Three houses
down from my house on East 4th Street, towards the middle of our
block, lived The Brennans. Like a lot of families on our block, the Brennans
were: Mom, Dad, 3 kids. I was friendly with the youngest son, Tommy Brennan, he
was part of our crew. The most interesting thing about Tommy, in addition to
the fact that he chose to play goalie in roller hockey, was the fact that he
wore long-johns and flannel shirts, even in the height of summer. See Tommy had
some type of skin affliction that made his skin break out in these fluid-filled
blisters. They looked really painful, but they never stopped Tommy from playing
all of the games we played. And in the ways of little kids, none of this bothered us, it was just part of Tommy. We played stick ball, punch ball, roller hockey, Johnny
on the Pony…all of our street games, together. For about 10 years it seemed,
our crew was inseparable. Every summer seemed endless, countless sunny days of
stick ball and Bomb Pops from Morris our Ice Cream Man, and slices and Cokes at
Korner Pizza, and firecrackers and fireflies and flashlight tag. Now Tommy’s
house was right near our home plate for stick ball, the epicenter of our East 4th
Street world. We spent a lot of time around Tommy’s house.
Bob Brennan
was the patriarch of the Brennan family. The guy was vintage Brooklyn: part
historian, part wise-ass, part bullshit artist, all character. Even in the
early 70’s, when most National League fans in Brooklyn had adopted the Mets,
Bob was still a Dodger fan. He stuck with the team even after the move to Los
Angeles, a back stab move that was devastating to all Brooklynites and
left a psychological scar on the borough. This sleazy move hadn’t pushed Bob
away from the Dodgers. We all, especially my father, thought that was
weird.
Bob Brennan
had the lanky body of an athlete, a bit like Ted Williams. Truth be told, he looked
like Teddy Ballgame. Great head of hair, chiseled features, lantern jaw. Bob
had played semi-pro baseball, at least according to him, and based on what I
could see when he tossed the ball around with us, I believed him. He moved like
a ball-player, languid and powerful, loose and smooth, but quick, and
confident.
One day, my
friends and I are having a catch near the Brennan house. It was me, Bob’s son Tommy, John Tracey, Bubba
Yannone, Paul Reilly, Big Pete and Little Pete. A vintage collection of
Brooklyn kids, t-shirts, cut off jean shorts and sneakers. We were at the center of our block, right by our
home plate for stickball. This day, there was an electricity in the air, because
John Tracey had a brand new glove.
In the early
70’s, our block, like many other Brooklyn blocks, was baseball obsessed. We
talked baseball, we wore baseball t-shirts in support of our chosen team, we
collected baseball cards, and played all manner of baseball games. On this day,
we were all envious, because John had this new glove. Now, we wanted to check
out this glove. We all knew we had to be patient because anybody with something
new, but especially a baseball mitt, was going to be protective. Tweety, that
was John’s nickname, seemed to get new stuff a bit more often because his
parents were divorced. He was the first, and actually only one of us, to go to
the brand new, Disney World. Now in the first few days of someone having a new
glove, you wouldn’t even think of asking to try it out. It was an un-written but fair rule, I
mean, it’s the same respect you would want if you had a new glove. And when you
did venture to ask to see it, you had to be okay with the owner saying no, for
a few days even.
So Tweety’s
got his new glove; light tan, blue Spalding label on the wrist strap, and the immortal
Tom Seaver’s signature stamped on the palm. This was a big occasion, and Mr.
Brennan, leaning on his fence,methodically watering his small patch of lawn, making
small rainbows in the sunshine, was picking
up on our excitement. Bob was around a lot, more so than the other
fathers. Bob had a different job than most of our dads, he drove a Treat Potato Chip truck, delivering
salted snacks to the delis, supermarkets and bodegas around Brooklyn. He was an
early riser, usually beginning his route before 6, so he was always done by
early afternoon.
We finish up
our catch and circle around Tweety, who is shyly holding his glove out, turning it
over, letting us see it from multiple angles. We are silently Ooohingand Ahhhhing, A series of comments among the boys…
“Wow, that’s
a nice glove. How do you like it so far?”
“I hope it’s
got a good pocket.”
“Man that’s
nice. (a glance at a worn glove) I think I need a new one.”
“You better
oil it up good. But not too much.”
Mr. Brennan saunters
over, he hovers over our circle, and then pushes in,
“What do you
got there Tweety? New glove? Let’s have a look.”
Stunned
silence. And we’re all thinking, Did he
really just ask that? To see Tweety’s brand new glove?
Now it was a
tennis match, we looked from Bob: how
could he?
To Tweety: How was he going to say no? To someone’s
father!
Back and
forth.
Bob
Tweety
Bob
Tweety
You could
see the wheels turning in Tweety’s head,
If I say No, that will be rude. But I really don’t want to give him my brand
new glove. Oh man. Doesn’t he remember what it’s like to be a boy with a new
glove? Is he just kidding?
Bob’s meaty
hand is outstretched, fingers entreating
Tweety to hand it over.
A pregnant
pause….I couldn’t have felt worse for John. What was he going to do?
Eventually,
Tweety shakes his head up and down slowly. A reluctant yes. He really had no
choice. He gingerly removes the glove, walks over to Bob, eyes big in appeal
(please don’t mess up my new glove), and hands his precious gift over. All eyes
are on Bob as he grabs the glove in his big, father-hands. He looks it over admiringly
and puts his long fingers in the finger holes. He pounds his fist into the
pocket.Smack!Smack!
Bob the
judge, “That’s a nice glove. Hmmmm, Tom Terrific huh? Now THAT’S a pitcher, he
could have pitched in any era, even back in my day.”
Mr. Brennan
then takes the glove off. A group sigh of relief, He’s going to give it back! But no! It’s a feint, he’s teasing us.
Bob turns it over in his hands, he flexes it roughly, bending it violently, he
looks it over from multiple angles, checking out the webbing and stitching. A
collective groan, Oh no! He’s putting it
back on!Smack! Smack! He punches the pocket. It seems to be going well, we
breathe a sigh of relief.
Then suddenly,
for no apparent reason, Bob pulls his head back and SPLAT, spits a huge man-gob
right into the center of Tweety’s new glove.
WHAT?! All eyes bug out. What is he
DOING? Spitting in Tweety’s new glove? I look at Tweety, who is about to
cry. Then Tweety looks at us, who are in shock, avoiding his glance or
imploring him to do something, with
our eyes. Then Bob begins to hold court, he’s repeatedly punching his father fist
into his spit-puddle, getting Tom Seaver’s signature waxed with spit, “That’s a
nice glove. Make sure you break it in right. Oil it up real good. Make sure you
place TWO balls in it at night and wrap rubber bands around it before putting
it under your mattress while you sleep…blah blah blah”
We weren’t
listening anymore, we already knew a version of the, How to Break in a Glove procedure, and we were in shock. Bob
Brennan had spit in Tweety’s brand new glove! I never knew if that was just
something Bob would do, with any
glove. Part of me thought, he did that on
purpose, that he was toying with us. I had that feeling then, and still do
now, that inside Bob was cracking himself up, that that was his plan the whole
time. Sadly, we’ll never know, Bob Brennan passed away a few years ago, taking with
him a lot of Brooklyn lore and the truth about, why he spit in Tweety’s new
glove.
