Uncle Leo . A Liberty Hill Story . By George Brewer . Part 4

Uncle Leo
A Liberty Hill Story
By George Brewer
Part 4

***

Chief Poulson sat at his desk, rubbing his chin. “Who is this Janet Borashevsky?” he asked of Big Ed. “If this is true, it will be Christmas in October, but I can’t help thinking that Charlie Abernathy is up to his old tricks.”

Later, at Don’s Donuts, the Chief sat next to Fairfield’s biggest jokester. “Chief,” said Charlie Abernathy, “I swear. This is no joke. you know I haven’t pulled anything on anyone ever since I got tricked out of my beautiful Chevy.”

“That’s what bothers me,” replied the Chief, “How do we know that you’re not pulling a fast one on us, just to get even.”

“Look, Chief, if you don’t believe me, call up the airline company like I did. They told me that the four tickets are as good as gold. If you guys aren’t going to be on that plane, I sure as heck will be.”

Shorty Palmer ushered the Chief into chair No. 1. “Did you talk to Charlie Abernathy?”

“I did. God help me, but I think he’s telling the truth.”

“I gave him a shave this morning,” said Shorty, “ if he’s pulling a fast one, someone better give him one of those Oscars for best actor. He says he hasn’t done anything wrong, and I believe him.”

“I agree, Shorty,” said Big Ed, who sat in chair No. 2, waiting his turn. He studied the ticket in his hand, looking at it as if it were a Rembrandt. “I think Charlie’s on the square.” He raised his eyes, and clutched the ticket to his heart. “Anyway,”  he said, “if you saw this Janet Borashevsky, you wouldn’t care if Charlie was fooling or not.”

***

On the kind of a fall afternoon for which the radio was invented, Shorty Palmer had the volume turned up high on his portable Philco. A dozen or so Fairfielders—staunch Indians’ fans—mulled around the shop. Some were getting their hair cut, all of them were paying rapt attention to the broadcast of the one-game playoff between The Cleveland Indians and The Boston Red Sox, which was being played in Boston’s Fenway Park. The winner would play the National League pennant winning, Boston Braves in the World Series. Janet Borashevsky had come to Fairfield, bearing airline and World Series tickets. If things worked out, Big Ed, Shorty, Charlie Abernathy, and Chief Poulson would be going to Boston—If the Indians won the pennant.

Shorty’s electric clippers were buzzing near 86-year -old Johnny Hosker’s ears. “What did he say?” asked Johnny.

“Denny Galehouse,” said Shorty.

“Hah?”

“He said, ‘Denny Galehouse!’”

“For the love of … get this buzz saw out of my ear, Shorty, so’s I can hear what in tarnation is going on.”

What was going on, was a monumental blunder by Ol’ Marse, Joe McCarthy, manager of the Red Sox. He had Mel Parnell, one of the best young pitchers in baseball, ready and rested. So what did he do? He started journeyman veteran, Denny Galehouse. Galehouse might have done well against some hapless bunch, like the St. Louis Browns in a meaningless July contest, but this was the big game of all big games. Ol’ Marse, justified his decision, telling reporters that when you’ve got a high pressure situation, with a lot on the line, a veteran pitcher is more likely to stand up. Denny Galehouse didn’t stand up. Indians 8, Red Sox 3.

“Denny Galehouse!” exclaimed Big Ed.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Joe McCarthy!” shouted the Chief, as he and Shorty Palmer did a jig in the middle of Chauncey Square.

“We’re going to the World Series, boys!” shouted Charlie Abernathy. “We … are … going … to … the … World … Series!”

Were they ever. One hour after the game ended, the boys boarded the mighty Columbus Congressional at Fairfield Station. They took a Greyhound Bus from Columbus to Cleveland, and got on one of those fancy, new Constellation airliners, bound for Boston, Massachusetts. “Bring on them Braves!” hooted the Chief.

Janet and Dora were waiting at Logan Airfield when the boys arrived in Boston. After a round of introductions, the six of them piled into two cabs, and went into the city, where they were put up at the Parker House, one of Boston’s best hotels.

“I got a kick out of the way the cab driver said, ‘cah,’’ said the Chief.

”I’ll bet he got a hoot out of the way you pronounced, ‘Scollay Square,’ replied Charlie, “I’d love to know how they get ‘Scully’ out of ‘Scollay.’”

Early the following morning, while the group enjoyed a sightseeing tour of the Back Bay and Cambridge, another Constellation out of Cleveland, via New York, was circling Boston Harbor, getting ready for an over-the-water approach to the airfield.

“You ever been to Boston before?” asked Don Borashevsky.

