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Wait Till Next Year: A Memoir

by

Wait Till Next Year: A Memoir Cover

ISBN13: 9780684847955
ISBN10: 0684847957
Condition: Standard
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From Chapter One

When I was six, my father gave me a bright red scorebook that opened my heart to the game of baseball. After dinner on long summer nights, he would sit beside me in our small enclosed porch to hear my account of that day's Brooklyn Dodger game. Night after night he taught me the odd collection of symbols, numbers, and letters that enable a baseball lover to record every action of the game. Our score sheets had blank boxes in which we could draw our own slanted lines in the form of a diamond as we followed players around the bases. Wherever the baserunner's progress stopped, the line stopped. He instructed me to fill in the unused boxes at the end of each inning with an elaborate checkerboard design which made it absolutely clear who had been the last to bat and who would lead off the next inning. By the time I had mastered the art of scorekeeping, a lasting bond had been forged among my father, baseball, and me.

All through the summer of 1949, my first summer as a fan, I spent my afternoons sitting cross-legged before the squat Philco radio which stood as a permanent fixture on our porch in Rockville Centre, on the South Shore of Long Island, New York. With my scorebook spread before me, I attended Dodger games through the courtly voice of Dodger announcer Red Barber. As he announced the lineup, I carefully printed each player's name in a column on the left side of my sheet. Then, using the standard system my father had taught me, which assigned a number to each position in the field, starting with a "1" for the pitcher and ending with a "9" for the right fielder, I recorded every play. I found it difficult at times to sit still. As the Dodgers came to bat, I would walk around the room, talking to the players as if they were standing in front of me. At critical junctures, I tried to make a bargain, whispering and cajoling while Pee Wee Reese or Duke Snider stepped into the batter's box. "Please, please, get a hit. If you get a hit now, I'll make my bed every day for a week." Sometimes, when the score was close and the opposing team at bat with men on base, I was too agitated to listen. Asking my mother to keep notes, I left the house for a walk around the block, hoping that when I returned the enemy threat would be over, and once again we'd be up at bat. Mostly, however, I stayed at my post, diligently recording each inning so that, when my father returned from his job as bank examiner for the State of New York, I could re-create for him the game he had missed.

When my father came home from the city, he would change from his three-piece suit into long pants and a short-sleeved sport shirt, and come downstairs for the ritual Manhattan cocktail with my mother. Then my parents would summon me for dinner from my play on the street outside our house. All through dinner I had to restrain myself from telling him about the day's game, waiting for the special time to come when we would sit together on the couch, my scorebook on my lap.

"Well, did anything interesting happen today?" he would begin. And even before the daily question was completed I had eagerly launched into my narrative of every play, and almost every pitch, of that afternoon's contest. It never crossed my mind to wonder if, at the close of a day's work, he might find my lengthy account the least bit tedious. For there was mastery as well as pleasure in our nightly ritual. Through my knowledge, I commanded my father's undivided attention, the sign of his love. It would instill in me an early awareness of the power of narrative, which would introduce a lifetime of storytelling, fueled by the naive confidence that others would find me as entertaining as my father did.

Michael Francis Aloysius Kearns, my father, was a short man who appeared much larger on account of his erect bearing, broad chest, and thick neck. He had a ruddy Irish complexion, and his green eyes flashed with humor and vitality. When he smiled his entire face was transformed, radiating enthusiasm and friendliness. He called me "Bubbles," a pet name he had chosen, he told me, because I seemed to enjoy so many things. Anxious to confirm his description, I refused to let my enthusiasm wane, even when I grew tired or grumpy. Thus excitement about things became a habit, a part of my personality, and the expectation that I should enjoy new experiences often engendered the enjoyment itself.

These nightly recountings of the Dodgers' progress provided my first lessons in the narrative art. From the scorebook, with its tight squares of neatly arranged symbols, I could unfold the tale of an entire game and tell a story that seemed to last almost as long as the game itself. At first, I was unable to resist the temptation to skip ahead to an important play in later innings. At times, I grew so excited about a Dodger victory that I blurted out the final score before I had hardly begun. But as I became more experienced in my storytelling, I learned to build a dramatic story with a beginning, middle, and end. Slowly, I learned that if I could recount the game, one batter at a time, inning by inning, without divulging the outcome, I could keep the suspense and my father's interest alive until the very last pitch. Sometimes I pretended that I was the great Red Barber himself, allowing my voice to swell when reporting a home run, quieting to a whisper when the action grew tense, injecting tidbits about the players into my reports. At critical moments, I would jump from the couch to illustrate a ball that turned foul at the last moment or a dropped fly that was scored as an error.

"How many hits did Roy Campanella get?" my dad would ask. Tracing my finger across the horizontal line that represented Campanella's at bats that day, I would count. "One, two, three. Three hits, a single, a double, and another single." "How many strikeouts for Don Newcombe?" It was easy. I would count the Ks. "One, two . . . eight. He had eight strikeouts." Then he'd ask me more subtle questions about different plays — whether a strikeout was called or swinging, whether the double play was around the horn, whether the single that won the game was hit to left or right. If I had scored carefully, using the elaborate system he had taught me, I would know the answers. My father pointed to the second inning, where Jackie Robinson had hit a single and then stolen second. There was excitement in his voice. "See, it's all here. While Robinson was dancing off second, he rattled the pitcher so badly that the next two guys walked to load the bases. That's the impact Robinson makes, game after game. Isn't he something?" His smile at such moments inspired me to take my responsibility seriously.

