The first time I met him we were trying out for a sandlot baseball team named The Angels. He made a great backhand stop deep in the hole at short, causing him to throw off balance, and I had to scoop his throw out of the dirt at first. He tipped his hat to me. I tipped mine back, and that was the beginning of the relationship I had with my friend and teammate Rudy.
We played for a team that would win the All Brooklyn Intermediate Kiwanis League Baseball Championship later that summer. It was an impressive feat, which would have been even more impressive had we faced their number-one pitcher, Sandy Koufax. Fortunately for us Sandy had to go on vacation with his parents and wasn¹t available for the game.
I used to tell Rudy that in retrospect I wish Koufax had pitched so that I could say later on in years that I once batted against Sandy Koufax, one of the greatest pitchers in major league history. Rudy would smile sarcastically and say:
“Sure, Joe, I would sooooo look forward to telling everyone that I struck out four times in the biggest game of my life. That would be almost as good as confessing that I lost my virginity to a blow-up doll I happened to find in my older brother’s closet.”
Rudy had a really dry sense of humor. He wasn’t laugh out loud funny, but when the occasion arose he could take a specific moment and make it epic. One summer day after spending hours at the beach in Coney Island we stopped at a tent that advertised “The Greatest Freak Show In The World.”
We weren¹t too impressed with acts like the bearded lady or the smallest person in the world, but when they introduced The Amazing Half Woman/Half Man, Rudy took notice, and I began to worry. The performer looked like a man who had shaved half his body so it looked feminine, and let hair grow over the other half to look like a man. First he showed his shaved leg, then his hairy leg while announcing, “Thisa leg isa woman… thisa leg isa man,” and proceeded with those comparisons as he displayed different parts of his body. I could tell there was something fermenting in Rudy’s mind by the mischievous grin on his face. When he tapped me on the shoulder and said he’d be back in a minute I knew he was up to something.
A moment later, when he stepped out from the curtain directly behind the half man/woman with his pant legs rolled up to his thighs, sleeves rolled up to his armpits and T-shirt rolled up above his stomach I knew I’d better get ready to run like hell.
When the performer exposed his chest and said, “Thisa breast isa woman, Thisa breast isa man,” Rudy jumped in front of him, pointed to one of his own legs, and said, “This is my left leg,” pointed to the other, and said, “This is my right leg,” then pointed back over his shoulder to the man/woman who was cupping his hands under both of his nipples and said, “AND THIS, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, NO MATTER WHAT HE TELLS YOU IS THE BIGGEST BOOB I’VE EVER SEEN!”
A half mile later when we were sure they¹d stopped chasing us and ended our frantic run, huffing and puffing heavily, trying to catch our breaths, I was beside myself.
“Rudy, what the hell was that all about? You could have gotten us killed!”
“Sorry, Joe, I was afraid the next thing he was going to do was tuck his wingwang between his thighs and say `thisa crotch isa woman,’ and I didn’t want to see him pop it out from between his legs with the words, ‘Thisa crotch isa male.’”
Rudy didn’t do those kinds of things very often, but when he did it was always a big one… unlike the half woman/half man’s wingwang. Rudy had a strong sense and belief in himself that no one could shake, and he would stand up and prove it to anyone if they thought otherwise. When we tried out for our high school baseball team the coach would post the names of the guys who were cut from the squad each day after practice. On the next-to-last cut I was dismayed to find our names on the list.
“Well, I guess that’s that,” I said to Rudy after we read the list.
“No it’s not!” he said adamantly. “You and I are going to the last tryout tomorrow anyway. Someone has to show the coach what a mistake he’s making. And another thing — I HATE FREAKING LISTS! I hate being on them. I hate being taken off them if I’m on them. As far as I¹m concerned the only reason people make lists is to separate us from one another. The world would be a better place if everyone practiced inclusion rather than exclusion.”
Going to tryouts after being cut is something I never could have done on my own, but Rudy insisted so strongly that I went along with him the next day, not knowing what to expect, but never in a million years could I have predicted how it would actually turn out.
“Why are you here?” the coach asked when we walked onto the field.
“To show you what a huge mistake you made yesterday,” Rudy answered.
“Who are you to tell me how to pick my team?”
“I’m the guy who’s not going to leave the field until you see how good we are.”
The coach stood there staring Rudy down, but when Rudy didn’t flinch, the coach said, “All right, as long as you’re here you might as well play in the inter-squad game today,” before putting his nose right up to Rudy’s and with a hint of sarcasm growled, “LET’S SEE HOW WRONG I WAS!!!!”
That was one of the best days Rudy and I ever had playing together. We both had three hits going into the last inning. The game was tied; the other squad had men on first and second with none out when the batter hit a scorching line drive over the bag at second. Rudy dove head first in a cloud of dust, knocked the ball down, picked it up while lying across the bag – out number one – and threw to first from his knees. The throw was high, forcing me to leap, twist in the air, and bring the tag down on the batter’s shoulder – out number two – at which point I saw the runner from second racing towards home. Landing back on my feet I threw a dart to home plate and caught the runner by a stride – out number three. Rudy and I had pulled off a triple play. In the bottom of the ninth, after two were out, I hit a line drive single over third, and on the first pitch Rudy followed up with a triple into right center that allowed me to trot home easily with the winning run. After we’d packed our duffle bags and were leaving the field Rudy walked over to the coach and said:
“That’s the kind of baseball you’ll get from Joe and me if we’re on the team. Maybe you should think about it before you list the last squad cuts tomorrow.” Then he put his arm around my shoulder and as we walked away said to me in a voice loud enough for the coach to hear:
“I’m thinking of switching schools to play for a coach who knows what the heck he’s doing. Want to join me, Joe?” The next day our names had been taken off the cut list, and we both became starters on the team.