“Never, ever,” replied Uncle Leo.

“I sure wish we could have been here yesterday,” said Don.

“Tell me about it,” said Uncle Leo. “I would have loved to see the first playoff game in American League history. That, plus seeing the Indians finally win a pennant.”

“Tell you what,” said Don. “We’ve got some time tomorrow, what would you say to a couple of tickets to Braves Field to see Game 1 of the World Series?”

“I’d say, ‘Pinch me. I must be dreaming,’” replied Uncle Leo.

They hailed a cab to take them into the city. “Did some bigwig die around here?” asked Uncle Leo, observing the long faces of the people they passed.

“Nah,” replied the cabdriver. “The whole town is down in the dumps because the Red Sox lost yesterday’s game.”

“Aren’t these people happy that the Braves won the pennant?” asked Don.

“Nah, this is a Red Sox town. They call themselves the most knowledgeable baseball fans in the world, but if you ask me, the only baseball they know is the Red Sox and their cheap home runs over that wall in left field. If you want to see a real big league game, get yourself over to Braves Field.”

***

The atmosphere in Braves Field was electric. Red, white, and blue bunting was strung along the stands, A group of amateur musicians were strolling through the crowd, serenading the fans. They weren’t Guy Lombardo’s Royal Canadians, but Roll out the Barrels sounded pretty darned good to Uncle Leo and Don Borashevsky. The boys got to the park early so they could see both teams take batting practice. They were like two kids locked in a toy store.

“Hey, there’s Lou Boudreau—he’s not very big.”

“There’s Bob Lemon, he pitches tomorrow.”

“Look! Larry Doby, it’s about time those colored guys got to play.”

“That kid over there by the Braves’ dugout is Warren Spahn. When he pitches, it’s like watching a windmill.”

“Excuse me. Excuse me? I believe you gentlemen are sitting in our seats,” Uncle Leo was so taken by the baseball panorama being played out before him, that he failed to recognize Janet’s voice. “Excuse me. I believe you gentlemen are sitting in our seats,” she repeated.
Don, fully aware that his lovely wife was addressing them, turned to his rotund friend to see his reaction when he realized who was standing to his right.

“Sir,” said Dora, “you are sitting in our seats.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Uncle Leo, keeping his eyes on the field, as he rose to show the young ladies his ticket. “This is seat A-12, just like it says on my stub.” He turned to Don to ask him to show the ladies his ticket. Don just stood there with a smirk on his face.

“Don, these ladies think we have their … ” He turned back to the ladies and was interrupted in mid-sentence, when Dora stepped up to him and planted a big kiss on his astonished face.

“What th … ” he sputtered, “What are you doing here? How did you get here?”

“Oh, we came here with four wonderful gentlemen,” said Dora.

“Gentlemen?” replied Uncle Leo.

“Uh-huh, two for Janet, and two for me.”

“How did you meet these … gentlemen?”

“Oh, we met them in Cleveland. We couldn’t resist when they asked us if we would like to go to Boston with them to see the World Series.”

“Wait a minute,” said Uncle Leo, his face turning red. “Who are these … gentlemen?!”

“Oh, just … gentlemen,” replied Dora, as she and Janet, squeezed in front of Uncle Leo to get to their seats.

“Wait a minute,” said Uncle Leo, “I want to know what’s going on.”

“Please, honey,” said Dora.

Reluctantly, Uncle Leo took his seat. There is a universally dreaded sound that we never want to make in public. As Uncle Leo sat back down, he emitted such a noise. Every head within four boxes on each side of the portly man, immediately turned to the source of the loud eruption. Uncle Leo was mortified. The stunned crowd roared with laughter. Uncle Leo wanted to curl up in a ball and disappear. He felt a tap on his shoulder.

“I believe you have something of mine.” It was Charlie Abernathy, in pursuit of his whoopie cushion, which was now back in service.

Uncle Leo couldn’t believe his eyes. “Charlie Ab … ”

Shorty Palmer extended his hand, and said, “You look GREAT!”

Big Ed, always a bit reticent, stood back and smiled nervously. “How’ya doing?” he said.
Uncle Leo didn’t realize that he was crying until he attempted to speak to his old friends.

“Y’know, they arrest people in Peoria for making a noise like that in public,” said Chief Poulson.

“Chief … ” said Uncle Leo.

“Good to see you again, old friend,” replied the Chief.

“Honey,” said Dora, “these are the handsome men I was telling you about.”

“PLAY BALL!”

The game got underway. Uncle Leo wasn’t sure what had just transpired, but as Janet said, when Johnny Sain fired in the first pitch, “We’ll have plenty of time to catch up, tonight.”

