Seeing Home, page 2
I don’t remember much from my sighted life, but I remember Yankee Stadium. I knew, even then, that I wanted to spend my lifetime there.
The one image from that day that remains sharpest in my mind is that of Yankee catcher Yogi Berra crouched behind the plate with his crisp white pinstripe uniform and the number 8 stitched across its back. The number was partly obscured by the brown leather straps and buckles that kept his protective equipment strapped to his body.
That’s what a Yankee looked like to me. It still is.
I’ve told that story to Yogi many times. Shortly after the opening of the Yogi Berra Museum on the campus of Montclair State in New Jersey in 1998, Berra took me behind the scenes of one of the exhibits to let me feel the very same equipment that I remembered from that day fifty-one years earlier. That was quite a treat.
Baseball was my passion. Even with my limited abilities, I absolutely had to play the game, despite my mother’s worries and fears. One particular day, Wednesday, October 3, 1951, was the perfect day for a game.
I had no idea that it would alter the course of my life.
THE 1951 BASEBALL season was a wild one in the National League. While the Yankees were cruising to their customary World Series spot as the representative of the American League, the senior circuit—the National League—saw a nail-biting finish. The Brooklyn Dodgers, led by Jackie Robinson, had all but sewn up the spot at the top of the standings in late summer. At one point they led the second-place New York Giants by a margin of fourteen games. The season doesn’t end in late summer, though. The Giants pulled off an incredible series of winning stands, while the Dodgers hit a slump. As a result, the teams were tied when the season ended, and they went to a three-game playoff series to decide who would go on to face the Yankees for the title.
The first two games were split between the teams. This led to a decisive showdown at the Giants’ home park, the Polo Grounds, on 155th Street in Manhattan. I would have given anything to be at that game. Unfortunately, it was on a Wednesday, a school day, and they were not yet playing nighttime playoff games.
Like the rest of the Dodgers and Giants fans in school, I was on pins and needles wondering what was happening in the game, which began shortly after 1:00 p.m. The end-of-day school bell couldn’t come fast enough. As soon as we were dismissed, I raced home five blocks and noisily entered the living room just as the game was reaching the last three innings. Bad news: the Giants were losing four to one.
My father, who at the time was working a night job as a pressman for the New York Times while my mother worked the day shift at the A&P, was sitting on his favorite chair, rosary beads in hand, praying for a miracle while he watched the game on our small black-and-white twelve-inch Philco TV. I remember snapping and cracking a piece of chewing gum as my father snarled at me to be quiet in a tone that would scare away the devil himself. This was serious business for my father. The Giants could not come this far only to lose to the hated Dodgers.
Dad’s prayers were answered in the bottom of the ninth when one of my boyhood heroes, Bobby Thomson, stepped to the plate with men on base and hit a walk-off home run that catapulted the Giants to the World Series. We were watching the game on TV, the first nationally televised game, and the legendary Ernie Harwell was announcing. I don’t remember at all what he said to close the game. What sticks in my head, and in most people’s minds, is the frantic radio call made by Russ Hodges. In what is perhaps the most famous baseball radio moment of all time, Hodges screamed over and over again into the microphone: “The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant!”
I never heard that call live, and even if we had had the radio on, I wouldn’t have heard it, as my father was doing his own screaming. He was so elated with the victory that Dad opened all of the windows and started yelling at the top of his lungs. I happened to be setting the dinner table and was so startled by Dad’s cheering that I dropped the stack of dishes I was holding. They went crashing to the floor. At that moment, I could have smashed all of my parents’ good china and my father wouldn’t have cared. Bobby Thomson’s home run had given me temporary immunity from all parental rules.
I seized upon this unique opportunity to ask Dad if it was okay to go outside and play ball. If my mother had been home, the request would have been denied even before I finished asking. My father was on a cloud of happiness. He may not have even been listening to what I said. In any case he gave me the green light. I was off and running. I quickly changed into my trusty wool uniform shirt and a pair of jeans and headed down to meet the other neighborhood boys at our local baseball spot.
Since we were living in a public housing project, the government wasn’t going to spend extra money on amenities like proper baseball fields for the kids. We had to make do with what was available. In this case, we played at what was affectionately called the “skating rink.” Basically, it was a run-down old fenced-in blacktop area. I wasn’t quite sure whether it was a former parking lot, a storage space, or actually a place for skating. Nevertheless, it was perfect for baseball.
At this point, most of the people in the neighborhood were outside, either commiserating with each other if they were Dodgers fans, or slapping each other on the back if they were Giants rooters. The few Yankee fans around just said, “See you in the Series next week.” Some older boys had a bat, and we chose sides. Most of the time, we played with a pink rubber “spaldeen” ball. The unusual name came from the way residents of the New York area pronounced the actual brand name written on the ball, “Spalding.” It was the unofficial city kid’s choice, because it was cheaper than a real ball.
But this day was special, and someone had brought along a major league ball for us to play with. They’d caught it in the stands at the Polo Grounds a few weeks before. For the first time in years, we’d be using the genuine article. We also didn’t have the required eighteen players that the big leagues had, maybe only ten, so there were five guys on each side, with the rules decided at the beginning of the game. We were still playing baseball, but had to adapt it as the situations dictated.
