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what I’m looking for.”
    The door to her closet was closed, so I stood there stranded, with nothing to do but wait. I hated that. I knew nothing would happen, but I grew frightened nonetheless. What if she died in there? She was old, after all. What would I do? Unlike Gramsie Lerner’s house, which smelled like chicken soup, roast turkey, and kasha, Grandma’s house, and particularly her closet, smelled of mothballs and cedar. The closet was where she kept my father’s old things: books like
Bomba the Jungle Boy
,
Tarzan
, and
Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates
. There were letters in a funny script Grandma said was the Russian language; there was an old, dented lemon wafers cookie tin which contained an assortment of things including jacks, marbles, an old passport, ration cards, a purse full of Indian Head pennies and buffalo nickels, a thank-you note from her nephew, Stanley (exactly my age, only smarter), whom I had never met, and a fountain pen with a golden tip that didn’t work. I had never been inside the closet without Grandma, but I knew everything in there, because whenever I visited, Grandma came out with some bizarre curiosity or treasure. Once she brought out my father’s elementary school class picture, which had a really tall kid in it who was completely bald! His name was Andrew, and he had contracted scarlet fever and lost all his hair. He sat there in the picture of sixth graders looking like a sad old grandpa among a group of smiling children. It always made me shiver with excitement and curiosity to see Andrew. Grandma thought I wanted to see it because my father, with his thick head of wavy hair was in the first row, and smiling, but it was really Andrew, the bald kid who never smiled, who I wanted to see.
    â€œIt has to be here somewhere, so be patient, young man.”
    â€œI will, Grandma.” While I waited, I metamorphosed from Mantle into Bob Cousy in his black, high-topped sneakers, dribbling once behind my back before banking a lay-up off the top of the hall closet. Somehow the ball rolled off the rim and came back out, but fortunately, Bill Russell was waiting for the rebound. He grabbed Cousy’s miss and stuffed it in over Wilt the Stilt for a basket.
    Grandma rustled through what sounded like a thick forest of dresses. Her voice sounded like it was coming from a million miles away.
    â€œIt’s in this box … no, it isn’t. Wait! I’ve got it!”
    She emerged with something in her hand: an old framed photograph of a boy feeding a squirrel on a wooden perch. The boy had dark hair, a round face, and a friendly smile. I had seen this photo twice before. Grandma must have forgotten.
    â€œUps-a-daisy,” she said, pulling me onto her lap.
    â€œI’m too old for that, Grandma.”
    â€œSuit yourself, smarty-pants. Do you know what this is?” Of course, I knew what I was supposed to say, but I didn’t want to, so I quickly grabbed an imaginary bat.
    â€œAn old picture.”
    â€œOf course it’s an old picture, but what is it a picture of?”
    â€œA boy and a squirrel.”
    â€œCorrect, Mr. Einstein. But who’s the boy?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œIt’s your father. It’s your father when he was just your age.”
    As if I cared. I creamed a Pedro Gomez fastball out beyond the Yankee Stadium Monuments in deep center field, 456 feet away. Jimmy Piersall went way back, but Mel Allen, the Yankee announcer, shouted, “That ball is going, going … it is
gone
!” The crowd went absolutely nuts. I watched the flight of the ball, and, realizing it was a home run, began my slow trot around Grandma’s room, almost knocking over a lamp.
    â€œStop that!” she snapped. “The child can’t stand still. And he’s still biting his nails—disgusting!” She sounded exhausted. As I trotted past third base, she reached out a hand and grabbed my arm,