Chief Paulson said it as a Brooklyn Dodger fan would have put it, “‘We was robbed!’ They had Masi out by a mile.”

“Too bad Bill Stewart didn’t think so,” said Don. The estimable Bob Feller had waited a dozen years to pitch in a World Series game. He threw a two-hit beauty. Johnny Sain pitched just as well, and won, 1-0. The Braves scored the lone run in the eighth inning, on a controversial play. Feller and Boudreau executed a timed pick-off, that caught Phil Masi off of second base. Somehow, the slow-footed Braves’ catcher managed to dive to the bag, convincing umpire Bill Stewart that he got back in time. After a heated Cleveland protest, Tommy Holmes singled in Masi, and the Braves held on to take Game 1.

That evening, the Ohio Eight commiserated as they dined at a Boston waterfront restaurant. “It would have been nice to see our guys win,” said Uncle Leo, as he raised his wine glass to toast the group, “but, I have to tell you that win or lose, this has been one of the greatest days of my life. It just would have been that much nicer if the Indians had won.”

“Don, when are you two heading back to Cleveland?” asked Janet, as if she didn’t know.

Don purposely delayed his answer, “Ahh … ”

“Tomorrow … Thursday afternoon,” said Uncle Leo.

“Friday morning,” said Don.

Uncle Leo corrected his friend, “We have to be back tomorrow, after we’ve looked the fish processing plant over. I have to file my report to the board on Friday morning.”

“Oh,” said Don, with a hint of a wink in his eye, smacking himself on the side of his head, “you just reminded me of something. The board members gave me this envelope to give to you. I forgot all about it.”

“What’s this?” asked Uncle Leo, as he opened the envelope.

‘Dear Uncle Leo: We understand that you will be celebrating a birthday on October 14. Please consider the enclosed an early birthday present, as a token of our appreciation of the prosperity and good will you have brought to our company.’ The letter was signed by every member of the board. There was a P.S.: ‘I don’t know if this a present to you, or to us. Imagine, a full week without fear that we might be covered from head to toe with blue ink, because you tried to reload your fountain pen. Best, Morgan.’ Nobody at the office could remember CEO, Tom Morgan so much as smiling before our rotund hero joined the firm.

“This is a reservation for eight at the Parker House for three nights, and at the Hilton in Cleveland for four nights,” said Uncle Leo, not fully grasping the significance of the gift.

“Chief,” said Dora, “would you do the honors?”

“Yes I will,” said the Chief. “Uncle Leo, on behalf of Dora, Janet, Don, Shorty, Charlie, myself, and Big Ed; we would like you to accept … this.” The Chief reached under the table and came up with a large gift-wrapped box. He handed it to the little man.

“I don’t know what to say,” said Uncle Leo.

“Don”t say anything,” said Shorty. “Just open your present—and don’t hurt anyone while you’re doing it.”

Uncle Leo ripped through the wrapping, to a glossy white cardboard box that had a loose cover on it. “This isn’t one of your stink bombs is it Charlie?”

“Hey,” said Charlie, “why didn’t I think of that?”

“Oh my God,” said Uncle Leo, “tickets to the entire World Series. For all of us!”

***

On Thursday, Bob Lemon pitched a Game 2 beauty. The Indians won, 4-1, to even-up the series. After a travel day, Games 3,4, and 5 were played in Cleveland. On Saturday afternoon, the gang witnessed a 5-hit, 2-0 gem by Gene Beardon. “Can anyone explain to me how Beardon’s knuckleball works?” asked Charlie, as they enjoyed dinner at one of Cleveland’s finest restaurants (courtesy of Big Ed).

“No more than I could explain how that knucklehead of yours works,” replied Shorty.

Game 4: Larry Doby homered, Steve Gromek outpitched Johnny Sain, and the Indians won 3-1, to take a 3 games to 1 lead in the series. “Forgive me for saying this,” said Dora, “I almost hope the Indians lose tomorrow, so we could have more time together.” Dora got her wish. The Braves hitters went off against Bob Feller in Game 5. Bob Elliott hit two home runs in an 11-5 Boston romp. The teams, and the gang, headed back to Boston for Game 6.

The Indians won Game 6, 4-3, for their first World Championship since 1920. Once again, Gene Beardon came up big, this time with brilliant clutch relief pitching.

The victors congregated in a wild celebration in the middle of the diamond at Braves Field. Uncle Leo and his friends embraced each other, and hooted a bit. They tempered their happiness, lest some resentful Braves’ fans be offended by their cheers. To their credit, the people around them—all Braves’ fans—made it a point to congratulate the Ohio Eight.

