I'm not sure where this one came from, all my boys are in college. Sometimes a story just decides to come out of the blue.
****
“Mom, I need a baby picture for the yearbook….”
The shout was punctuated by the slam of the front door, the opening of the fridge door, closing of the fridge door and then the reopening of the fridge door.
“Do we have anything to eat?”
With a sigh, Devon’s mother tried to ignore her son. He’d be in her office soon enough, why rush things?
“Ma,” he called again. The fridge door hadn’t closed yet, so she was pretty sure he was drinking milk from the carton while looking for something to eat as well. “Did you hear me? I need a baby picture for the yearbook.”
“I heard you,” she yelled back. “I’m working, we can look later.”
“Whatever. Did you go food shopping yet?”
“There’s fruit on the counter, otherwise the kitchen is closed until I’m done working. Go do your homework.”
“Whatever,” he yelled again.
The fridge door closed and shortly after that, his heavy steps moved up the stairs and slam of his bedroom door. She heard the thud of his back pack hitting the floor and pounding of his music as he turned on his speakers.
Her eyes fell on her favorite photo from when the boys were little. It was taken at Devon’s 10th birthday party, which they had at Fenway Park. It had been an unusually warm April day and they lucked out in that Pedro was on the mound. In the photo, all the boys had a big red “K” painted on their shirtless chests. Two of them had on big, red foam fingers and all of them had ear to ear grins on their faces.
They were so sweet back then.
Michael was in college, Devon was graduating this year and Timmy was finishing his sophomore year.
Staring at her computer screen with a sigh, she realized her concentration was gone. Perhaps she needed a break from the grant she was writing for now. It was often Devon acknowledged her presence these days, so maybe it was a good opportunity to see what he needed.
She looked at the photo again. What was it he said he needed? A baby picture. Perhaps one of the photos from that day would do the trick. She stopped in the living room and pulled out the green box labeled “Summer 2003-2004.” Digging through, she quickly found the pictures.
There was the one of him with the Japanese tourists girls posing around him, the girls flashing peace signs while he grinned. Then there was the one of the bleacher creature who had just painted his chest. He was holding Devon up like Simba, the Lion King, for the crowd’s adoration and approval… both of which he received. Of course there was the one with his brothers, but she suspected that particular one would be lower on his list than the other two.
Slipping quietly upstairs, she knocked on his door. She heard the music soften a bit before he bellowed, “Come in.”
“Hey, how about one of these?” she handed him the photos.
Pausing he looked at the pile of photos and smiled.
“I remember this. It was my birthday and Pedro was pitching. The guys were painting K’s on their chests for every strikeout Pedro recorded. I asked if I could get painted too and you shrugged and said, ‘Why not, you’re taking a bath when you get home.’ I couldn’t believe how cool a mom you were.”
“Were?”
“Are.”
“Nice save.”
He looked through them, tenderly touching the one of him and his brothers.
“We were so little.”
“You grow up, it happens.”
He shrugged, “I guess. It’s funny I still remember all the details of that day. Everything from being excited we took the T into the game to the game itself. I remember I was so excited to sit in the bleachers because we never got to sit in the bleachers. And sitting right over the bullpen like that,” he whistled.
She smiled.
“How cool was it that Pedro was pitching. I remember I got Tek to sign my ball cap because it was my birthday. He was warming Pedro up in the pen before the game. Then dad bought me the foam finger,” he pointed to the wall where it still hung over his bed.
“You know what I remember about that day? I remember that you three didn’t fight at all that day.”
“There was nothing to fight about. It was like everything was perfect that day. The weather, the seats, the game… everything.”
He looked at the photo with the Japanese tourists.
“Why do they pose with strangers like that?”
She shrugged.
“Do you still have the photo of Mikey with the Japanese tourists at the duckling statues?”
“Next to this one in my office,” she pointed at the photo of the three of them.
“I was so little.”
“Well, I suppose it’s a good thing you’re over six feet now or playing ball would be difficult right now.”
“Yesterday I was talking to some of my friends. They were talking about how their parents have always told them what to do. You guys weren’t like that.”
“What’s the point of sending you to school to learn how to think on your own if we didn’t let you do just that.”
“I’ve been thinking about colleges.”
“I’d be surprised if you weren’t.”
“I think I want to stay close to home. If I can keep my math grades up, I might be able to get into Commonwealth College at UMass Amherst. I know it’s the honors program out there, but I’m pretty sure I could handle it.”
“Does that mean you finally picked a major?”
“I’m leaning towards education.”
“Really,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah. I just spent my community service time in Mr. Swaim’s room over at the elementary school. He made it seem so cool. The kids responded well and I really liked how he was able to be friendly and strict at the same time.”
“I could see you as a teacher. Sounds like a good idea. Any other schools you were thinking of?”
“BC and Framingham are a little too close, but Bridgewater looks good too.”
“We can take a drive down to check it out if you want. I notice, with the exception of ruling out BC, you’re only mentioning state schools. Is there a reason for that?”
He looked back at the photos.
“I think I like this one,” he said looking at the one of the three of them. “If they don’t let me use that one or want to crop out Mikey and Timmy, then I’ll go with this one,” he said indicating the Lion King photo.
“I’ll make copies in the morning. You didn’t answer my question.”
He looked up over his bed. There was a poster of Jason Varitek his brothers gave him that birthday next to the foam finger. There were also laminated front pages from the Boston papers from 2004 and 2007 of the Red Sox series wins.
“Hey mom, could you make an extra of this one,” he said indicating the photo of the three of them. “I’d kind of like to have it.”
“Are you going to answer my question?”
“I don’t want leave home yet. Is that a bad thing? I mean, I don’t want to stay home or anything like that, but I don’t want to go too far away either.”
“I can understand that feeling.”
“Are you OK with that?”
“Are you OK with the photos I picked?”
He smiled. “I want a copy of it, what do you think?”
“We can still look for other photos.”
“No, these are good.”
“Should we think about other schools?”
“No, UMass and Bridgewater are good.”
She took the photos from him.
“You know, I love this photo. I love the joy, I love the lightness, I love the innocence. The problem is it’s a snapshot in time. As much as I love this moment in time, you can’t stay there forever. If you do, you miss the other equally as wonderful moments.”
“Thanks for not telling me what schools I need to go to in order to be set for life.”
“If I didn’t like your choices, I won’t pay the tuition.”
They both laughed.
“You like my choices?”
“I’m think I can cover those schools. You know Bridgewater is a division 3 school.”
“That’s OK, I’m not going to play ball after high school.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m no Mark Bellhorn.”
It was her turn to laugh.
“How did I have such a smart kid?”
“I knew you’d get it. You let Mikey walk away when he ready and on his terms. You’ll let Timmy do the same. I’m good with where I am. It’s been a lot of fun but it’s becoming work. Once it becomes work, what’s the point?”
“It’s your call, either way you know Dad and I will support you on your decisions about both baseball and schools.”
“I know you will.”
“Hey, do me a favor will you.”
“Sure.”
“Keep the music down, I have a proposal to write and your dad will be hope soon.”
“I can do that.”
She left his room, closing the door softly behind her. She wondered if it would be harder when it was Timmy’s turn to leave and all that would be left were the photos and echoes. Wiping a tear from her eye she went back downstairs to her office as his music started up again, this time a bit lower. He was a good kid, always had been. Now he was growing into a good man. Just like his brother before him and his brother behind him. They’d always be her little boys, but now it was time to push another bird from the nest.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Story Thirteen: Rejection
I remember Fred Lynn leaving the Sox. I wasn't happy but I understood that he wanted to be closer to family and I understood that. Sure the extra money didn't hurt, but I understand the family piece as a factor too. Same with Nick Esasky - who's black and white 8x10 still sits over my desk. But I still remember Johnny Damon breaking my son's heart. If you want to see the pain kids feel when players leave a team for money, you should have been sitting in my living room the night Damon came back to Boston with the Yankees for the first time.
My little Pi took his WWJDD shirt, his pride and joy for years, and some white acrylic paint he bought as he was just starting to paint as well as draw. When Damon walked out onto the field, he calmly took his brush and changed the "a" in Damon to an "e," changing the word to Demon. He then, just as calmly flipped over the shirt and painted on devil horns and a pointed devil tail curling up by his ear. He wore the shirt just as proudly from that day forward to show how his anger had replaced his previous joy.
Even though that shirt is too small for him, he still has it tucked away in the box of "t-shirts that mean too much to me to throw out" box in the back of his closet.
Last night, I watched Papelbon's press conference and I recalled Pi all those years ago. Who knows why he signed with Philly and I'm sure the money didn't hurt, but in the days of jumping ship for the larger paycheck, I have to wonder, do these guys really know what they're doing to the kids that idolize and support them?
*****
The ripping noise, punctuated by angry sobs, echoed through the house.
“You stupid, stupid man!”
Rip.
“How could you do this to us?”
Rip.
“I can’t believe I ever thought you were good.”
Rip.
When the ripping stopped, Benjie’s mom knocked gently on the partially open door. On the floor were posters and newspaper articles he had hung on the walls over the years. Some were torn to shreds, some laying whole, but twisted, on the floor where they fell after they came off the wall.
Benjie looked so small sitting on his bed, curled into himself crying. His dark hair stuck out every which way, knees pulled all the way up covering his face and his arms wrapped around his legs. The racking sobs shook his whole body as he cried.
She sat down next to him and draped her arms over his shoulders. Even though, at 10 he was too old for such things. He shifted his body and curled into his mother for comfort as if he were just a little kid. He cried until he could bare breathe. He gasped a bit for air as she rubbed his back and murmured the comforting words she used to when he was younger.
“I just don’t understand,” he finally gasped. “Doesn’t he understand what he means to Boston? What he means to kids like me?”
“I’m sure he does,” she said. Looking down she noticed Papelbon’s smiling face looking up at her. The laminated front page of the Boston Herald from the 2007 World Series win was lying flat on the floor. “It’s just that some players need to think beyond Boston.”
“He did it for money,” the bitter words spilled out of his mouth. “You saw him at the press conference. He didn’t care.”
Silent tears began to roll down his face again.
She rocked him a bit more, smiling down at him.
“Benjie, the life of a baseball player is precarious at best.”
“Precarious?”
“Cautiously uncertain. Can you tell me what part of speech that might be?”
“Adjective,” he replied without thought, “it modifies or describes the noun.”
She smiled. “You’ll be fine,” she calmly said.
“I don’t understand.”
