Dickie and Me

Today I took my kids to see Jackie and Me, a fantastic play about Jackie Robinson, the first man to break the color barrier in major league baseball. It's an exciting and emotional story, and at many points it would be natural to get a little choked up. Which I did.

But what really got the tears rolling down my face was the first scene in the Dodger's locker room, when Dixie Walker floats an anti-Robinson petition and Pee Wee Reese refuses to sign.

It's a courageous act, but that's not what got me all verklempt. It was this: I knew who these guys were. I shook Pee Wee Reese's hand in a Brooklyn public library once. I knew all about the Brooklyn Dodgers.

Because one of my greatest friends happened to be one of their biggest fans.

His name was William Richard Haray but everyone called him Dick, or sometimes, Dickie. He grew up in Flatbush, in the shadow of Ebbets Field, sneaking into the ballpark when the cops weren't looking and playing stickball in the streets when they were. When he was nine, a delivery truck mowed him over and, sprawled out over his mother's kitchen table with his head split open, he received last rites. His family called the priest before the doctor. It was that bad. But he survived.

Though he lived in Queens for most of his life, he had the thickest Brooklyn accent I'd ever heard. There is a difference, you know. He called me "cuz," though technically you could barely call us related. When he was 21 he married my mom's second (or third?) cousin, Mary Ann. "Best decision I ever made," he always said. But he didn't act like it, not at first. There were drinking times and the troubles that coincide, though those were long over by the time we hung out.

When I moved to New York, I moved in with Dick and Mary Ann. Mary Ann worked in the city, but Dick, nearing retirement, had an easygoing job with Streets and San, so he had more hours to himself. I didn't have a job at first, or any friends, so I made one. Dick.

We sat around eating Ritz crackers and peanut butter and watching Magnum P.I. We slurped cups of cream of chicken soup at the Greeks, and walked around Ditmars Avenue. He always told jokes, and they were always funny. He also told me about growing up in Brooklyn, about the Dodgers, about his past. What he was really telling me, though, was how to live. I had enough disappointment and rough spots in my own life by then, and I was a little lost. We never talked about the ugly stuff all that much, and we didn't have to. I never asked for advice, because what I got from him was exactly what I was looking for: understanding.

One day I told him something I'd never told anyone.

"I want to write a book," I said.

"You should write the story of my life," he crowed. "Instant best seller." I wanted to tell him I couldn't do that. I could never do his life justice with my words.

"When're you gonna write that book?" he'd always ask, long after I told him, long after I moved back to Chicago. "Jesus, write it already," he'd complain during one of our increasingly rare phone calls. "I'll be six feet under when it comes out."

Finally, I started writing my book. Some days I'd get frustrated and freeze up at my computer, unable to do much of anything. Then I'd hear his voice: "Shit or get off the pot! Get movin'." And I did.

For some reason, I never told him when I began to write. I figured he'd had enough of my talking and I'd tell him when it was over and I had something real to show him.

Then, two years ago, I came home from work to find a message from my mom. "Call me," she said, and from the catch in her voice I knew it was something bad.

Dick died of heart failure. He'd been in and out of the hospital, but I didn't think he'd actually die. He always seemed like one of those people wily enough to dodge the reaper.

I cried hard that night, great heaving sobs. Because I'd lost a friend. Because I never thanked him.

Writing is a crazy thing to do. Publishing is a crazy business. But every time I hit an obstacle, every time I even consider giving up, I hear that voice in my head, full of Brooklyn, and it says, "Jesus effing Christ, just keep moving already."

I should have thanked him.