“Seat too high?”
“It’s fine,” I said.
“Try the brakes,” he instructed. I did, and the bike dutifully stopped. “Not too jerky?”
“No,” I said. “What’s this?” I pushed a lever, causing a bell to ring. “Cool.”
“Well, you better get back to work,” my mother said. “So we can afford that new bike.”
My father kissed her goodbye and rubbed my hair. “Have fun at Ernie’s,” he said. “I want to hear all about your big day when I get home.”
My mother walked and jogged beside me as I rode the bike on the sidewalk. She didn’t want me to ride it in the street. The only tricky part of our journey was crossing the El Camino Real, which divided west Burlingame from east Burlingame. The El Camino was a four-lane roller coaster of bumps and dips caused by the roots of eucalyptus trees that lined each side of the street. I had never crossed the El Camino on bike or on foot. There had never been a reason. We waited at the corner until the traffic light changed, then crossed. Nothing to it.
Several turns and a few blocks later, I saw Ernie riding his bike up and down a short driveway and making U-turns in a cul-de-sac. When he saw me coming, he dropped the bike in the street and ran to greet me. His mother chased after him. “Ernie, how many times have I told you not to leave your bike in the street?”
“Cool bike,” Ernie said, reaching us. I swelled with pride.
My mom stayed for a few minutes talking to Mrs. Cantwell, but when Mrs. Cantwell asked if she’d like to have lunch, I looked at her with alarm. This was my day with Ernie. I didn’t want my mom there.
“I have a few errands to run,” she said. “Why don’t you just call when it’s time for Sam to come home?”
Ernie’s mom made us boiled hot dogs, potato chips, and grape juice, which we ate at a picnic table in his backyard. At one point Ernie made me laugh so hard the juice shot out my nose, staining my shirt, but I didn’t care. After lunch, he wanted to play baseball. I’d played a few times with my dad, but I wasn’t very good at catching or throwing.
“I didn’t bring my glove,” I said.
“I have two,” Ernie said. And before I could come up with another excuse, he had run into his garage and emerged with two well-used mitts, a bat, a ball, and two black-and-orange Giants baseball caps, shoving one on my head. I looked around the small patch of lawn beside the concrete patio.
“We might break a window,” I said.
“We’ll go to the park,” he said. “It’s just down the street.”
With that he ran to the front yard, where we’d left our bikes.
“Should we tell your mom?”
“It’s okay. I know the way.”
Following Ernie’s lead, I hung the mitt by the strap on my handlebars. “How far is it?” I asked.
“It’s close,” he said and pedaled off down the street.
Village Park wasn’t far, but getting there involved several turns on winding streets. When we arrived, Ernie dropped his bike on the lawn just inside a gap in a chain-link fence. I carefully lowered the kickstand, not wanting to scratch the paint of my new bike. Except for a man chasing his dog and a couple lying on a blanket reading books, we had the park to ourselves. We set up in a corner facing the south fence, which towered nearly as high as the two-story house behind it. Ernie said he’d watched other boys set up so that when they hit the ball it would bounce off that fence.
“I’ll go first,” he said.
I was relieved. I had no idea what he meant to do. I stood at the base of the fence as Ernie walked perhaps forty feet and dropped his mitt. “Okay?” he yelled.