This one definitely wants to be more. This is more of the outline/section of a larger story about the West End of Boston, Hank Greenberg and Boston as the world was preparing for war. This draft feels like it needs a lot of work and yet... the point here is to get the ideas down, not to edit or revise... yet. I do know this, I need to spend some time learning more about the West End of Boston as well aas some time at the Vilna Shul museum.
**********
Dad winked at Max.
“If we ‘forget’ to turn the radio off, then mom can’t object if we listen to the game tomorrow,” he said.
Max knew that look and the tone in his dad’s voice. It was his way of getting around what he called “mom’s crazy Orthodoxy.”
Both of Max's parents came over to America when they were little. My dad’s family from Germany, my mom’s from Lithuania.
They grew up in the West End of Boston, across the canal from the Irish in Charlestown. But Max's dad’s family moved to an emerging Jewish community in Brookline while his mom’s family chose to stay in the community that had become a “little Vilna.”
It was hard sometimes. His dad’s family spoke English and changed their name from Berg to Mountain. They were Americans that happened to be Jewish while his mom’s family still spoke Yiddish and talked about going home one day even as they refused to move from the community that had been the only home they had known since coming to American and the only one I had ever known.
The one thing both families agreed on was “The Hebrew Hammer,” Hank Greenberg. The Jewish player from the Detroit Tigers. He was a leader to show the world that Jews were just like everyone else.
While his dad was a steadfast Red Sox fan, all of Max's community cheered for Hammering Hank. When boys played stick ball with in the schoolyard or street, no one wanted to be Ed Morgan if they were playing first, they all wanted to be Hank Greenberg. He was one of them. He was that Orthodox Jew that became what all of us wanted to be: an all- American guy.
“What am I hearing?” my mother said as she bustled into the room. Her wig was a little askew as she looked at my father. It was her “I mean business look.”
“Ruth, Ruth, Ruth,” my father started, “if the Rabbis say that Hank Greenberg can play on Rosh HaShannah, then we can leave the radio on and listen when we come home from shul.”
Max waited for the Yiddish to start. Whenever my mother was mad or disagreed with my dad, she would argue with him in Yiddish. Instead she looked at him long and hard. Then she looked at me.
“Ima,” Max started, “it’s Hank Greenberg. His Ima is letting him play today. His Rabbi is letting him play. I’m not asking to play today, only to listen while he plays the Red Sox to see what happens.”
As she looked at me with her hands on her hips, I noticed she had her wooden spoon in her hand. I realized she had been cooking when Abba turned on the radio.
“I have to finish the kugel for tomorrow,” she said looking at me. She left the room and my father gave me another friendly wink.
“Good job Max.”
I smiled.
“I am always amazed at how Tom Yawkey was able to recover so quickly from that fire last January so that we were able to go to games this summer. That’s because when people are industrious, even in these times, they find a way to make things work. If you learn one thing from baseball my son, I hope that is it.”
“Ima doesn’t like baseball, does she?”
“Ima doesn’t understand baseball.”
“Why?”
Max's father thought a while as he listened to the low voices from the radio to make sure the right station was on.
“My parents came from Germany. They understood that leaving Germany meant leaving what they knew. They were starting new in this country. They saw opportunity for their children. The were coming to something. Your mother’s family came from Lithuania. They fled to to this country to escape from the pograms. The Tsar’s soldiers, the angry people in the village that blamed the Jews for everything that went wrong and gave them no credit for what went right. They came to America to be safe. It’s about are you looking forward or looking back.”
“Is that why Papa and Nana moved to Brookline while Tzadye and Bubbe stayed here?”
“Papa teaches at Harvard, Tzadye’s business is here.”
“But Papa could live here like you do. You teach at Boston Latin and live here.”
His father smiled.
“Max, one day I hope you will go to college and be more than I can imagine you’d ever be. It is why I want you to study hard and learn well. Your mother hopes for you to be a doctor or a lawyer, someone who is respected and well loved in the community. Like baseball, she doesn’t understand America the way I do.”
“You look forward.”
He smiled.
“I look forward, as should you.”
“Tzayde says as good as Hank Greenberg is, I spend too much time thinking about baseball and not enough about Torah.”
“What did you say to him?”
Max shrugged.
“I didn’t say anything really. No matter what I say, he’ll still say I don’t study enough Torah.”
My father laughed.
“Good strategy.”
“Why is it OK for Hank Greenberg to play baseball on Rosh HaShannah?”
“Because some Rabbis understand that we need leaders and heroes, just like Juddah Maccabee and King David had to break the rules, sometimes so do our modern heroes. Do you think any Jewish kids in America will doubt how important the holidays are after this?”
Max thought for a moment. “I guess not. I mean, he plays and travels on Saturdays instead of going to Shul. I’m sure his family studies Torah like the rest of us but during the baseball season, he’s a baseball player.”
“What does that tell you?”
“He works hard to be such a good player. If G-d gave him the ability to be a good player so that Jewish kids have a role model, then wouldn’t it be a sin to waste that?”
“That’s how you should be thinking Max. Our Creator gave us common sense, skill and intelligence. It would be a shande not to use those things or to listen to those that show us how to use those things.”
“So why do people like Tzayde get upset that he is playing on Rosh Hashannah? Originally he wasn’t going to, but his rabbis said his team needed him. So why do people get upset when his rabbi said it was OK?”
“That is the question isn’t it?”
Max looked at his father.
With a sigh his father continued, “One thing you can count on with Jews is that we always disagree. When you study Talmud, you see how the rabbis argue through the ages about everything… it doesn’t matter if it’s from whether the Hannukah candles are lit from left to right or right to left, if there’s a question, we will debate and argue it.”
Max thought for a moment.
“Dad, why are you a Red Sox instead of a Braves fan?”
“I hadn’t thought about that.” He stroked his between his thumb and forefinger for a while thinking. “I guess,” he finally said,
“because your grandfather took me to a Red Sox game instead of a Braves game. He loved the look of Fenway Park. It opened the same year we moved to Boston so he feels like Fenway is a part of his identity as an American. I was just a kid, but my dad was determined that I be like any other boy in the neighborhood, so that summer he took me to some Red Sox games.”
“So if he took you to Braves game we might be Braves fans?”
“And if I had a million dollars I might be Mr. Rockefeller.”
Max laughed. His father was full of those sorts of things when he asked him “if” questions like that.
They sat quietly in the front room, something that he and his father liked to do a lot. The apartment was full of good smells, his mother’s apple kugel and roasted chicken. He could hear Bubbe and his mother arguing in the kitchen like they always did.
His little sister, Sarah, was probably trying to knead the rich challah egg bread or roll out pie crust for the apple pie his mother always made for Rosh Hashannah. His baby brother Saul was most likely sleeping in the basket in a corner of the kitchen out of the way but where his mother could still keep a watchful eye.
Their little apartment felt comfortable, it felt like home. His grandparents lived next door but were in their apartment more often than not. He knew Tzayde would soon be home from his cobbler’s shop and clean up before coming over to signal the men would walk to shul to start the holiday.
“Is this what Vilna feels like?”
“I don’t know Max, I’ve never been to Vilna. But this does feel like home to me.”
“Do you think Hank Greenberg’s home feels like this?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never met the man or his family to ask. I suspect that before he was famous that yes, he did grow up in a place like this.”
“Will I be a great baseball player one day?”
“Who knows. Even if you work hard, you may never be a ball player, but if you study hard, you will always be a great scholar. Remember Max, smart is not something you are, it’s something you get. All of us have gifts given to us and we need to work harder to develop the things that don’t come easy and yet we always have options.”
Max nodded as his father smiled.
“Would you be mad if I went to New York University, like Hank Greenberg did, instead of Harvard or Yale?”
His father looked at him.
“In six or seven years, when we have to decide on a college, we can think about it then. By then you will know if you want to be a doctor or a lawyer or a teacher or even a baseball player. Perhaps you will choose to be a rabbi. Perhaps you will choose to be something else. You’ll figure it out when it’s time but for now let’s get ready for the holiday, it will be dark before long.”
Max stood up from the chair and began to move towards his bedroom. At the living room door he stopped and turned around.
“Abba.”
“Yes Max.”
“Thank you for letting me listen to baseball.”
His father smiled.
“Every boy needs a hero, I’m glad that Hammering Hank is yours. Now go get ready.”
Max ran back and hugged his father.
“Thank you Abba.”
“I love you too Max.”
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Monday, November 7, 2011
Story Six: The Date
The story of a first date.... I think this actually wants to be something larger, but right now it's just a snapshot of the date.
************
With the exception of her brothers’ little league games, Amanda had never been to a baseball game before and would have been content to go through life without ever stepping foot in Fenway Park, but a bet was a bet and she lost.
It started in the school cafeteria that day when Jerry Schwartz and his friends had taken over the table she and her friends normally ate at. He said they’d leave if she’d go on a date with him. She told him she’d arm wrestle him for the table and if she won, he’d leave her and her friends alone the rest of the year. If she lost, they’d leave the table and she’d go on a date with him. Since she could beat her brother who was a fullback on the school football team, she wasn’t worried.
Not only was she surprised that Jerry pinned her almost immediately, but as he picked up his tray, he said, “I’ll pick you up 4, I like to get to Fenway in time for batting practice.”
What could she do? A bet was a bet and she lost and now here she was, standing outside the gates set up on Yawkey Way with Jerry. His longish dark hair poked out willy nilly from under the ever present dark blue baseball cap with the red “B.” His lopsided grin was as goofy as she ever saw on his face as he handed their tickets to the man with the handheld scanner. The security person did a quick check of her backpack before affixing a bright orange tag to indicate his approval of her bag’s contents.
Jerry grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the large red brick arches. As bright as the outside was, the inside felt enclosed and dark as they headed down a ramp into the heart of the park with the crowd.
“My dad has had season tickets forever but he can’t stand when teams like the Royals or Mariners come to town. He only wants to see the top performing teams. The seats are amazing, you can see pretty much the whole park from them. They’re in the lower box behind first base.”
“This means something to me how?” she rolled her eyes at his excitement.
“Haven’t you ever been here before?”
“Um, no. I don’t do baseball, basketball, football or hockey. I don’t do lacrosse, soccer or anything else. I go to the ballet. I go to plays. I go to the symphony. I don’t do sports.”
“That makes this so much better than I thought! I can’t wait to see your face when you see inside the park! Seriously, I want you to tell me what you think when you first come inside.” He began to pull her towards a ramp out of the concession area and into the stadium itself.
“I said a date, not a drag. You could slow it down a bit.”
The grin spread across his face again.
“But of course.” He bowed and swept his arms out to indicate the directions she should go. She walked past him and up the ramp. At the top, she stopped. It took her a moment to catch her breath.
“What do you think?”
“It’s so … green.” Everywhere she looked, she saw the color green. The field, the walls, the trim on the walls that surrounded the seats and balconies through out the park.
“Bill Lee, a pitcher from the 70’s, once said you should enter a ball park the way you enter a church. I’ve always felt you should enter Fenway the way you enter a cathedral.”
She looked around at the men on the field casually tossing the ball around and laughing easily with each other. She saw people starting to filter in. The swarmed in like ants filling the stands as she watched.
“Come on, the seats are over here. Not only that, you’ll have a great view of practice.”
The older usher lead them to their seats, wiping it down before she sat in the seat.
“Thank you,” Amanda automatically answered.
“I get the impression you’re impressed,” Jerry said.
“This is all a little more overwhelming than I expected.”
“Maybe, by the end of the night, you’ll be a fan.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself there pal. I agreed to a date, nothing more.”
“Fair enough but I’ll keep explaining things to you as we go along to help you enjoy the game.”
Amanda rolled her eyes, “Whatever.”