“This coming from a boy who, last summer, yelled at the TV that he needed a new pitch? Is this the same boy who got nervous that Papelbon might be losing his edge and expected blown saves? Is this the same boy who didn’t ask for a new Papelbon shirt for the start of school this year?”
“That’s not the point. I may have been mad, but I always believed in him. I just feel like he didn’t believe in people like me. You always taught me that sometimes you can feel angry and frustrated with people you love but that you need to work it out. He didn’t try, he just packed his bags and left.”
“Maybe six years in Boston was enough for him. Maybe his needs and his family needed to change where they were.”
“Mom he didn’t even sound like he cared. He said there were no regrets, but was he only thinking of himself?”
“I don’t know honey. I know this is hard on you and kids like you but he had to do what was right for him.”
“And it was too many millions to say ‘no’ to,” he spat out bitterly.
“Hey, that’s a lot of money to say ‘no’ to my friend. I’m not so sure I’d stay in Boston if someone offered me that much money to leave.”
“That’s not the point. The point is for the last six years so many of supported and loved him. We bought his shirts and cards. We bought bobble heads and other souvenirs. I fought for his autograph and always, always cheered for him. He was my hero and he left for what? A couple of million dollars more than what the Red Sox would have offered? He didn’t even give them a chance to make a counter offer. That’s what pisses me off.”
“Can you find another word?”
He sighed and rolled his eyes.
“Angers. Frustrates. Um… ticks me off.”
“That’s good,” she smiled.
They sat for a moment more.
“Do you know the name of the player in the photo over my desk?”
“Nick Esasky, the baseball ghod.”
“That’s right. What uniform is he wearing?”
“A Red Sox uniform.”
“How long did he play for the Sox?”
“The ‘89 season. He was the throw in from Pete Rose who wanted to get rid of him.”
“Boston loved Nick. My friends and I sat in the stands chanting the Nickelodeon ‘Nick Nick Nick Nick Nick Nick Nick Nice’ theme when he would come to the plate. In fact, your uncle Hunter even printed off a giant banner on a dot matrix printer that we held up from our seats whenever we got to games. Do you know why he left?”
“Because he wanted to move back to Atlanta near his family.”
“Exactly.”
“But he didn’t do it for the money. He did it because he wanted his kids to be near their grandparents and cousins. That’s a reason to leave a place that loves you. Being traded is a reason to leave a place that loves you. Money is not a reason to leave a place that loves you.”
“Do you know, first hand, that’s the reason he left?”
“You saw him. There was no emotion in his voice. It was as if he rehearsed it with someone a bunch of times. He stuck to the script.”
“So it seems to you. You don’t know him personally, you don’t know what was in his mind when he did this. Perhaps he wanted to be somewhere where he wasn’t constantly questioned or criticized. Maybe he was just tired of feeling like he couldn’t do anything right anymore after everything he did here.”
Benjie shrugged, but he began to sit up and move away from his mom.
“Perhaps it was just time for him to move on. I know you’ve loved him since the day he stepped foot on the mound. There was something about him that you just gravitated towards, but does that mean you don’t want to pitch anymore?”
Sitting up and looking at his mom in disbelief, Benjie was shocked.
“Of course not!”
“Then what’s next?”
Benjie looked around the room.
“Clean up this mess?”
“That sounded a bit tentative.”
“Tentative?”
“Uncertain, unconfirmed.”
“Adjective,” he replied.
She smiled.
“You’ll be fine,” she said as she rose from the bed. The side of her shirt had a dark spot from where his tears had been absorbed. Looking down at the spot she smiled. “I guess I better change my shirt.”
He smiled.
“That’s what I like to see.”
She turned to leave, carefully stepping over the carnage ripped from the walls.
“Mom?”
She turned at the door and looked at Benjie and raised an eyebrow.
“Thanks.”
“Any time pal. Hey, see what you can save. You never know what might want to save.”
He smiled.
“I guess.”
“By the way, I’m making your favorite dinner tonight. Steak, smashed potatoes, peas and corn.”
“Do I have to set and clear the table tonight?”
“Hey, he only signed with Philly. It’s not like he died unexpectedly in a plane crash or something like Thurman Munson.”
“Can’t blame a kid for trying.”
“No and you still have to do your homework tonight.”
“Seriously? I can’t have a day off to mourn?”
“Save your mourning for when you need it my friend.”
As she stepped out of the room, she heard a quiet, “Mom?”
Going back in she saw Benjie standing there surveying the damage he had done.
“Did you need something?”
He ran across the room and hugged her.
“Thanks. I knew you’d understand.”
Giving him a hug back, she couldn’t help but smile broadly.
“I’ve been there a few too many times myself. Of course I understand.”
He let go and turned his attention on his room. She watched for a moment before going downstairs. She walked into her office and sat down at her desk.
Looking up at the photo of Nick Esasky, she gently reached up and touched it.
“Oh Nick, this just isn’t easy is it?”
The smiling player said nothing from behind the glass. Looking around the room to make sure she was alone, she opened up the secret compartment on her desk. There on the cork board were her old baseball cards. She looked at her Wade Boggs and Roger Clemens cards and wiped a tear that slipped from her eye. She thought for a moment before closing things up.
Looking at her computer, she started typing.
“Gentle reader,” she began typing, “if I had a chance to sit down with certain players, I would look at them and ask the same question: ‘When you chose to leave a team because of money, did you ever once think of the kids that idolized you?’ Maybe I would also ask, ‘Did you ever think they would get over it?’ If they thought they would, I would show them my collection of cards and say, ‘No, no they didn’t.’ So Jonathan Papelbon, you broke my son’s heart today. I don’t know your full reasons for doing so, but you did. For that I will have a hard time forgiving you. I wish you well in Philadelphia but please don’t expect me to welcome you back to Boston with open arms until you truly acknowledge the hearts you broke today. Until you do, like Johnny Damon, you’re dead to me. Now I have to make dinner for a young boy who just learned that the game he loves is a business and it’s players are business men at heart.
Life will go on, my son will recover but just understand you broke something in him today that will never be repaired. Good luck, heaven bless and may you figure out how to throw a third pitch because, trust me, you’ll need it in the NL. If you think Philly is easy, just ask Tito how kind the fans can be.”
Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she hit the “post” button and headed into the kitchen. If she knew here son, and she did, he’d want to help cook and tonight she needed some happy mother-son time to help heal the old wounds she felt and start healing his new one.
My little Pi took his WWJDD shirt, his pride and joy for years, and some white acrylic paint he bought as he was just starting to paint as well as draw. When Damon walked out onto the field, he calmly took his brush and changed the "a" in Damon to an "e," changing the word to Demon. He then, just as calmly flipped over the shirt and painted on devil horns and a pointed devil tail curling up by his ear. He wore the shirt just as proudly from that day forward to show how his anger had replaced his previous joy.
Even though that shirt is too small for him, he still has it tucked away in the box of "t-shirts that mean too much to me to throw out" box in the back of his closet.
Last night, I watched Papelbon's press conference and I recalled Pi all those years ago. Who knows why he signed with Philly and I'm sure the money didn't hurt, but in the days of jumping ship for the larger paycheck, I have to wonder, do these guys really know what they're doing to the kids that idolize and support them?
*****
The ripping noise, punctuated by angry sobs, echoed through the house.
“You stupid, stupid man!”
Rip.
“How could you do this to us?”
Rip.
“I can’t believe I ever thought you were good.”
Rip.
When the ripping stopped, Benjie’s mom knocked gently on the partially open door. On the floor were posters and newspaper articles he had hung on the walls over the years. Some were torn to shreds, some laying whole, but twisted, on the floor where they fell after they came off the wall.
Benjie looked so small sitting on his bed, curled into himself crying. His dark hair stuck out every which way, knees pulled all the way up covering his face and his arms wrapped around his legs. The racking sobs shook his whole body as he cried.
She sat down next to him and draped her arms over his shoulders. Even though, at 10 he was too old for such things. He shifted his body and curled into his mother for comfort as if he were just a little kid. He cried until he could bare breathe. He gasped a bit for air as she rubbed his back and murmured the comforting words she used to when he was younger.
“I just don’t understand,” he finally gasped. “Doesn’t he understand what he means to Boston? What he means to kids like me?”
“I’m sure he does,” she said. Looking down she noticed Papelbon’s smiling face looking up at her. The laminated front page of the Boston Herald from the 2007 World Series win was lying flat on the floor. “It’s just that some players need to think beyond Boston.”
“He did it for money,” the bitter words spilled out of his mouth. “You saw him at the press conference. He didn’t care.”
Silent tears began to roll down his face again.
She rocked him a bit more, smiling down at him.
“Benjie, the life of a baseball player is precarious at best.”
“Precarious?”
“Cautiously uncertain. Can you tell me what part of speech that might be?”
“Adjective,” he replied without thought, “it modifies or describes the noun.”
She smiled. “You’ll be fine,” she calmly said.
“I don’t understand.”
“This coming from a boy who, last summer, yelled at the TV that he needed a new pitch? Is this the same boy who got nervous that Papelbon might be losing his edge and expected blown saves? Is this the same boy who didn’t ask for a new Papelbon shirt for the start of school this year?”
“That’s not the point. I may have been mad, but I always believed in him. I just feel like he didn’t believe in people like me. You always taught me that sometimes you can feel angry and frustrated with people you love but that you need to work it out. He didn’t try, he just packed his bags and left.”
“Maybe six years in Boston was enough for him. Maybe his needs and his family needed to change where they were.”
“Mom he didn’t even sound like he cared. He said there were no regrets, but was he only thinking of himself?”
“I don’t know honey. I know this is hard on you and kids like you but he had to do what was right for him.”
“And it was too many millions to say ‘no’ to,” he spat out bitterly.
“Hey, that’s a lot of money to say ‘no’ to my friend. I’m not so sure I’d stay in Boston if someone offered me that much money to leave.”
“That’s not the point. The point is for the last six years so many of supported and loved him. We bought his shirts and cards. We bought bobble heads and other souvenirs. I fought for his autograph and always, always cheered for him. He was my hero and he left for what? A couple of million dollars more than what the Red Sox would have offered? He didn’t even give them a chance to make a counter offer. That’s what pisses me off.”
“Can you find another word?”
He sighed and rolled his eyes.
“Angers. Frustrates. Um… ticks me off.”
“That’s good,” she smiled.
They sat for a moment more.
“Do you know the name of the player in the photo over my desk?”
“Nick Esasky, the baseball ghod.”