I always admired how Rudy was never let down by situations that he couldn’t control. He had a knack for finding a way to change them for the better. At one of the first school dances we attended when we were in our early teens the teachers running the event created a dance list matching up different boys and girls in order to encourage us to dance with each other. The girl who was chosen to dance with Rudy was what we called “stuck up” back then and made it clear that she thought she was better than everyone else.
When he reached out to take her hand she jumped back abruptly and, in a
voice loud enough for everyone to hear, said:
“I WOULDN’T DANCE WITH YOU IF YOU RODE UP ON A UNICORN, THREW ME OVER YOUR SHOULDER, AND HELD ME THERE WHILE YOU TRIED TO DANCE… WHICH I’M SURE YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO DO!”
I was so embarrassed for my friend that I grabbed his arm and tried to usher him out of there quietly, but Rudy wouldn’t have any of that. Instead he walked back up to her, flashed a beaming smile, and said:
“Wow, what a beautiful Unicorn. Did you see it?”
“What Unicorn?” she answered indignantly.
“The one I just jumped off of. If you hadn’t been flapping your mouth so loud and saying such awful things you wouldn’t have missed him.”
Then to everyone’s astonishment, especially hers, he picked her up, threw her over his shoulder, hopped out onto the dance floor, and commenced to do the twist while bouncing her up and down on his shoulder. When the song ended he hopped back over to where she’d been, placed her down gently, bowed graciously, and said:
“Now if you’re extra nice I’ll ask my unicorn to fly back here and take you for a ride.” Then he strode over to where the list was hanging, tore it from the wall, and threw it in the nearest wastepaper basket while hissing:
“I hate freaking lists.”
I know it doesn’t seem so from the way I’ve described Rudy, but most of the time he was a quiet, unassuming person — unless an indignity was perpetrated upon him, or anyone else for that matter.
Our birthdays were a few days apart, and to celebrate our fifteenth we went to a Yankee game with our baseball gloves one delightfully sunny Sunday hoping to catch a foul ball. The gods must have been shining on us that day because Derek Jeter hit a ninth-inning home run to win the game that landed right in Rudy’s glove. And if that wasn’t enough, we were able to get Derek Jeter to sign the ball after the game.
Riding the subway on the way home Rudy couldn’t stop kissing the ball and smiling at me, much to the admiration of a 9-year-old boy sitting across the aisle with his mom, wearing a Yankees cap and holding a baseball glove. At one point a group of older guys ran by; they were causing a disturbance, making a lot of noise, and they grabbed the boy’s cap and glove and leapt from the train just as the doors closed. I watched not knowing what to do as the boy’s mom tried unsuccessfully to comfort her son. Then to my surprise Rudy went over to him, handed him his own Yankees cap and glove, placed the baseball in the glove, said a few words to the mom which brought a smile and tear to her eye, and sat back down next to me.
On the way home from the train station I couldn’t contain myself and finally asked with exasperation:
“RUDY, ARE YOU NUTS? Do you know how much money that ball will be worth some day?”
He didn’t miss a step, just kept walking, and answered, “Not worth nearly as much as the smile I got from that little boy when I handed him the ball, Joe — not even close.”
After we both got married and had children of our own we found it more and more difficult to find time to get together. We stayed in touch mostly through email and Facebook. Every once in a while I would receive an email with some sort of list attached that he’d received from someone. The email consisted of just four words:
“I HATE FREAKING LISTS!”
Some time ago when he stopped answering my emails my worst fears were confirmed. My buddy Rudy had passed away. Although we hadn’t spent much time together in recent years, I know that my world won’t be the same without him. I can only hope that he’s riding a beautiful unicorn somewhere in the heavens and setting things right as he always had a way of doing. I also hope this doesn’t piss him off, because as much as I know he’d hate it, I can’t help but send him this one last message:
“Rudy, I¹ve created a list of my own. It’s a list of the best friends I ever had, and I’d like you to know that YOU’RE NUMBER ONE ON MY LIST.”
One Last Thought
A while ago I received a comment from one of my readers that said, “Joe, you call your blog ‘Laugh with Joe,’ but every once in a while it leaves me with a tear in my eye.” I had that comment in mind while writing about Rudy and struggled with whether I should mention his passing or not. After some consideration I realized that in order to truly honor Rudy’s memory I would be remiss were I to hide any of the feelings, whether glad or sad, that I experienced in our long, rewarding friendship — so I apologize in advance if this leaves you with a tear or two, but I can assure you it won’t come close to the tears I’ve shed over the loss of my good friend.
josephf14 
You’re a gem!!
Keep writing …. and singing!