Through out the evening, Jerry kept his promise, explaining aspects of the game as they went along. The way the players would shift in the field when certain batters came to the plate. He explained the little dance that would play out in front of them at first base when the batter would take a lead and the pitcher would throw back to the base to keep him close.
“Why isn’t there a clock?” she asked at one point.
“That’s one of the beautiful things about this game,” he replied. “Sometimes the game will fly by, sometimes it feel like it will never end. You have low scoring games that are pitcher’s duels. Sometimes you have high scoring home run derbies. It’s really quite zen in how it all unfolds and no two games are alike.”
“It’s soothing,” she said absently.
Jerry smiled.
“Why did you want to go on a date with me?”
Jerry was surprised. He stammered a little, “Um… well, I guess because you’re interesting.”
“Then why didn’t you just ask?”
“I did.”
“No, you set up a confrontation.”
He shrugged and grinned, “Maybe I didn’t think you’d go out with me.”
“Why not?”
All of a sudden, he jumped up with the rest of the crowd around them as the batter at the plate hit the ball hard enough for it to sail deep into the yard before bouncing off the large green scoreboard and ricocheting back onto the field. The outfielder threw it back in, but the handsome man in the Red Sox uniform was standing on second base, brushing the dirt from the field off his uniform as the crowd cheered.
As they sat back down, Jerry watched the game for a bit while Amanda waited for him to answer.
“Why not?” she asked again.
“Because, you’re a bit of snob.”
“What?!”
“Think about it, you hang out with your friends who are all dressed just so. You guys talk about NPR, ballet, community service, yadda yadda yadda. You go to dances but not sporting events. You sit in the front of the room and take notes instead of joining in with the kids who have a bit fun. Why would someone like you want to go out with a goofy guy like me? I figured if I appealed to your pride, maybe you’d give me shot.”
Amanda was shocked. She never saw herself as a snob, she just saw herself as Amanda.
“I thought that maybe if I could get you to come to a game with me, you’d see that there’s a beauty in athletes and an athleticism in beauty. Think about the Boston Ballet performances you go to and look out how Dustin Pedroia plays that spot between first and second bases. When you see him leap or dive, is it any less beautiful than watching a ballerina leap? Just watch for a little and see what I’m talking about.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“I know and I also know that if I walked up to you and asked if you wanted to come to a game, you’d say no. If I offered to take you to the ballet which, by the way, my folks also have a season subscription for and I go to pretty regularly as well as for Huntington Theatre Company, the Bruins and a bunch of museum memberships, you’d go.”
She sat in stunned silence. He was right, she would have said yes to those things.
“What if sports don’t interest me?”
“Why? My hope is that when you leave tonight thinking about coming back or watching a game. Maybe, just maybe you’ll be able to understand a bit more and then your friends will learn to open up a bit and then guys like me won’t have to arm wrestle you to get you to join us at a game.”
She smiled.
“You could have tried asking.”
“But pinning you like that was so much sweeter,” his grin was back. Amanda was starting to like that grin more and more and smiled back at him.
“So how about you explain the rest of the game to me and, if I start to get a grip, maybe you can just try asking me out to a game sometime.”
“Tell you what, I’ll explain the rest of the game to you and I’ll let you take me to the ICA next week.”
She laughed. “Deal.”
Jerry slipped his arm around her shoulder so he could direct her attention to a play in the field and Amanda leaned into him a little. The Sox were on their way to the win and, it seemed, so were they.
************
With the exception of her brothers’ little league games, Amanda had never been to a baseball game before and would have been content to go through life without ever stepping foot in Fenway Park, but a bet was a bet and she lost.
It started in the school cafeteria that day when Jerry Schwartz and his friends had taken over the table she and her friends normally ate at. He said they’d leave if she’d go on a date with him. She told him she’d arm wrestle him for the table and if she won, he’d leave her and her friends alone the rest of the year. If she lost, they’d leave the table and she’d go on a date with him. Since she could beat her brother who was a fullback on the school football team, she wasn’t worried.
Not only was she surprised that Jerry pinned her almost immediately, but as he picked up his tray, he said, “I’ll pick you up 4, I like to get to Fenway in time for batting practice.”
What could she do? A bet was a bet and she lost and now here she was, standing outside the gates set up on Yawkey Way with Jerry. His longish dark hair poked out willy nilly from under the ever present dark blue baseball cap with the red “B.” His lopsided grin was as goofy as she ever saw on his face as he handed their tickets to the man with the handheld scanner. The security person did a quick check of her backpack before affixing a bright orange tag to indicate his approval of her bag’s contents.
Jerry grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the large red brick arches. As bright as the outside was, the inside felt enclosed and dark as they headed down a ramp into the heart of the park with the crowd.
“My dad has had season tickets forever but he can’t stand when teams like the Royals or Mariners come to town. He only wants to see the top performing teams. The seats are amazing, you can see pretty much the whole park from them. They’re in the lower box behind first base.”
“This means something to me how?” she rolled her eyes at his excitement.
“Haven’t you ever been here before?”
“Um, no. I don’t do baseball, basketball, football or hockey. I don’t do lacrosse, soccer or anything else. I go to the ballet. I go to plays. I go to the symphony. I don’t do sports.”
“That makes this so much better than I thought! I can’t wait to see your face when you see inside the park! Seriously, I want you to tell me what you think when you first come inside.” He began to pull her towards a ramp out of the concession area and into the stadium itself.
“I said a date, not a drag. You could slow it down a bit.”
The grin spread across his face again.
“But of course.” He bowed and swept his arms out to indicate the directions she should go. She walked past him and up the ramp. At the top, she stopped. It took her a moment to catch her breath.
“What do you think?”
“It’s so … green.” Everywhere she looked, she saw the color green. The field, the walls, the trim on the walls that surrounded the seats and balconies through out the park.
“Bill Lee, a pitcher from the 70’s, once said you should enter a ball park the way you enter a church. I’ve always felt you should enter Fenway the way you enter a cathedral.”
She looked around at the men on the field casually tossing the ball around and laughing easily with each other. She saw people starting to filter in. The swarmed in like ants filling the stands as she watched.
“Come on, the seats are over here. Not only that, you’ll have a great view of practice.”
The older usher lead them to their seats, wiping it down before she sat in the seat.
“Thank you,” Amanda automatically answered.
“I get the impression you’re impressed,” Jerry said.
“This is all a little more overwhelming than I expected.”
“Maybe, by the end of the night, you’ll be a fan.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself there pal. I agreed to a date, nothing more.”
“Fair enough but I’ll keep explaining things to you as we go along to help you enjoy the game.”
Amanda rolled her eyes, “Whatever.”
Through out the evening, Jerry kept his promise, explaining aspects of the game as they went along. The way the players would shift in the field when certain batters came to the plate. He explained the little dance that would play out in front of them at first base when the batter would take a lead and the pitcher would throw back to the base to keep him close.
“Why isn’t there a clock?” she asked at one point.
“That’s one of the beautiful things about this game,” he replied. “Sometimes the game will fly by, sometimes it feel like it will never end. You have low scoring games that are pitcher’s duels. Sometimes you have high scoring home run derbies. It’s really quite zen in how it all unfolds and no two games are alike.”
“It’s soothing,” she said absently.
Jerry smiled.
“Why did you want to go on a date with me?”
Jerry was surprised. He stammered a little, “Um… well, I guess because you’re interesting.”
“Then why didn’t you just ask?”
“I did.”
“No, you set up a confrontation.”
He shrugged and grinned, “Maybe I didn’t think you’d go out with me.”
“Why not?”
All of a sudden, he jumped up with the rest of the crowd around them as the batter at the plate hit the ball hard enough for it to sail deep into the yard before bouncing off the large green scoreboard and ricocheting back onto the field. The outfielder threw it back in, but the handsome man in the Red Sox uniform was standing on second base, brushing the dirt from the field off his uniform as the crowd cheered.
As they sat back down, Jerry watched the game for a bit while Amanda waited for him to answer.
“Why not?” she asked again.
“Because, you’re a bit of snob.”
“What?!”
“Think about it, you hang out with your friends who are all dressed just so. You guys talk about NPR, ballet, community service, yadda yadda yadda. You go to dances but not sporting events. You sit in the front of the room and take notes instead of joining in with the kids who have a bit fun. Why would someone like you want to go out with a goofy guy like me? I figured if I appealed to your pride, maybe you’d give me shot.”
Amanda was shocked. She never saw herself as a snob, she just saw herself as Amanda.
“I thought that maybe if I could get you to come to a game with me, you’d see that there’s a beauty in athletes and an athleticism in beauty. Think about the Boston Ballet performances you go to and look out how Dustin Pedroia plays that spot between first and second bases. When you see him leap or dive, is it any less beautiful than watching a ballerina leap? Just watch for a little and see what I’m talking about.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“I know and I also know that if I walked up to you and asked if you wanted to come to a game, you’d say no. If I offered to take you to the ballet which, by the way, my folks also have a season subscription for and I go to pretty regularly as well as for Huntington Theatre Company, the Bruins and a bunch of museum memberships, you’d go.”
She sat in stunned silence. He was right, she would have said yes to those things.
“What if sports don’t interest me?”
“Why? My hope is that when you leave tonight thinking about coming back or watching a game. Maybe, just maybe you’ll be able to understand a bit more and then your friends will learn to open up a bit and then guys like me won’t have to arm wrestle you to get you to join us at a game.”
She smiled.
“You could have tried asking.”
“But pinning you like that was so much sweeter,” his grin was back. Amanda was starting to like that grin more and more and smiled back at him.
“So how about you explain the rest of the game to me and, if I start to get a grip, maybe you can just try asking me out to a game sometime.”
“Tell you what, I’ll explain the rest of the game to you and I’ll let you take me to the ICA next week.”
She laughed. “Deal.”
Jerry slipped his arm around her shoulder so he could direct her attention to a play in the field and Amanda leaned into him a little. The Sox were on their way to the win and, it seemed, so were they.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Story Five: Mr. Winter, First Base
I want to thank Jon Goode of the Lowell Spinners for his assistance on this story. Some of the prompts the kids gave me left me scratching my head. A girl on the playground last week said, "What if a ball player fell in the lap of a girl and they fell in love?" How do you write a story about that and make it plausible. Again, thinking things through you ask yourself: what's realistic? So I called Jon to ask him what would be the likelihood of something like that - maybe a player kicking in the minors at that point where he realizes it's just not going to happen. He told me about how sometimes, because the guys who come to the Spinners are so young, they do things like write their numbers on baseballs and toss them to girls they find attractive in hopes they'll call them. Guys who are at that point of asking themselves if it's time to give up baseball are often older and kicking around different parts of the minors or independent leagues because the kids who are in Lowell are just so young and not willing to give it up just yet.
So how do you capture someone who is maybe that kind of Spike Owen or Mark Bellhorn kind of guy? The guy on the card in that megacollection of leftovers you get at a dollar store or something. So I came up with the story of a teacher who used to be that guy and what happens when his class finds out. Not quite falling in love with the fan in the first row, but an element of truth ringing through. :)
******
“It can’t be,” Alex said looking at the card in Alison’s hand.
“No way!” John sputtered.
“It is,” Alison said. “I’m telling you, that’s Mr. Winter.”
They all looked at the baseball card in it’s plastic sleeve. There was a the young player in a Boston Red Sox uniform, bat on his shoulder looking at the camera as if he were staring down a Jonathan Papelbon fast ball.
Again John sputtered, “No way!” as he shook his head back and forth. There was no way the “Nick Winter, 1B” was the same Mr. Winter that had just assigned them the history project from heck.
The kids in the group kept grabbing at the card to look but Alison pulled it away and put it in her jeans pocket.
“My brother gave me his old cards and when I saw this I thought I was going to scream.”
