New Moon by Richard Grossinger Page A

“Hardly anyone gets them all.” I emerged triumphant and reported my success to Mommy.
    In the session after lunch, there were no games. I was asked to lie on a cot. A nurse taped wires to my head, my life apparently revealed in a code that a needle translated onto a drum. I shielded my mind so that my spaceship and travels would not be discovered.
    Years later I learned that the tests showed I was normal but emotionally disturbed. At the time Mommy said only that I would be seeing another doctor. At first I complained because she had scheduled it on my birthday and it didn’t sound like much fun. “Sure it will be fun. Remember how much you enjoyed the puzzles and beads.”
    She brought me there on November 3rd, 1952. We took a bus further downtown than I had ever gone. Then we walked along old-fashioned streets, turned into a doorway, and found ourselves in a foyer with fancy chairs. New Yorker magazines were piled on a table, so I turned through the cartoons, occasionally asking Mommy to explain one. Finally a door opened; the doctor gestured me in. Mommy kissed me on both cheeks and left.
    It was a ground-floor flat, bookshelves up to its ceilings. A window faced Seventh Street. I saw a girl skipping rope, a man strapped to a building washing windows.
    His name was Abraham Fabian. He was tall and resembled Abraham Lincoln. I sat in a chair across from him, answered his questions, and gradually warmed to tell him about school, Bill-Dave, and my family. He was cordial and attentive, so I confided the thing that excited me most: my Uncle Paul was taking me out afterwards. When I exited the office, sure enough, Uncle Paul was there, large as life, reading a magazine. “Richard my boy!” he exclaimed. He threw out his arms and invited me into a bear hug. Then he shook hands with Dr. Fabian as though they were old buddies.
    “Have a good birthday,” the doctor called as we left.
    Outside, we hailed a cab. In a river of green lights the driver tore uptown, then swerved onto a side street and screeched to a stop: Al Schacht’s Restaurant. A doorman led us into a baseball palace—its staircase railings were made of lacquered bats and balls, and all the choices on the menu were puns on players’ names: Dizzy Trout, Ty Corn on the Cobb, and Yogi Berries. I ordered a fruit cocktail on ice and was picking out the sweet cherries when two tall men in suits joined our table. In answer to Uncle Paul’s question, I insisted that I didn’t know these fellows. “Sure, you do,” he kept saying as I shook my head.
    Then he threw up his arms and declared with chagrin, “Why, I was told you knew all the New York Yankees. This is first-baseman Joe Collins and catcher Charlie Silvera.” My heart skipped, and I stared again. They were real, the faces from the cards, dressed in suits and ties. No one I knew had ever had dinner with one of them.
    The room was a bustle of activity and yummy smells. I sat watching balancing feats of waiters, meals sailing out of the kitchen. Uncle Paul ordered everyone steaks and French fries and, while we ate, people came up to shake hands with him and his Yankee friends.
    The players were large, like cowboys, and they and Uncle Paul talked adult stuff to each other, never once mentioning baseball. Al Schacht, an old man who was once a pitcher, pulled up a chair and told jokes. After a while the Yankees began to laugh. Then Mr. Schacht rose to greet a cake of baseball decorations and candles. He led the singing of “Happy Birthday,” which even Charlie Silvera and Joe Collins participated in, gazing at me with big grins. I couldn’t wait to get to school the next day to tell Phil.
    After my first time at Dr. Fabian’s I was brought there twice a week by a graduate student from Columbia named Neil. Grateful to be rescued from the after-school melee at the Bill-Dave wagon, I pranced alongside my new companion, anticipating our next escapade in the subway. Neil bought me comics, shared his nickels in