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Take me out to the ball game


Jose and I went to see the Giants play the Dodgers yesterday at Oracle Park. This continued a tradition stretching over many years of us going to a game or two each season, although last year, for obvious reasons, that tradition was interrupted.

Going to see the Giants is a always a highpoint of my summers. Ever since I was six or seven years old, living three blocks from Yankee Stadium in the 1950s, I’ve loved going to ballgames. My father, who was an ardent Giants fan until they moved to San Francisco, used to take me to see them at the old Polo Grounds; we’d walk over the bridge crossing the Harlem River into Manhattan. Whenever the Giants played their greatest enemies, the Brooklyn Dodgers, the tension was palpable.

So yesterday’s Giants-Dodgers game was the place to be. Both teams are doing well in the National League West, the Giants in first place, the Dodgers in second. The Giants have a lot of young players; even Jose, who keeps up with these things, didn’t recognize some of them. The weather was baseball-perfect: mild, about 70 degrees, with fleecy white clouds scudding in front of a hot sun. The boats were gathered in McCovey Cove, hoping to scoop up a home run ball.

We had good seats, on the ground level, about seven rows up from the first-base line.

Jose had brought two of his grandsons, ages six and nine. This was their first-ever professional baseball game, and it had also been their first time on a ferry boat: they’d come over from Larkspur. I told the younger boy, Max, that something very special was going to happen in the seventh inning.

“Will they squirt water?” he asked. He thought the giant scoreboard had some kind of contraption.

“You’ll just have to wait and see.”

At the seventh inning everyone rose, and 35,000 people lustily sang “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” I’ve been singing that song at ballgames for 65 years and I still love it.

Many people weren’t masked. I had thought that, with the delta variant, they would be, but no. I was, and so were Jose and the kids.

But people were just so happy to be outside, at Oracle Park, on a beautiful day. Probably most of them had been vaccinated, and they felt that, having done their part, they didn’t have to mask. That’s the conversation going on now in America.

It’s hard to describe the happiness of being at a baseball game. People may have worries and cares, but they’re set aside for those magical hours. Everybody cheers for the same things and groans when things go south. The organist plays his silly little tunes and we all clap along. Somebody starts to chant: LET’S GO GIANTS and suddenly thousands of others join in. But “we don’t do the wave,” as one woman seated behind me explained to her friend. The camera catches up with someone in the stands—a kid wearing a Posey shirt, a young woman dancing—and their face goes up on the scoreboard, 40-feet high. People laugh, cheer, eat hot dogs and garlic fries and ice cream. (Max insisted on letting his melt to soup, and then he drank it through a straw.)

Oracle Park has completely transformed this part of eastern San Francisco, in a good way in my opinion. It made me think of our current struggle in Oakland to have a new A’s stadium built on the waterfront. A lot of people in Oakland would say that Oracle Park has destroyed the old neighborhood. Where before there was lots of cheap housing and auto body shops, now it’s multi-million dollar condos and expensive restaurants. Is that “gentrification,” or is it a healthy upgrade?

Anyhow, the Giants beat the Dodgers 5-0, and everybody was happy (except for a few Dodgers fans).

The Old Man and the Boy


“INCOMING!” yelled Stevie Resnick.

I looked up just in time to see 3 or 4 fat brown paper bags come hurtling down at us from above. Laughing, we covered our heads and scattered out of their way. The bags smashed down harmlessly, bursting at the seams and splattering shit all over the sidewalk, like scat bombs in an X-rated cartoon.

In the past, all Old Man Gouck would do was stick his compact, red-faced head with its bristly crewcut of white hair out from his window and curse at us, his dark eyes radiating anger we could feel five floors below. 

“You goddamn kids! Shut the hell up, you damn brats!”

But lately, he’d escalated his war against us, loading paper bags with his own excrement. The first time he’d actually caught us unawares, and Donald Brotman got pelted. It was disgusting, the way the slime ran down his shoulder and bare arm.

After that, whenever we played in front of the building, we assigned a Gouck spotter, one of us whose task was to keep an eagle eye on the old grouch’s window.

That day had been Stevie’s turn. He’d done his job well; no one was slimed. But the sidewalk was a fecal mess. We’d have to wait for rain to wash it away, or for Norris, our building’s black super, to hose it down.

So we decided to play across the street, in the park.

“What an asshole,” muttered Donald.

“Yeah, what an athhole,” lisped Bobby Alexander. He was a bit of a sissy. But this was the 1950s, when young boys didn’t yet know about the vagaries of human sexuality, like they do today. So even though Bobby preferred Mah Jong to stickball, and tended to avoid our more strenuous adventures, we liked him well enough, and let him hang out with us.

We were waiting for the light to change when Big Paul said, “That old fool’ll get his.” The rest of the afternoon, we spent throwing a football around. Except, that is, for Bobby, who just watched.

Old Gouck lived alone. He was a mysterious geezer; I can’t ever recall seeing him outside his apartment, although I suppose he must have left it from time to time.

This was in the South Bronx during the post-World War II years of the Fifties, when our Dads — ex-GIs, now factory and office workers — were impregnating our Moms at a prodigious rate, with the result that Baby Boom kids like us were being manufactured like cans of soup in a Campbell’s factory.

I had a million friends I’d known since we were toddlers. Despite the reputation for violence the South Bronx subsequently acquired, in those days it was peaceful, except for the occasional Gouck attack. On summer evenings, the old Grandmas set up beach chairs on the sidewalk and gossiped, their Russian-Yiddish accents salting the warm, sultry air. Our Dads sat on the front stoop and talked about the Yankees, proprietarily if they won, sullenly if they didn’t — the Stadium was only three blocks away, and I can still hear the roar of the crowd when, on a hot August night, Mantle sent one into the bleachers. After our Moms finished cleaning up the supper dishes, they too came downstairs, wrapped in shawls, sometimes knitting for still more babies on the way. And we kids played on the sidewalk, pitching pennies or playing hide-and-seek behind the parked Buicks and Chevvies that lined the tenemented streets for mile after mile after mile, all the way up to Westchester, and beyond.