“Didn’t your brother have Mr. Winter?”
“Yeah, but he never said anything about this.”
Alex looked across the playground at Mr. Winter refereeing the four square game on the blacktop and talking to the other fourth grade teachers. “If Mr. Winter used to play for the Red Sox, we’d know. If not us, then the kids before us. That’s not the kind of thing you keep a secret,” she said.
“It’s real. I looked it up on line after my brother gave me the cards.”
They stood on the corner of the playground staring at their teacher in disbelief. How did he go from playing for the Red Sox 10 years earlier to teaching their fourth grade class? Why would anyone leave baseball to be a teacher?
“I have a plan,” John finally said. “Ask him to sign the card and see what he says.”
“That’s a great idea!” Alex agreed.
“I need to think about it,” Alison said, “What if it’s not him.”
“Then he won’t sign it.”
“What if it is?”
“Then how cool is that?”
Back in the classroom, all the kids were buzzing. Alison held tight to her card, fearing that if she let it go she’d never see it again.
“Well, you guys seem excited about something,” Mr. Winter said.
“Um,” Alison began as she pulled the card out of her pocket, “would you sign this for me?” She handed him the card.
He looked at the piece of cardboard wrapped in plastic. His smile wavered for a second and then he pulled it out of the wrapper and took the pen out of his shirt pocket. Clicking the pen and leaned over the desk and signed it. He glanced at it wistfully
then carefully put it back in the plastic sleeve and handed it back to her.
All eyes were on him as a shocked silence filled the air.
“So you guys know my secret,” his smile came back. “I suppose you all want to know how I ended up as a fourth grade teacher.”
“Well… yeah,” Bobby snapped from the front corner of the room.
Mr. Winter moved to the front of the room and sat down on the wooden stool. He looked around the room. All eyes were on him, he had the undivided attention of the class.
“Thumbs up if want to be a famous athlete, no matter what sport.”
About half of the kids gave him the thumbs up. Some kids gave him a thumbs sideways, the class signal for maybe.
“When I was your age, all I wanted to do was play baseball. I loved the game, still do to tell the truth. Who needed to do homework or study math, I was going to be a ball player. Then I met someone who changed my life. Who in here has heard of Jim Lonborg?”
Three kids raised their hands. Mr. Winter pointed at one kid and said, “Tell us who he is John.”
“Jim Lonborg won the Cy Young award in 1967 pitching for the Boston Red Sox and threw a one-hit game in the World Series that year agains the St. Louis Cardinals.”
“Very good. Do you know what he does today?”
“He’s a dentist.”
“That’s right, he’s a dentist. Here’s a guy who was one of the best pitchers of a generation and he’s a dentist. You don’t get to be a dentist by blowing off homework or school.”
Now the questions that were itching to be asked were starting to rise up. He held up his hand to stop them.
“I met Dr. Lonborg because I cracked a tooth and my dentist was on vacation. He told me that he saw me play at a recent high school game and asked me something no one else asked me, where did I want to go to college?”
The kids started raising their hands and calling out.
“Eyes on me, my story and save the questions to the end.”
The class settled down again.
“I told him I was going to play ball and he laughed. He told me he thought the same thing but promised his parents he’d go to college first. He said he thought about maybe being a doctor if baseball didn’t work out. I knew you don’t go to medical, or dental school, if you don’t do well in college and I knew then that I had to take school seriously.”
“So you wanted to be a teacher?” Alex blurted out.
Mr. Winter smiled.
“I wasn’t sure. I knew I had to work hard to get my grades up and eventually I got an offer to go to Georgia Tech. They had a great baseball team and I figured if it didn’t work out, I’d go back later. I was drafted by the Red Sox my junior year of college. I was 20 years old and my dreams were about to come true, so I took the signing bonus and packed my bags to report to Lowell.”
“I love Spinners games,” Alison said, “I have a couple of bobbleheads from games we went to and once I got to race around the bases in a giant hamster ball. It was pretty funny!”
“Yeah, I used to love some of the stuff we did at the games,” he smiled, “everyone had so much fun. But the players, well, we were young and lived in the dorms at UMass Lowell. Sometimes you’d see a pretty girl and you’d write your phone number on a ball and throw it to her and hope she’d give you a call. One day, I threw my phone number to a girl and she called me. We went out for coffee and she told me she was studying to be a teacher. I told her I was going to play for the Red Sox.”
He paused for a minute and rubbed the ring on his left hand.
“She married me and stuck with me through everything. The ups and downs between the different leagues, the injuries, the September call ups, Spring Training - everything. I even made it to the Red Sox for one amazing season until just after the All Star Break I tripped over second base and ripped my Achilles Tendon. Even after surgery, rehab and everything else I was looking at playing through the minors again and hoping beyond hope that I’d be back in Boston. My wife looked at me and said, ‘So what do you want to do now?’”
“What did you do?” Alex whispered.
“I remember lying there in bed and thinking, if I couldn’t play baseball what would I do? I called my friend at the Lowell Spinners, Jon Goode. He’s the guy who gets to drive the Mystery Machine and puts together the hamster ball races and stuff like that. I asked him what would happen if I wanted to work in baseball. He told me that I’d work as an intern, just like a college kid, and work my way up from the bottom like anyone else.”
“You mean you can’t just get a job as a coach or something?”
“How many guys do you think play baseball every year in the minors, the independents and every other league out there? Imagine how many of them give up playing every year. How many positions are there out there for coaches, scouts, front office and other jobs?”
“So what did you do?”
“I thought about the kids I met when I was playing. I thought about the kids I saw my wife teach and tutor and I realized that there are more important things than baseball in this world. So I went back to school, finished my degree and became a teacher.”
The kids sat there in stunned silence.
“You gave it up to be teacher?” John finally asked.
“Yep and I’ve never looked back. That is, until today.” He pointed at the card still sitting in front of Allison. “You have to understand that you guys come into the classroom in September with no idea what’s in store for you. Every day I teach you stuff: math, science, social studies, you name it. Some subjects are fun, some are kind of tough like when I’m teaching you how to edit and write. I get a fraction of what I made playing baseball but I have to be honest, I like this job much more than I liked playing baseball.”
A chorus of “no way” and “really?” came from the kids.
“Yes way. I got to live the dream for a few years, and I’m glad for it but this,” he opened his arms to indicate the class and the class room, “this is real. No matter how cool the dream is, in the end you have to remember that it’s reality that counts in the end. My wife, my kids, my classes, that’s real. When I tell you guys that homework matters or that you’ll use this math again or why it’s important to be able to write a concise paragraph, trust me, I know what I’m telling you is true.”
The class was still silent as he finished.
“Now, enough about baseball guys. It’s time for writer’s workshop. I want you to think about one of your favorite memories and tell me about it on paper. Tell me about the day, the weather, the sights and smells. Remember what I’ve taught you about details without giving too much information.”
“Mr Winter,” a hand was up in the back of the room.
“What is it Izzy?”
“I’m glad you decided to be a teacher.”
He smiled. “Thanks Izzy, I’m glad you guys are my students. Now, let’s get back to work.”
Looking out over the classroom as the kids bent over their notebooks with pencils in hand, Mr. Winter smiled. Playing at Fenway Park may have been one of the best jobs ever, but this, this was better.
So how do you capture someone who is maybe that kind of Spike Owen or Mark Bellhorn kind of guy? The guy on the card in that megacollection of leftovers you get at a dollar store or something. So I came up with the story of a teacher who used to be that guy and what happens when his class finds out. Not quite falling in love with the fan in the first row, but an element of truth ringing through. :)
******
“It can’t be,” Alex said looking at the card in Alison’s hand.
“No way!” John sputtered.
“It is,” Alison said. “I’m telling you, that’s Mr. Winter.”
They all looked at the baseball card in it’s plastic sleeve. There was a the young player in a Boston Red Sox uniform, bat on his shoulder looking at the camera as if he were staring down a Jonathan Papelbon fast ball.
Again John sputtered, “No way!” as he shook his head back and forth. There was no way the “Nick Winter, 1B” was the same Mr. Winter that had just assigned them the history project from heck.
The kids in the group kept grabbing at the card to look but Alison pulled it away and put it in her jeans pocket.
“My brother gave me his old cards and when I saw this I thought I was going to scream.”
“Didn’t your brother have Mr. Winter?”
“Yeah, but he never said anything about this.”
Alex looked across the playground at Mr. Winter refereeing the four square game on the blacktop and talking to the other fourth grade teachers. “If Mr. Winter used to play for the Red Sox, we’d know. If not us, then the kids before us. That’s not the kind of thing you keep a secret,” she said.
“It’s real. I looked it up on line after my brother gave me the cards.”
They stood on the corner of the playground staring at their teacher in disbelief. How did he go from playing for the Red Sox 10 years earlier to teaching their fourth grade class? Why would anyone leave baseball to be a teacher?
“I have a plan,” John finally said. “Ask him to sign the card and see what he says.”
“That’s a great idea!” Alex agreed.
“I need to think about it,” Alison said, “What if it’s not him.”
“Then he won’t sign it.”
“What if it is?”
“Then how cool is that?”
Back in the classroom, all the kids were buzzing. Alison held tight to her card, fearing that if she let it go she’d never see it again.
“Well, you guys seem excited about something,” Mr. Winter said.
“Um,” Alison began as she pulled the card out of her pocket, “would you sign this for me?” She handed him the card.
He looked at the piece of cardboard wrapped in plastic. His smile wavered for a second and then he pulled it out of the wrapper and took the pen out of his shirt pocket. Clicking the pen and leaned over the desk and signed it. He glanced at it wistfully
then carefully put it back in the plastic sleeve and handed it back to her.
All eyes were on him as a shocked silence filled the air.
“So you guys know my secret,” his smile came back. “I suppose you all want to know how I ended up as a fourth grade teacher.”
“Well… yeah,” Bobby snapped from the front corner of the room.
Mr. Winter moved to the front of the room and sat down on the wooden stool. He looked around the room. All eyes were on him, he had the undivided attention of the class.
“Thumbs up if want to be a famous athlete, no matter what sport.”
About half of the kids gave him the thumbs up. Some kids gave him a thumbs sideways, the class signal for maybe.
“When I was your age, all I wanted to do was play baseball. I loved the game, still do to tell the truth. Who needed to do homework or study math, I was going to be a ball player. Then I met someone who changed my life. Who in here has heard of Jim Lonborg?”
Three kids raised their hands. Mr. Winter pointed at one kid and said, “Tell us who he is John.”
“Jim Lonborg won the Cy Young award in 1967 pitching for the Boston Red Sox and threw a one-hit game in the World Series that year agains the St. Louis Cardinals.”
“Very good. Do you know what he does today?”
“He’s a dentist.”
“That’s right, he’s a dentist. Here’s a guy who was one of the best pitchers of a generation and he’s a dentist. You don’t get to be a dentist by blowing off homework or school.”
Now the questions that were itching to be asked were starting to rise up. He held up his hand to stop them.
“I met Dr. Lonborg because I cracked a tooth and my dentist was on vacation. He told me that he saw me play at a recent high school game and asked me something no one else asked me, where did I want to go to college?”
The kids started raising their hands and calling out.
“Eyes on me, my story and save the questions to the end.”
The class settled down again.
“I told him I was going to play ball and he laughed. He told me he thought the same thing but promised his parents he’d go to college first. He said he thought about maybe being a doctor if baseball didn’t work out. I knew you don’t go to medical, or dental school, if you don’t do well in college and I knew then that I had to take school seriously.”
“So you wanted to be a teacher?” Alex blurted out.
Mr. Winter smiled.