“That’s right. What uniform is he wearing?”
“A Red Sox uniform.”
“How long did he play for the Sox?”
“The ‘89 season. He was the throw in from Pete Rose who wanted to get rid of him.”
“Boston loved Nick. My friends and I sat in the stands chanting the Nickelodeon ‘Nick Nick Nick Nick Nick Nick Nick Nice’ theme when he would come to the plate. In fact, your uncle Hunter even printed off a giant banner on a dot matrix printer that we held up from our seats whenever we got to games. Do you know why he left?”
“Because he wanted to move back to Atlanta near his family.”
“Exactly.”
“But he didn’t do it for the money. He did it because he wanted his kids to be near their grandparents and cousins. That’s a reason to leave a place that loves you. Being traded is a reason to leave a place that loves you. Money is not a reason to leave a place that loves you.”
“Do you know, first hand, that’s the reason he left?”
“You saw him. There was no emotion in his voice. It was as if he rehearsed it with someone a bunch of times. He stuck to the script.”
“So it seems to you. You don’t know him personally, you don’t know what was in his mind when he did this. Perhaps he wanted to be somewhere where he wasn’t constantly questioned or criticized. Maybe he was just tired of feeling like he couldn’t do anything right anymore after everything he did here.”
Benjie shrugged, but he began to sit up and move away from his mom.
“Perhaps it was just time for him to move on. I know you’ve loved him since the day he stepped foot on the mound. There was something about him that you just gravitated towards, but does that mean you don’t want to pitch anymore?”
Sitting up and looking at his mom in disbelief, Benjie was shocked.
“Of course not!”
“Then what’s next?”
Benjie looked around the room.
“Clean up this mess?”
“That sounded a bit tentative.”
“Tentative?”
“Uncertain, unconfirmed.”
“Adjective,” he replied.
She smiled.
“You’ll be fine,” she said as she rose from the bed. The side of her shirt had a dark spot from where his tears had been absorbed. Looking down at the spot she smiled. “I guess I better change my shirt.”
He smiled.
“That’s what I like to see.”
She turned to leave, carefully stepping over the carnage ripped from the walls.
“Mom?”
She turned at the door and looked at Benjie and raised an eyebrow.
“Thanks.”
“Any time pal. Hey, see what you can save. You never know what might want to save.”
He smiled.
“I guess.”
“By the way, I’m making your favorite dinner tonight. Steak, smashed potatoes, peas and corn.”
“Do I have to set and clear the table tonight?”
“Hey, he only signed with Philly. It’s not like he died unexpectedly in a plane crash or something like Thurman Munson.”
“Can’t blame a kid for trying.”
“No and you still have to do your homework tonight.”
“Seriously? I can’t have a day off to mourn?”
“Save your mourning for when you need it my friend.”
As she stepped out of the room, she heard a quiet, “Mom?”
Going back in she saw Benjie standing there surveying the damage he had done.
“Did you need something?”
He ran across the room and hugged her.
“Thanks. I knew you’d understand.”
Giving him a hug back, she couldn’t help but smile broadly.
“I’ve been there a few too many times myself. Of course I understand.”
He let go and turned his attention on his room. She watched for a moment before going downstairs. She walked into her office and sat down at her desk.
Looking up at the photo of Nick Esasky, she gently reached up and touched it.
“Oh Nick, this just isn’t easy is it?”
The smiling player said nothing from behind the glass. Looking around the room to make sure she was alone, she opened up the secret compartment on her desk. There on the cork board were her old baseball cards. She looked at her Wade Boggs and Roger Clemens cards and wiped a tear that slipped from her eye. She thought for a moment before closing things up.
Looking at her computer, she started typing.
“Gentle reader,” she began typing, “if I had a chance to sit down with certain players, I would look at them and ask the same question: ‘When you chose to leave a team because of money, did you ever once think of the kids that idolized you?’ Maybe I would also ask, ‘Did you ever think they would get over it?’ If they thought they would, I would show them my collection of cards and say, ‘No, no they didn’t.’ So Jonathan Papelbon, you broke my son’s heart today. I don’t know your full reasons for doing so, but you did. For that I will have a hard time forgiving you. I wish you well in Philadelphia but please don’t expect me to welcome you back to Boston with open arms until you truly acknowledge the hearts you broke today. Until you do, like Johnny Damon, you’re dead to me. Now I have to make dinner for a young boy who just learned that the game he loves is a business and it’s players are business men at heart.
Life will go on, my son will recover but just understand you broke something in him today that will never be repaired. Good luck, heaven bless and may you figure out how to throw a third pitch because, trust me, you’ll need it in the NL. If you think Philly is easy, just ask Tito how kind the fans can be.”
Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she hit the “post” button and headed into the kitchen. If she knew here son, and she did, he’d want to help cook and tonight she needed some happy mother-son time to help heal the old wounds she felt and start healing his new one.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Story Twelve: Redemption
OK... we had another story that I just don't like and I'm not going to post... so instead of posting Story Fourteen, this is Story Twelve and is "what if a kid in the stands inspired a player?"
I have long been frustrated at the forcing of girls into softball. As Stephen King once pointed out, Little League effectively forced girls out of baseball by starting a softball program. As a former Little League president, I watched girls constantly being told "wouldn't you rather play soft ball with the other girls?" once they were over the age of 8 or 9. I asked a parent to leave the fields once when I happened to hear him call out to his son, "You're not gonna let a girl get a hit off you are you?" He did apologize, but that I had to be the one to speak to him rather than any of the other parents on the sidelines bothers me still years later. I remember when my son was little, there was a girl on his team that was a good baseball player. She struck out and kids began taunting her for "playing like a girl." My son draped his arm over her shoulders and said, "Hey, even Sammy Sosa strikes out, what makes you think you'll get a hit every time? Next time you'll knock it out of here." He was right, it fueled her to deliver a critical hit for their team at her next at bat.
So what if a kid inspired a player? Who knows, maybe in inspiring him she inspires herself to move on as well....
******
Aaron Hill loved baseball. It was the one constant in his whole life. No matter what happened, baseball was there for him. But now, he was at the end of his time on the field. In the early October sun, he could feel the changing air and knew, somehow, even Mother Nature was telling him it was time to hang up his cleats and discover what comes next.
The problem was, he didn’t know what would come next. As a result, as the team chased the last playoff spot, he was in a slump. His wife was nagging him about retiring, he had no prospect beyond the end of the season and his spirit had given up. Unless he could get his head back in the game today, the possibilities of a team win and that ever elusive playoff berth would be down the drain with his hope and dreams.
He dreaded batting practice today. He knew the chorus of Boston fans would start early and sing often. “Hill you suck!” “Get off the field old man,” were some of the kinder choruses he heard. Usually the jeers were punctuated with profanity and questions about his manhood.
Would it be such a bad thing to leave baseball at this point? After all he had done for the team over the years, would it be so hard for one fan, just one to remind him of the player he used to be? With a deep sigh, he emerged from the tunnel and through the dugout to the field and slowly took his position in line.
Ellen Byrne had been a Red Sox fan since before she was born. Her mother claimed that if a game was on, Ellen would kick and kick until her mother turned it on. She was told that she practiced sliding into base using her mother’s kidney as her target. As a toddler, she could throw anything with an accurate aim, more often than not it was either one of the cute “girl” shoes her mother would buy for her hoping that Ellen would settle down just a little.
It didn’t work.
Now, at the age 12 and knowing she had just aged out of Little League, Ellen sulked at the unfairness of it all. There were no baseball teams for girls beyond this. She would be pushed towards softball and always heard the same lie, “it’s the same thing, just a different ball.”
Softball was not the same thing. It was the booby prize. Today’s seats behind home plate was her mother’s way of apologizing for the unfairness that was life. Had she been born a boy, had she been Allen instead of Ellen, there would be no question about her going on to play baseball in middle and high school. Boys got to walk away on their own terms, girls walked away on society’s terms.
And it sucked.
She melted into the seat, hand crossed across her chest, a scowl on her face. She didn’t care that the camera would catch her sulking. Let people think she was dragged to the most exciting game of the season. What did she care, it’s not like they cared about her dilemma.
With a sigh she listened to her parents’ cheery voices, “Wow, of all the games to get these seats, this is the game to be at!”
“Whatever.”
“We’ve been through this Ellen. I know you want to play fall ball but it’s time for you to think about what comes next. You know that the boys are getting bigger and will try to hurt you deliberately. Better you dominate at softball than not be able to play at all.”
“Whatever,” Ellen said again hoping her mother would take the hint.
Her mother sighed. “I give up. Well, if you won’t enjoy the game, at least I will. Look, we’re even here in time for batting practice. Isn’t that the player you love?” Her mother pointed at Aaron Hill getting ready for the cage. He laughed easily with a couple of the younger players, including the guy who would probably take his place at third next year.
Ellen sat up a bit. She had been fascinated by Aaron Hill because he was the guy who defied the odds. The seven time all star, three time MVP and, until recently, reliably stable force at the hot corner keeping the Sox in the hunt year after year stood in front of her. He looked how she felt: tired and frustrated.
Her heart softened a little. She knew what it was like to have to give up the one thing you loved more than anything else in the world because the universe wasn’t fair. He looked towards the stands, as if he were looking for something. Meeting Ellen’s eyes, she smiled.
“Knock it out of here!” she yelled.
He smiled and stepped into the cage. With a crack of the bat, he sent the ball sailing towards the bleachers. He next swing sent the ball sailing up towards the monster seats. With each swing, the ball peppered a different part of the park: off the wall, center field, right field, line drive up the middle… he felt as if the weight was off his shoulders and his bat become lighter than it had felt all season.
Ellen cheered, “You show them!” she yelled and stomped her feet.
The guy settling in behind her looked and guffawed.
“Now if they throw him meatballs during the game like they do in batting practice, we’re all set.”
She turned around and glared at the middle aged man, his belly pushing against the buttons of his white jersey.
“He has the dream the rest of us mortals dream of and I bet you couldn’t hit one of those ‘meatballs’ if you tried.”
“Keep dreaming kid.”
“Ellen,” her mother hissed.
Angrily she turned around in her seat as the Sox headed into the locker room and the Baltimore Orioles took to the field.
“Fifty bucks we can’t beat the cellar dwellers of the league,” the guy said to his friend.
“You’re on my man. This game is too big to lose to those dinguses.”