We played for as long as we could. As the October sky started to get darker, some of the kids headed home and we had to make do with fewer players. This meant switching positions. I was catching, but now they wanted me to pitch. This was a great opportunity for me. Because of my glasses and limited sight, I was never asked to pitch. They didn’t even have time to finish the question before I ran to the mound and grabbed the ball. The first thing I did was to take off my glasses. I laid them carefully on the ground next to me.
In retrospect, that might seem like a foolish thing to do, but it made sense to me at the time. None of my favorite big league pitchers wore glasses on the mound, and I was sure some of them had trouble seeing the catcher. If they could do it, I could, too.
As the first batter approached the plate, the excitement was building inside me. Flush with the thrill of the Giants’ win and the opportunity to emulate the fireballers I’d seen on TV, I reached back and used all of the strength in me to throw a pitch right down the middle.
I was hoping for a swing and a miss, an easy strikeout and glory. What actually happened was that the batter connected perfectly with the ball, and it made a rapid approach straight back to the mound. Physics tells us that when a ball is hit, no matter how fast the pitch comes in, the velocity and force will increase as it is batted back.
It was on a crash course for my face.
I’ll never know whether I would have had enough time to react if I’d kept my glasses on and the daylight on the skating rink had not been waning. Before I knew what happened, the ball smacked me right between the eyes with a force so great that it knocked me to the ground. Luckily, I never lost consciousness, but I knew immediately that I was in deep trouble.
The twilight of an October afternoon on a makeshift baseball diamond as a white horsehide sphere shattered my fragile vision was the last clear thing I ever saw.
The pain was overwhelming as I stood up. Bright flashes obscured my sight. I couldn’t focus properly. I put my glasses back on and tried to act casual, but I was terrified. The other boys were concerned, and offered to help. I refused them and walked carefully back home all by myself, aided largely by memory and reflex.
I tried to avoid my parents when I got home. I didn’t want to spoil my dad’s joyous celebration of the Giants’ victory, and definitely didn’t want my mother to know that I had disobeyed her orders and played baseball. I also didn’t want to admit that she was right about how dangerous it could be for me.
My mother had scheduled a routine eye exam months before for October 8, the following Monday. I’d completely forgotten that. I could fool my parents, family, and friends into thinking everything was okay, but how in the world was I going to put one over on my doctor? During the weekend, as I continued to pretend to be able to see, I came up with the perfect scheme.
The Jersey City Free Eye Clinic, where I was a patient, was made up of little examination cubicles and a big eye chart on the wall for everyone’s use. The waiting room, cubicles, and exam room were all in one open area. You could hear everything that went on. While I was waiting for my turn, I listened carefully to the other patients as they recited the lines on the chart for the doctors. After about a half hour, I had the exam sequence down cold: top line, “EFPTOZL6EC,” middle line, “FEL3CQZPD2,” and so on. The smallest line on the bottom, the one nobody ever gets right? No problem, I figured it out just by listening to the mistakes and corrections. By the time I was called in, I was good to go.
As expected, I was able to breeze right through each question the doctor asked me. My answers were so on the money that even my mother was amazed at how much my vision was improving. Things were going great, I’d be out of there soon, and nobody would be the wiser. Surely the pain in my eyes would go away by itself in just a few days.
There’s a problem with a foolproof plan like mine. Fools are making them.
My doctor, who had the degree and years of experience, was able to see right through my scheme. He said, “That was very good, Ed. Now let’s start again. This time I’m going to put a pencil next to a random letter on the chart, and you tell me what it is.”
Final score: Eye Doctor, one. Ed Lucas, zero.
As soon as it was confirmed that I couldn’t make out even the largest letters on the chart, my doctor went into full crisis mode. Something was terribly wrong with my vision. I tearfully confessed what had happened. It was quickly diagnosed that the blow to my eyes had detached my retinas and caused the possibility of blood clots. I might lose my sight completely if nothing was done about it. He sent me home with drops and medicine and scheduled a major operation to possibly salvage what sight was left.
At just twelve years of age, thanks to fate, genetics, and a poor decision, I was facing a life of darkness.
The thought terrified me.
YEARS BEFORE, I had been walking through New York City with my mother, father, and sister, and we came across a blind man standing outside the Port Authority Bus Terminal, on the corner of Forty-Second Street and Eighth Avenue. He wore dark sunglasses and ragged clothes. In his left hand was a tin cup, which was apparently full of coins, judging by the rattle that it emitted when he shook it. In the other hand he held a cane. In front of him was a sign saying PLEASE HELP ME. I’M BLIND.
To me, this was the only fate for a person who couldn’t see, standing on a corner with a cup and a cane, helplessly begging for coins. Even the Bible was filled with stories of blind men, lepers, and cripples, alone in the streets, scorned and pitied by society.
The moment I left that eye clinic, my world started to crumble around me, and I slipped into a deep depression. Was I about to spend the rest of my life begging on a street corner?