“I wasn’t sure. I knew I had to work hard to get my grades up and eventually I got an offer to go to Georgia Tech. They had a great baseball team and I figured if it didn’t work out, I’d go back later. I was drafted by the Red Sox my junior year of college. I was 20 years old and my dreams were about to come true, so I took the signing bonus and packed my bags to report to Lowell.”
“I love Spinners games,” Alison said, “I have a couple of bobbleheads from games we went to and once I got to race around the bases in a giant hamster ball. It was pretty funny!”
“Yeah, I used to love some of the stuff we did at the games,” he smiled, “everyone had so much fun. But the players, well, we were young and lived in the dorms at UMass Lowell. Sometimes you’d see a pretty girl and you’d write your phone number on a ball and throw it to her and hope she’d give you a call. One day, I threw my phone number to a girl and she called me. We went out for coffee and she told me she was studying to be a teacher. I told her I was going to play for the Red Sox.”
He paused for a minute and rubbed the ring on his left hand.
“She married me and stuck with me through everything. The ups and downs between the different leagues, the injuries, the September call ups, Spring Training - everything. I even made it to the Red Sox for one amazing season until just after the All Star Break I tripped over second base and ripped my Achilles Tendon. Even after surgery, rehab and everything else I was looking at playing through the minors again and hoping beyond hope that I’d be back in Boston. My wife looked at me and said, ‘So what do you want to do now?’”
“What did you do?” Alex whispered.
“I remember lying there in bed and thinking, if I couldn’t play baseball what would I do? I called my friend at the Lowell Spinners, Jon Goode. He’s the guy who gets to drive the Mystery Machine and puts together the hamster ball races and stuff like that. I asked him what would happen if I wanted to work in baseball. He told me that I’d work as an intern, just like a college kid, and work my way up from the bottom like anyone else.”
“You mean you can’t just get a job as a coach or something?”
“How many guys do you think play baseball every year in the minors, the independents and every other league out there? Imagine how many of them give up playing every year. How many positions are there out there for coaches, scouts, front office and other jobs?”
“So what did you do?”
“I thought about the kids I met when I was playing. I thought about the kids I saw my wife teach and tutor and I realized that there are more important things than baseball in this world. So I went back to school, finished my degree and became a teacher.”
The kids sat there in stunned silence.
“You gave it up to be teacher?” John finally asked.
“Yep and I’ve never looked back. That is, until today.” He pointed at the card still sitting in front of Allison. “You have to understand that you guys come into the classroom in September with no idea what’s in store for you. Every day I teach you stuff: math, science, social studies, you name it. Some subjects are fun, some are kind of tough like when I’m teaching you how to edit and write. I get a fraction of what I made playing baseball but I have to be honest, I like this job much more than I liked playing baseball.”
A chorus of “no way” and “really?” came from the kids.
“Yes way. I got to live the dream for a few years, and I’m glad for it but this,” he opened his arms to indicate the class and the class room, “this is real. No matter how cool the dream is, in the end you have to remember that it’s reality that counts in the end. My wife, my kids, my classes, that’s real. When I tell you guys that homework matters or that you’ll use this math again or why it’s important to be able to write a concise paragraph, trust me, I know what I’m telling you is true.”
The class was still silent as he finished.
“Now, enough about baseball guys. It’s time for writer’s workshop. I want you to think about one of your favorite memories and tell me about it on paper. Tell me about the day, the weather, the sights and smells. Remember what I’ve taught you about details without giving too much information.”
“Mr Winter,” a hand was up in the back of the room.
“What is it Izzy?”
“I’m glad you decided to be a teacher.”
He smiled. “Thanks Izzy, I’m glad you guys are my students. Now, let’s get back to work.”
Looking out over the classroom as the kids bent over their notebooks with pencils in hand, Mr. Winter smiled. Playing at Fenway Park may have been one of the best jobs ever, but this, this was better.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Story Four: ???
What do you do when you write 1800 words but don't like the story?
Yesterday I wrote a story about a girl and her brother at a game in 1975. It was rambling, unfocused and needs a great deal of work. So here's my dilemma, do I post it or not? In situations like this I do what most writers do: sit on it until it's ready to unfold properly.
So today there is no story posted. Siobhan and Sean need to find the voice and conversation they want to have while watching Bill Lee pitch. Sean needs to figure out if he needs to protect his sister from the blinders and narrow thinking of parochial thinking of Southie in the 70's even though the world is changing, does he want to be amazed at how his sister watches baseball or does he want help her understand the world is changing to a point that she needs follow her heart instead of what's expected of her.
Siobhan has to figure out if she needs strength or confidence or just fine with where she is.
So... no story being posted today. Perhaps later this month it will want to be rewritten. Maybe it's wants to be longer than a story. We shall see. But I promise that there will be one tomorrow if not a shorter one later today.
Yesterday I wrote a story about a girl and her brother at a game in 1975. It was rambling, unfocused and needs a great deal of work. So here's my dilemma, do I post it or not? In situations like this I do what most writers do: sit on it until it's ready to unfold properly.
So today there is no story posted. Siobhan and Sean need to find the voice and conversation they want to have while watching Bill Lee pitch. Sean needs to figure out if he needs to protect his sister from the blinders and narrow thinking of parochial thinking of Southie in the 70's even though the world is changing, does he want to be amazed at how his sister watches baseball or does he want help her understand the world is changing to a point that she needs follow her heart instead of what's expected of her.
Siobhan has to figure out if she needs strength or confidence or just fine with where she is.
So... no story being posted today. Perhaps later this month it will want to be rewritten. Maybe it's wants to be longer than a story. We shall see. But I promise that there will be one tomorrow if not a shorter one later today.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Story Three: Signed!
Yesterday, one of my fourth graders handed me a detailed prompt that was such a kid fantasy it made me smile. The problem is, as an adult how do you take that fantasy and bring it back to earth? Especially after you see movies like "Rookie of the Year" and "Little Big League" every spring? Well, it took 2500 words and need a fair amount of editing but I think I did his prompt justice.
A quick note: all of these stories are first drafts. Because I have to put away my inner editor for the month of November, I know that the second I start mucking about, I'm lost and the results go downhill from there. I'm willing to take any notes and comments for when I do sit down edit, I have a good idea of where to go with some of these stories. Feel free to comment, share or email me your thoughts.
So enjoy today's story: "Signed"
******
Jonathan loved baseball. Ever since he could throw anything from an early age, his father would say, “That boy has an arm made for Fenway I tell you!” He was the star pitcher on his Little League team and one of the only 10 year olds to make the Williamsport team, where almost everyone was 12.
Today he was a little ticked off. It was stupidly hot and he could feel the sweat dripping down his face and back. He wished he had worn a t-shirt instead of the polyester shirt like the players wear. His blonde hair was stuck to his face and head. He and his dad had come to Fenway to try and get some day of game tickets. Who knew it would be hard to get tickets against Baltimore?
Since his dad wasn’t willing to buy from scalpers, they stood outside the park on Landsdowne Street at the Sausage Guy cart getting hot dogs and listening to the PA echo out through the neighborhood.
“Now batting, number 20, Kevin Youkilis.”
They could hear the crowd chant “Yooooouuuuukkk,” which sounded a little like booing because of the sound of his name. But anyone who knew the Red Sox knew it was a chant of love for a guy who was the part of the heart and soul of the team.
“Dad, wouldn’t it be cool if he hit one over the wall and I caught it?”
“Jon, my boy, that would be awesome. Let’s finish up the dogs and head home before mom figures out I tried to sneak in an extra game with you this weekend.”
As they walked down the street, they heard the cheer of the crowd and people yelling. Looking up, Jonathan saw the ball come over the top of the Green Monster and straight at him. But his hands were full he didn’t want to drop his soda or the last few bites of his hot dog.
Then it hit him… square in the forehead and the last thing going through Jonathan’s mind as he crumbled was, “but I wasn’t finished with my hot dog.”
He woke up a while later, a bag of ice to his forehead and a man in a white shirt shining a light in his eyes in a strange room.
“Hey buddy, how you feeling?” the man asked.
“What?”
The man checked Jonathan’s blood pressure, took his temperature and asked him a series of questions.
“Well, for a kid who could have had a major concussion, I think you’re going to be just fine,” he said with a smile. “Before I forget,” he tossed a ball to Jonathan who immediately put his hand up to catch it, not missing a beat. “Maybe Youk will sign it for you.”
“Be careful what you wish for Jon,” he heard his dad say, “that Youk homer was like a laser shot to your head. “The good news is, other than you’re OK, we got invited to be on the field during batting practice tomorrow. Youk wants to meet you.”
Jonathan smiled.
The next day, Jonathan and his dad got to Fenway around 11 am for batting practice. The pretty girl in the red shirt with the words “Red Sox Ambassadors” sewn under the team logo indicated she worked in the front offices as some sort of intern or something.
“So you’re the young boy Youk almost took out yesterday,” she smiled. It was a pretty smile and he couldn’t help but smile back.
“Yeah, I brought the ball with me. Do you think he’ll sign it for me?”
“You never know, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he signed it at the very least,” she winked.
She lead Jonathan and his dad down a tunnel between the infield and outfield box seats where the grounds crew usually stood on guard during the game. They walked out onto the warning track.
Jonathan couldn’t believe it. All his life he had wanted to walk out onto the field at Fenway with the team and here he was, on the field looking at the players as they took batting practice. In the cage surrounding home plate was Big Papi taking easy cuts at the balls tossed to him by the coach from behind a screen on pitchers mound. Various players were scattered around the field, tossing the balls back and forth, fielding the balls Papi hit towards them.
He was in heaven.
Then he saw Youk across the field heading towards the batting cage. He didn’t know why he thought of it but suddenly he felt the ball in his hand and called out, “Hey Youk, want your ball back?”
He reared back and threw it from where he was standing on the warning track behind first towards Youk at home. The ball sailed past Youk, but the man stood up and took notice.
“Wow! Hey did you guys see the arm on that kid!”
He signaled for Jonathan to join him.
“That’s some arm kid. Have you ever thought about pitching? I think you’d be a great addition to our bull pen.”
“My dad said I was born for Fenway.”
“You’re dad’s absolutely right. Hey, Young!” he yelled, “check this kid out.”
Jonathan smiled. His dad and the girl from the front office were just staring at him along with most of the players on the field.
Youk approached him with the guy who was behind the screen a moment before. Curt Young, the pitching coach from Boston looked him up and down.
“You think you can do that again kid?” the coach asked.
“Not a problem,” he said taking the ball from the older man.
“Hey Tek,” called out Youk, “see if you can catch this kid.”
Jason Varitek took a position behind the plate as they moved the screen out of the way.
“OK kid, nice and easy. Your job is to put the ball in my glove like it’s a target,” the catcher growled in a friendly way. Jonathan nodded and remembered how his dad taught him. Moving from his stance, he stepped forward with left foot as he reared back with his right arm and fired right at the glove.
“STRIKE!” yelled Youk. The smile on his face looked like it would split his face in two. Jonathan tried not to let his excitement show.
“OK, let’s try that again,” Tek barked.
Jonathan reared back and Youk took a swing but missed.
“Strike two!” Youk yelled.
Terry Francona, the team manager had joined Coach Young to watch what was happening.
“One more, remember, just put it in the glove. Even if Youk gets a piece, you have seven guys behind you to help you out of the jam. OK, now here we go for one more.”
He reared back and fired again. Youk swung and missed, again.
“Hey kid,” Francona yelled, “is your mom or dad here?”
Jonathan’s dad stepped up and shook the his hand. “I’m his dad.”
“Do you think we can give the kid a try today? We’re stuck right now and normally we wouldn’t be looking at a kid this young but an arm like that is a gift and I’d like to train him properly now rather than let some high school or college ruin him by over pitching.”
“Um, yeah,” his dad said.
“Good. Hey kid, let’s see if we can find something small enough for you.”