Sometimes, a particular play would trigger in my father a memory of a similar situation in a game when he was young, and he would tell me stories about the Dodgers when he was a boy growing up in Brooklyn. His vivid tales featured strange heroes such as Casey Stengel, Zack Wheat, and Jimmy Johnston. Though it was hard at first to imagine that the Casey Stengel I knew, the manager of the Yankees, with his colorful language and hilarious antics, was the same man as the Dodger outfielder who hit an inside-the-park home run at the first game ever played at Ebbets Field, my father so skillfully stitched together the past and the present that I felt as if I were living in different time zones. If I closed my eyes, I imagined I was at Ebbets Field in the 1920s for that celebrated game when Dodger right fielder Babe Herman hit a double with the bases loaded, and through a series of mishaps on the base paths, three Dodgers ended up at third base at the same time. And I was sitting by my father's side, five years before I was born, when the lights were turned on for the first time at Ebbets Field, the crowd gasping and then cheering as the summer night was transformed into startling day.

Copyright ©1997 by Blithedale Productions, Inc.

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Robert Zupperoli, February 6, 2009 (view all comments by Robert Zupperoli)
Have you ever read a book that made you feel good, gave you a sense of history, time and place, and triggered your own memories. Wait Till Next Year: A Memoir does just that. I grew up in Massachusetts, my father, an avid baseball fan would take us to Fenway Park for Red Sox Baseball. BEfore the two World Series Championships in the days of The Curse; those days with my father were great and we still try to get into Boston for at least one game each season. Doris Kearns Goodwin's memoir reminded me of those days with my family, spending time with them, and enjoying the life, love, and many experiences in an American-Italian-Catholic family. I would highly recommend this book for any one who wants to take a similar walk down memory lane. You will pick it up again and again and recommend it to many friends, whether they are baseball fans or not. This was a recommendation from NPR when it was first published. Trust me you will not want to put this down, nor will you want the story to end.
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Product Details

ISBN:
9780684847955
Subtitle:
A Memoir
Author:
Goodwin, Doris Kearns
Publisher:
Simon & Schuster
Location:
New York, NY :
Subject:
Biography
Subject:
Women
Subject:
History
Subject:
Historical - U.S.
Subject:
Baseball - History
Subject:
Brooklyn dodgers (baseball team)
Subject:
Historians
Subject:
Regional Subjects - MidAtlantic
Subject:
Baseball fans
Subject:
Historians -- United States -- Biography.
Subject:
General Biography
Subject:
Brooklyn Dodgers (Baseball team) - History
Subject:
Baseball fans - United States
Subject:
Biography-Historical
Copyright:
Edition Number:
1st Touchstone ed.
Edition Description:
B102
Publication Date:
June 1998
Binding:
Paperback
Grade Level:
General/trade
Language:
English
Illustrations:
Y
Pages:
272
Dimensions:
8.44 x 5.5 in 8.96 oz

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Related Subjects


Biography » General
Biography » Historical
Featured Titles » World Book Night 2014
History and Social Science » US History » 20th Century » General
Sports and Outdoors » Sports and Fitness » Baseball » General
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Sports and Outdoors » Sports and Fitness » Miscellaneous Sports

Wait Till Next Year: A Memoir Used Trade Paper
0 stars - 0 reviews
$2.50 In Stock
Product details 272 pages Simon & Schuster - English 9780684847955 Reviews:
"Review" by , "What emerges is a perfectly affable and often ever poignant memoir.... There is plenty...to like here. Goodwin shifts gracefully between a child's recollections and an adult's overview.... But there is too little baseball."
"Review" by , "In a season awash in X-rated memoirs, Wait Till Next Year is an anomaly: a reminiscence that is suitable, in fact ideal, for a preadolescent readership of not just girls but boys, too.... For self-esteem-building female role models, for baseball lore and inning-by-inning action and for a lively trip into the recent American past, you could hardly do better."
"Review" by , "This is a book in the grand tradition of girlhood memoirs, either fact or fiction, dating from Louisa May Alcott to Carson McCullers and Harper Lee."
"Review" by , "Lively, tender, and...hilarious.... [Goodwin's] memoir is uplifting evidence that the American dream still exists — not so much in the content of the dream as is the tireless, daunting dreaming."
"Synopsis" by , Set in the suburbs of New York in the 1950s, Wait Till Next Year is Doris Kearns Goodwin's touching memoir of growing up in love with her family and baseball. She re-creates the postwar era, when the corner store was a place to share stories and neighborhoods were equally divided between Dodger, Giant, and Yankee fans.

We meet the people who most influenced Goodwin's early life: her mother, who taught her the joy of books but whose debilitating illness left her housebound: and her father, who taught her the joy of baseball and to root for the Dodgers of Jackie Robinson, Roy Campanella, Pee Wee Reese, Duke Snider, and Gil Hodges. Most important, Goodwin describes with eloquence how the Dodgers' leaving Brooklyn in 1957, and the death of her mother soon after, marked both the end of an era and, for her, the end of childhood.

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