The game was a tight game, the lead trading back and forth through out. Aaron played third well, but at the plate he had a hard time finding his sweet spot. He would look to that girl in the stands right behind the plate. She seemed to be on the edge of her seat every time he approached the plate. He knew he had to drive one deep for her. He just knew that it was that important to both of them.
As he approached the plate in the bottom of the ninth, they were down by a run. The lead off batter was on first and a double would drive him in. Anything more than that would win the game.
The first ball sped by. He could hear the slap of the ball hitting the leather of the catcher’s glove.
“Stee-rike One!” yelled the ump.
Aaron backed out of the batter’s box to take a second to breathe.
Stepping back in, he ran through his check list starting at his feet. Was his weight distributed properly? Were his knees bent? Was his back straight, his elbow down, was his eye on the ball?”
Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself only for the pitcher to call time.
Frustrated, he stepped out of the batter’s box and tapped the bottom of his cleats with his bat. He glared at the pitcher trying to make his annoyance clear and send the message he was ready to channel it into something.
Ellen watched anxiously. She knew that her favorite player would either be the hero or the goat of the game. A win meant that there was no way the Rays could catch the Sox for the wild card slot. She needed for him to be a hero. So far today he had hit a dribbler up the third base line and a bloop single. Plays that moved runners along and kept them in the game, but they still lacked the power and heart that she knew he had inside of him. He needed someone to believe and he needed to know that she believed. He had been watching her all game, which is why he beat out the throw back in the second when hit the dribbler up third.
But how could she let him know?
Then she remembered. She remembered the song her mother used to sing to her whenever she needed to know someone to believe. Ellen had never been a singer, but she knew this wasn’t about her, this was about the two of them having to face their fate as they moved forward in October’s cruel embrace.
Closing her eyes, she started to sing.
Then he heard it.
A small voice from right behind him.
“Think about how many times I have fallen….”
He recognized the words, the tune but it was taking him a second to place it.
“Spirits are using me, larger voices callin’…”
In that moment, something woke up deep inside. He stepped back into the box with a scary grin on his face. The pitcher looked and a flash of fear shone in his eyes. In spite masking it quickly, Aaron had already seen it and the damage had been done.
He saw the sign from the 3rd base coach, swing away.
The staff recognized what was happening as well.
More voices joined hers, “What heaven brought you and me cannot be forgotten. I have been around the world. Looking for that woman - girl.”
More voices, the section was joining in as the pitcher went into his motion. Then, in slow motion, Aaron recognized the fast ball heading right into the zone and his smile grew.
“Who knows what love can endure,” the chorus swelled, “And you know it will.”
His bat met the ball and there was no mistake of the sound of the crack. The crowd were on their feet watching the ball sail up towards the monster seats. He started down the first base line watching rise up and up until it was over the wall.
The noise of the cheers erupted as the park jumped to its feet as one. The team poured out of the dugout and onto the field to wait at home plate for him. He trotted in to the good natured pounding and jumping and cheering.
They had won. More importantly, they had won the playoff berth with today’s win. Fans pressed up agains the walls as security and the police detail at the park quickly filed onto the field to keep them from charging the field.
He would have one more chance, one more day in the sun. Another couple of weeks before he’d have to hang up his cleats for good. Facing October’s taunting fate, he smiled. He would have a new song as he stepped up to the plate as he finished out his career, but first he had something to do. Speaking to a security person, he pointed in Ellen’s direction. The security guard nodded and spoke to the person next to him as Aaron went back on the field to another round of wild applause. Someone stuck a microphone in his face.
“How does it feel to know you won us another play off spot.”
“I just want to say not only does it feel great, but I really want to thank the fans who believed in the team and in me. I love you Boston!”
The crowd cheered again and he pushed his way back towards the dugout.
“We found her sir. She’s waiting for you just inside the locker room door.”
He bounded towards the anteroom at the locker room entrance. There she stood in her jeans and gray Boston jersey.
“Can I see who’s on the back?”
She smiled and turned around, there he saw his name and number on her back. She then hugged him, tears leaking from her eyes.
“Thank you. I can’t play baseball anymore now that I’m too old for little league. I don’t like softball, but it’s better than nothing. Thank you, thank you for giving me one more bit of time to dream.”
“Thank you for believing,” he said in return. “I’d like to give you something,” he said. She stepped back and he handed her his bat.
“Have a sharpie? I’ll sign it for you.”
She pulled one from her pocket and handed it to him.
“What’s your name?”
“Ellen.”
He wrote, “To Ellen, love endures, dream live and hope never dies. Thank you.”
That afternoon, as Ellen and Aaron left the park, October didn’t seem as scary anymore and the possibility of their lives seemed wide open.
I have long been frustrated at the forcing of girls into softball. As Stephen King once pointed out, Little League effectively forced girls out of baseball by starting a softball program. As a former Little League president, I watched girls constantly being told "wouldn't you rather play soft ball with the other girls?" once they were over the age of 8 or 9. I asked a parent to leave the fields once when I happened to hear him call out to his son, "You're not gonna let a girl get a hit off you are you?" He did apologize, but that I had to be the one to speak to him rather than any of the other parents on the sidelines bothers me still years later. I remember when my son was little, there was a girl on his team that was a good baseball player. She struck out and kids began taunting her for "playing like a girl." My son draped his arm over her shoulders and said, "Hey, even Sammy Sosa strikes out, what makes you think you'll get a hit every time? Next time you'll knock it out of here." He was right, it fueled her to deliver a critical hit for their team at her next at bat.
So what if a kid inspired a player? Who knows, maybe in inspiring him she inspires herself to move on as well....
******
Aaron Hill loved baseball. It was the one constant in his whole life. No matter what happened, baseball was there for him. But now, he was at the end of his time on the field. In the early October sun, he could feel the changing air and knew, somehow, even Mother Nature was telling him it was time to hang up his cleats and discover what comes next.
The problem was, he didn’t know what would come next. As a result, as the team chased the last playoff spot, he was in a slump. His wife was nagging him about retiring, he had no prospect beyond the end of the season and his spirit had given up. Unless he could get his head back in the game today, the possibilities of a team win and that ever elusive playoff berth would be down the drain with his hope and dreams.
He dreaded batting practice today. He knew the chorus of Boston fans would start early and sing often. “Hill you suck!” “Get off the field old man,” were some of the kinder choruses he heard. Usually the jeers were punctuated with profanity and questions about his manhood.
Would it be such a bad thing to leave baseball at this point? After all he had done for the team over the years, would it be so hard for one fan, just one to remind him of the player he used to be? With a deep sigh, he emerged from the tunnel and through the dugout to the field and slowly took his position in line.
Ellen Byrne had been a Red Sox fan since before she was born. Her mother claimed that if a game was on, Ellen would kick and kick until her mother turned it on. She was told that she practiced sliding into base using her mother’s kidney as her target. As a toddler, she could throw anything with an accurate aim, more often than not it was either one of the cute “girl” shoes her mother would buy for her hoping that Ellen would settle down just a little.
It didn’t work.
Now, at the age 12 and knowing she had just aged out of Little League, Ellen sulked at the unfairness of it all. There were no baseball teams for girls beyond this. She would be pushed towards softball and always heard the same lie, “it’s the same thing, just a different ball.”
Softball was not the same thing. It was the booby prize. Today’s seats behind home plate was her mother’s way of apologizing for the unfairness that was life. Had she been born a boy, had she been Allen instead of Ellen, there would be no question about her going on to play baseball in middle and high school. Boys got to walk away on their own terms, girls walked away on society’s terms.
And it sucked.
She melted into the seat, hand crossed across her chest, a scowl on her face. She didn’t care that the camera would catch her sulking. Let people think she was dragged to the most exciting game of the season. What did she care, it’s not like they cared about her dilemma.
With a sigh she listened to her parents’ cheery voices, “Wow, of all the games to get these seats, this is the game to be at!”
“Whatever.”
“We’ve been through this Ellen. I know you want to play fall ball but it’s time for you to think about what comes next. You know that the boys are getting bigger and will try to hurt you deliberately. Better you dominate at softball than not be able to play at all.”
“Whatever,” Ellen said again hoping her mother would take the hint.
Her mother sighed. “I give up. Well, if you won’t enjoy the game, at least I will. Look, we’re even here in time for batting practice. Isn’t that the player you love?” Her mother pointed at Aaron Hill getting ready for the cage. He laughed easily with a couple of the younger players, including the guy who would probably take his place at third next year.
Ellen sat up a bit. She had been fascinated by Aaron Hill because he was the guy who defied the odds. The seven time all star, three time MVP and, until recently, reliably stable force at the hot corner keeping the Sox in the hunt year after year stood in front of her. He looked how she felt: tired and frustrated.
Her heart softened a little. She knew what it was like to have to give up the one thing you loved more than anything else in the world because the universe wasn’t fair. He looked towards the stands, as if he were looking for something. Meeting Ellen’s eyes, she smiled.
“Knock it out of here!” she yelled.
He smiled and stepped into the cage. With a crack of the bat, he sent the ball sailing towards the bleachers. He next swing sent the ball sailing up towards the monster seats. With each swing, the ball peppered a different part of the park: off the wall, center field, right field, line drive up the middle… he felt as if the weight was off his shoulders and his bat become lighter than it had felt all season.
Ellen cheered, “You show them!” she yelled and stomped her feet.
The guy settling in behind her looked and guffawed.
“Now if they throw him meatballs during the game like they do in batting practice, we’re all set.”
She turned around and glared at the middle aged man, his belly pushing against the buttons of his white jersey.
“He has the dream the rest of us mortals dream of and I bet you couldn’t hit one of those ‘meatballs’ if you tried.”
“Keep dreaming kid.”
“Ellen,” her mother hissed.
Angrily she turned around in her seat as the Sox headed into the locker room and the Baltimore Orioles took to the field.
“Fifty bucks we can’t beat the cellar dwellers of the league,” the guy said to his friend.
“You’re on my man. This game is too big to lose to those dinguses.”
The game was a tight game, the lead trading back and forth through out. Aaron played third well, but at the plate he had a hard time finding his sweet spot. He would look to that girl in the stands right behind the plate. She seemed to be on the edge of her seat every time he approached the plate. He knew he had to drive one deep for her. He just knew that it was that important to both of them.
As he approached the plate in the bottom of the ninth, they were down by a run. The lead off batter was on first and a double would drive him in. Anything more than that would win the game.
The first ball sped by. He could hear the slap of the ball hitting the leather of the catcher’s glove.
“Stee-rike One!” yelled the ump.