Young boys love mysteries, and to old Mr. Gouck were attributed many tales that intrigued us. Ours was a crowded, gossipy neighborhood, where stories were told and retold over and over, all the while growing in outlandishness, like in an old-fashioned game of Telegraph. Gouck had been, it was said, a spy; a private eye; an assassin; a soldier of fortune; an inventor; a scientist; a Nazi. Somewhere during the course of his exotic travels, we heard, he had come into a fortune in gold, or money, or precious jewels, which he kept hidden in his apartment. The specifics changed over time, depending on who was telling the story.

My friends had their own theories. Stevie Resnick claimed the fortune consisted of thousand-dollar bills, stuffed into the mattress of his bed. Donald Brotman said Gouck had coffee cans filled with diamonds and rubies and sapphires. From Norris, who lived in a flat in the rear of the basement, we learned Gouck had a king’s ransom in gold coins he kept in a wooden chest.

We fantasized from time to time about getting into his apartment and helping ourselves to the booty. But Gouck was always there, and we didn’t know how to get in, or what we would do if we did and he came raging at us. So it remained a fantasy.

One Spring day — we were 9 years old, and it was during a warm Easter break — Bobby Alexander, Big Paul, Stevie Resnick, Donald Brotman and I were playing Boxball in front of the building. I remember how the little cabbage caterpillars were hanging by the hundreds from fluttery silver threads that dangled from the branches of the mimosa trees. 

Now, Boxball could be quite a noisy sport. Two players faced off across two big sidewalk squares, trying to hit a nickle with a bouncy, ham-colored Spalding hand ball. The play-by-play is fast and furious, and if you throw in 3 or 4 other boys, screaming from the sidelines, you can imagine the ruckus that can be raised.

So it was usually Boxball that got us in trouble with Mr. Gouck.

But that day there were no Gouck alerts. It took a while for this to sink in, but then Stevie said, “Hey, y’know what?”

“What?” Bobby asked.

“No Gouck.” 

“Yeah!” buck-toothed Donald agreed. “He’s usually yelling at us by now.”

“Or throwing doody,” Bobby said. He still used baby words like that: doody, poop your pants, pee-pee.  

We played a little more and I think we were probably noisier than usual. After a while, bored, we sat on the front stoop, chewing bubble gum and talking.

“Maybe Gouck’s dead,” Big Paul suggested. We all shuddered and giggled at the thought of old people dropping dead in their apartments, their bodies rotting away until the smell forced someone to call the cops.

“Yeah!” Donald cried. “He’s probably on the floor, with ants crawling up his nose.”

“Eew,” said Bobby, the most squeamish among us.

“And rats eating his ears,” Donald went on, enjoying the attention. “And worms–”

All of us cracked up, even Bobby. The picture of old dead Gouck seemed suddenly the funniest thing in the world.

“I wonder who’ll get his treasure,” said Stevie, eyes bulging behind coke-bottle glasses.

“How much d’ya figure it’s worth, anyhow?” Donald said, addressing his question to Big Paul. Big Paul was our leader, the best athlete, the strongest and handsomest, the most daring, the boy with the dazzling smile you wanted to like you the best.

Big Paul ran a freckled hand through his thick wavy red hair. “Dunno,” he reflected. “A lot. Maybe a million.”

“A million!” oohed Bobby, his eyes widening. “That’th tho muth moolah.”

“I bet that’s more than your Dad makes in a year!” said Donald to Bobby, whose father was a chiropractor, and whom we figured was the richest of all our Dads.

“You think he has relatives?” said Stevie.

“Old man Gouck?” said Big Paul. “Nah. You ever seen anyone visiting him?”

We all agreed we hadn’t.

“The only person I ever saw visit him,” I said, “was Rudy.” Rudy was the young Italian guy with the greasy pompadour of black hair who worked as a soda jerk in Feldman’s drug store, and also ran errands for the other stores on the block: Lehrer’s grocery, Fox tailor, Lee Chinese laundry, Dave’s butcher shop.

“Let’s ask him!” Big Paul said. We ran around the corner and piled into Feldman’s drug store, where, just as we’d expected, Rudy was behind the counter. He was a handsome, juvenile delinquent-looking guy who looked like Sal Mineo in Rebel Without a Cause. Like Sal, Rudy carried a pack of Camel cigarettes rolled up in the short sleeve of his white T-shirt. On his veiny left bicep he had a tattoo of a slinky mermaid coiled on an anchor. I was quite attracted to Rudy, and I liked the way his white soda jerk’s pants fit so snug around his hips, but this was many years before I’d sorted all that out.

The store owner’s wife, Mrs. Feldman, a short, wrinkled old bag with heavy makeup, who always suspected us of shoplifting (which we did frequently), gave us a disapproving look when we came running in, five loud, troublesome kids she (who famously had no children) obviously despised. We took our seats at the counter.

“What’ll it be, boys?” Rudy asked.

“Cherry coke.” “Cherry coke.” “Root beer.” “Egg cream.” “Me too.”

“What’s a Me Too?” Rudy cracked.

Rudy started to mix everything up when Big Paul said, “Hey Rudy, you ever deliver anything to old man Gouck?”

Rudy was loudly squirting seltzer from the machine. “Gouck? The old guy in–?”

“5-B,” Big Paul said.

“Oh, sure, sure,” Rudy said. “Lotsa times.”

“What kinda stuff?” Donald asked, although this was beside the point.

“What kinda stuff? Oh, I dunno. Groceries from Lehrer’s, meat from Dave’s. He’s a lousy tipper.”

“You go in?” I asked.

