A contemporary American classic — a poignant and hilarious tale of baseball, hero worship, eccentric behavior, and unlikely friendship Last Days of Summer is the story of Joey Margolis, neighborhood punching bag, growing up goofy and mostly fatherless in Brooklyn in the early 1940s. A boy looking for a hero, Joey decides to latch on to Charlie Banks, the all-star third basemen for the New York Giants. But Joey's chosen champion doesn't exactly welcome the extreme attention of a persistent young fan with an overactive imagination. Then again, this strange, needy kid might be exactly what Banks needs. “Funny and poignant.” - USA Today “You’ll fly through Last Days of Summer. It is compelling, irreverent, and will break your heart.” - Dallas Morning News “Hilarious . . . if you need to really laugh, to root for a kid who smart-mouths his way through what could have been a truly crummy childhood, read this book. If you need to remember what it’s like to idolize someone and not be disappointed, read this book . . . don’t blame me if, in the end, you’re wiping away a few tears, and wishing these guys (and their gals) were real.” - Detroit News Last Days of Summer is the story of Joey Margolis, neighborhood punching bag, growing up goofy and mostly fatherless in Brooklyn in the early 1940s. A boy looking for a hero, Joey decides to latch on to Charlie Banks, the all-star third baseman for the New York Giants. But Joey's chosen champion doesn't exactly welcome the extreme attention of a persistent young fan with an overactive imagination. Then again, this strange, needy kid might be exactly what Banks needs. Steve Kluger has written extensively on subjects as far-ranging as World War II, rock 'n' roll, and the Titanic , and as close to the heart as baseball and the Boston Red Sox. He lives in Santa Monica, California. Last Days of Summer A Novel By Steve Kluger Harper Paperbacks Copyright © 2008 Steve Kluger All right reserved. ISBN: 978-0-06-156481-9 Prologue The White House November 26, 1936 Dear Joseph: Please allow me to express my deepest gratitude for the dollar you contributed to my campaign. Although I have indeed considered lowering the voting age as you suggest, I am afraid I would have to draw the line at eighteen. Nine is out of the question. I wish it weren't. In any event, I am touched by your support. Mrs. Roosevelt joins me in thanking you for your kind words. I hope that the next four years will justify your continued faith in us. Yours very truly, Franklin D. Roosevelt It's funny how the years have changed everything about Brooklyn geography. Time was when uptown meant Nathan's - if you were in the mood for an orange pop, a neurotic hot dog, and some front-line scuttlebut from a lonesome GI - or the old Paramount, where Veronica Lake once sold war bonds and kisses, and nearly financed the entire Normandy invasion herself. The business district was really the Citizen-News building, where if you hung around long enough and practiced your eavesdropping you might learn that Bataan wasn't just the name of a movie; and downtown, of course, was Flatbush, where on the Fourth of July the 433rd Infantry marched from Grand Army Plaza to Anzio with only an Irving Berlin cadence pointing them in the right direction. Slugger Banks Whips Iowa City 5-0 Springfield, Ill., May 14 - Nineteen-year-old rookie sensation Charlie Banks propelled the Springfield Bluejackets to an easy win over Iowa City here, with a solo haymaker in the second inning and a slammer at the bottom of the eighth. The volatile third baseman has become something of a local legend since early April, when he failed to make the squad cut during tryouts but was issued a uniform regardless after refusing to get off the team bus. Brooklyn is where I grew up. It's where I learned what a storm trooper was, what an egg cream was, what "flak attack" meant, and what rubbers were used for outside of keeping your feet dry. It's where I discovered the true market value of a steelie versus an aggie and the queasy sounds your stomach made whenever you saw a hundred thousand hobnail boots goose-stepping through the Path News. It's where any kid could tell you that "Captain Colin Kelly shot a tiger in the belly, then he sent the ship Haruna to the bottom of the sea" but not know the capital of Michigan. It's where the nearest you were likely to get to heaven was smelling the popcorn at Luna Park, or seeing a real-life Dauntless dive-bomber - blue with white trim - taking off from the Navy Yard, or falling asleep with your blackout curtains drawn tight while Glenn Miller played "Moonlight Serenade" over the radio, live from the still waters of the Glen Island Casino ("mecca of music for moderns"). Brooklyn is also where I learned that I was a kike, that my second-to-best-friend was a Nip, and that my father was never coming back home. "Nana Bert, is my Dad there?" "He's busy, dear. We're going to Monte Carlo, but