Game 4: Hillsborough

      "There's a crowd up from Hillsborough," warns Mrs. Shumsky as a half dozen mothers man the hut behind home plate. "Whoever takes a window might get a peek at our boys, but it could be non-stop orders."

"Many hands make light work," quips my mother moving over to one of the counters as we take the field for final warm-ups.

     The district championship was being played across the Raritan River in South Bound Brook, but it felt like a home game because our parents were staffing the concession stand. Hillsborough was a wealthy Princeton suburb that had splurged for matching spandex all-star uniforms while we Brookers still wore the wools from our regular season teams. Our stands along the third baseline were already packed, and the visitor side was rapidly filling. This turnout was our first inclination that the winning streak was causing a stir.

     Just as I was starting to feel hopeless about my home and hitting life, my twelve-year-old world seemingly turned. Richie Schenck was back in the lineup, and it was a surprise that my anxiety-prone mother had volunteered to work in the snack stand. At home she'd even asked about games, calling my teammates pet names like Sean Do-Re-Me and Matt Machete. My bat was also finally picking up as the hand numbness faded. I'd come to see my late place in the batting order not as a failure but instead as an opportunity to get another runner into scoring position for our big bats. 

     As the game started I was so shocked to spy my father leaning on the top plank of the wooden bleacher beside our dugout that I nearly bobbled a routine double-play, recovering the ball just in time to tap the runner and make a quick throw. 

     

     "Florczak will keep them in the park," Coach Zujk decrees before we take the field with an 8-2 lead in the top of the sixth inning. "Just take care of business on defense and we'll have this one."

"Ozzi Ynot!" I whoop after Tony Izzo makes a diving catch of a lined drive down the right field line for the first out.

The next batter draws a walk in six pitches to put a runner on first for their cleanup hitter, a tall righty with an immaculately neat uniform. On the first pitch he slaps a chopper to third that bounds over Schenck's upstretched glove and into mine. My hard throw to Eric Winchock at second and his twisting toss to first completes the double play.

"Way to go Davy," as I run to the dugout nearly knocks me down as the team bounces in jubilation. There's only one person who calls me that.

Final score: Bound Brook 8, Hillsborough 2

Game 3: Bernardsville

      "Marone, no third baseman," moans right fielder Mike Fassano from the back seat on the long bus ride up Route 287 to Bernardsville as the rest of us nod and groan.

"Now men, we'll play with the players we have," counsels Coach Zujk wobbling in the aisle as the yellow Romano's Bus jostles over the gap through third Watchung Mountain. "It's Wegrzyn on third base until Schenck is back."

     We'd just lost strong-fielding Richie Schenck to an emergency tonsillectomy right before our fourth game of the postseason against the northern region champion of our Little League district. After three jubilant playoff wins with a steady lineup, it felt ill-fated to lose one of the starters.

     His backup at third base was Larry Wegrzyn of the orange Congers, a mash-up of Conroy Funeral Home and Efinger Sporting Goods. Larry was another of Coach Tomaro's pitching proteges, though more prone to complaint than compliance. If the heart of our hitting lineup was Bound Brook's Italian army, our right-handed pitchers were the Polish firemen with Florczak and Wegrzyn. Us boys, however, didn't care one whit about ethnicity. What mattered was hitting the ball, throwing strikes, or laughing with your teammates. Larry had plenty of credibility for the first two, but his taciturn nature left him at the front of the bus.

     That summer I was sitting right up there with Larry in the laugh-less section. My parents had separated after a big fight in the spring, and our mom wasn’t handling the home and the heat with her usual stoicism. In our household it was suddenly self-service for food and laundry while trying to dodge her sometimes unfocused anger. I hadn’t seen my father in three months and it was starting to feel like forever.

     "All right Larry, see if you can throw it a little straighter from the mound,” croaks Coach Tomaro from the dugout as starting pitcher Sean Doremus whips his glove into a corner after walking the bases loaded.

Larry had been playing a decent third base up until the fifth inning, though he had to be saved from some off-target throws with nimble catches by first baseman Tony Izzo. This would be his first playoff appearance as a relief pitcher and it was in a pressured situation with a tie game. A wild pitch, a hit, a walk, or just a fly ball to the outfield and we’d be behind with one at bat to go.

     “Settle down,” coaxes Matt Vischetti pushing mitt and ball hands downward after snagging the first pitch from over the hitter’s head.

“That’s it Larry,” roars Coach Tomaro as a pitch drops into the inside corner of the zone for a called strike.

The field gets quiet when the next throw nicks the outside edge for strike two.

“You’re out! booms the umpire as the batter whiffs at a sinker that drops below his swinging bat.

"Welcome to the playoffs," beams Coach Zujk stepping from the dugout to shake a smiling Larry Wegrczyn’s hand. "Now let's finish this one off!"