“Inside his apartment? Sure.” Rudy set down the glasses on little paper doilies in front of us on the marble counter.

“What was it like?” asked Big Paul. We all started slurping our drinks noisily through straws, seeing who could make the most obnoxious sounds. Mrs. Feldman give us a dirty look.

“What was it like?” Rudy had a way of repeating questions before answering them. “I dunno. Just regular-like, I guess. Kinda hot. He keeps the heat way up, even in summer.”

We took this in. I don’t know if we were all thinking the same thought at that moment, but I was, and I was reasonably sure Big Paul was, too, for I knew how his mind worked.

“You ever see anything strange?” I ventured, in my best imitation of Sergeant Joe Friday interrogating a suspect on Dragnet.

“What d’ya mean, strange?” Rudy asked.

“Like, valuable?”

Big Paul shot me a look. “Oh, somebody said he had all these, uhh, paintings,” I said.

“Paintings? I don’t think so,” Rudy said, wiping down the counter. “On the walls? Maybe a calendar.”

We finished our sodas, paid the dime apiece, and left. I shoplifted a Spalding ball on the way out.

We crossed the street and went up into the park on the sloping east side, leaning back on our elbows on the soft green grass. This was one of our favorite places to just talk things through and plan our next adventure.

“Hey, Bobby, did you know you can pick your friends and you can pick your nose but you can’t pick your friend’s nose?” said Big Paul. 

“Speaking of boogers how about this?” Donald said, turning toward Big Paul and flicking a finger at him. Big Paul flinched, and everybody laughed.

The conversation drifted in this harmless way for some time. I knew we were eventually going to return to the subject of Gouck, but I was in no hurry to rush things. These moments with my pals, in the sweet luxury of a warm afternoon with no school, were among my favorites. I was aware of their specialness, of the pure pleasure of making them last as long as you could.

The bees were droning, and the bright yellow forsythia was in bloom. My thoughts leaped ahead to summer and three blissful hot months of hanging out with my buddies, and just being able to be a kid with no responsibilities, until the school year started again.

We lapsed into silence. Bobby Alexander gave a little snort. Big Paul, the wise guy, looked at us, put his finger to his lips, and mimed “Shhh.” He wriggled over to where Bobby was, flat on his back on the grass, asleep. Big Paul leaned over him, hocked his throat, and drooled a string of phlegm onto Bobby’s fly.

“Hey Bobby!” he called out, shaking him by the shoulder. “Bobby! Wake up! You peed your pants!”

We all cracked up. Bobby blushed, but he was used to being the butt of our jokes, and we liked him all the more for the fact that he could take it and laugh along with us.

It was Big Paul who first mentioned Gouck.

“Maybe he’s not dead, after all,” Big Paul said. We all knew who “he” was.

“What do you mean?” Stevie said. “If he’s not dead, then why’s he so quiet?”

“Maybe he’s gone,” Big Paul suggested.

“He never goes anyplace,” Donald objected. “He’s got no friends or family.”

“How do you know he doesn’t?” I asked.

“How do you know he does?” Donald shot back.

“Didn’t you thay he doethn’t?” Bobby asked Big Paul.

“I think,” Paul said, “he went away for a while. I think he’s got relatives in the country, maybe Jersey, and they invited him to stay with them.”

We considered the possibilities. If he’d gone to visit relatives, or was dead, either way, he couldn’t protect his apartment.

“We gotta get in there,” Big Paul said.

There. It was uttered. I’d known it in Feldman’s, nursing my egg cream, but I knew it had to be Big Paul who said it, because he was our ringleader. Nobody could refuse the suggestion of an adventure if it came from Big Paul. 

“How’re you gonna do that?” Stevie said, not convinced. “I bet he double-locks his door. All old people do.”

“Maybe he keepth hith keyth under the doormat,” Bobby said helpfully.

“No, you doofus,” said Big Paul. “We don’t need keys. We can get in from the fire escape.”

“Ithn’t that dangerouth?” Bobby frowned.

I didn’t exactly disagree. Gouck’s fire escape was 70 feet above the concrete sidewalk. The railings were low, and there were spaces between the metal bars big enough for a pet — or a child — to fall through. Mom and Dad had raised me with few rules, but one of them was never, ever, under any circumstances go onto a fire escape, and I had accepted that advice unquestioningly. What Big Paul was now suggesting sent a chill up and down my spine.

“Ellen Marcus lives right above him in 6-B, right?” Big Paul was talking fast now. “We can wait until her parents are gone, then she lets us in, and we climb down from her fire escape to his.”

“We’d have to do it at night, so no one sees us,” I said. My desire to please Big Paul was stronger even than my fear.

“Right. And even if he locks his window, I know how to open it.” Big Paul explained how a Puerto Rican kid at school had showed him how to jimmy open a window with a carpenter’s file, which Paul’s Dad just happened to have.

So we made our pact. Standing in a circle in the deepening twilight, we held out our hands, palms down, and stacking them one on the other, solemnly agreed to do it as soon as an arrangement could be made with Ellen Marcus — break into Gouck’s apartment, and steal his treasure.

* * *

It was my job to talk Ellen into it, but that wasn’t hard. She was a pal. We’d used to spend time together when we were younger, 6 or 7, her mom dropping her off at our apartment, or my mom bringing me to hers. Ellen got me into dolls and what we would later think of as role-playing. She was a little crazy, a tomboy who was always up for anything. 

Turned out her parents were going out that Saturday evening, and since Ellen was mature for her age, they didn’t mind leaving her by herself. It was I Love Lucy and Gunsmoke night, and her parents knew she’d be glued to the T.V.

We guys met up in the lobby, then raced up the stairs to the sixth floor and her door. I rang the bell. Ellen opened it instantly, dressed in sneakers, blue jeans and a dark brown Micky Mouse sweatshirt. Her face was flushed with excitement, and her eyes had a feverish glow. She carried a big silver flashlight.