Not if my parents had anything to say about it.
They were determined that there would be absolutely no cup or cane in my future.
2
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Not a Handicap, Just an Inconvenience
There are many places that a twelve-year-old boy longs to be. Lying in a hospital bed in total darkness is not one of them.
From the time of my accident in October 1951 until late December of that year, I was in and out of the hospital. The doctors were trying everything medically available at the time to restore at least part of my vision.
Compared with today’s twenty-first-century technology and treatments, the methods of the 1940s and 1950s seem practically barbaric. Their intentions were good, but the applications, and their results, could be absolutely frightening.
Dr. Brophy, my original physician, had been trying to strengthen my eyes for years, but it was not working very well. His successor, Dr. Saraydarian, was convinced that he could help bring about a miracle, something my family and friends were praying hard for.
Doctor Saraydarian was a unique and quirky guy. I can still vividly recall his trademark. He incessantly chewed gum. It struck me as an odd habit for a doctor, but at least he wasn’t a dentist. His brand of choice was a bold one, Beech-Nut Gum. A spin-off from their successful chewing tobacco brand, Beech-Nut Gum came in a bright yellow wrapper that shined like gold, so I could spot it from a distance even when I had limited sight. It also had quite a powerful fragrance. I knew that Dr. Saraydarian was coming moments before he entered the room. The sweet, distinctive Beech-Nut smell and the snapping and cracking of the gum in his mouth were a dead giveaway.
My doctor’s first choice of treatment was to operate on my eyes, with the hope of putting the retinas back in their proper place, assisting them in functioning again. The operation went well, but they wouldn’t know whether it was a complete success until two weeks later, when the muscles and tendons had a chance to settle. The slightest jolt or movement, even a cough, could jar the retinas and undo the hours spent in the operating room. The remedy for that was to completely immobilize me, ensuring that I wouldn’t unwittingly do more damage to myself.
How do you keep a young boy from moving, or from scratching his nose? The answer was to keep me strapped down, with sandbags piled high on both sides of my head, blocking me from turning in either direction. I was to be kept as still as a statue for two weeks.
For the next fourteen days, I was forced to eat my meals through a straw. All necessary bodily functions had to be done from my bed as I lay there. It was a helpless feeling, extremely boring and monotonous. I held still, hoping against hope that when it was done, I’d be able to have full vision, strong eyes, and the ability to live a normal life, like other kids my age.
Unfortunately, that was not in God’s will. The operation was a failure.
The ball’s hitting me between the eyes had done too much damage to be reversed by a scalpel. Dr. Saraydarian did not give up. He decided that the next best course of treatment was to fill my bloodstream with what was known as “foreign protein.”
Developed in 1893, foreign protein injections were the predecessors to early versions of vaccine shots. In my case, they were hoping to use these foreign antibodies to dry up the blood in selected spots of my veins and arteries to help sweat and filter out any blood clots forming near my eyes. It was a long shot, but worth the effort, according to the medical community.
I was given these series of foreign protein shots every other day. They were extremely painful, almost unbearable. Minutes after the needle went in, my legs began to tighten up, making it hard to walk. Once again, I put up with the discomfort in the hope that it would bring a cure. As was the case with the previous operation, the injections proved to be a failure, too.
As much of a letdown as these ineffective treatments were for me, they were a thousand times worse for my parents. My mother and father both ached for a sign that I might have even a glimmer of eyesight left. It seemed like a lost cause.
In a last-ditch effort, my parents went to see Dr. Saraydarian to offer up one of their eyes as a transplant for me, so that my vision could be restored. They were each prepared to go through life with only one eye, so that I might be able to see from both of mine.
Whenever I stop to think about that for a moment, I am moved to tears. What great courage it must have taken on the part of my mother and father to make such a request. As a parent, I can now understand the unconditional love that one feels for one’s children, and how one would sacrifice anything to make sure that they were safe and secure, but their act went above and beyond that.
Unfortunately, it would not have been of any use.
Doctor Saraydarian was sympathetic to their plea, but he gently explained that such a transplant was the stuff of theory in 1951. Plenty of medical journals at the time were discussing the idea, but there was no possible way to achieve it with the tools and data known then. The doctor promised to keep my parents updated as progress was made, and also to put me at the top of the list for any procedures that might become available.
With no medical solution seemingly possible, my parents continued with the only thing they were confident would help give me my former life back: prayer.
Their faith had been a comfort to them throughout their lives. My parents had seen miracles great and small. Because of this, no matter their situation or circumstances, they were always able to feel joy and to count their many blessings. Mom and Dad believed in giving thanks in prayer to the Lord. This would be the biggest request they would ever make of Him.
As Catholics, my mother and father were also used to calling on saints and angels for help.
They were not using the saints as a replacement or substitute for God, or as idols; they were relying on them as intermediaries. The belief behind this is that saints are closer to God than we are, so that if we ask them for assistance in prayer, they can presumably bring our requests to Him on our behalf. It’s the same as if you asked a friend to pray for and with you. These friends just happen to be departed holy men and women. It is still His will ultimately that prevails.