Final score: Bound Brook 7, Bernardsville 3

Game 2: Piscataway

      "All right Richie, throw that overhand curve just like we practiced," exhorts Coach Tomaro kneeling to catch for our right-handed pitching ace warming up before the second game of the post-season.

"You got it Coach," retorts Richard Florczak with a big grin at the manager of his regular season championship team, the Congers.

     There’s a special relationship between a player and the first coach who recognizes his or her talent. Mine as an eight-year-old playing organized baseball for the first time was Officer Frank Cornaccione. Coach Corni saw that I was better at fielding groundballs than pop flies, installing me at shortstop where I’d stay until done with college baseball. It might have been the bloody nose I got trying to catch a pop up in the first game, but the move to infield gave the boost in confidence I needed to run with a baseball identity.

     Coach Tomaro had noticed a diminutive 11-year-old who could consistently keep the ball over the plate. He taught Richie Florczak the grips and arm motions needed to throw a slider, screwball, changeup, and sinking curveball. Not many little leaguers could deliver these pitches so the Congers started winning games and Richie became an all-star. He’s the youngest of the four Florczak boys who all looked alike except for height. Bob was the oldest and tallest as the six-foot-three-inch former center for the Bound Brook High School basketball team. When he left for art school, identical twins Ron and Mike took up the hoops mantle at six-foot-one. Richie was the shortest but made up in style and craftiness what he lacked in size. 

     Piscataway would be our first home game of the post-season and it was against an out-of-county team even though the Middlesex County township adjoined the southeastern tip of Bound Brook. In the late eighteenth century New Jersey had been organized into a system of townships for areas that weren't already defined as town, borough, or city. As housing close to New York or Philadelphia started to fill in all available land in the former garden state, the once rural townships became population centers. Piscataway High School is still one of the largest in the state, and any sports competitions between the large township and the tiny borough of Bound Brook left the latter as a decisive underdog even at our home field. 

     “All right Richie, finish em off!” calls Coach Tomaro from the dugout with two outs and one on in the top of the sixth inning.

The count is one ball and two strikes as Florczak assumes the stretch position and nods to the catcher Matt Vischetti’s flashing down of three fingers to signal a slider. Richie grips the ball along the seams, kicks his left leg up, and whips a sidearm throw as he turns the wrist and forearm leftward. The ball spins toward the middle of homeplate and breaks four inches to the left as the hitter flails, dribbling a weak grounder down the first base line. Richie charges over, grabs the ball bare handed, and flips it to second baseman Eric Winchock who's covering first. We all charge over to celebrate an unexpected 4-0 win over heavily favored Piscataway.

“Now you’re firing on all cylinders!” proclaims Coach Zujk with the first smile we’ve seen on his stoic face all year. "We'll take it one game at a time, and next up is Bernardsville."

Final score: Bound Brook 4, Piscataway 0

     

Game 1: Branchburg

     "If you can't hold the bat, you can't hit the ball," grumbles Coach Tomaro pitching batting practice before the first post-season game at Branchbrook Park. 

"Just let your finger fall onto the wood and the sting will go away," advises Coach Zujkowski as I step back into the batter's box for the next pitch.

"Better put him last in the lineup," Tomaro calls after another weak swing yields a feeble ground ball.

     I was mortified that my bat had disappeared after the return from a laceration on the right middle finger. My maroon-colored Truckers, formally named Schofield Inc., had been in first place at ten wins and no losses when my hand got snagged on the top of a chain link fence I was vaulting over in the long dusk of late spring. After an hour of running cold water on it, the jagged gash was still dripping blood into our kitchen sink prompting my sister to run next door and beg the neighbors to take me to the hospital. Eight stitches, a splint, and thick bandages later, I was out of commission for the remaining games. We lost them all to end the regular season in a tie for first place with the Congers.

     The finger was still bandaged for the playoff game so I switched from shortstop to center field to limit throwing. Hitting was even more of a problem because the splint kept middle and ring fingers from gripping the bat. I never forgave myself for us losing that close game and coming in second place, and my grip was still off when the all-stars started the next week.

     The top of our lineup was what I thought of as Bound Brook's Italian army. At leadoff was Robert Corsini, a compact lefty from a family of builders. Rob's eye was a sharp as his bat, often anteing us up a base runner to start games or big innings. Next up was Mike Fassano, a stout and fearless player always in the middle of rallies or ruckuses. Batting third was Matt Vischetti, the home run champ of the regular season with fourteen four-baggers in fourteen games and an astounding batting average of .750 (three hits every four at bats). It's a good thing for the town of Bound Brook that Matt loved baseball - his family's dental practice had taken a bite out of the budget for hosting the state finals. At cleanup was Anthony Izzo, a handsome kid who could play any position and hit any pitch. Tony's single mom, one of the cooks at the junior high kitchen, gave Tony's teammates extra helpings along with a good Sicilian scolding on the way through the lunch line.