Aaron backed out of the batter’s box to take a second to breathe.
Stepping back in, he ran through his check list starting at his feet. Was his weight distributed properly? Were his knees bent? Was his back straight, his elbow down, was his eye on the ball?”
Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself only for the pitcher to call time.
Frustrated, he stepped out of the batter’s box and tapped the bottom of his cleats with his bat. He glared at the pitcher trying to make his annoyance clear and send the message he was ready to channel it into something.
Ellen watched anxiously. She knew that her favorite player would either be the hero or the goat of the game. A win meant that there was no way the Rays could catch the Sox for the wild card slot. She needed for him to be a hero. So far today he had hit a dribbler up the third base line and a bloop single. Plays that moved runners along and kept them in the game, but they still lacked the power and heart that she knew he had inside of him. He needed someone to believe and he needed to know that she believed. He had been watching her all game, which is why he beat out the throw back in the second when hit the dribbler up third.
But how could she let him know?
Then she remembered. She remembered the song her mother used to sing to her whenever she needed to know someone to believe. Ellen had never been a singer, but she knew this wasn’t about her, this was about the two of them having to face their fate as they moved forward in October’s cruel embrace.
Closing her eyes, she started to sing.
Then he heard it.
A small voice from right behind him.
“Think about how many times I have fallen….”
He recognized the words, the tune but it was taking him a second to place it.
“Spirits are using me, larger voices callin’…”
In that moment, something woke up deep inside. He stepped back into the box with a scary grin on his face. The pitcher looked and a flash of fear shone in his eyes. In spite masking it quickly, Aaron had already seen it and the damage had been done.
He saw the sign from the 3rd base coach, swing away.
The staff recognized what was happening as well.
More voices joined hers, “What heaven brought you and me cannot be forgotten. I have been around the world. Looking for that woman - girl.”
More voices, the section was joining in as the pitcher went into his motion. Then, in slow motion, Aaron recognized the fast ball heading right into the zone and his smile grew.
“Who knows what love can endure,” the chorus swelled, “And you know it will.”
His bat met the ball and there was no mistake of the sound of the crack. The crowd were on their feet watching the ball sail up towards the monster seats. He started down the first base line watching rise up and up until it was over the wall.
The noise of the cheers erupted as the park jumped to its feet as one. The team poured out of the dugout and onto the field to wait at home plate for him. He trotted in to the good natured pounding and jumping and cheering.
They had won. More importantly, they had won the playoff berth with today’s win. Fans pressed up agains the walls as security and the police detail at the park quickly filed onto the field to keep them from charging the field.
He would have one more chance, one more day in the sun. Another couple of weeks before he’d have to hang up his cleats for good. Facing October’s taunting fate, he smiled. He would have a new song as he stepped up to the plate as he finished out his career, but first he had something to do. Speaking to a security person, he pointed in Ellen’s direction. The security guard nodded and spoke to the person next to him as Aaron went back on the field to another round of wild applause. Someone stuck a microphone in his face.
“How does it feel to know you won us another play off spot.”
“I just want to say not only does it feel great, but I really want to thank the fans who believed in the team and in me. I love you Boston!”
The crowd cheered again and he pushed his way back towards the dugout.
“We found her sir. She’s waiting for you just inside the locker room door.”
He bounded towards the anteroom at the locker room entrance. There she stood in her jeans and gray Boston jersey.
“Can I see who’s on the back?”
She smiled and turned around, there he saw his name and number on her back. She then hugged him, tears leaking from her eyes.
“Thank you. I can’t play baseball anymore now that I’m too old for little league. I don’t like softball, but it’s better than nothing. Thank you, thank you for giving me one more bit of time to dream.”
“Thank you for believing,” he said in return. “I’d like to give you something,” he said. She stepped back and he handed her his bat.
“Have a sharpie? I’ll sign it for you.”
She pulled one from her pocket and handed it to him.
“What’s your name?”
“Ellen.”
He wrote, “To Ellen, love endures, dream live and hope never dies. Thank you.”
That afternoon, as Ellen and Aaron left the park, October didn’t seem as scary anymore and the possibility of their lives seemed wide open.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Story Eleven: Life in Wartime
This turns out to be another snapshot of a much, much larger piece. Which surprised me as this was not the story I originally sate down to write with the prompt of someone from a U-Boat watching a game. One of the kids had heard his grandfather tell him about German sailors wandering around places like Revere Beach, Coney Island and other landmarks during WWII. What could have been a cute story wants to be a much larger arc around real spies that came through during Hitler's obsession to attack New York. Now I will have to go and read and research about German spies who were caught in the US during those years as well as the various U-Boats sunk or pursued off the east coast in the 40's.
So this is one that will get filed until the characters want to tell me what they want to do and where they want to go. But in the meantime, here is a snapshot of a wartime scene that happens, first at Fenway and later elsewhere.
******
Sitting in the oaken seats at the ball park, Eric and Will tried to look as though they fit in with the people around them.
“I don’t understand,” Will whispered to Eric, “why are we here?”
“Because there is nothing more American than baseball and you need to be able to speak intelligently about the game with people,” he hissed. “Now pay attention.”
William was uncomfortable with interacting with Americans. Ever since they had rowed ashore from the U-Boat a few nights before, he was subject to Eric’s lead. Eric had been born in Philadelphia and went to school in Boston before moving back to Germany and joining the spy corps. William had preferred his initial introduction to the spy corps when he spent his time at cocktail parties listening to conversations and reporting back to shadowy figures wearing Homburgs. He missed sleeping in late, beautiful women and cocktail parties. He understood that Hitler wanted to attack New York, Boston and Philadelphia to make a statement but he missed the good life.
Eric seemed to enjoy the men on the field in their white woolen uniforms with crisp red piping. Every so often he’d shout out encouragement or punch Will in the arm to recount what just happened on the field.
By the third inning, Will had had enough and got up to seek out the men’s room. He stood at the trough hating this assignment even more. He hated the cramped quarters of the sub. He hated the weather. He hated the trains and having to sit on his suitcase because the compartments were full. He hated the boarding houses and he hated this game.
As he headed back to his seat, when he noticed the woman. A tall willowy blonde that spilled down her back. Her floral dress fit her like a glove. Her long legs seemed even longer in the heels that matched her dress and her blue eyes. She was was handing a hot dog to a young boy with her. He looked just like her. He could have been a younger brother or, heaven forbid, her son.
He decided to take a chance.
“Excuse me Miss,” he said relying on his British training. “I seem to be lost. Would you know where section 14 is?”
The boy eyed him suspiciously but said nothing. The woman flushed a little.
“If you go that way,” she said pointing away from where they were standing, “just a couple of ramps, then you’ll see the sign for section 14.”
“Thank you,” he said kissing the back of her hand.
“Ah,” she stood a bit flustered.
“My apologies, was I too forward? I just arrived in your country and my cousin thought it would be a good thing for me to learn about baseball. Perhaps you and your…” his voice trailed off.
“My brother,” she said. There was a bit of a giggle to her voice. “His father is fighting in Europe and I thought it would be nice to give my sister a break.”
The boy looked at her and then back at Will. Will could tell the boy didn’t like him, but if he was going to be stuck in this town, he might as well enjoy himself a little.
“My name is William, William Black.”
“I’m Rachel Goldman.”
He kissed her hand again. “Perhaps you could show me where this section is?”
Rachel blushed again, when her brother piped up.
“I’m sure any one of the ushers could show you where you need to go. C’mon Auntie Ray, we should get back to our seats. I’m missing the game.” He pulled on her hand.
Will shot the boy a look.
“Stop being rude Joshua,” she hissed.
“Auntie Ray, the game.”
“I can see you have obligations,” William said. “Perhaps another time.”
Rachel smiled. “Perhaps, here,” she took a pen and a pad of paper out of her purse and wrote down her phone number before giving it to him. “Maybe you can give me a call sometime?”
“Maybe,” he smiled. “I’m going to be in Boston for at least another month or so.”
Josh pulled on her again. William tipped his hat and moved off in the direction she had pointed. When he was out of sight, Josh looked at his aunt.
“I don’t like him.”
“Josh, don’t be silly.”
“His accent slipped, twice, while flirting with you. He’s not a good man.”
“I think you’ve been in the sun too long.”
“I think mama’s right, you’re lonely.”
“Joshua Goldman!”
“It’s true. Ever since Sol and dad went to Europe to fight.”
She looked at her nephew. He had grown up so much since the men left for war six months ago. He took his father’s charge of being “the man” of the house seriously.
“Just because someone has an accent doesn’t make them German.”
“I’m telling you he’s not a good person.”
“Let’s go back to the game.”
Back in the stands Eric looked at Will.
“What took so long?”
“Nothing.”
Eric looked at his colleague. “If you’re not careful, we’ll have nothing but trouble.”
Will smiled. “Don’t worry, sometimes you need to live a little. Besides, a pretty girl could be a nice distraction in a boring town like this.”
“You can’t afford to be distracted Will.”
“Stop being such a stick in the mud. Here we are in this little cow town at least we can have a little fun. Don’t you think that it would help us understand things just a bit better.”
“I know where you’re going with this. I’m telling you to focus.”
“Just like you’re focusing on this game.”
Eric stared at Will.
“Trust me when I say this, the second your need for fun interferes with our work, it will end immediately.”
“Of course, of course,” Will smiled, “but I wouldn’t worry if I were you. I know how to handle myself.”
“Be sure you do,” Eric warned, “be sure you do.”
They watched the rest of the game, Will thinking about the young woman he just met and Eric sensing trouble ahead for them if he couldn’t keep Will focused.
That night, when the phone rang, Rachel hurried to it answer.
“Good evening, is Rachel home?”
“This is Rachel.”
“Rachel, this is Will. We met earlier at the park.
“I remember. How are you Will?”
“I was wondering, would you like to go out to dinner sometime? Perhaps tomorrow night?”
“How about lunch? I work downtown.”
“Lunch is good. Lunch is friendly.”
“Meet me in front of Liberty Mutual at noon and we’ll maybe go to the lunch counter nearby.”
“That would be nice.”
“Tomorrow at noon it is,” he said.
As Rachel hung up the phone, she saw her sister-in-law’s disapproving stare.
“Josh told me about that man.”
“Josh is a boy who is taking his duties as the oldest man in the house too seriously.”
“He’s right, you need to be more careful.”
“Do you honestly think a German spy asked for my phone number?”
“No, but I think there are bad men in this world and you need to be careful.”
