"Brian Check, Please!"

I started off early in life, conjoined to my older brother Brian, via glove: baseball glove, that is. In our baseball-ready family of nine kids, Brian and I were the two southpaws, or lefties. Not too far into life, we would be able to align ourselves with the great Sandy Koufax, one of the most dominant southpaws of his era and-gasp-a Los Angeles Dodger.

This would have occurred back in my unenlightened days. Nonetheless, here was an athlete who retired at the remarkable age of thirty, so as not to risk permanent damage to his left arm, in the pre-Tommy John days of long ago, at the top of his game.

The glove we shared, of course, belonged to Brian, the idea of actually acquiring my own never seeming to crop up on the radar. Therefore, by definition, Brian and I were always on opposite teams: We had to be in order to share the glove.

The glove was not mine by right; it was mine only by the grace of Brian’s good will. Possessing it came with certain stipulations, an infraction against any one of which, was enough to lose the privilege. The cardinal rule was to never let the mitt touch the ground. Tossing it to Brian as I raced off the field was a no-no: Handing it to him directly was the proper protocol.

I did try my best to remember this rule. Alas and alack! What can I say?

The second rule was connected to the third one: Do not mess with the laces and KEEP THE GLOVE OUT OF MY MOUTH. I mean, what else was there to do out there by the concrete water tank in right field, while waiting for some action?

We played ball all summer long, either on the vacant lot next door, or across the street, on another vacant lot. The two venues weren’t perfect, but then, they didn’t have to be. We were extremely good at innovation, in an age where electronics consisted of transistor radios and hand-held calculators, the latter making the slide rule obsolete. 

With so many kids in the family, luxuries were few and far between, and thus all the more cherished. Playing baseball with neighboring kids, and being able to keep it going all day if we wanted, if Mama’s chore lists were taken care of, was priceless.

Not too far into life, Brian and I became attached in another way because we both worked for Augie, I mean, Sunrize Market. Augustus Ramirez was the manager and Brian’s mentor, and he groomed Brian to be a polished grocery man. Brian, in turn, groomed me.

We both came to work in tennis shoes, and hustling from the back of the store to the front, when the announcements, “Brian check, please! Mark box, please!” boomed out, was not only encouraged, it was expected. We would holler from the back of the store, "Coming up!"

The uniform: dress slacks, white shirt
 and tie.

Augie was on record as saying, "If it's a Kennedy, vote for him; if it's an O'Neill, hire him. There were five O'Neill boys employed under Sunrize Market's domain one summer, counting Noel woking in the meat department, and Matt and Tom serving as bottle boys and alley-sweepers. We all hustled.

That’s how I clawed my way up, on the time schedule, to head box-boy: by hustling. Head box-boys got any choice hours that were to be had, and never had to mop or clean the bathrooms, unless there were no other peons around. 

Brian and I team-tagged Sundays, where every week with a skeleton crew, we would manage to condense all of the remaining merchandise in the backroom, to make ready for Monday morning’s delivery of reinforcements.

I lost my head box-boy status at one point to Jimmy Richardson, because I came back from a three-week jaunt to NorCal and Oregon, with three weeks’ worth of fiery red beard. I’m not sure what I was thinking-or expecting-when I showed up to work with sideburns down to my navel and a ‘stache.

Earth to Mark: Seriously? Augie was not impressed.

After I became an apprentice, and learned to use the cash register in the pre-computer days, when you had to enter each price “by hand,” there were Sundays when the only time I left the cash register was to enjoy one of Carl’s Sunday feasts.

Carl worked in the meat department, and when he was in the house, he was certain to hook us up with something tasty. If Carl wasn’t there, then you had Dale, one of the box-boys, sticking TV dinners in the oven for his lunch.

When spotted once by visiting brass putting four of the Banquet specials into the oven, Dale was asked, “Putting lunch on for the crew?” He stifled a smirk and responded, “Actually, this is my lunch,” and strolled past without looking back.

 

"One large combo pizza and a meat ball sandwich,
please." "Is there someone joining you, Sir?" "Uh, no.
I'm just hungry..."

For me one of the coolest connections with Brian was Pompeii Pizza, right around the corner, where Augie had his own table. Here he held court and those of us in the inner circle had a standing invitation to join him. You achieved entry into the inner circle in one way only: by dint of hard work. Brian and I had lifetime membership cards.

Once there, I was never allowed to pay for anything. 

Somewhere in the fall of 1971, I chose to ignore a generic notice from the admissions office at Cal Poly, Pomona, warning me that I had neglected to swing by the infirmary and get the mandatory chest x-ray, required of all students.

I think it was part of a bigger plan, but nonetheless, it was enough to cost me my school deferment from the draft.

Next: Military Madness and Brian’s connection