The group flew back to Cleveland that night. After a fine dinner at the Hilton, they retired to an expansive, comfortable smoking room. They told stories, mostly about Uncle Leo’s misadventures. One of the most endearing things about the little man was that he, and everyone in the group could talk freely about his gaffes. “I’m the first to admit,” said Uncle Leo, “that I go about things … differently.”

“Differently,” said Shorty, “the understatement of the year. I remember the time our friend here got a job walking dogs. I look out of my shop window one day, and see Gertie Solderholm running through the square, holding on for dear life to the leash of the biggest Great Dane you ever saw. A little later, Big Philo Vanderweigh goes by with Gertie’s little Pomeranian. God knows how many mixups there were.” Their laughter filled the room with the telling of each story.

“ … so, here’s Uncle Leo coming down Chauncey Street with this motorized line painting machine,” said Charlie, “he sees that there’s a Virginia Mayo movie playing at the Rialto. He gets so enthralled with the big poster picture of her in front of the theater, that he drives the paint striper right up to Eunice Gillooly’s ticket booth. The mayor comes flying out of city hall, fuming. He fires Uncle Leo on the spot. ‘Get this mess cleaned up at once.’ he demands. He’s so angry, he fails to see Muriel Clinton’s tank-size Packard coming down the street. Now, nobody in Fairfield, nobody on the planet, drives a car as carefully as Muriel Clinton does. You put a white stripe down on the street, and she’s going to follow it. She did. Good thing, Joe Shieb was there, he shoved the mayor and Eunice Gillooly out of the way, just as that big Packard plowed into the ticket booth.”

“I’ll have you know that I squared things with Muriel Clinton, and the owners of the Rialto,” said Uncle Leo.

“That’s true,” said Chief Poulson, “The old theater has never looked better, and Muriel’s new Packard is a beauty.”

A balloon full of words had burst open. They talked into the night. The men from Fairfield, once rather skeptical of this ‘new’ generation, with their ‘Frankie Sinatra,’ and their crazy songs like, ‘Open The Door, Richard,’ and ‘Cement Mixer, Putty-Putty,’ found that they really liked and felt totally at ease with these … ‘kids from Cleveland,’ as Chief Poulson called them.

Don, Janet and Dora saw something in the older men: a kindness; a genuine liking and respect for things; and a lack of cynicism that reflected a lifetime spent in a town like Fairfield. And, there was Uncle Leo. Anyone can be friends with someone who has a zillion bucks, but this was different. Way back, when Big Ed told Shorty that he knew that Uncle Leo had ‘something,’ he wasn’t talking about money. It was an intangible, a goodness. Like a good radio program or good books—Uncle Leo was a comfort—a pain in the rear end, sometimes—but a comfort, just the same. These disparate people loved this ‘buffoon,’ as Shorty would sometimes call him; this ‘blockhead,’ as Don was want to say upon occasion—money or no money.

All good things must end. ‘Goodbys were said, plans were sketched out for a spring get-together, everyone promised to ‘keep in touch.’ Don shook hands with the boys, and Janet and Dora kissed each Fairfielder before they boarded the Columbus bound, Greyhound bus. Uncle Leo had tears in his eyes as Shorty Palmer said, “So help me, Uncle Leo, if you kiss me, I’ll never speak to you again.”

“All I can say is, I love you guys,” said Uncle Leo. He could say nothing more. Big Ed nodded, with a sad smile on his face. Then he turned to take a seat on the bus.

After a train ride, down river on The Cincinnati Senator, the boys walked a short distance from Fairfield Station, into Chauncey Square.

“I had a great time,” said Charlie Abernathy, “but I have to say, it’s good to be back home.”

“I’m with you on that score, Charlie,” said Chief Poulson.

“What a week,” said Shorty. “We had the time of our lives, saw an old friend, made new friends, and saw the Cleveland Indians win the 1948 World Series. What more can you ask?”

“Hey, look at that,” said Charlie. Someone had put an Indians’ cap on top of General Fairfield’s hat, and a Braves’ cap on the tip of the old soldier’s sword.

“The hat looks good on you, sir,” said Big Ed, “you wear it well.”

The boys walked their separate ways to their homes. As Chief Poulson and Charlie climbed Liberty Hill, Charlie said, “Call me crazy, Chief, but I remember the day after Pearl Harbor. I walked through the square, and I could swear that the General had a frown on his stone face. Just now, if I didn’t know better, “I’d swear the old soldier was smiling.”

“He likely was,” said the Chief, “he likely was.”

The End