“I miss them too Sarah but my life isn’t over because my boyfriend went to war.”
“No, but you shouldn’t be making time with some new boy while he’s fighting over there.”
“I’m not making time with a new boy.”
“You’re having lunch with him.”
“Sarah don’t be silly. If I were making time, I’d go to dinner with him.”
“Does he know you’re Jewish?”
“With a name like Goldman, how can he not know.”
“Take my advice, stay away from him. I agree with Joshua, something just doesn’t feel right about this.”
“Why? Because he called and asked to have lunch?”
“Just call it a hunch. Think about what Sol is fighting for over there. What happens when he comes home?”
“I’ll find out when that happens now won’t I?”
“Will you be here for Shabbat or will you be with this Englishman?”
“You know what Sarah, sometimes you can be a real jerk.”
Rachel turned and headed off to her room, slamming the door behind her.
Sarah sat down at the table, her head in her hands. She wasn’t sure how long she could hold things together. With two children and a husband at war, she had her hands full. Now that she was working at a local school she was able to make ends meet while her husband fought overseas. Rachel living in the spare bedroom and her work as a secretary made things easier and allowed them some luxuries on occasion.
She didn’t like Rachel’s boyfriend, Sol, but he was her husband’s friend from way back. If Ethan trusted Sol with his sister, then Sarah would have to trust him as well. But she also trusted her son’s judgement. Joshua had a sense that most men wish they had and if he didn’t like this new man courting Rachel, then she had good reason to question him as well.
“Sarah,” it was Rachel’s voice. Sarah looked up at her sister in law and friend.
“I need to get dinner ready. Sometimes I just feel so tired.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fight with you. It’s just, well, I feel so lonely sometimes. It’s nice that there’s a man that makes me feel like I’m worth getting to know.”
“I know we’re not Orthodox Rachel, but being Jewish is a big part of who we are and how we live. I worry that this man won’t understand that about us.”
She sat down at the table and took Sarah’s hands in hers.
“You’re my sister in more ways than one. I don’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know. I just worry, I can’t help it.”
“I’d worry if you didn’t”
The women smiled.
“So I can meet this man for lunch?”
Sarah smile. “Of course you can. I couldn’t stop you if I wanted.”
“I promise it will just be lunch.”
“Just promise that if he seems off that you’ll trust your instincts and go.”
“I promise.”
So this is one that will get filed until the characters want to tell me what they want to do and where they want to go. But in the meantime, here is a snapshot of a wartime scene that happens, first at Fenway and later elsewhere.
******
Sitting in the oaken seats at the ball park, Eric and Will tried to look as though they fit in with the people around them.
“I don’t understand,” Will whispered to Eric, “why are we here?”
“Because there is nothing more American than baseball and you need to be able to speak intelligently about the game with people,” he hissed. “Now pay attention.”
William was uncomfortable with interacting with Americans. Ever since they had rowed ashore from the U-Boat a few nights before, he was subject to Eric’s lead. Eric had been born in Philadelphia and went to school in Boston before moving back to Germany and joining the spy corps. William had preferred his initial introduction to the spy corps when he spent his time at cocktail parties listening to conversations and reporting back to shadowy figures wearing Homburgs. He missed sleeping in late, beautiful women and cocktail parties. He understood that Hitler wanted to attack New York, Boston and Philadelphia to make a statement but he missed the good life.
Eric seemed to enjoy the men on the field in their white woolen uniforms with crisp red piping. Every so often he’d shout out encouragement or punch Will in the arm to recount what just happened on the field.
By the third inning, Will had had enough and got up to seek out the men’s room. He stood at the trough hating this assignment even more. He hated the cramped quarters of the sub. He hated the weather. He hated the trains and having to sit on his suitcase because the compartments were full. He hated the boarding houses and he hated this game.
As he headed back to his seat, when he noticed the woman. A tall willowy blonde that spilled down her back. Her floral dress fit her like a glove. Her long legs seemed even longer in the heels that matched her dress and her blue eyes. She was was handing a hot dog to a young boy with her. He looked just like her. He could have been a younger brother or, heaven forbid, her son.
He decided to take a chance.
“Excuse me Miss,” he said relying on his British training. “I seem to be lost. Would you know where section 14 is?”
The boy eyed him suspiciously but said nothing. The woman flushed a little.
“If you go that way,” she said pointing away from where they were standing, “just a couple of ramps, then you’ll see the sign for section 14.”
“Thank you,” he said kissing the back of her hand.
“Ah,” she stood a bit flustered.
“My apologies, was I too forward? I just arrived in your country and my cousin thought it would be a good thing for me to learn about baseball. Perhaps you and your…” his voice trailed off.
“My brother,” she said. There was a bit of a giggle to her voice. “His father is fighting in Europe and I thought it would be nice to give my sister a break.”
The boy looked at her and then back at Will. Will could tell the boy didn’t like him, but if he was going to be stuck in this town, he might as well enjoy himself a little.
“My name is William, William Black.”
“I’m Rachel Goldman.”
He kissed her hand again. “Perhaps you could show me where this section is?”
Rachel blushed again, when her brother piped up.
“I’m sure any one of the ushers could show you where you need to go. C’mon Auntie Ray, we should get back to our seats. I’m missing the game.” He pulled on her hand.
Will shot the boy a look.
“Stop being rude Joshua,” she hissed.
“Auntie Ray, the game.”
“I can see you have obligations,” William said. “Perhaps another time.”
Rachel smiled. “Perhaps, here,” she took a pen and a pad of paper out of her purse and wrote down her phone number before giving it to him. “Maybe you can give me a call sometime?”
“Maybe,” he smiled. “I’m going to be in Boston for at least another month or so.”
Josh pulled on her again. William tipped his hat and moved off in the direction she had pointed. When he was out of sight, Josh looked at his aunt.
“I don’t like him.”
“Josh, don’t be silly.”
“His accent slipped, twice, while flirting with you. He’s not a good man.”
“I think you’ve been in the sun too long.”
“I think mama’s right, you’re lonely.”
“Joshua Goldman!”
“It’s true. Ever since Sol and dad went to Europe to fight.”
She looked at her nephew. He had grown up so much since the men left for war six months ago. He took his father’s charge of being “the man” of the house seriously.
“Just because someone has an accent doesn’t make them German.”
“I’m telling you he’s not a good person.”
“Let’s go back to the game.”
Back in the stands Eric looked at Will.
“What took so long?”
“Nothing.”
Eric looked at his colleague. “If you’re not careful, we’ll have nothing but trouble.”
Will smiled. “Don’t worry, sometimes you need to live a little. Besides, a pretty girl could be a nice distraction in a boring town like this.”
“You can’t afford to be distracted Will.”
“Stop being such a stick in the mud. Here we are in this little cow town at least we can have a little fun. Don’t you think that it would help us understand things just a bit better.”
“I know where you’re going with this. I’m telling you to focus.”
“Just like you’re focusing on this game.”
Eric stared at Will.
“Trust me when I say this, the second your need for fun interferes with our work, it will end immediately.”
“Of course, of course,” Will smiled, “but I wouldn’t worry if I were you. I know how to handle myself.”
“Be sure you do,” Eric warned, “be sure you do.”
They watched the rest of the game, Will thinking about the young woman he just met and Eric sensing trouble ahead for them if he couldn’t keep Will focused.
That night, when the phone rang, Rachel hurried to it answer.
“Good evening, is Rachel home?”
“This is Rachel.”
“Rachel, this is Will. We met earlier at the park.
“I remember. How are you Will?”
“I was wondering, would you like to go out to dinner sometime? Perhaps tomorrow night?”
“How about lunch? I work downtown.”
“Lunch is good. Lunch is friendly.”
“Meet me in front of Liberty Mutual at noon and we’ll maybe go to the lunch counter nearby.”
“That would be nice.”
“Tomorrow at noon it is,” he said.
As Rachel hung up the phone, she saw her sister-in-law’s disapproving stare.
“Josh told me about that man.”
“Josh is a boy who is taking his duties as the oldest man in the house too seriously.”
“He’s right, you need to be more careful.”
“Do you honestly think a German spy asked for my phone number?”
“No, but I think there are bad men in this world and you need to be careful.”
“I miss them too Sarah but my life isn’t over because my boyfriend went to war.”
“No, but you shouldn’t be making time with some new boy while he’s fighting over there.”
“I’m not making time with a new boy.”
“You’re having lunch with him.”
“Sarah don’t be silly. If I were making time, I’d go to dinner with him.”
“Does he know you’re Jewish?”
“With a name like Goldman, how can he not know.”
“Take my advice, stay away from him. I agree with Joshua, something just doesn’t feel right about this.”
“Why? Because he called and asked to have lunch?”
“Just call it a hunch. Think about what Sol is fighting for over there. What happens when he comes home?”
“I’ll find out when that happens now won’t I?”
“Will you be here for Shabbat or will you be with this Englishman?”
“You know what Sarah, sometimes you can be a real jerk.”
Rachel turned and headed off to her room, slamming the door behind her.
Sarah sat down at the table, her head in her hands. She wasn’t sure how long she could hold things together. With two children and a husband at war, she had her hands full. Now that she was working at a local school she was able to make ends meet while her husband fought overseas. Rachel living in the spare bedroom and her work as a secretary made things easier and allowed them some luxuries on occasion.
She didn’t like Rachel’s boyfriend, Sol, but he was her husband’s friend from way back. If Ethan trusted Sol with his sister, then Sarah would have to trust him as well. But she also trusted her son’s judgement. Joshua had a sense that most men wish they had and if he didn’t like this new man courting Rachel, then she had good reason to question him as well.
“Sarah,” it was Rachel’s voice. Sarah looked up at her sister in law and friend.
“I need to get dinner ready. Sometimes I just feel so tired.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fight with you. It’s just, well, I feel so lonely sometimes. It’s nice that there’s a man that makes me feel like I’m worth getting to know.”
“I know we’re not Orthodox Rachel, but being Jewish is a big part of who we are and how we live. I worry that this man won’t understand that about us.”
She sat down at the table and took Sarah’s hands in hers.
“You’re my sister in more ways than one. I don’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know. I just worry, I can’t help it.”
“I’d worry if you didn’t”
The women smiled.
“So I can meet this man for lunch?”
Sarah smile. “Of course you can. I couldn’t stop you if I wanted.”
“I promise it will just be lunch.”
“Just promise that if he seems off that you’ll trust your instincts and go.”
“I promise.”
