Trial & Error by Paul Levine Read Free Book Online

with speed and precision, Steve doubted he could run from first to third without a pit stop.
    “You know I played some college ball, Kreindler?” Steve gestured toward Dixie Highway. The University of Miami was less than five miles straight up the road.
    “Of course I know. You’re Last Out Solomon. You were picked off third base to end the College World Series.”
    Which is when Steve considered punching the guy out, before concluding it wouldn’t set a good example for Bobby. “I was a lousy hitter. But I could run, and once I learned how to study the pitchers, I led the team in stolen bases.”
    “You stole bases because you could?” Kreindler asked.
    “Of course.”
    “So you believe
kol de’alim gevar.
‘Might makes right.’”
    “I believe in maximizing every kid’s potential. I also believe in winning, and I’m not gonna apologize for it.”
    “Do you really think Robert’s up to this sort of thing?” Kreindler said.
    “Stealing bases? Sure, once I teach him.”
    “Playing ball. I mean, with his problems…”
    “So that’s it!”
    “The other boys can be so cruel. Calling Robert a ‘spaz.’ That sort of thing.”
    “Then it’s your job to straighten out the little punks.”
    “How?”
    “Shake ’em by the throat. Make ’em run laps. Teach them a sense of decency.”
    “Surely, Mr. Solomon, you know it’s more complicated than that.”
    “Not for a
real
coach. You’ve gotta kick some kosher ass, Kreindler.”
    They were standing on the clipped green grass of the outfield. The Bobcats were practicing their fielding, resulting in numerous ground balls trickling between spindly Jewish legs. Deep in right field, as far from harm’s way as possible, Bobby picked dandelions. The boy had been moping all day. It hadn’t sunk in at first, Steve thought. But when Bobby realized that Spunky and Misty were gone, that there was no way to find them, the pain tugged at his heart. Steve had hoped baseball would take Bobby’s mind off his lost pals.
    Ten minutes earlier, Steve had been teaching his nephew the fine points of base stealing. With a right-handed pitcher, watch his heels. If he lifts his right heel before the left, he’s throwing to first. If the left heel leaves the ground first, he’s throwing to the plate.
    That’s when the Kreindler, bald spot covered by his yarmulke, his nose smeared with sunblock, shades clipped onto his glasses, waddled over to instruct Steve on ethics.
    If Steve hadn’t missed the league organizational meeting, maybe he’d be the Beth Am coach. Unfortunately, he’d spent that night behind bars, in a holding cell, a little matter of ordering pizza and two six-packs of beer for a jury deliberating a DUI case. Not that Steve minded an occasional contempt citation. One of the first things he’d told Victoria was that a lawyer who’s afraid of jail is like a surgeon who’s afraid of blood.
    Just then, as Steve was thinking about Victoria, he caught sight of her, walking toward him along the first-base line. Long strides with those tennis player legs. She wore a green silk blouse and a white skirt and Versace shoes of white, green, and red, sort of like the Italian flag. Steve had been there when Victoria bought the shoes. She’d nearly gone for a brand called “United Nude,” which the salesclerk boasted was “a sculpture, not a shoe.” Both pairs looked as comfortable as walking on broken glass.
    She carried a red leather handbag, a Hermès Birkin. Steve wouldn’t have known a Hermès Birkin from a kosher gherkin, but Victoria seemed overjoyed when her mother gave her the bag. He didn’t understand what the fuss was about until Irene Lord said it had been a gift from a French gazillionaire she’d met on the Riviera, and that the damn thing had cost fifteen thousand dollars. Steve could understand spending that much on a flat-screen, high-def TV with surround sound, but a
handbag
? There was so much about women that completely bewildered