“What’s that for?” Big Paul asked.

“For when we sneak in,” Ellen said. “So we don’t have to turn on the lights.”

“Who said you could come?” Big Paul said. 

“I thought–”

“No girls!” Big Paul said. I thought Bobby Alexander looked a little scared, and he was real quiet, too. Donald seemed frightened, but determined not to show it. Stevie Resnick, who always was the first of us to cry if something didn’t break his way, was excited. “Lemme go first!” he clamored.

“You can follow me,” said Big Paul, as if there’d ever be any question about who led. He took the file from his back pocket and passed it around. It was about a foot long and ridged on both sides, with the edge narrowed to a sharp chisel.

We’d taken the precaution of wearing dark clothes to minimize the danger of anyone spotting us on the fire escape. Now, as Ellen led us single-file to the kitchen through the foyer, we seemed like something out of a war movie, Stalag 17, maybe, soldier spies behind enemy lines. My breathing was sharp and rapid, like I’d been holding my breath underwater. I was uneasy, yes, just a little. But I wanted to please Big Paul, and to show him that I was the bravest of us all, besides himself.

When we got to the kitchen, Ellen opened the window. Big Paul kind of shoved her aside. He looked out, and up, and then down. I felt the breeze come in, cool and moist.   

Big Paul turned back around and faced us. Keeping his voice to a whisper, he said, “All right, here’s the plan. Me, Stevie and Donald go down first, in that order. Kenny, you follow us, but just halfway; stay on the stairs, to keep watch.”

“Aw, Paul,” I protested. I didn’t want to bring up the rear, I wanted in on the action.

But he ignored me. “Bobby, you stay up here with Ellen.”

“I wanna go too!” Ellen objected. “It’s my flashlight and my fire escape.”

“Don’t be a doofus,” Big Paul said. “I said no girls. Besides, you have to stay up here in case your Mom calls.”

“She won’t!” Ellen insisted.

Big Paul was having none of that. “How do you know? She might. If you don’t answer, she’ll think something’s wrong.”

This was so logical, Ellen could think of nothing to say.

Big Paul lifted one leg, hoisted it over the sill, and with a silent leap was gone, like a raven into the night. Then it was Stevie Resnick’s turn.

He hesitated.

“Hey Stevie.” I heard Big Paul hiss after a while.

“It’s your turn,” Donald said to him, uncertainly.

“I don’t wanna go,” Stevie whined. “My Dad’ll kill me.”

“RESNICK!” Big Paul was whisper-hollering from the night. 

Stevie Resnick is such a pussy, I thought.

“I’ll take your place,” I told him. I nudged beside Donald and leaned out the window and said, “Psst, Paul.”

“Who’s that? Kenny?”

“Stevie chickened out. How ‘bout if I take his place?”

There was a moment of silence. Donald, Stevie, Bobby, Ellen and I looked around at each other. Then Big Paul said, “All right, but make it fast. Sheesh!”

I armed myself up over the sill and onto the fire escape, trying not to look all the way down to the street. I could see Big Paul below me, halfway down the ladder that led to the fifth floor and Gouck’s window. Big Paul was staring up at me, his eyes glinting where the moonlight hit them.

Big Paul climbed silently the rest of the way down, followed by me and then Donald. He crouched by the window, spreading both hands on it, one under the top sash, the other on the middle pane. He gave the window an upward tug, and it slid open.

“Guess we won’t need that file,” he grinned.

Big Paul hoisted himself in. I did the same, and then Donald. It was immensely hot inside, like an oven, and the air stank of old grease and rotting meat. I heard the buzzing of flies.

“Phew,” said Big Paul.

We stood there getting our bearings, breathing in the fresh night air that spilled in from the open window. 

“Kenny, you stay here. Donald, c’mon with me.” Big Paul and Donald disappeared through the door, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

There was just enough light to be able to make things out, and as my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see more. A Formica table with some dishes and cups. A crust of toast on a plate, an opened tub of margarine. A framed picture of a haloed Jesus on the wall. There was a big empty can of Savarin coffee on a counter, but it contained only pennies, not diamonds or emeralds.

The sink was filled with pots and pans, and the faucet was dripping, making slow, metronomic plonks where the drops fell into an over-flowing saucer. On the white-tiled counter, black spots moved in random, rapid zig-zags.

Cockroaches! Startled, I involuntarily jumped back, and felt my heart tighten in my chest.

“Kenny!” It was Big Paul, in the next room.

I turned and ran out of the kitchen, toward a circle of yellow light that was bobbing up and down and side to side.

In the living room, Big Paul was shining the flashlight on a wooden chest the size of my Grandma’s dowry trunk, the one with the silks and satins she’d brought over from Russia. Donald stood beside him, still and silent as a wax dummy.

Big Paul was smiling in triumph. “I bet this is it!” he gasped.

Visions of gold bullion filled my mind. Like every other boy, I’d grown up on pirate stories. I’d seen Treasure Island — in fact, with Big Paul and Stevie Resnick — at the Earl Theatre, just the summer before. I remembered the scene where young Jim Hawkins opens the chest on the beach, and his eyes flare at the cache of gold coins gleaming under the tropical sun. And then, how his excitement turns to horror when a shadow passes over, throwing the coins and himself into darkness: Long John Silver, with one eye and a murderous, toothless grin.

But the chest was locked. Big Paul worked at it with his file, chinking at the sides, trying to pry it open, stabbing the hasp with the point of the chisel. All to no avail. After a few moments, he stopped, to get his breath, and figure out what to do next.

“Hey, where are you guys?”

It was Ellen’s voice, from the kitchen.

“Kenny? Paul?” Bobby Alexander, too.