Friday, November 11, 2011
Story Ten: The Best Birthday Ever 1978
Welcome to the new folks who heard about this at "The Great Fenway Park Writers Series", The Tardis Girl Daily or following the #nanowrimo and #amwriting hash tags on Twitter and are starting to join me on this crazy journey this month during National Novel Writers Month. Many of these first drafts will eventually get polished and shopped around, some will get expanded, some may sit and linger for a long, long time before they want to be told in full.
I have always loved Jimmy Buffett's description of stories as factual fictions and fictional facts. This story falls into that category. When kids give you writing prompts, they aren't thinking "could this happen" or "did this happen." They are thinking, "Wouldn't it be cool if...." Part of my job is try and make things that may never have happened at Fenway seem as if it could have.
In this case the idea of someone falling on the field as a result of a fight in the stands, spilled food (preferably beer) and a broken body part (preferably the face) while going for a home run or foul ball is a tough call. People don't fall on the field, but the thought of someone getting pushed on to the field is possible.
******
Toby’s mother took one look and told him
“A sweater is something you put on when your mother is cold,” she said.
“Don’t move to Alaska,” he muttered. “Besides, it’s going to be warm in the bleachers.”
“A sweater or I pick a coat for you.”
“Fine,” he muttered as he stomped up to his room to grab the gray sweatshirt with the hood. After he pulled it on, he grabbed his red baseball cap with the blue “B” on it like the Red Sox on field cap.
“Much better,” his mom said when she saw him. “The boys will be here soon and your dad will drive you into the game. Now remember, stick together, behave and don’t make me regret agreeing with your father about taking you three to the ball game for your birthday.”
It wasn’t long before Seamus and Theo were at his door. Both Seamus and Theo’s dads decided to join them at the game as well.
“It will make it easier,” Toby’s dad said. “Besides, you and your friends can have a girls day or something.
The trip to Fenway was uneventful, the worst part was finding parking. None of their dads wanted to pay so they drove around and around and around until Toby’s dad noticed a spot on Landsdowne Street and managed to squeeze into the space.
“Parking by Braille,” Toby’s dad announced as he tapped the bumpers of the cars while he pulled in. He chuckled at his joke, like he always did. Toby just rolled his eyes.
“Your father is kind of lame,” Seamus whispered.
“I know,” Toby hissed back.
“It’s not that bad,” Theo shrugged.
“Nice parking job,” the other dads admired. It was a tight squeeze, but Toby had to admit, it was pretty cool.”
“Do you know what would be funny?” Theo said.
“What?”
“If a home run ball went over the wall and went through your windshield or something.
“That would be kind of funny,” Seamus said.
“The only thing about this space, we have to walk all the way around the park to get to our seats. I managed to score right field box seats.”
The boys were too excited to care about a walk around the park to go in the right gates to their seats.
“If I owned the team,” Toby said, “I’d open up the concourse so you could go in any gate.”
“I’d put seats on top of the green monster,” said Seamus.
“That would be so cool!” Theo said, “then you could catch all sorts of home run balls.”
“Yeah, but if you fell off you’d get wicked hurt.”
“I’d put a safety rail on so you wouldn’t fall off unless you were stupid or something.”
When the boys saw their seats, they screamed in joy. They were right next to the right field foul pole, called “Pesky’s pole” after
Red Sox legend Johnny Pesky. Not only were they right on top of the right fielder, but a lot of foul balls and home runs came that way on a good day.
“Happy Birthday Toby.”
“You’re the best dad ever!” he said giving his father a hug.
“That’s Dewey Evans right there!” Toby yelled.
The beer man came through and the men bought three. They asked when the soda and hot dogs would come through, the beer man shrugged. “Usually they’re right behind me, but then I go through more often than anyone else.”
Before long the hot dog came through and the boys were settled in their seats with scorecards, a Red Sox pencil and a soda watching the game. Mike Torrez kept sending the players from the Chicago White Sox back to the dug out while the Red Sox kept hitting the ball. Jim Rice sent one over the monster in the first inning. In the third inning Carl Yastrzemski sent one towards right field. Everyone jumped up, hoping the ball would stay fair and they’d catch it. The ball wrapped just fair.
As they all jumped for the ball, things got crazy. The guys behind Toby, his friends and their dads, had been drinking beer all afternoon… probably even before they got to the park. One of them still had his beer in his hand when he dropped it trying to catch the ball. What was left in the plastic cup spilled all over Toby and his friends. Seamus’ dad managed to get a piece of the ball when one of the guys behind them pushed him trying to get the ball from him. Seamus’ dad fell knocking the ball towards Toby.
Toby, Seamus and Theo all dove for the ball when one of the guys pushed Toby. Toby fell over backwards onto the low wall separating their seats from right field.
“Toby!” his dad called as he tried to crawl over everyone to grab him.
Theo tried to grab him, but it was too late, Toby had gone over backwards onto the field, head first.
Lying on the field, Wayne Nordhagen, the center fielder from Chicago trotted over while Toby’s dad was trying to get over the wall to his son.
Toby lay on the warning track. He didn’t want to move because his head hurt so much.
“You OK kid?” the tall player asked him.
Toby tried to say something, but a funny “eep” noise came out.
His dad was over him. “Toby how many fingers am I holding up?”
Toby looked. It sort of looked like 2 fingers and then some ghost fingers behind them. He looked at them oddly.
“Eep,” he said.
There was a commotion in the stands between Theo’s dad and the guys sitting behind them. Seamus’ dad was trying to keep
Theo’s dad from punching one of the guys while Seamus and Theo were yelling things at the guys. Toby heard words like “stupid” and “it’s Toby’s ball, it’s his birthday you jerk.”
Toby loved his friends. Here he was laying on the field and they were still fighting for the ball. There were men in blue jackets trying to break up the fight and corralling the guys that were behind them.
Now there were all sorts of people around Toby. He felt a little less spacey. He started to understand the questions better and he felt like he was able to form words other than “eep.”
He went to sit up, but the man in the uniform told him to lie still while he flashed a light in his eyes. He held up fingers and asked him how many. This time it looked like 3 fingers with no ghosts.
“OK son,” the uniformed man said, “sit up slowly.”
Toby sat up. Everything spun for a second and then started to settle into place.
“How many fingers?”
“Two.”
The man smiled before shining the light in his eyes again.
“It’s my birthday,” Toby said. He didn’t know why, but he did.
“Happy birthday,” Wayne Nordhagen said, “How old are you?”
“I’m 10 today.”
“That’s a good age. Do you play any ball?”
“I play little league.”
“Good for you. Make sure you study hard too and maybe you’ll get a scholarship to college before you play in the big leagues.”
“Yes sir,” Toby said. He was feeling much better.
“Can I watch the rest of the game dad?”
His father looked at the uniformed man. The man nodded, “He may have a bit of a concussion, but he seems to be fine.”
Toby stood up and his dad helped him over the wall. The crowd let out a cheer as he sat back down in his seat. His father climbed over behind him.
“If you feel sick or anything Tobes, let me know.” He kept a watchful eye.
“You missed it Tobey, the jerk behind us grabbed the ball and Seamus’ dad punched him in the face and broke his nose.”
“Cool!”
“Yeah, then the guys in the blue jackets took them out of here.”
They watched a bit more of the game, but Tobey’s dad kept looking nervously at his son. By the bottom of the fifth, the Red Sox had a five run lead.
“Excuse me sir,” it was one of the blue jacketed men tapped Toby’s dad on the shoulder. “This is for your son.”
He held out a baseball that had been signed by a bunch of players.
“When the guys in the dugout heard what happened, they wanted to wish your son a happy birthday.” He said with a smile.
Toby and his friends stared at the treasure with big eyes, their mouths hanging open.
“Look, it’s the Rem Dog, Jim Rice and Yaz!” Seamus began to inventory the names he recognized. “Dewey, Rooster and Freddy Lynn!”
“Hey guys, we should probably thinking about leaving soon. The guys are winning and I’m a bit worried about you Toby.”
“I’m find dad.” Toby rolled his eyes.
“And I have to answer to your mom.”
Toby groaned. There was no way his mom wasn’t going to hear about this and get fussy.
“Can we at least wait until the 7th inning stretch?”
The men exchanged glances. None of them really wanted to leave and neither did the boys.
“Seventh inning stretch and that’s it.”
The boys knew better than to argue. A couple of times either Dewey Evans or Mark Nordhagen would toss a ball to the boys. By the time they left, they each had a baseball and Toby had the signed ball as well.
When they got back to the car, the back window was smashed and on the back seat was the home run baseball Jim Rice had hit in the first inning.
“Um guys,” Toby’s father said looking at the back window, “I hope you don’t take it personally if I tell you we’re not coming to a game any time in the near future. I don’t think I can afford the excitement.”
The boys looked at each other and laughed.
“OK,” Toby said, “but so far, this is the best birthday ever!”
I have always loved Jimmy Buffett's description of stories as factual fictions and fictional facts. This story falls into that category. When kids give you writing prompts, they aren't thinking "could this happen" or "did this happen." They are thinking, "Wouldn't it be cool if...." Part of my job is try and make things that may never have happened at Fenway seem as if it could have.
In this case the idea of someone falling on the field as a result of a fight in the stands, spilled food (preferably beer) and a broken body part (preferably the face) while going for a home run or foul ball is a tough call. People don't fall on the field, but the thought of someone getting pushed on to the field is possible.
******
Toby’s mother took one look and told him
“A sweater is something you put on when your mother is cold,” she said.
“Don’t move to Alaska,” he muttered. “Besides, it’s going to be warm in the bleachers.”
“A sweater or I pick a coat for you.”
“Fine,” he muttered as he stomped up to his room to grab the gray sweatshirt with the hood. After he pulled it on, he grabbed his red baseball cap with the blue “B” on it like the Red Sox on field cap.
“Much better,” his mom said when she saw him. “The boys will be here soon and your dad will drive you into the game. Now remember, stick together, behave and don’t make me regret agreeing with your father about taking you three to the ball game for your birthday.”
It wasn’t long before Seamus and Theo were at his door. Both Seamus and Theo’s dads decided to join them at the game as well.
“It will make it easier,” Toby’s dad said. “Besides, you and your friends can have a girls day or something.
The trip to Fenway was uneventful, the worst part was finding parking. None of their dads wanted to pay so they drove around and around and around until Toby’s dad noticed a spot on Landsdowne Street and managed to squeeze into the space.