Jonathan couldn’t believe his luck. Here he was about to join the Boston Red Sox as a pitcher and he was still in elementary school. Wait until his friends Harry and Jason found out!
As Youk started to guide him off the field, he heard someone yell, “Heads!”
He felt the ball that he never saw as it hit the back of his head. “Not again,” he moaned as he went face down on the sacred infield grass at Fenway.”
Jonathan felt like he was emerging from underwater. He was trying to claw his way up through the layers of fog that seemed to hold him down on the unfamiliar bed. Everything in the room was bright and clean. In the background the game was on TV and Youk was stepping into the batter’s box.
“Mr. and Mrs. Levy?” the doctor asked as he entered the room.
Jonathan’s parents stood up from the chairs next to the bed. He could see his dad’s face looked pinched and worried. He could tell his mother had been crying but he didn’t know where he was or why.
The doctor shook his parents’ hands, but Jonathan still couldn’t quite get through the fog or open his eyes all the way to ask what was going on.
“The good news is the MRI and the Cat scan both show that, while there’s a concussion, it’s not nearly as severe as we first thought. To be honest, it was his head hitting the pavement that did the most damage. But with some rest and a little time, he should be just fine.”
Jonathan’s mother began to cry. “Oh thank G-d,” she said as she grabbed his dad. His dad wrapped his arms around his mother and kissed her on the top of the head.
“How much longer will he be out?” his father asked.
“There’s no way of telling, but it’s a good thing you were right outside of Fenway. Between the emergency staff there and how close you were to the hospital area, getting him here within 20 minutes, half hour of him hitting the ground like made a huge difference in what we could do to get him stabilized. Don’t worry Mr. Levy, your son will be fine.”
The doctor reached out and patted his father’s shoulder.
“Thank you Doctor,” his father managed to free his hand to offer it to the doctor.
“Dad?” Jonathan managed to weakly squeak.
Everyone looked towards the bed and smiled.
“Hey champ,” his dad said as Jonathan’s mom pulled away and smothered him in a hug.
“Welcome back Jonathan,” the doctor said. “That was quite a hit you took there.”
“Yeah, who hit the ball that nailed me? Is Tito mad that I’m not going to be able to pitch today?”
The adults all exchanged funny looks.
“Jonathan, what do you remember?” the doctor asked as he flashed a light in his eyes and felt spots on his face and head. Jonathan winced a little when his fingers touched certain spots.
“I was walking towards the dugout with Youk and Tito to get a real game shirt. They wanted me to join the bullpen.”
His father laughed. “Even in your dreams you’re a team player.”
“Do you remember the home run ball that hit you on Landsdowne?”
“Yeah,” he said, “that’s why Youk invited us to batting practice today. When I struck him out, the pitching coach said he needed my arm in the bullpen.”
“What day is it?” the doctor asked.
“Sunday. We’re playing the Orioles today before the all-star break.”
“It’s Monday night,” his mother said. “You’ve been out since the ball hit you Saturday when you and your dad were outside the park.”
Jonathan tried to sit up, but he thought he was going to hurl and put his head back down. He was confused. He was supposed to be the new middle reliever, Pap’s set up guy. What were they talking about?
His dad sat down on the bed and gently brushed the hair out of Jonathan’s eyes. “Son, it was all a dream.”
“I didn’t whip the ball at Youk at BP?”
“‘Fraid not son.”
“Tek didn’t catch me as I struck Youk out?”
His father shook his head.
“That sucks.”
“Jonathan!” his mother barked, “I don’t care how out of it you were, you still don’t use language like that.”
He was back to reality, back to normal. No batting practice or contract negotiations. He started to feel a tear try to escape.
“Don’t worry buddy,” his dad said, “there’ll be plenty of time for that in the future. Right now you just need to get yourself better. That means lots of rest until the doc says it’s time to go home.”
Jonathan closed his eyes. He was so stupid thinking a 10 year old kid would be able to sign with the Sox. He heard his parents talking to the doctor again before leaving the room and then his parents whispering.
As he tried to fall back into the fog he had just fought so hard to get through, there was a knock on the door.
“Is this where the kid who tried to catch my homer with his head is?”
Jonathan opened his eyes. It was Kevin Youkilis! In his arms were a basket filled with a bunch of things.
“But the game’s on,” Jonathan squeaked.
“That’s last night’s game,” his dad told him, “I thought you’d want the game in the background and the 2 hour replay is all that’s on.” He then turned to Youk and invited him in.
Pulling up a chair he sat next to the bed.
“I’m glad you’re OK,” Youk said, “I just ran into your doctor outside your room and he said I can stay for a few minutes but not to tire you out.”
Jonathan smiled, “I just dreamt I struck you out during BP.”
“Well, from what your dad said, it wouldn’t surprise me if in ten or so years you’re able to do just that. But there’s plenty of time for that to come. Right now I want to make sure you’re OK and brought you some stuff from the team. I have a ball the whole team signed, including Tito, a bat from Pedey and a glove from me.”
“Gee, thanks Mr. Youkilis.”
“Not a problem. And when the doc says it’s Ok, and if it’s OK with your folks, I’d love it if you were a guest of mine at a game.
I’ll even make sure they let you on the field in the press area during BP.”
“I’d like that,” Jonathan replied.
“Great. I’ve got to go. I’ve got to get to the park, but next time, I suggest you drop the food and use your hands to catch the ball. Deal?”
“Deal.” Jonathan smiled as Youk left the room.
It may have been a dream, but one thing Jonathan knew, dreams could come true with a bit of hard work. He’d show them all that he could play… but first he wanted to sleep on it. Who knows, maybe this time he’d see what would happen without getting hit in the head a couple of times.
A quick note: all of these stories are first drafts. Because I have to put away my inner editor for the month of November, I know that the second I start mucking about, I'm lost and the results go downhill from there. I'm willing to take any notes and comments for when I do sit down edit, I have a good idea of where to go with some of these stories. Feel free to comment, share or email me your thoughts.
So enjoy today's story: "Signed"
******
Jonathan loved baseball. Ever since he could throw anything from an early age, his father would say, “That boy has an arm made for Fenway I tell you!” He was the star pitcher on his Little League team and one of the only 10 year olds to make the Williamsport team, where almost everyone was 12.
Today he was a little ticked off. It was stupidly hot and he could feel the sweat dripping down his face and back. He wished he had worn a t-shirt instead of the polyester shirt like the players wear. His blonde hair was stuck to his face and head. He and his dad had come to Fenway to try and get some day of game tickets. Who knew it would be hard to get tickets against Baltimore?
Since his dad wasn’t willing to buy from scalpers, they stood outside the park on Landsdowne Street at the Sausage Guy cart getting hot dogs and listening to the PA echo out through the neighborhood.
“Now batting, number 20, Kevin Youkilis.”
They could hear the crowd chant “Yooooouuuuukkk,” which sounded a little like booing because of the sound of his name. But anyone who knew the Red Sox knew it was a chant of love for a guy who was the part of the heart and soul of the team.
“Dad, wouldn’t it be cool if he hit one over the wall and I caught it?”
“Jon, my boy, that would be awesome. Let’s finish up the dogs and head home before mom figures out I tried to sneak in an extra game with you this weekend.”
As they walked down the street, they heard the cheer of the crowd and people yelling. Looking up, Jonathan saw the ball come over the top of the Green Monster and straight at him. But his hands were full he didn’t want to drop his soda or the last few bites of his hot dog.
Then it hit him… square in the forehead and the last thing going through Jonathan’s mind as he crumbled was, “but I wasn’t finished with my hot dog.”
He woke up a while later, a bag of ice to his forehead and a man in a white shirt shining a light in his eyes in a strange room.
“Hey buddy, how you feeling?” the man asked.
“What?”
The man checked Jonathan’s blood pressure, took his temperature and asked him a series of questions.
“Well, for a kid who could have had a major concussion, I think you’re going to be just fine,” he said with a smile. “Before I forget,” he tossed a ball to Jonathan who immediately put his hand up to catch it, not missing a beat. “Maybe Youk will sign it for you.”
“Be careful what you wish for Jon,” he heard his dad say, “that Youk homer was like a laser shot to your head. “The good news is, other than you’re OK, we got invited to be on the field during batting practice tomorrow. Youk wants to meet you.”
Jonathan smiled.
The next day, Jonathan and his dad got to Fenway around 11 am for batting practice. The pretty girl in the red shirt with the words “Red Sox Ambassadors” sewn under the team logo indicated she worked in the front offices as some sort of intern or something.
“So you’re the young boy Youk almost took out yesterday,” she smiled. It was a pretty smile and he couldn’t help but smile back.
“Yeah, I brought the ball with me. Do you think he’ll sign it for me?”
“You never know, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he signed it at the very least,” she winked.
She lead Jonathan and his dad down a tunnel between the infield and outfield box seats where the grounds crew usually stood on guard during the game. They walked out onto the warning track.
Jonathan couldn’t believe it. All his life he had wanted to walk out onto the field at Fenway with the team and here he was, on the field looking at the players as they took batting practice. In the cage surrounding home plate was Big Papi taking easy cuts at the balls tossed to him by the coach from behind a screen on pitchers mound. Various players were scattered around the field, tossing the balls back and forth, fielding the balls Papi hit towards them.
He was in heaven.
Then he saw Youk across the field heading towards the batting cage. He didn’t know why he thought of it but suddenly he felt the ball in his hand and called out, “Hey Youk, want your ball back?”
He reared back and threw it from where he was standing on the warning track behind first towards Youk at home. The ball sailed past Youk, but the man stood up and took notice.
“Wow! Hey did you guys see the arm on that kid!”
He signaled for Jonathan to join him.
“That’s some arm kid. Have you ever thought about pitching? I think you’d be a great addition to our bull pen.”
“My dad said I was born for Fenway.”
“You’re dad’s absolutely right. Hey, Young!” he yelled, “check this kid out.”
Jonathan smiled. His dad and the girl from the front office were just staring at him along with most of the players on the field.
Youk approached him with the guy who was behind the screen a moment before. Curt Young, the pitching coach from Boston looked him up and down.
“You think you can do that again kid?” the coach asked.
“Not a problem,” he said taking the ball from the older man.
“Hey Tek,” called out Youk, “see if you can catch this kid.”
Jason Varitek took a position behind the plate as they moved the screen out of the way.
“OK kid, nice and easy. Your job is to put the ball in my glove like it’s a target,” the catcher growled in a friendly way. Jonathan nodded and remembered how his dad taught him. Moving from his stance, he stepped forward with left foot as he reared back with his right arm and fired right at the glove.
“STRIKE!” yelled Youk. The smile on his face looked like it would split his face in two. Jonathan tried not to let his excitement show.
“OK, let’s try that again,” Tek barked.
Jonathan reared back and Youk took a swing but missed.
“Strike two!” Youk yelled.
Terry Francona, the team manager had joined Coach Young to watch what was happening.
“One more, remember, just put it in the glove. Even if Youk gets a piece, you have seven guys behind you to help you out of the jam. OK, now here we go for one more.”
He reared back and fired again. Youk swung and missed, again.
“Hey kid,” Francona yelled, “is your mom or dad here?”
Jonathan’s dad stepped up and shook the his hand. “I’m his dad.”
“Do you think we can give the kid a try today? We’re stuck right now and normally we wouldn’t be looking at a kid this young but an arm like that is a gift and I’d like to train him properly now rather than let some high school or college ruin him by over pitching.”
“Um, yeah,” his dad said.
“Good. Hey kid, let’s see if we can find something small enough for you.”
Jonathan couldn’t believe his luck. Here he was about to join the Boston Red Sox as a pitcher and he was still in elementary school. Wait until his friends Harry and Jason found out!
As Youk started to guide him off the field, he heard someone yell, “Heads!”