“Shit!” Big Paul muttered. The others filed into the living room. Even Stevie Resnick had come. We were in a huddle standing around Big Paul, who was down on his knees on the carpet. He had put the flashlight on the chest top, so that the light shone from under, making his face look skeletal and demonic.

“Why’d you guys come down?” he said. He was upset. “I thought I told you to stay upstairs.”

“We wanted to be part of the fun,” Ellen explained.

I looked at Big Paul. Suddenly, something didn’t feel right. 

“I’m going back up,” I said, and started to turn to the kitchen, when I heard a click that was so loud it shattered the night like the crack of a bullet.

We all froze.

“Someone’s at the door,” Stevie Resnick whispered, in a voice that was barely more than a breath.

More clicking sounds, metal on metal.

Suddenly all hell broke loose. The six of us rushed toward the kitchen. It was every kid for himself, with me in the lead, then Big Paul bypassing me, shoving me out of his way. We were a wild clutter of bodies, elbows, knees, all scrambling toward the kitchen window, like some ungainly creature with twelve legs and twelve arms and a single desire: to escape.

Big Paul and I were at the window. He punched me hard in the bicep, so I let him go first. Then as fast as I could I leaped out onto the fire escape and, clutching the metal stairs, began hauling myself up. Behind me I heard the other kids, but I really didn’t see anything, just was aware of them fear-filled and moving fast, in a welter of sobs and gasps and shouts. I heard someone cry out and then it trailed off and away, and I figured it was Stevie Resnick, losing it as usual. Then I was back at Ellen’s kitchen window.

I scampered up onto the sill — Big Paul was there, and he pulled me in. I took my place next to him as, one by one, the others climbed through: Donald Brotman, his sides heaving like he was going to throw up, Ellen, wild-eyed and laughing like a madwoman, Stevie Resnick, his eyes moist and red. He no longer had on his coke-bottle glasses.

We all stood there breathing heavy for a moment. Then Big Paul said, “Where’s Bobby?”

Then we heard a scream. It was an unearthly, high-pitched howl, like the cry of a victim about to be torn alive in a monster movie. But we were in no movie. The scream was coming from outside, from down below, in the street. “He’s bleeding!” the voice wailed. “Help! Police! Someone call an ambulance!”

* * *

I remember, from this vantage point so many decades later, some indelible images: The howl of the sirens, the flashing red and blue lights of the police cars, the big white ambulance pulling up in a squeal of tires. We kids had rushed down to the street immediately upon realizing that Bobby must have fallen off the fire escape.

A policeman interviewed me. His name was Sergeant Crawley (funny how the name, so irrelevant, sticks in my memory). My parents were out front by then, too, along with what seemed like hundreds of people. The block was mobbed with activity: flashing lights, sobs, loudspeakers, hushed whispers, crackly police radios, parents calling their children’s names, frightened kids looking for their moms and dads.

I knew I was in big trouble but there was nothing I could do about it. Mom took me by the wrist and told me to come upstairs with her and Dad now and go to bed, we’d talk about it in the morning. I said, Just a second. I wanted to say ‘bye to Big Paul, and wriggled my hand free and darted away before either of them could stop me. I’d seen him over by the mimosa tree on the corner, talking with a cop, Big Paul looking not so big after all, but frightened and deflated. Somehow I couldn’t let go of the night and everything that had occurred in it without one final assurance from Big Paul. Or maybe it was I who finally wanted to reassure him.

I was moving toward him when I felt cobwebby stickiness all over my face and something burned my eyes. I’d walked right into the caterpillars hanging on their silk threads from the mimosa tree, like tiny insect bombs. Bringing both hands to my face, I tried to brush the stuff away, clawing at my lids, scraping my cheeks, spitting. When I could see again, Big Paul was gone. The medics were loading a gurney into the back of the ambulance, the lifeless body on it covered with a bloody sheet.

I turned around and went back to my parents. We took a crowded, silent elevator up to the third floor and our apartment, where I sank into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Bobby Alexander’s parents moved out of the building shortly after that, and we never heard from them again. We did learn what had happened to old man Gouck, though.

It turned out he’d been dead after all, of an apparent heart attack or stroke, stretched out on his bed, in the very next room from where we kids had been. Norris had been alerted by Dave, the butcher, and Mr. Lehrer, the grocer, that the old man hadn’t bought any food for more than a week. Norris had gone up to 5-B to inquire. He’d knocked on the door a couple times — this must have been right before we came through Gouck’s window. When there was no answer, Norris had taken the elevator back down to his basement apartment, where he kept the extra keys to everyone’s units. Meanwhile, we had snuck in.

Then Norris came back up and put the key in the lock. The sound that had spooked us had been him jiggling with the dead bolt. While we were scampering back down the fire escape, and Bobby was falling off it, Norris was discovering Gouck’s body.

So there were two dead people that night, one old, one young.

* * *

I never saw Donald Brotman again after we both went to college, although I heard he moved to Buffalo and became a pharmacist. Ellen Marcus married young, had kids, and died of a brain hemorrhage when she was only 34. Big Paul, after a tryout for a Yankee’s Double-A team, settled for teaching gym at a high school in New Rochelle; I heard from him a few years ago. He was retired, living in Boca Raton, and playing a lot of golf. Stevie Resnick was the most successful of us, a bigtime tax lawyer who, it turned out, once represented Donald Trump. I have thought, too, and tenderly, of Bobby Alexander, of a life cut short for no other reason than his earnest desire to be one of the boys.

We never found out if Gouck’s treasure really existed. Sometime after that awful night, a white box truck double-parked in front of the building, and two beefy men with a hand cart loaded it up with everything from Gouck’s apartment. When they drove away, they took with them the mystery.

As for me, I went on to my career as a wine writer. But I never forgot Gouck and Bobby. They, or their ghosts, have followed me through the decades, the young boy looking for his place in life, and the old man who just wanted peace.

