excuse for a day camp ever seen. It wasn't much, but it was a job. Everything was going to be fine.
On the first day of camp, Nemiroff listened patiently as Uncle Bernie read off the names of his group. Schwartz. Rosenberg. Horowitz. Reuben . . . All Jewish. All ten of them. Nemiroff cursed each one of them silently as Uncle Bernie finished the list.
They lined up beside Nemiroff. Ten Jews. Why did he have to get the Jews? Couldn't he have one gentile? And why Nemiroff? How did they know? He had never said anything to Uncle Bernie about being Jewish. Was it that obvious? Nemiroff made a mental note to check himself in the mirror as soon as possible. There must be something on him somewhere that just screamed he was a Jew. Nemiroff wasn't going to take this lying down. He walked over to Uncle Bernie.
"How come I have ten Jews?" Nemiroff asked.
Uncle Bernie stared at Nemiroff. "How come you what?"
"My group," Nemiroff explained, "they're all Jewish."
"So?" He stared blankly.
"Well, couldn't I have some of the others?" Nemiroff went on. "You know, kind of mix 'em up."
"I would prefer," Uncle Bernie explained patiently, "to leave things as they are. Their parents like to know they'll make the right friends."
"What about me?" Nemiroff asked.
"You don't have to be their friend. You just have to take care of them," Uncle Bernie said. "That's why they're with you. A Jewish counselor."
"Damn," Nemiroff hissed.
"What's wrong?" Uncle Bernie asked, his patience obviously tiring.
"It's just that... well, they seem so ... unathletic. How are we supposed to compete with the other groups?"
"I think it's your imagination." He pointed to them. "Look at them. Besides, it's your job to make men out of them."
Nemiroff glanced at the ten little Jewish boys. "I'll make men out of them even if I have to cut their balls off."
Nemiroff's group hated the baseball game. Ever since the first game of the summer, when they had lost to Marshall Pace's group, Marshall Pace, the good-looking gentile with the ten gentile, athletic boys, Nemiroff had sworn to himself that his group would never win a baseball game. They didn't deserve it.
Nemiroff's group knew they weren't the hottest baseball team in camp, but they also knew that they couldn't possibly be as bad as Nemiroff made them out to be. Now they had the reputation of being the absolute worst team that ever existed, and it was all Nemiroff's fault. Nemiroff was always the umpire, and he would never let his team win. Nemiroff made them lose day after humiliating day. At first it bothered them, but after losing forty-seven games in a row they gave up caring whether they won or not. Now they just wanted to get that son of a bitch behind the plate.
The first batter stepped up to the box. Nemiroff watched as the first pitch came sailing over the plate. It was a perfect strike.
"Ball one," Nemiroff shouted. The rocks came raining in. It was going to be another miserable day of baseball for Nemiroff's group.
The second pitch came to the plate and the batter swung mightily at it and missed.
"Ball two," announced Nemiroff, and then to stop any arguments, added, "He didn't break his wrists."
The next pitch came over the plate and the batter hit a soft pop fly to the third baseman. He got under it and made an easy catch.
"Doesn't count," Nemiroff said. "Today third pitches don't count."
By the time Nemiroff's group got to bat the score was twenty-six to nothing.
Mr. Robinson was the counselor of the group that was playing Nemiroff's team today. He waited until the teams were changing sides before walking over to Nemiroff.
"How come?" Mr. Robinson asked.
"Fuck off," Nemiroff said.
"They're going to get you, you know that, don't you?" Mr. Robinson went on.
"Not if I get them first"
"What are you doing it for?" Mr. Robinson ducked to get out of the way of a few rocks that were being thrown at Nemiroff. He winced as one of the larger rocks caught Nemiroff in the side of the face.
On the first day of camp, Nemiroff listened patiently as Uncle Bernie read off the names of his group. Schwartz. Rosenberg. Horowitz. Reuben . . . All Jewish. All ten of them. Nemiroff cursed each one of them silently as Uncle Bernie finished the list.
They lined up beside Nemiroff. Ten Jews. Why did he have to get the Jews? Couldn't he have one gentile? And why Nemiroff? How did they know? He had never said anything to Uncle Bernie about being Jewish. Was it that obvious? Nemiroff made a mental note to check himself in the mirror as soon as possible. There must be something on him somewhere that just screamed he was a Jew. Nemiroff wasn't going to take this lying down. He walked over to Uncle Bernie.
"How come I have ten Jews?" Nemiroff asked.
Uncle Bernie stared at Nemiroff. "How come you what?"
"My group," Nemiroff explained, "they're all Jewish."
"So?" He stared blankly.
"Well, couldn't I have some of the others?" Nemiroff went on. "You know, kind of mix 'em up."
"I would prefer," Uncle Bernie explained patiently, "to leave things as they are. Their parents like to know they'll make the right friends."
"What about me?" Nemiroff asked.
"You don't have to be their friend. You just have to take care of them," Uncle Bernie said. "That's why they're with you. A Jewish counselor."
"Damn," Nemiroff hissed.
"What's wrong?" Uncle Bernie asked, his patience obviously tiring.
"It's just that... well, they seem so ... unathletic. How are we supposed to compete with the other groups?"
"I think it's your imagination." He pointed to them. "Look at them. Besides, it's your job to make men out of them."
Nemiroff glanced at the ten little Jewish boys. "I'll make men out of them even if I have to cut their balls off."
Nemiroff's group hated the baseball game. Ever since the first game of the summer, when they had lost to Marshall Pace's group, Marshall Pace, the good-looking gentile with the ten gentile, athletic boys, Nemiroff had sworn to himself that his group would never win a baseball game. They didn't deserve it.
Nemiroff's group knew they weren't the hottest baseball team in camp, but they also knew that they couldn't possibly be as bad as Nemiroff made them out to be. Now they had the reputation of being the absolute worst team that ever existed, and it was all Nemiroff's fault. Nemiroff was always the umpire, and he would never let his team win. Nemiroff made them lose day after humiliating day. At first it bothered them, but after losing forty-seven games in a row they gave up caring whether they won or not. Now they just wanted to get that son of a bitch behind the plate.
The first batter stepped up to the box. Nemiroff watched as the first pitch came sailing over the plate. It was a perfect strike.
"Ball one," Nemiroff shouted. The rocks came raining in. It was going to be another miserable day of baseball for Nemiroff's group.
The second pitch came to the plate and the batter swung mightily at it and missed.
"Ball two," announced Nemiroff, and then to stop any arguments, added, "He didn't break his wrists."
The next pitch came over the plate and the batter hit a soft pop fly to the third baseman. He got under it and made an easy catch.
"Doesn't count," Nemiroff said. "Today third pitches don't count."
By the time Nemiroff's group got to bat the score was twenty-six to nothing.
Mr. Robinson was the counselor of the group that was playing Nemiroff's team today. He waited until the teams were changing sides before walking over to Nemiroff.
"How come?" Mr. Robinson asked.
"Fuck off," Nemiroff said.
"They're going to get you, you know that, don't you?" Mr. Robinson went on.
"Not if I get them first"
"What are you doing it for?" Mr. Robinson ducked to get out of the way of a few rocks that were being thrown at Nemiroff. He winced as one of the larger rocks caught Nemiroff in the side of the face.
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