He felt the ball that he never saw as it hit the back of his head. “Not again,” he moaned as he went face down on the sacred infield grass at Fenway.”
Jonathan felt like he was emerging from underwater. He was trying to claw his way up through the layers of fog that seemed to hold him down on the unfamiliar bed. Everything in the room was bright and clean. In the background the game was on TV and Youk was stepping into the batter’s box.
“Mr. and Mrs. Levy?” the doctor asked as he entered the room.
Jonathan’s parents stood up from the chairs next to the bed. He could see his dad’s face looked pinched and worried. He could tell his mother had been crying but he didn’t know where he was or why.
The doctor shook his parents’ hands, but Jonathan still couldn’t quite get through the fog or open his eyes all the way to ask what was going on.
“The good news is the MRI and the Cat scan both show that, while there’s a concussion, it’s not nearly as severe as we first thought. To be honest, it was his head hitting the pavement that did the most damage. But with some rest and a little time, he should be just fine.”
Jonathan’s mother began to cry. “Oh thank G-d,” she said as she grabbed his dad. His dad wrapped his arms around his mother and kissed her on the top of the head.
“How much longer will he be out?” his father asked.
“There’s no way of telling, but it’s a good thing you were right outside of Fenway. Between the emergency staff there and how close you were to the hospital area, getting him here within 20 minutes, half hour of him hitting the ground like made a huge difference in what we could do to get him stabilized. Don’t worry Mr. Levy, your son will be fine.”
The doctor reached out and patted his father’s shoulder.
“Thank you Doctor,” his father managed to free his hand to offer it to the doctor.
“Dad?” Jonathan managed to weakly squeak.
Everyone looked towards the bed and smiled.
“Hey champ,” his dad said as Jonathan’s mom pulled away and smothered him in a hug.
“Welcome back Jonathan,” the doctor said. “That was quite a hit you took there.”
“Yeah, who hit the ball that nailed me? Is Tito mad that I’m not going to be able to pitch today?”
The adults all exchanged funny looks.
“Jonathan, what do you remember?” the doctor asked as he flashed a light in his eyes and felt spots on his face and head. Jonathan winced a little when his fingers touched certain spots.
“I was walking towards the dugout with Youk and Tito to get a real game shirt. They wanted me to join the bullpen.”
His father laughed. “Even in your dreams you’re a team player.”
“Do you remember the home run ball that hit you on Landsdowne?”
“Yeah,” he said, “that’s why Youk invited us to batting practice today. When I struck him out, the pitching coach said he needed my arm in the bullpen.”
“What day is it?” the doctor asked.
“Sunday. We’re playing the Orioles today before the all-star break.”
“It’s Monday night,” his mother said. “You’ve been out since the ball hit you Saturday when you and your dad were outside the park.”
Jonathan tried to sit up, but he thought he was going to hurl and put his head back down. He was confused. He was supposed to be the new middle reliever, Pap’s set up guy. What were they talking about?
His dad sat down on the bed and gently brushed the hair out of Jonathan’s eyes. “Son, it was all a dream.”
“I didn’t whip the ball at Youk at BP?”
“‘Fraid not son.”
“Tek didn’t catch me as I struck Youk out?”
His father shook his head.
“That sucks.”
“Jonathan!” his mother barked, “I don’t care how out of it you were, you still don’t use language like that.”
He was back to reality, back to normal. No batting practice or contract negotiations. He started to feel a tear try to escape.
“Don’t worry buddy,” his dad said, “there’ll be plenty of time for that in the future. Right now you just need to get yourself better. That means lots of rest until the doc says it’s time to go home.”
Jonathan closed his eyes. He was so stupid thinking a 10 year old kid would be able to sign with the Sox. He heard his parents talking to the doctor again before leaving the room and then his parents whispering.
As he tried to fall back into the fog he had just fought so hard to get through, there was a knock on the door.
“Is this where the kid who tried to catch my homer with his head is?”
Jonathan opened his eyes. It was Kevin Youkilis! In his arms were a basket filled with a bunch of things.
“But the game’s on,” Jonathan squeaked.
“That’s last night’s game,” his dad told him, “I thought you’d want the game in the background and the 2 hour replay is all that’s on.” He then turned to Youk and invited him in.
Pulling up a chair he sat next to the bed.
“I’m glad you’re OK,” Youk said, “I just ran into your doctor outside your room and he said I can stay for a few minutes but not to tire you out.”
Jonathan smiled, “I just dreamt I struck you out during BP.”
“Well, from what your dad said, it wouldn’t surprise me if in ten or so years you’re able to do just that. But there’s plenty of time for that to come. Right now I want to make sure you’re OK and brought you some stuff from the team. I have a ball the whole team signed, including Tito, a bat from Pedey and a glove from me.”
“Gee, thanks Mr. Youkilis.”
“Not a problem. And when the doc says it’s Ok, and if it’s OK with your folks, I’d love it if you were a guest of mine at a game.
I’ll even make sure they let you on the field in the press area during BP.”
“I’d like that,” Jonathan replied.
“Great. I’ve got to go. I’ve got to get to the park, but next time, I suggest you drop the food and use your hands to catch the ball. Deal?”
“Deal.” Jonathan smiled as Youk left the room.
It may have been a dream, but one thing Jonathan knew, dreams could come true with a bit of hard work. He’d show them all that he could play… but first he wanted to sleep on it. Who knows, maybe this time he’d see what would happen without getting hit in the head a couple of times.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Story Two: Sick Day: June 2, 2005
This 1,000 word story describes something that could have been. I was actually at that game and it was an amazing game, but for folks who normally watch on NESN, they'll tell you part of the game is listening to our broadcasters laugh and joke through out the game.
**************
My mother is one of those people who believes if you’re too sick to go to school, you’re too sick to watch TV or play video games. All you get to do is lie in bed and sleep or read.
“You’ll recover faster that way,” she says.
She’s wrong. We lie about feeling better because we’re so bored. If you’re sick enough to earn a spot on the couch, then usually it’s because you’re too sick to watch TV or care about video games.
But still, we spend sick days in bed even though we beg, plead and try to frame logical arguments for why we need to watch TV instead. If my mom does let us on the couch to watch TV when we’re sick, it’s because it’s the weekend or we really, really, burning up with a fever moaning in pain because even drinking root beer or ginger ale hurts sick.
This is one of those kind of sick days for me.
Normally, I’d try to be happy at being able to watch TV but my dad had 2 tickets to a day game at Fenway that meant cutting school. Instead, I got the flu.
The flu, in June. Who gets the flu in June?
I do, that’s who. Worst of all my stupid brother got to go to the game instead of me.
The game was supposed to happen in April, but the rain blew in and the game got reschedule for when the Orioles were in town in June. It was a tough sell to mom, but dad pointed out that I worked hard, took the MCAS without complaint. It took a week of begging, but she finally relented saying it was a good present since I’d be moving up to the middle school in the fall.
Then I came home from little league practice, fell down on the couch and wrapped myself in the afghan, curling up in a little ball and falling asleep. My brother said it was funny to watch me whimper and cry.
Did I mention my brother’s a jerk?
He thinks he’s so tough because he’s going to high school in the fall but I will make sure to laugh at him next time he’s so sick he’s on the couch instead of in bed.
“Honey, how are you feeling?”
It was my mom. She had a glass of ginger ale and an ice cream sandwich for me. I tried to shoot her my “go away and die” look, but instead she sat down on the edge of the couch and smoothed my hair off my forehead.
“That good huh?” she said. “I thought you might want an ice cream sandwich to help your throat feel better,” she smiled. “If you want, I can turn on the game for you. Maybe you’ll see your dad and James. I know James made a sign, maybe they’ll show him on TV.”
“Great,” I muttered. “He’s going to the game I’m supposed to go to and he’ll be on TV with a sign.”
“Oh honey, dad will take you to a game this summer.”
“It’s not the same.”
Leaning over and kissing my forehead to check my temperature she pulled back, still smiling. “You never know.”
“I bet it’s the most exciting game of the year and I should be there.”
“Get some sleep, I’ll leave the game on for you.”
As soon as I knew she was in the other room, I quickly ate the ice cream sandwich. The first bite hurt a little going down my tight throat. But the ice cream was cold and good. After that it was a treat to finish the rest of the sandwich before taking a sip of the ginger ale. The bubbles tickled my nose and burned my throat a little before I put my head back down.
I could hear Don Orsillo and Jerry Remy’s voices laughing, there was something comforting about their voices. It was like listening to your best freinds tell inside jokes that only you get and you just don’t have to say a word. I dozed off a little as they talked about the Baltimore line up, the weather and how it was a perfect day to play baseball.
In my sleep I was there. I saw the game. The Sox took the early lead with Youk doubling and Rent-a-wreck and Papi sacrificing him home. Matt Clement pitched like a champion. Every so often I’d sit up, rub my eyes and watch a little before going back sleep to listen Remy and Orsillo. The Sox held on until the 6th when things fell apart and the Orioles took the lead.
Through out the game, I could hear talking about signs. Answering requests to say hi to people stuck at work or school.
Nothing from James though. Sometimes I opened my eyes to look, sometimes I didn’t.
Then, in the bottom of the ninth, with two out and two on, Papi stepped in to the batter’s box. That’s when I heard it, Don Orsillo reading a sign.
“Look at the one Jerry, ‘Hey Remdog and Big O, I’m here because my sister was too sick to come. Tell her to get well soon.’ Well Jerry, what do you say?”
“Well, I say get well soon Sandy. Who knows, maybe Papi will hit a home run for you.” Opening my eyes, I saw the camera on James and the sign before the camera cut back to Big Papi.
They chuckled the way the usually did as Papi swung and missed.
Then it happened.
Papi swung and I knew the second I heard the crack. Sitting up, I could all of Fenway on their feet cheering as the ball traveled out of the park for the walk off home run. I tried to cheer, my throat was still too sore.
I’m sure Papi didn’t know who I was, but in that moment I believed that maybe, just maybe, he hit that home run so I’d feel better.
Between my brother’s sign and Papi’s home run, I was feeling better. While I would have rather have been at the game, being sick on the couch and an exciting win were about as good a get well wish a girl could hope for.
**************
My mother is one of those people who believes if you’re too sick to go to school, you’re too sick to watch TV or play video games. All you get to do is lie in bed and sleep or read.
“You’ll recover faster that way,” she says.
She’s wrong. We lie about feeling better because we’re so bored. If you’re sick enough to earn a spot on the couch, then usually it’s because you’re too sick to watch TV or care about video games.
But still, we spend sick days in bed even though we beg, plead and try to frame logical arguments for why we need to watch TV instead. If my mom does let us on the couch to watch TV when we’re sick, it’s because it’s the weekend or we really, really, burning up with a fever moaning in pain because even drinking root beer or ginger ale hurts sick.
This is one of those kind of sick days for me.
Normally, I’d try to be happy at being able to watch TV but my dad had 2 tickets to a day game at Fenway that meant cutting school. Instead, I got the flu.
The flu, in June. Who gets the flu in June?
I do, that’s who. Worst of all my stupid brother got to go to the game instead of me.
The game was supposed to happen in April, but the rain blew in and the game got reschedule for when the Orioles were in town in June. It was a tough sell to mom, but dad pointed out that I worked hard, took the MCAS without complaint. It took a week of begging, but she finally relented saying it was a good present since I’d be moving up to the middle school in the fall.
Then I came home from little league practice, fell down on the couch and wrapped myself in the afghan, curling up in a little ball and falling asleep. My brother said it was funny to watch me whimper and cry.
Did I mention my brother’s a jerk?
He thinks he’s so tough because he’s going to high school in the fall but I will make sure to laugh at him next time he’s so sick he’s on the couch instead of in bed.