* * *

Blast from the past: Why I changed my blog from wine to anti-Trump

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(I wrote this in January, 2018, when Trump had been in office for a year. It was published in the Huffington Post. I wouldn’t change a word of it today.)

I get a fair number of complaints from readers who say, “I used to love reading your wine blog. You were a great wine writer, but I don’t care about your political views. You’re not an expert. Go back to writing about what you know: wine.”

Usually I don’t reply to criticism of my blog because the vast majority of people who put me down are Trumpists, and I’ve given up trying to have a rational discussion with them. However, I want to get this on the record, and explain why I changed my blog’s focus, and how I feel about these criticisms.

Rock stars sometimes get lambasted because they dare to change styles, or they prefer to play their new songs in concert instead of their old hits. Dylan experienced this at the Newport Jazz Festival. Keith Richards wrote about it in his memoir. If you’re a Rolling Stone in concert, do you play “Sympathy for the Devil” for the ten-thousandth time, or do you play, say, “I Gotta Go” off their 2016 album, “Blue & Lonesome”?

You can play both, of course, but many bands have discovered that if they don’t play enough of the old hits, the audience is disappointed. Still, rock stars are artists, above all, and artists like to feel that they evolve and learn; they don’t want to get stuck in a rut when that rut no longer interests them.

That’s how I felt about wine back in the late summer of 2016. I’d been writing my wine blog for eight years. It was one of the top wine blogs in America, with one of the highest readerships. My blog was a must-read in the American wine industry, particularly in California. I was aware of its status. And yet, when I retired, I thought to myself that there was no longer any reason for me to continue writing about wine. I’d “been there, done that.” I wanted to move on to new creative ventures.

I could have kept on writing about wine. Nobody forced me to stop. My readership numbers were not declining. However, I’ve always felt that there’s no reason to do creative things if they don’t interest me and challenge my intellectual and writing abilities; and wine became considerably less interesting the moment I retired. So I asked myself, “If I’m not interested in wine anymore, what am I interested in?” And there was one clear, obvious, overriding answer:


I grew up in an intensely political household. It was a Democratic household, where FDR, Adlai Stevenson and, later, John F. Kennedy were heroes. I was for Jimmy Carter before most Americans heard of him. I wrote Bill Clinton a letter in 1988, when he was still Governor of Arkansas, urging him to run for President. I supported Hillary Clinton as best I could and, when she lost the 2008 nomination, I was happy to be for Obama. The advent of Trump filled me with alarm, horror and disgust. That such an evil, incompetent and ignorant fool should be President seemed like a nail in America’s coffin. So, on the day in September, 2016 that I announced my retirement, I also announced that henceforth the focus of my blog would shift, from wine to politics, and specifically to anti-Trump and anti-Republican politics.

I have never regretted that decision for a second. I knew I would lose many readers, and said as much in my blog. I knew I’d come in for some criticism. But the important thing, in any creative venture, is to do what turns you on. Not your audience: they want you to stay with the old stuff. It’s what they’re comfortable with: it’s what attracted them to you in the first place. It’s why people want Paul McCartney to play “Can’t Buy Me Love.”

Well, in fairness, if I went to a McCartney concert, I’d want to hear “Can’t Buy Me Love” too. But a blog isn’t a rock concert: you can’t do a little of this, a little of that. You make your decision what your focus is, do your best, and hope that others will like what you do.

And if they don’t? Fine. Besides, there’s another reason I like the political slant of my blog. I never felt like my wine blog was important to America’s growth and survival. But I feel like it’s imperative for me to be as strong an anti-Trump voice as I can be. It may sound weird, but there’s something patriotic about what I do. I’m not a nationalist yahoo or anything like that, but I do love America, and I feel an obligation to do my part, however small, in protecting her from the onslaught of Trump and all the reactionary, theocratic baggage he brings with him.

So that’s my answer to the critics. If you don’t like my politics, then don’t read me! I really don’t care. I’m doing my part to be a good citizen, partaking in the most important conversation an American can have. Compared to toppling this awful Trump regime, writing about the 2014 Pinot Noir vintage in the Russian River Valley seems irrelevant.

Great Wine Books: “The Romance of Wine”


I blogged the other day about “California’s Great Cabernets,” Jim Laube’s book that had an influence on me. Another book with a far more lasting impact is “The Romance of Wine,” which H. Warner Allen published in 1932.

Herbert Warner Allen (1881-1968) was an English dandy and polymath, the son of a Royal Navy Captain and grandson of an Oxford don; Allen himself attended Oxford, where he specialized in modern languages. His passions (there were many) included journalism, Greek and Roman literature, detective books (which he also wrote) and, of course, wine. Of his multiple wine books, “The Romance of Wine” is considered his masterpiece. I put it beside George Saintsbury’s “Notes on a Cellar-Book” (1920) as one of the important wine books in the English language of the early 20th century, and it’s noteworthy that Allen and Saintsbury were friends.

H. Warner Allen, a good-looking man

Allen wrote in a style which has completely disappeared from our language: Victorian, floral, perfervid, allegorical and verbose. His greatest fondness was for pre-phylloxera Bordeaux, the older the better. Of an 1869 Latour he drank when it was 50-something years old, he wrote, “The palate recognized a heroic wine, such a drink as might refresh the warring archangels, and the perfection of its beauty called up the noble phrase ‘terrible as an army with banners.’ The full organ swell of a triumphal march might express its appeal in terms of music.”

You don’t get that kind of literary overdrive anymore!

Allen’s penchant for the Classics resulted in frequent insertions of Greek and Roman quotes (without translation), as well as poetic references. Concerning the joys of old Port, he wrote, “There are many wine-lovers who prefer the vigour and splendour of a younger wine to the more subdued and complex charms which make its old age as radiant and peaceful as that of old Cephalos in the Republic”; readers not familiar with Plato will not know that the Master asked Cephalos, already at that time a very old, wealthy man, for his definition of “justice,” which he offered as “giving what is owed.” But even if most of the Classic references go over one’s head, the language is haunting and lovely; we may not be familiar with old Cephalos, but knowing that he is “radiant and peaceful” in his dotage tells us something vital about what Saintsbury called “centennial Port.”

