his anniversary, for Channukah, we'd 
always get him baseball presents:  books about 
baseball, books by baseball players, baseball 
hats, baseball magazines, baseball mugs, baseball 
games, baseball calendars, baseballs.  Baseball. 
There was an order and honesty to the game.  It 
was gallant, even though the players hoisted 
their pants, groped their own balls and spit. 
There were rules to the game, and umpires to make 
pronouncements on the rules.  The men would wait 
their turns, patiently, to get up to bat, and 
when they were the team out on the field, they 
worked together like the fingers of a hand. 
Grampa knew all the rules and he knew all the 
players from all the teams.  He could recite all 
their batting averages, their runs batted in.  He 
knew which pitchers could bat well, and it seemed 
to me that he knew what the pitchers and batters 
were thinking.

	He'd say, "He's going to walk this one. 
Otherwise he might hit a double and two runs will 
come in.  He can't chance it."

	And then, sure enough, the pitcher and 
the catcher would play their game pitching and 
catching the ball far away from home plate, high 
and to the right or left, nowhere hittable.  The 
batter would have had to stand on a ladder just 
to attempt hitting it.  Grampa knew these things.

	We would sit there in our seats, and the 
vendors would come by singing their songs.

	"Red hots!  Get your red hots here!"

	"ICE CREAM!"

	"Peeeeeeeeanuts!  Hot peanuts!"

	"Get your scorecard!  Can't tell the players without a score card!"

	I loved listening to their cries.  The 
music of it stayed in my ears and I'd sing their 
songs with them under my breath.  We would come 
to the game unfed, and that meant I got to ask 
Grampa to get me things to eat.  I asked for a 
hot dog, and Grampa would stick his hand up in 
the air, call the hot dog man who would come to 
the end of the row, and ask what I wanted on it.

	"Catsup.  Tell him catsup, Grampa."  And 
Grampa would yell out, "Catsup!"  Then the vendor 
would dress the hot dog while Grampa sent the 
money down the row.  Everyone passed it on and no 
one stole a penny.  Then the vendor would send 
the hot dog back with the change, and everyone in 
the row would pass the hot dog and the money back 
down to us.  No one ever took a bite and no one 
pilfered the coins.  There was honour and 
dignity, community, in baseball.  Then I'd ask 
for ice cream.  Whatever I asked for, Grampa 
would get it for me without question.

	He'd hold my hand and call me Puntsel, 
Tobeleh.  I could entrust my hand into Grampa's 
big hand, and it meant no more than holding 
hands.  He didn't ogle me from his seat, or make 
dirty comments about me and what made me female. 
His love was pure and unassailable, steadfast, 
complete and safe.

	Grampa must never die.  His soul must 
live on like the hopes of a grand slam that's hit 
out of the park and never comes down, just keeps 
on going.
-- 




Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net