“Honey, how are you feeling?”
It was my mom. She had a glass of ginger ale and an ice cream sandwich for me. I tried to shoot her my “go away and die” look, but instead she sat down on the edge of the couch and smoothed my hair off my forehead.
“That good huh?” she said. “I thought you might want an ice cream sandwich to help your throat feel better,” she smiled. “If you want, I can turn on the game for you. Maybe you’ll see your dad and James. I know James made a sign, maybe they’ll show him on TV.”
“Great,” I muttered. “He’s going to the game I’m supposed to go to and he’ll be on TV with a sign.”
“Oh honey, dad will take you to a game this summer.”
“It’s not the same.”
Leaning over and kissing my forehead to check my temperature she pulled back, still smiling. “You never know.”
“I bet it’s the most exciting game of the year and I should be there.”
“Get some sleep, I’ll leave the game on for you.”
As soon as I knew she was in the other room, I quickly ate the ice cream sandwich. The first bite hurt a little going down my tight throat. But the ice cream was cold and good. After that it was a treat to finish the rest of the sandwich before taking a sip of the ginger ale. The bubbles tickled my nose and burned my throat a little before I put my head back down.
I could hear Don Orsillo and Jerry Remy’s voices laughing, there was something comforting about their voices. It was like listening to your best freinds tell inside jokes that only you get and you just don’t have to say a word. I dozed off a little as they talked about the Baltimore line up, the weather and how it was a perfect day to play baseball.
In my sleep I was there. I saw the game. The Sox took the early lead with Youk doubling and Rent-a-wreck and Papi sacrificing him home. Matt Clement pitched like a champion. Every so often I’d sit up, rub my eyes and watch a little before going back sleep to listen Remy and Orsillo. The Sox held on until the 6th when things fell apart and the Orioles took the lead.
Through out the game, I could hear talking about signs. Answering requests to say hi to people stuck at work or school.
Nothing from James though. Sometimes I opened my eyes to look, sometimes I didn’t.
Then, in the bottom of the ninth, with two out and two on, Papi stepped in to the batter’s box. That’s when I heard it, Don Orsillo reading a sign.
“Look at the one Jerry, ‘Hey Remdog and Big O, I’m here because my sister was too sick to come. Tell her to get well soon.’ Well Jerry, what do you say?”
“Well, I say get well soon Sandy. Who knows, maybe Papi will hit a home run for you.” Opening my eyes, I saw the camera on James and the sign before the camera cut back to Big Papi.
They chuckled the way the usually did as Papi swung and missed.
Then it happened.
Papi swung and I knew the second I heard the crack. Sitting up, I could all of Fenway on their feet cheering as the ball traveled out of the park for the walk off home run. I tried to cheer, my throat was still too sore.
I’m sure Papi didn’t know who I was, but in that moment I believed that maybe, just maybe, he hit that home run so I’d feel better.
Between my brother’s sign and Papi’s home run, I was feeling better. While I would have rather have been at the game, being sick on the couch and an exciting win were about as good a get well wish a girl could hope for.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Story One: October 2, 1978
Today is the first day of National Novel Writers Month. The prompts I was given were: Watermelon throwing tree, birds throwing ice cream and a catapult or flame thrower. What do you do with prompts like that around Fenway Park and the Red Sox? Then I remembered a food fight in college when the Sox lost to the Yankees in the one-game playoff after the season ended in a tie.
I thought about how seriously we took that game and how it didn't really matter in the grand scheme of life. But what if something came out of that? Something that really did matter that made a difference in someone's life?
So I give you the first draft of "October 2, 1978." I'll go back and edit (and actually give Bubbles and Squeak real names along the way) when the month is over and I can read in leisure. Feel free to leave comments. Tomorrow I think I'll spend a day in the park. I'm not sure what year it will be or which prompt I'll use. But then, I didn't expect to write this story today either.
Enjoy.
***********
The four friends sat around the table, saying nothing, staring at the cafeteria food.
“Why did we bother with dinner?” sighed Pete as he pushed his plate towards the center of the table.
“Fourteen games,” Katie moaned. “Fourteen stinking games.”
Bubbles and Squeak didn’t say anything.
“Yaz…” sighed Bubbles. “He didn’t drive through his hips. A single would have tied it up but we wanted him to be a hero and he knew it. He tried to give us what we wanted and came up short.”
“There’s always next year,” sighed Katie. “I mean, it’s not like we’re ever gonna win the Series. At least not in my life time and probably not my future kids either.”
Through out the cafeteria there were similar conversations going on. The mood was dark. After the most promising season in almost a decade, the Red Sox had slipped from a 14 game lead over the Yankees at the All Star break to ending the season in a tie. The league determined a one-game playoff between the two rivals for the afternoon of October 2nd.
The day had been sunny and unseasonably warm. The game started promising with Yaz’s home run but began to implode in the 7th when the Yanks took a 4-2 lead. They added another run to their lead in the 8th, but the Sox looked like they might make it back when they came back to with in a run. Then, in the bottom of the 9th with two on and two out, Yaz popped out to end the game.
The majority of the kids on New Hampshire college Katie attended were Boston fans, but there was that group from New York and New Jersey that were too busy celebrating back in the dorms. For Katie and her friends, there was nothing to celebrate.
Then the hissing started low, but began to grow.
Looking up from the lumpy mashed potatoes, she saw Charlie and his Yankees cap. With him was William (not Bill) and Wallace (not Wally), high fiving and joking as they walked across the cafeteria to join the food line.
“Look at them,” Pete said, shaking his dark head. “They’re just rubbing it in now.”
Squeak, Katie’s roommate looked up at them. “Last week I told Charlie to suck eggs when he asked about this week’s mixer.”
“Charlie asked you out?” Katie sputtered.
“Yeah, with his styled hair and Brooks Brothers shirt.” She shook her head back and forth, “like I want that whole nose to the grindstone business thing. He’s all about cocktails on the terrace and the little wife and everything I’m just not.” She pushed the dish of canned fruit salad away with a sigh.
Without a word, Bubbles got up. His lanky 6’4” moving across the cafeteria to grab some bread from the salad bar. He scooped up two handfuls of the limp dinner rolls served with every hot meal and moved back to the table and sat, silently watching the slow moving dinner line, like a vulture waiting for it’s prey to be too weak to fight back.
Around him, others were doing the same. Some kids were grabbing the dishes of fruit salad, others were grabbing the melting ice cream, but one thing was clear… trouble was brewing.
“I don’t think I’m cut out for college,” Bubbles said suddenly.
“What?!” the friends replied.
“I may not have had a chance to play ball at an LSU or Georgia Tech, but I’m tried of my folks telling me baseball doesn’t pay the bills.”
Katie’s mouth hung open. “But what… what will you do?”
He shrugged. “Go to Florida, work out, try to see if I can’t try out for a team this spring perhaps.”
As he looked at his friends shocked faces, a toothy grin broke across his face. “How much you want to bet I peg Charlie from here with that piece of watermelon?” he said pointing at Squeak’s forgotten fruit salad.
“Bubbles,” Squeak squeaked.
“You’re on,” said Pete, “but you have to nail him through the stupid tree bush thing there.
“Deal. Not only that, I’ll get Wallace with what’s left of your ice cream.”
“From above?” asked Pete.
Looking around the table Squeak smiled broadened, “As if a bird dropped it on him, but I need to build… quick, give me your fork, spoon, knife and glass.”
Peter eagerly shoved those things across the table as they watched Charlie disappear behind the wall that separated the cafeteria from the serving area.
“You’ve got like, what a couple of minutes at most and you won’t be able to test it.”
“Won’t need to,” he laughed.
Kate sat in shock. “Your going to get in trouble for this,” she gasped as she watched Bubbles build a makeshift catapult out various items on the table before loading the ice cream on the launching platform. Like a car wreck on the highway, she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
“Here he comes,” said Pete as Wallace and Charlie began to emerge from behind the wall.
“Ready….” Bubbles started, “steady…. GO!” he brought his fist down the knife and the ice cream launched high fell on Wallace’s shoulder. Charlie’s laugh could be heard through the room. “Well Wallace, looks like a Boston bird found you,” he said with an affected accent and false laugh. Instead of portraying society, he sounded more like a pompous ass.
Bubbles then picked up the watermelon and threw it in a perfect arc through the ficus bush, hitting Charlie square in the NY on his cap, sending the cap sailing. The cafeteria laughed and an afternoon of anxiety and disappointment that had capped a season of frustration suddenly broke through the damn of emotional frustration in the room.
All of a sudden food began to fly from all directions as Bubbles tossed chunks of dinner rolls on tables with a nod towards the three New Yorkers looking like deer caught in the headlights. From the back of the room someone yelled, “Food fight!” just like John Belushi in the movie “Animal House.”
Katie couldn’t be sure, but she thought it might have been Brother John, the Franciscan monk who always had that mischievous glint in his eye. He’d be the type of guy to do that and get away with it. But sitting in the middle of the cafeteria probably wasn’t the best place to be and suddenly she wanted to be anywhere but where she was.
“I’m outta here,” she announced and got up to try and to make her way out of the chaos. Squeak was right on her heels. At the doorway, she turned around saw Bubbles sitting in the middle of it all smiling. He leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head and his long legs stretched out in front of him while food flew all around.
The entrance door had been closed, not allowing any more students in and she knew if they didn’t beat it out of there immediately, campus security not let them out. The idea of trying to explain this to her uptight Catholic mom back in Southie wasn’t something she wanted to do.
“What about Pete?” asked Squeak.
Katie had lost sight of him early as he maneuvered his way to get more ammo.
“Pray he doesn’t do anything stupid? We need to bolt and we need to bolt now,” as she yanked her roommate’s arm before they were trapped inside to face whatever justice the school felt necessary to mete out to prevent this from happening again.
They managed to get out the door before it was closed behind them from the inside. Bursting into the fresh night air they could hear the riot continuing on, now with the added voices of campus security trying to calm things down.
In that moment, the tears rolled down Katie’s face and she collapsed onto the manicured lawn outside the campus center. Squeak wrapped her arms around her friend as the wrenching sobs followed.
“It’s so stupid,” Katie choked out after a minute or so as she gulped for air. “It’s a stupid baseball team. Win or lose, I still have a physics exam on Thursday and a paper due next week and … “ the rest of her words were lost as the sobs began again. Squeak rocked her back and forth and clucked, “There there now,” and other meaningless phrases of comfort.
“Why do I care? Do I think Dewey is going to rescue me or Bill Lee will show up to talk nihilist philosophy? If passed any of those men on the street, they wouldn’t know me from Adam. This shouldn’t hurt dammit, but it does.”
“Katie?”
She looked up to see Pete covered in food, his eyes concerned. He sat down next to the girls and wrapped his arms around the two of them. She quickly wiped her nose on the sleeve of her shirt while she snuffled back.
“Where’s Bubbles?” Squeak asked.
“Probably still sitting in the middle of it all with that grin, soaking it all in.”
They sat in silence for a bit watching as small groups were released from the cafeteria. They saw Charlie and his friends absolutely covered, head to toe, in institutional food trying to discreetly head back to their dorm.
“I wonder if he’ll try cleaning that stuff or just ask mummy to send him something new?”
Squeak punched Pete in the arm.
“Ow!”
“Be nice. He’s a yutz, but be nice.”
Finally Bubbles emerged, still smiling.
“Well guys, apparently I’m pretty damn lucky because everyone said all they saw was me sitting in the middle of the room doing nothing.” He glanced at the group and it began to register with him that something was wrong. “Katie?”
“Why does it hurt so much?” she whispered. “I mean, it’s not like this is a new feeling. From when I feel in love with the team back before ‘67 through the 75 series to today. This is what this team does. So why does it hurt?”