What can the contemporary wine writer learn from H. Warner Allen? That writing can be a vast labyrinth of meaning and beauty. It’s one thing to write, as Anthony Galloni recently did, “The 2017 Cabernet Sauvignon Leopoldina Vineyard is powerful and heady, with all of the intensity that is typical of this site on the eastern hills of Oakville. Dark, savory and powerful, the 2017 has so much to offer. The balance of intense dark fruit and muscular tannins makes for an absolutely compelling Cabernet.” Workaday enough; I might have written it myself for Wine Enthusiast. Contrast it with Allen, once again writing of that 1869 Latour:

“The tapestry-like purples…contained that sheen of molten gold which only comes after many years of secret ripening in the still darkness of the cellar. The French call it ‘pelure d’oignon’…which recalls the homely simile in the Nineteenth Odyssey when Odysseus’s purple tunic that glistened like the sun is compared to the sheen upon the skin of a dried onion.”

Or this, concerning an 1871 Margaux: “Its magic bouquet envelopes the senses in a cloud of airy fragrance, raspberry-scented like the breezes from the Islands of the Blest, a dream of grace and delicacy, the twinkling feet of dancing nymphs, suddenly set free in our tedious world.”

Well, you won’t read that sort of thing in Wine Enthusiast, or Wine Spectator, of the Wine Advocate, or anyplace else anymore. H. Warner Allen’s Victorian, donnish world was already over when he wrote “The Romance of Wine,” although he perhaps did not know it. History was rushing on; ordinary people no longer studied the Classics, and modern publishers demanded simpler, more easily-digestible fare for their impatient readers. But for me, “The Romance of Wine” had an indelible impact, reminding me that wine writing once was the garden in which esthetes cavorted with delight in the English language.

Classifying Cabernet? I don’t think so


The University of California at Davis’s Department of Viticulture and Enology asked me to donate my wine books and paraphernalia to them for permanent display, which I’m honored to do. As part of it, they want me to identify the books that were most important to me.

One of them was certainly California’s Great Cabernets, the 1989 tome by Wine Spectator’s Jim Laube, my former colleague. It was, and remains, “a landmark book,” as Marvin Shanken described it in his Foreward. I devoured every word, as I suspect a lot of other Baby Boomer wine fans did, back in the day when California wine, and Cab in particular, was dramatically increasing in importance.

There is, however, one aspect of California’s Great Cabernets that has not aged well. Jim decided to classify the Cabs into five categories: First, Second, Third, Fourth and Fifth Growths. He justified this for two reasons: “I hope to put the top California Cabernets…in historical perspective.” And “I have tried to sort out for consumers the quality of the wines and how they rank.” Jim himself conceded that such an effort is controversial and is “resisted” by “most California vintners.” While modeling his 5-tier system after the 1855 Classification of the Medoc, Jim admitted that the Bordeaux classification is “outdated,” and he predicted, accurately, that no classification “will ever be undertaken by the California wine industry.” Still, despite these provisos, he went ahead and classified anyway.

Jim wasn’t the only writer of the era to attempt a classification. Seven years previously, Roy Andries De Groot wrote The Wines of California, which he subtitled “The first classification of the best vineyards and wineries.” Roy opted for a four-tiered system, using not numbers but adjectives: “FINE, NOBLE, SUPERB and GREAT.”

I loved both books, but even at the time, I had an uneasy feeling. The Bordeaux 1855 Classification had centuries of data upon which to depend, and was moreover fixed by law. California Cabernet, in the 1980s, had barely a few decades of serious production, and was in a state of constant evolution; my old friend Rob Thompson said keeping track of California wineries was like trying to count “rabbits in a hutch.” Many of today’s superstars (Harlan, Screaming Eagle, Dalla Valle, Bryant Family, Colgin and so on) didn’t even exist at the time, while others that Laube and De Groot praised have faded away completely, or been downgraded by new owners.

Still, as historical curiosities, both books have their place. Speaking of Cabernet Sauvignon, I opened this bottle recently, and here’s my review:

Stags’ Leap 2013 “The Leap” Cabernet Sauvignon (Stags Leap).  Tasting this wine reminded me of those 19th century clarets I’ve read about that remained stubbornly tannic for decades. It was wicked of me to pop the cork when the wine is only eight years old; I should have known better. That’s awfully young for a Cabernet, particularly from Stags Leap, where the tannins tend to be hard in youth. But open it I did, and what I found was a flood of fruit. Massive, gigantic in black currants, blackberry jam, mu shu plum sauce and raspberries, with subtle nuances of espresso, dark chocolate and spices. Dry and smooth, just a splendid wine, but I’m kicking myself for committing vinous infanticide. It’s nowhere near ready. Will the fruit outlive the tannins by, say, 2030? Will it be alive in 2040? Who knows? I won’t be here. Score: 93.

The truth about Oakland and the Oakland A’s


Oakland, California—my town—has a lot of burning issues. Homelessness is obviously #1, along with defunding the police. But lately a new brouhaha has erupted: Should Oakland approve a new Bay-side baseball stadium for the Oakland A’s?

If you haven’t been following this news, here’s a brief backgrounder. The A’s have played at the Oakland Coliseum since they moved here in 1968. The Coliseum has advantages: it’s easy to get to, right on the BART (rapid transit) line and next to the I-880 freeway. On the other hand, the structure itself is ugly and crumbling, and the surrounding neighborhood is sketchy, to put it mildly.

