Jack Olsen - The Pitchers Kid

The Pitchers Kid

By Jack Olsen

Copyright 2011 by Su Olsen

Aequitas Books: New York

Smashwords Edition

The Pitchers Kid

by Jack Olsen

New York: Aequitas Books

Copyright 2011 by Su Olsen

The Pitchers Kid: A Memoir

by Jack Olsen

All rights reserved. This book may not bereproduced, in whole or in part, in any form, except by reviewers,without the written permission of the publisher.

ISBN 978-1-929355-76-1

Library of Congress ControlNumber: 2010905853

Design by Laura Tolkow

Cover by Korum Bischoff

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Su Su Su SuSu

O ne

Beginnings

No one in my family expected me to earn myliving off murder, mayhem, overtime parking, and other high crimesand misdemeanors. In early photographs I look like a guilelesslittle fellow trying to think of something nice to do for hismommy. Pictures taken with our Kodak Box Brownie show me in droopysocks, short pants, and an oversize cap that could have been wornby a striking miner. In one picture I hold a Bible as a prop, inanother a toy car. Family and friends regarded me as a pious andmannerly child. I knew better.

The first victim of my larcenous ways was ourbulldog, Jiggs. After Mother put his soaked kibble on the backporch, I nudged him aside and ate his meal. It was the perfectcrime. We were both three and a half, but Jiggs couldnt talk.

Our family was vacationing in Atlantic Citywhen I made my next score: a tin of chocolates from Mothers travelcase. The brand name was on the little blue box; I couldnt read,but I recognized two Xs. We were promenading on the Boardwalkbetween the frozen custard and Ski-ball when the spasms struck.Before we straggled back to our rented bungalow, Id paid a call onevery public restroom from the Steel Pier to Connecticut Avenue.Daddy promised to enter me in the sprint events at the 1932Olympics.

The details of my birth in June 1925 havebeen lost in other events of that portentous month. The country wassuffering through a heat wave that took 200 lives. Walter P.Chrysler opened an auto plant. Tennessee schools dismissed thetheory of evolution. An earthquake hit Santa Barbara. A man namedSchaetzle invented a wireless phone for automobiles. Civil warbroke out in China, inflation in Germany, military revolt inGreece. In so much commotion, hardly anyone noticed that a childnamed John Edward Olsen had been born in St. Vincents Hospital inIndianapolis, Indiana.

I was never entered in a baby contest, andthe old photo albums show why. An uncle told me that Daddy took onelook at me and summoned the nurse. Listen, girlie, he said, theresbeen a big mistake.

When she showed him my I.D. band, he said,Between this here model and a used Hupmobile, Ill take theHup.

Daddy took his revenge by running out on thehospital bill. He collected me and my nineteen-year-old mother atthe back door and drove us non-stop to Detroit. As we passed NavinField, he reminisced about his triumphs as a Detroit Tiger pitcher.Two or three times he took Mother across the river to Canada toenjoy beverages that were outlawed in the United States. Whencreditors banged on the door of our furnished room, the landladywould say, They went abroad. Daddy repaid the kindness by sparingher some tedious bookkeeping. We left while owing three monthsrent.

After a few weeks in Dallas, we ran upanother unpaid bill in a Miami trailer park, then lit out for alow-rent section of Philadelphia. Family history holds that we leftMiami just ahead of the 1926 hurricane and that I was napping onour Reo sedans back seat when a hanging traffic light broke looseand smashed through the rear window. This may or may not be true.Everything concerning my family may or may not be true. As ajournalist, I am the only family member trained to tell the wholetruth, most of the time.

The human infant has been described as a longtube with a loud noise at one end and a total lack ofresponsibility at the other. I have no memory of my first fewyears, but Im told that I met the description. I recall nomoo-cows on the road, no magical timeless summer, no cameras withtheir shutters open. I wasnt called Ishmael or much of anythingexcept It. When It flung a cupcake against the wall at Its secondbirthday party, Daddy predicted (mistakenly) that another Olsen washeaded for the major leagues.

At three I wobbled around the house in footiepajamas and banged into bureaus and tables. I remember the sting ofiodine and the bright red color of Mercurochrome. I squooshed abutterfly to see if there was real butter inside. Mother said I wasannoyed at the results.

Early photos show a resemblance to Babe Ruth:the same dark hair, brown eyes, broad face, and upswept nose.Mother later claimed that my looks came from her grandfatherFrancis Zawadzki, a figure of respect in Jersey Citys Polishcommunity and the dominant male in our family tree. The resemblanceended at our personalities. I have tiptoed through life in a statebordering on hysteria, but Great-grandpa Zawadzki feared nothingand no one. He decked a beefy dockworker who referred to him as agreasy Polock. When the man apologized and said hed meant to sayPole, Francis Zawadzki slammed him against a bulkhead. No Pole, hesaid. No Polock. Greasy American.

That incident was said to have taken placearound 1850, after Great-grandpa and five other members of hisfamily arrived from Gdansk along with mobs of eastern Europeansheaded for the coal mines of Appalachia. In three weeks at sea, myancestors survived on a pigs head and a sack of turnips. Familyhistory holds that Great-grandpa Zawadzki kissed the Hoboken wharfand announced to his wife Balbina Rumienska that they must startspeaking American immediately. Overnight, borscht became beet soupand kielbasa became sausage. Pigs heads were permanently banishedfrom the menu after he declared, Pig heads for old country.

Apparently Francis Zawadzki was a sternparent whose rules applied in perpetuity. Decades after he died,his daughter Caroline Zawadzki Drecksage sang me a Polish lullabyabout a girl who wished for wings like a goose so she could fly toJohnny in Silesia. It was the only time I ever heard my grandmotheruse the language of her parents. Jackie, she whispered, dont tellnobody.

Great-grandpa Zawadzki was famous in JerseyCity for winning a test of strength at the Communipaw EngineTerminal, where he supported his family by chipping slag offlocomotive boilers. The roundhouse workers argued over who couldmove a 4-6-2 Royal Blue Pacific by hand. Great-grandpas maincompetitor, a triple-chinned Irishman named Hanlon, shoved andstrained, grunted, cursed and gave up. Great-grandpa climbed intothe cab, released the brakes, and won handily. Or so I was told byan aunt who died before ethnic jokes were in style. I doubt thatshe realized she was telling one.

The Zawadzki family remained properlyrespectful of its patriarch, even in his fading years when he woulddon a flashy uniform and join in the parades along Ocean Avenue.All spit-and-Polish, the old man would ignore entreaties from hisembarrassed children: Pop, its the Sons of Itly. Pop, its theSpanish-American War Vets....