     The guys on the Branchburg all-star team would be going to Somerville High School in a few years. The county seat school was larger than Bound Brook and often favored in Somerset County championship tournaments, and us small town kids already felt the weight and desire of the underdog.

     “You’re overdue Vischetti,” mewls Coach Tomaro as our catcher steps up to bat with Rob on second and Faz on first base and the game tied 1-1 after two innings.

“Put him down,” chatters the Branchburg catcher as their pitcher winds up and heaves a low fastball on the inside corner of the plate.

“Thwack,” reverberates around the field as the ball sails over the fence in left-center and bounces at least thirty feet beyond.

“Was that down enough for him?” Matt exclaims coming into our dugout to our slaps and cheers.

     Next up is Tony Izzo, our tall first baseman. He thunks the bat onto the plate, squares into a tight stance, and crushes the high and outside pitch to right center. It's two towering home runs in two pitches, and by the time the third inning slugfest is over we've scored eight runs. 

     "All right men, it's drinks on the house!" declares Coach Zujk in a post-game huddle at pitcher's mound.

"Yeah, and grab a hot dog on me," puffs Coach Tomaro through his cigar smoke as we sprint for the concession stand.

Final score: Bound Brook 14, Branchburg 1

Pre-Season

Bottom row: R Florczak, T Thomas, B Shumsky, R Corsini, E Winchock;
Middle row: D Beatty, S Doremus, L Wegrzyn, R Schenck, G Gulyas, M Fassano;
Top row: E Zujkowski, T Izzo, M Vischetti, G Barna, C Tomaro

      “If you want us to host the finals you gotta let us have the best players,” growls Charlie Tomaro from the corner of his mouth opposite a stogie clamped between lips and teeth.

“My Elks might be in last place,” counters Harry Frezza slipping off a red cap and rubbing a balding pate, “but they played just as hard as your Congers.”

“Now men,”  laughs league chairman Ed Gabrielski waving away the cigar smoke, his gray hair and beard jiggling with a rotund belly. "We've always picked two players from each team.”

     The Bound Brook coaches had selected their season-ending all-stars by taking two from each team for as long as anyone could remember. The league had eight teams and international Little League rules only allowed fourteen members on the tournament teams, leaving two alternate players that could be called up if needed. Those sixteen boys, led by current and previous league champ coaches, would enter a single elimination playoff for the New Jersey championship. To win it all a team would have to prevail in nine or ten consecutive games against local, region, and district winners. The square-mile town had never gotten past the second round, much less made it to the coveted national championships held each summer in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. 

     The 1971 lineup of coaches and players read like a who's who of central Jersey history. There were old Dutch families (Doremus, Schenck, Winchock), the first to settle in what was called New Holland in the seventeenth century. Next were Italians (Corsini, Fasano, Frezza, Izzo, Pinto, Tomaro, Vischetti) fleeing poverty and finding new opportunity through St. Joseph Parish and school. Taking up the rear were eastern Europeans (Florczak, Gulyas, Shumsky, Wegrzyn) escaping inter-war oppression for a better life at St. Mary of Czestochowa church and school or the St. Andrew Ukrainian Orthodox cathedral. If you grew up in twentieth century Bound Brook you knew how to pronounce European surnames as well as how to curse in several old-world languages.

     “It’s not for my Congers,” Tomaro expounds, the Philly Blunt bobbing with each consonant. “The Lions are loaded and we need all four of their twelve-year olds.”

“Well Zujk, what say you as the all-star manager?” queries Gabrielski.

"I'm with Charlie," murmurs the immense and soft-spoken Ed Zujkowski. "Teamwork starts at the top."

The 1971 Bound Brook Little League All-Star Team:

Manager - Ed Zujkowski, Research Cottrell; Coach - Charlie Tomaro, Conroy-Efingers

Pitchers - Sean Doremus, Tri-Boro Lions; Richie Florczak, Congers
Catcher - Matt Vischetti, Bound Brook Trust Company
1st Base - Tony Izzo, Research
2nd Base - Eric Winchock, Ford Realty

3rd Base - Richie Schenck, Trust
Shortstop - Dave Beatty, Schofield Truckers
Left field - Rob Corsini, Lions 

Center field - Gordon Barna, Lions
Right field - Mike Fassano, Lions
Backups - Glen Gulyas, Research; Billy Shumsky, Truckers; Tony Thomas, B.P.O.E. Elks; Larry Wegrzyn, Congers

Alternates: Ricky Pinto, P&M Furniture; Mike Sepesi, Trust