The owners of the A’s have stated firmly, over and over, that they must have a new stadium, at another site. They’ve looked at the San Francisco Giants’ stadium, a tremendous success, and want the same thing here. They’ve selected a parcel that’s right on the Bay, in an industrial part of Oakland that’s largely used by the Port of Oakland, one of the most important shipping hubs on the West Coast. The A’s have offered a complicated plan that includes a $1 billion stadium, with retail malls, parks and homes.

Now, Oakland is not particularly fond of its sports teams, at least among the political classes. In the last 5 years, the city (which is to say, Mayor Libby Schaaf) has lost the Golden State Warriors basketball team (to San Francisco) and the Raiders football team (to Las Vegas). While both teams had their fanatical fans in town, they never really had the support of city government, particularly on the City Council, which tends to be comprised of neighborhood activists more interested in “social justice” causes than in professional sports, or in job development for that matter.

This came City Council has signaled its extreme displeasure with the A’s stadium plan (known as the Howard Terminal plan). From my reading of the news, the Council is demanding more and more in the way of low-cost housing, and a multi-decade commitment from the A’s to stay in town. The A’s, for their part, say that they’ve compromised as much as they’re able to: the discussions have been going on for years, and they’re getting impatient. There are reports several times a week that A’s management has been scouting different locations in Las Vegas. Meanwhile, a few days ago, the A’s said that they’ve reached their limit: either the City Council approves Howard Terminal, or they’re gone. A vote is scheduled for July 20, this Tuesday.

The Council, for its part, responds that they think the A’s are bluffing. But as a fairly knowledgeable consumer of the news, I’m positive they’re not. They’re tired of dealing with Council’s incessant demands. What’s really weird is that some people on the Council are saying that the A’s should just build a new stadium at the Coliseum site, since it’s so ideally located. At the same time, other Council members are calling for the Women’s National Basketball Association to bring a team to Oakland and play in the Coliseum! But then, this wouldn’t be the first time the Oakland City Council has contradicted itself.

It’s a big deal when a U.S. city loses a major sports team. People opposed to the A’s have come up with the most ridiculous arguments. Someone on a local social network wrote that he doesn’t know anyone who’s ever been to an A’s game, which “proves” to him that no one in Oakland cares about the A’s! This is the kind of mentality we’re dealing with: people who use anecdotes, not facts, to justify their prejudices. The fact is (as even the City Council concedes), the Howard Terminal project would bring thousands of jobs and hundreds of millions of dollars in tax revenues into Oakland, and would moreover revitalize a section of the waterfront that’s been dreary and run-down for decades.

If I were a betting man, I’d bet that in the next week or two, the A’s will announce they’re leaving Oakland. If and when you hear the news, please understand the truth: They did not “choose” to leave town, they were driven out.

Why I’m still a Democrat


I have friends who hate the Democratic Party. Frankly there are aspects of it that annoy the hell out of me, too. The wokeness is such a turnoff, with its intellectual narrowness, smug superiority and obsession with race. At its most ridiculous extreme you get a situation like the one in San Francisco, where a woke school board decided to rename schools named after George Washington and Abraham Lincoln because they were deemed to be “racists.” Even in ultra-liberal San Francisco, that shocked a lot of people, and it looks like those school board members will be recalled.

I can’t really blame people who leave the Democratic Party, although I do think that because of Trump, the Republican Party is an even worse choice. Some of my friends would never admit to being Trumpers, nor would I ask because it’s none of my business, but I suspect they are. I admit to being a never-Trumper and a never-Republican. But my loathing of the Republican Party preceded Trump and will last after he’s gone, and for a very simple reason: As a gay man, I’ve been aware for the last 40 years that the Republican Party wants to kill me.

Hyperbole? No. Fueling the Republican Party since the 1970s has been the odious, dangerous conservative-Christian movement in America. That includes evangelicals, Pentecostals and extreme Catholics. These people peddle the pathological lie that gay people are (fill in the blank: satanic, going to hell, depraved, hated by God). There are elements within this lunatic cult that believe God sent AIDS as punishment for gays (which always makes me giggle: Does God send tornadoes to trailer parks because she hates evangelicals?). These sociopaths make no secret of the fact that they would like to eliminate gay people from America. They may not come out and call for the murder of gay people, although some of them do call for our forced incarceration or segregation. But at the root of their rhetoric lies the simple, atavistic desire to rub out gay people, and as we’ve seen in Hitler’s Germany and anyplace that ISIS controlled, such a desire, if unopposed, leads inevitably to genocide.

I don’t expect non-gay people to understand this. We gays have been hunted down by the straight majority our entire lives. We’ve been ostracized and made to feel demonized even when we know we’re good people. This hatred of gays is accurately called “homophobia” but it’s been systematically organized into a movement called the Republican Party that is the party of hatred and death. I truly believe that, at the heart of every homophobe is a kernel of pure evil.

This is why I remain a Democrat and not a Republican. For all the complaining I do about the Democratic Party, I never forget the many blessings it has given us: an end to child labor, labor unions, Social Security, the Civil Rights Act, the Voting Rights Act, Medicare, Medicaid, the Affordable Care Act, the Americans with Disabilities Act, the Endangered Species Act, the environmental movement, the minimum wage, women’s rights, gay marriage, fighting climate change, supporting trans rights—the list goes on and on. Republicans opposed every single one of those initiatives because of the evil that has putrefied their souls.

This is why I’m proud to be a Democrat. I call myself a “moderate” Democrat because I believe in the moderately left-of-center ideals propounded by Woodrow Wilson, FDR, Harry Truman, JFK, Lyndon Johnson, Jimmy Carter, Bill Clinton, Barack Obama and President Biden. But make no mistake, I loathe the woke people as much as the Republicans loathe them. We need to reform our party by bringing it closer to the center, and the way to do that is by rejecting the reverse-racism and arrogance of the wokes.

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