A bilingual boy learns from baseball’s best: Boys of Summer
After sensing an “excuse me” knock, I pressed my ear against the front door. Abby, a former honor student, stood there, swaying side to side like a hand-held fan. She said, “I’m back! I live in this complex now. Remembered your daily black coffee before class. Brought some.”
I hugged and thanked her.
“Come, sit on the porch. Everything OK?”
“Yes, professor. I saw a video parading baseball altercations involving your favorite Yankee team. Just wanted your opinion.”
“Altercations” — great vocabulary. “In my day, we called them brouhahas or rhubarbs.”
“I’ve never heard those words,” she said.
“Don’t worry, it’s not a sign of ignorance, just a barometer of age. I heard those words from early English instructors — baseball announcers.”
She raised her brow. “Please tell me about that.”
I described one of my days as a 10-year-old Brooklynite. After snatching my mom’s radio from our plasticcoated couch, I usually wriggled under her Formica table and plugged life into the radio.
I stretched out on the tile floor under the kitchen table, waiting to hear the echoing crack of baseball bats. That radio delivered a hidden Shangri-La. I twirled dials. After scratchy sounds, a clear signal touted the start of the game, and baseball broadcasters — my Boys of Summer — entertained me.
Scenes drifted across my mind. I pictured the immortal Jackie Robinson dancing on first base. Legendary Joe DiMaggio moved like an outfield gazelle. Broadcasters Vin Scully, Mel Allen and Red Barber intrigued me. These gentlemen painted word pictures with the English language. An American, born into an Italian-speaking family, I learned English from the Brooklyn streets, my school and these announcers.
Daily, I sprinted into my alley squeezing a Spaldeen (Spaulding) ball and mimicked words spoken by these famed radio raconteurs. I relished their soothing sounds whispering the nuances of baseball.
I don’t recall bilingual programs or ESOL (English as a Second Language) teachers during my boyhood Brooklyn days. Those baseball mentors never strolled into my schoolrooms to teach me English. Yet, they conducted a classroom on my childhood radio.
I imitated. Pretending to be Barber, I sat in his imaginary “Catbird Seat.” I did not have the faintest idea what it meant. It sounded cool, so I repeated it. On other days, I emulated Allen ‘s, “How about that!” chant. I frequently echoed Vin Scully’s describing “high drives.”
Their picturesque ball-yard tapestries left me with mouth agape. I choked the end of a baseball bat wrapped in electrical tape. It became my fake microphone while I spoke into the bat handle. Standing between red brick walls of two muscular homes, I tossed the ball and announced my fantasy game. Sportscasters Allen, Barber and Scully groomed my imagination and speech. I patterned my words to their rhythms.
Sadly, Allen and Barber are gone. Scully, my only remaining mentor recently retired his microphone. All that’s left of my tutors are memories of velveteen voices whispering in my reverie, thoughts of faded family and Brooklyn summers. Thanks to the invisible conductor named radio, I learned from these word wizards. They delivered suitcases packed with baseball dreams and the melodious lyric of the English language.
“Wow, professor,” said Abby. “I came to talk about baseball altercations and learned a vibrant piece of living history. I’m sure those Boys of Summer taught millions of others, too. Thanks for sharing.”