He joined them on the grass.
“Katie, you have something too many people in this world don’t have: passion. You survived busing in Boston by going to Latin and earning a scholarship to go here instead of Zoo Mass. You’re trying to get the hell out of Southie and the mental walls of parochialism that infuse that world with it’s whipped dog attitude. You want to be a teacher so kids know there’s someone out there rooting for them. You my friend are the reason I stay in this backwater of a school… well you three are the reason I stay here. Like the Red Sox, you inspire the people who love you to be better. You give us hope and it hurts because today your hopes were dashed. Come February, you’ll be over this and on opening day we’ll cut class to sit in Fenway and cheer for our boys.”
“What about Florida?”
“For you Katie bug, I’ll hang in one more year until I graduate. Who knows? Maybe I can get a job working for the Sox, then you can go to any game for free.”
“What about me?” asked Pete.
“Get a job as a vendor dude… I’m taking Katie.”
“And I have a wet t-shirt … why?”
“Because you’ll be Pete’s date.”
They sat in their funny pile-circle staring up at the darkening sky. As the chill began to set in, Bubbles spoke up. “What do you say we go to the pub and I buy us all a round and we toast our friendship and our misguided love for the Red Sox?”
“Can I change my shirt first?” asked Squeak, “I’m sort of covered in snot.”
They all laughed.
Later that evening, Katie sat up in bed while the lights were out. She could hear Squeak’s gentle snores. The Sox had lost but as a result, she felt like she won something bigger. She inspired her friends and they understood her. Out of the depths of her despair, she found meaning.
Her team may have lost, but tonight, Katie realized she was the luckiest girl in the world and in 185 days, the ump would call “Play Ball,” for her hopes to begin again.
I thought about how seriously we took that game and how it didn't really matter in the grand scheme of life. But what if something came out of that? Something that really did matter that made a difference in someone's life?
So I give you the first draft of "October 2, 1978." I'll go back and edit (and actually give Bubbles and Squeak real names along the way) when the month is over and I can read in leisure. Feel free to leave comments. Tomorrow I think I'll spend a day in the park. I'm not sure what year it will be or which prompt I'll use. But then, I didn't expect to write this story today either.
Enjoy.
***********
The four friends sat around the table, saying nothing, staring at the cafeteria food.
“Why did we bother with dinner?” sighed Pete as he pushed his plate towards the center of the table.
“Fourteen games,” Katie moaned. “Fourteen stinking games.”
Bubbles and Squeak didn’t say anything.
“Yaz…” sighed Bubbles. “He didn’t drive through his hips. A single would have tied it up but we wanted him to be a hero and he knew it. He tried to give us what we wanted and came up short.”
“There’s always next year,” sighed Katie. “I mean, it’s not like we’re ever gonna win the Series. At least not in my life time and probably not my future kids either.”
Through out the cafeteria there were similar conversations going on. The mood was dark. After the most promising season in almost a decade, the Red Sox had slipped from a 14 game lead over the Yankees at the All Star break to ending the season in a tie. The league determined a one-game playoff between the two rivals for the afternoon of October 2nd.
The day had been sunny and unseasonably warm. The game started promising with Yaz’s home run but began to implode in the 7th when the Yanks took a 4-2 lead. They added another run to their lead in the 8th, but the Sox looked like they might make it back when they came back to with in a run. Then, in the bottom of the 9th with two on and two out, Yaz popped out to end the game.
The majority of the kids on New Hampshire college Katie attended were Boston fans, but there was that group from New York and New Jersey that were too busy celebrating back in the dorms. For Katie and her friends, there was nothing to celebrate.
Then the hissing started low, but began to grow.
Looking up from the lumpy mashed potatoes, she saw Charlie and his Yankees cap. With him was William (not Bill) and Wallace (not Wally), high fiving and joking as they walked across the cafeteria to join the food line.
“Look at them,” Pete said, shaking his dark head. “They’re just rubbing it in now.”
Squeak, Katie’s roommate looked up at them. “Last week I told Charlie to suck eggs when he asked about this week’s mixer.”
“Charlie asked you out?” Katie sputtered.
“Yeah, with his styled hair and Brooks Brothers shirt.” She shook her head back and forth, “like I want that whole nose to the grindstone business thing. He’s all about cocktails on the terrace and the little wife and everything I’m just not.” She pushed the dish of canned fruit salad away with a sigh.
Without a word, Bubbles got up. His lanky 6’4” moving across the cafeteria to grab some bread from the salad bar. He scooped up two handfuls of the limp dinner rolls served with every hot meal and moved back to the table and sat, silently watching the slow moving dinner line, like a vulture waiting for it’s prey to be too weak to fight back.
Around him, others were doing the same. Some kids were grabbing the dishes of fruit salad, others were grabbing the melting ice cream, but one thing was clear… trouble was brewing.
“I don’t think I’m cut out for college,” Bubbles said suddenly.
“What?!” the friends replied.
“I may not have had a chance to play ball at an LSU or Georgia Tech, but I’m tried of my folks telling me baseball doesn’t pay the bills.”
Katie’s mouth hung open. “But what… what will you do?”
He shrugged. “Go to Florida, work out, try to see if I can’t try out for a team this spring perhaps.”
As he looked at his friends shocked faces, a toothy grin broke across his face. “How much you want to bet I peg Charlie from here with that piece of watermelon?” he said pointing at Squeak’s forgotten fruit salad.
“Bubbles,” Squeak squeaked.
“You’re on,” said Pete, “but you have to nail him through the stupid tree bush thing there.
“Deal. Not only that, I’ll get Wallace with what’s left of your ice cream.”
“From above?” asked Pete.
Looking around the table Squeak smiled broadened, “As if a bird dropped it on him, but I need to build… quick, give me your fork, spoon, knife and glass.”
Peter eagerly shoved those things across the table as they watched Charlie disappear behind the wall that separated the cafeteria from the serving area.
“You’ve got like, what a couple of minutes at most and you won’t be able to test it.”
“Won’t need to,” he laughed.
Kate sat in shock. “Your going to get in trouble for this,” she gasped as she watched Bubbles build a makeshift catapult out various items on the table before loading the ice cream on the launching platform. Like a car wreck on the highway, she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
“Here he comes,” said Pete as Wallace and Charlie began to emerge from behind the wall.
“Ready….” Bubbles started, “steady…. GO!” he brought his fist down the knife and the ice cream launched high fell on Wallace’s shoulder. Charlie’s laugh could be heard through the room. “Well Wallace, looks like a Boston bird found you,” he said with an affected accent and false laugh. Instead of portraying society, he sounded more like a pompous ass.
Bubbles then picked up the watermelon and threw it in a perfect arc through the ficus bush, hitting Charlie square in the NY on his cap, sending the cap sailing. The cafeteria laughed and an afternoon of anxiety and disappointment that had capped a season of frustration suddenly broke through the damn of emotional frustration in the room.
All of a sudden food began to fly from all directions as Bubbles tossed chunks of dinner rolls on tables with a nod towards the three New Yorkers looking like deer caught in the headlights. From the back of the room someone yelled, “Food fight!” just like John Belushi in the movie “Animal House.”
Katie couldn’t be sure, but she thought it might have been Brother John, the Franciscan monk who always had that mischievous glint in his eye. He’d be the type of guy to do that and get away with it. But sitting in the middle of the cafeteria probably wasn’t the best place to be and suddenly she wanted to be anywhere but where she was.
“I’m outta here,” she announced and got up to try and to make her way out of the chaos. Squeak was right on her heels. At the doorway, she turned around saw Bubbles sitting in the middle of it all smiling. He leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head and his long legs stretched out in front of him while food flew all around.
The entrance door had been closed, not allowing any more students in and she knew if they didn’t beat it out of there immediately, campus security not let them out. The idea of trying to explain this to her uptight Catholic mom back in Southie wasn’t something she wanted to do.
“What about Pete?” asked Squeak.
Katie had lost sight of him early as he maneuvered his way to get more ammo.
“Pray he doesn’t do anything stupid? We need to bolt and we need to bolt now,” as she yanked her roommate’s arm before they were trapped inside to face whatever justice the school felt necessary to mete out to prevent this from happening again.
They managed to get out the door before it was closed behind them from the inside. Bursting into the fresh night air they could hear the riot continuing on, now with the added voices of campus security trying to calm things down.
In that moment, the tears rolled down Katie’s face and she collapsed onto the manicured lawn outside the campus center. Squeak wrapped her arms around her friend as the wrenching sobs followed.
“It’s so stupid,” Katie choked out after a minute or so as she gulped for air. “It’s a stupid baseball team. Win or lose, I still have a physics exam on Thursday and a paper due next week and … “ the rest of her words were lost as the sobs began again. Squeak rocked her back and forth and clucked, “There there now,” and other meaningless phrases of comfort.
“Why do I care? Do I think Dewey is going to rescue me or Bill Lee will show up to talk nihilist philosophy? If passed any of those men on the street, they wouldn’t know me from Adam. This shouldn’t hurt dammit, but it does.”
“Katie?”
She looked up to see Pete covered in food, his eyes concerned. He sat down next to the girls and wrapped his arms around the two of them. She quickly wiped her nose on the sleeve of her shirt while she snuffled back.
“Where’s Bubbles?” Squeak asked.
“Probably still sitting in the middle of it all with that grin, soaking it all in.”
They sat in silence for a bit watching as small groups were released from the cafeteria. They saw Charlie and his friends absolutely covered, head to toe, in institutional food trying to discreetly head back to their dorm.
“I wonder if he’ll try cleaning that stuff or just ask mummy to send him something new?”
Squeak punched Pete in the arm.
“Ow!”
“Be nice. He’s a yutz, but be nice.”
Finally Bubbles emerged, still smiling.
“Well guys, apparently I’m pretty damn lucky because everyone said all they saw was me sitting in the middle of the room doing nothing.” He glanced at the group and it began to register with him that something was wrong. “Katie?”
“Why does it hurt so much?” she whispered. “I mean, it’s not like this is a new feeling. From when I feel in love with the team back before ‘67 through the 75 series to today. This is what this team does. So why does it hurt?”
He joined them on the grass.
“Katie, you have something too many people in this world don’t have: passion. You survived busing in Boston by going to Latin and earning a scholarship to go here instead of Zoo Mass. You’re trying to get the hell out of Southie and the mental walls of parochialism that infuse that world with it’s whipped dog attitude. You want to be a teacher so kids know there’s someone out there rooting for them. You my friend are the reason I stay in this backwater of a school… well you three are the reason I stay here. Like the Red Sox, you inspire the people who love you to be better. You give us hope and it hurts because today your hopes were dashed. Come February, you’ll be over this and on opening day we’ll cut class to sit in Fenway and cheer for our boys.”
“What about Florida?”
“For you Katie bug, I’ll hang in one more year until I graduate. Who knows? Maybe I can get a job working for the Sox, then you can go to any game for free.”
“What about me?” asked Pete.
“Get a job as a vendor dude… I’m taking Katie.”
“And I have a wet t-shirt … why?”
“Because you’ll be Pete’s date.”
They sat in their funny pile-circle staring up at the darkening sky. As the chill began to set in, Bubbles spoke up. “What do you say we go to the pub and I buy us all a round and we toast our friendship and our misguided love for the Red Sox?”
“Can I change my shirt first?” asked Squeak, “I’m sort of covered in snot.”
They all laughed.
Later that evening, Katie sat up in bed while the lights were out. She could hear Squeak’s gentle snores. The Sox had lost but as a result, she felt like she won something bigger. She inspired her friends and they understood her. Out of the depths of her despair, she found meaning.
Her team may have lost, but tonight, Katie realized she was the luckiest girl in the world and in 185 days, the ump would call “Play Ball,” for her hopes to begin again.
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