“Parking by Braille,” Toby’s dad announced as he tapped the bumpers of the cars while he pulled in. He chuckled at his joke, like he always did. Toby just rolled his eyes.
“Your father is kind of lame,” Seamus whispered.
“I know,” Toby hissed back.
“It’s not that bad,” Theo shrugged.
“Nice parking job,” the other dads admired. It was a tight squeeze, but Toby had to admit, it was pretty cool.”
“Do you know what would be funny?” Theo said.
“What?”
“If a home run ball went over the wall and went through your windshield or something.
“That would be kind of funny,” Seamus said.
“The only thing about this space, we have to walk all the way around the park to get to our seats. I managed to score right field box seats.”
The boys were too excited to care about a walk around the park to go in the right gates to their seats.
“If I owned the team,” Toby said, “I’d open up the concourse so you could go in any gate.”
“I’d put seats on top of the green monster,” said Seamus.
“That would be so cool!” Theo said, “then you could catch all sorts of home run balls.”
“Yeah, but if you fell off you’d get wicked hurt.”
“I’d put a safety rail on so you wouldn’t fall off unless you were stupid or something.”
When the boys saw their seats, they screamed in joy. They were right next to the right field foul pole, called “Pesky’s pole” after
Red Sox legend Johnny Pesky. Not only were they right on top of the right fielder, but a lot of foul balls and home runs came that way on a good day.
“Happy Birthday Toby.”
“You’re the best dad ever!” he said giving his father a hug.
“That’s Dewey Evans right there!” Toby yelled.
The beer man came through and the men bought three. They asked when the soda and hot dogs would come through, the beer man shrugged. “Usually they’re right behind me, but then I go through more often than anyone else.”
Before long the hot dog came through and the boys were settled in their seats with scorecards, a Red Sox pencil and a soda watching the game. Mike Torrez kept sending the players from the Chicago White Sox back to the dug out while the Red Sox kept hitting the ball. Jim Rice sent one over the monster in the first inning. In the third inning Carl Yastrzemski sent one towards right field. Everyone jumped up, hoping the ball would stay fair and they’d catch it. The ball wrapped just fair.
As they all jumped for the ball, things got crazy. The guys behind Toby, his friends and their dads, had been drinking beer all afternoon… probably even before they got to the park. One of them still had his beer in his hand when he dropped it trying to catch the ball. What was left in the plastic cup spilled all over Toby and his friends. Seamus’ dad managed to get a piece of the ball when one of the guys behind them pushed him trying to get the ball from him. Seamus’ dad fell knocking the ball towards Toby.
Toby, Seamus and Theo all dove for the ball when one of the guys pushed Toby. Toby fell over backwards onto the low wall separating their seats from right field.
“Toby!” his dad called as he tried to crawl over everyone to grab him.
Theo tried to grab him, but it was too late, Toby had gone over backwards onto the field, head first.
Lying on the field, Wayne Nordhagen, the center fielder from Chicago trotted over while Toby’s dad was trying to get over the wall to his son.
Toby lay on the warning track. He didn’t want to move because his head hurt so much.
“You OK kid?” the tall player asked him.
Toby tried to say something, but a funny “eep” noise came out.
His dad was over him. “Toby how many fingers am I holding up?”
Toby looked. It sort of looked like 2 fingers and then some ghost fingers behind them. He looked at them oddly.
“Eep,” he said.
There was a commotion in the stands between Theo’s dad and the guys sitting behind them. Seamus’ dad was trying to keep
Theo’s dad from punching one of the guys while Seamus and Theo were yelling things at the guys. Toby heard words like “stupid” and “it’s Toby’s ball, it’s his birthday you jerk.”
Toby loved his friends. Here he was laying on the field and they were still fighting for the ball. There were men in blue jackets trying to break up the fight and corralling the guys that were behind them.
Now there were all sorts of people around Toby. He felt a little less spacey. He started to understand the questions better and he felt like he was able to form words other than “eep.”
He went to sit up, but the man in the uniform told him to lie still while he flashed a light in his eyes. He held up fingers and asked him how many. This time it looked like 3 fingers with no ghosts.
“OK son,” the uniformed man said, “sit up slowly.”
Toby sat up. Everything spun for a second and then started to settle into place.
“How many fingers?”
“Two.”
The man smiled before shining the light in his eyes again.
“It’s my birthday,” Toby said. He didn’t know why, but he did.
“Happy birthday,” Wayne Nordhagen said, “How old are you?”
“I’m 10 today.”
“That’s a good age. Do you play any ball?”
“I play little league.”
“Good for you. Make sure you study hard too and maybe you’ll get a scholarship to college before you play in the big leagues.”
“Yes sir,” Toby said. He was feeling much better.
“Can I watch the rest of the game dad?”
His father looked at the uniformed man. The man nodded, “He may have a bit of a concussion, but he seems to be fine.”
Toby stood up and his dad helped him over the wall. The crowd let out a cheer as he sat back down in his seat. His father climbed over behind him.
“If you feel sick or anything Tobes, let me know.” He kept a watchful eye.
“You missed it Tobey, the jerk behind us grabbed the ball and Seamus’ dad punched him in the face and broke his nose.”
“Cool!”
“Yeah, then the guys in the blue jackets took them out of here.”
They watched a bit more of the game, but Tobey’s dad kept looking nervously at his son. By the bottom of the fifth, the Red Sox had a five run lead.
“Excuse me sir,” it was one of the blue jacketed men tapped Toby’s dad on the shoulder. “This is for your son.”
He held out a baseball that had been signed by a bunch of players.
“When the guys in the dugout heard what happened, they wanted to wish your son a happy birthday.” He said with a smile.
Toby and his friends stared at the treasure with big eyes, their mouths hanging open.
“Look, it’s the Rem Dog, Jim Rice and Yaz!” Seamus began to inventory the names he recognized. “Dewey, Rooster and Freddy Lynn!”
“Hey guys, we should probably thinking about leaving soon. The guys are winning and I’m a bit worried about you Toby.”
“I’m find dad.” Toby rolled his eyes.
“And I have to answer to your mom.”
Toby groaned. There was no way his mom wasn’t going to hear about this and get fussy.
“Can we at least wait until the 7th inning stretch?”
The men exchanged glances. None of them really wanted to leave and neither did the boys.
“Seventh inning stretch and that’s it.”
The boys knew better than to argue. A couple of times either Dewey Evans or Mark Nordhagen would toss a ball to the boys. By the time they left, they each had a baseball and Toby had the signed ball as well.
When they got back to the car, the back window was smashed and on the back seat was the home run baseball Jim Rice had hit in the first inning.
“Um guys,” Toby’s father said looking at the back window, “I hope you don’t take it personally if I tell you we’re not coming to a game any time in the near future. I don’t think I can afford the excitement.”
The boys looked at each other and laughed.
“OK,” Toby said, “but so far, this is the best birthday ever!”
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Story Nine: The First Game
There is nothing like a room of excited 4th graders to inspire you. Yesterday, after reading a couple of the stories to the kids in one of my classes, the prompts came thick and fast. Today's story is from the prompt, "What if a kid, at his first game, catches a ball but doesn't know he isn't supposed to throw it back?" So that is today's story of what happens when a kid catches a Johnny Damon home run and throws it back when the crowd starts chanting, "Throw it back!"
I also received about 4 or 5 prompts about a dog getting loose on the field, prompts about balls landing in various types of beverages and lots and lots of prompts about different kinds of fights in the stands, on the fields or spilling over between the two.
Ah to be 10 again. :)
So here is today's story about a first game.
********
Seth had never been to a baseball game before.
His uncle told him that if he wanted to be a real American boy, he had to learn to love baseball. His Abba and Ima would shake their heads at the him.
“Seth is a good boy,” his mother would say, “he will like what he likes.”
“If he wants to be an American boy, he needs to learn to like what the boys here like,” Uncle Mo would say. “Soccer is OK but baseball, football, basketball and hockey are what kids here like. They play soccer, but they watch these other sports.”
“Pish posh,” Ima would say to her younger brother. “If we were in Israel…”
“But we’re not. We’re in Boston in America and in Boston you hate the Yankees and root for the Red Sox.”
“Red socks, blue socks, green socks. Who cares?”
“You will when your son is worried about friends.”
So Seth learned about baseball from his uncle. He bought him books like “Watching Baseball” by Jerry Remy. He watched games and explained what was happening on the field and who the players were. Seth absorbed it all like a sponge, so he was excited when, over Shabbat dinner, Seth announced, “I have 2 tickets for the baseball game tomorrow. It’s time for Seth to go to his first game.”
“Mo, we’ve talked about this,” Ima said.
“Yes we have, and I am taking him to the game tomorrow.”
Ima looked at her husband, but he just shrugged, “Who does it hurt if Seth goes to a game?”
The next day, Mo arrived early. He had a red t-shirt for Seth that said “Red Sox” on the front and on the back it said, “Youkilis” and the number of 20.
“Kevin Youkilis is one of the best baseball players out there and he also happens to be Jewish,” Mo told him. “If you were to work as hard as he does at anything, you will be a success.”
“Where are we sitting?”
“Ah, that’s a special surprise! We will get to sit on the Green Monster in the seats there.”
“The ones on top of the wall?”
“Those are the ones.”
“Sweet!” Seth said.
“An American all ready I see,” Mo said with a smile.
At the park, Seth had a hard time knowing where to look first. The green of the park, the colors of the people, the vendors selling everything from souvenirs to hot dogs to things to drink.
“If you want, there is a place where we can buy kosher food.”
“No, Abba said I can drink water and if there’s kosher ice cream I can have that.”
“Did he now? Mo rolled his eyes and tried to hide his frustration. “I tell you what, if you get hungry, there’s a place on the concourse that has kosher food. I don’t want you to go hungry during the game.”
“OK.”
The game started and Mo started to show how Seth how to keep score in the book. He explained to him the different positions and how each position was numbered one through nine, starting with the pitcher at one and all the way through to the right fielder.
The announcer then said, “Now batting, number 22, Johnny Damon.”
The crowd began to boo.
“Why are they booing?” Seth asked his uncle.
“Because Johnny Damon left the Red Sox for the Yankees. He did it after saying he’d never play for the Yankees unless the Red Sox made an offer that was an insult. They offered 10 million dollars a year and he still signed with the Yankees. I wish someone would insult me like that.”
“So he’s a jerk.”
“Pretty much.”
Damon swung and missed. The crowd cheered.
He swung and missed again, the crowd went wild.
On the third pitch, he connected with the ball. It soared through the air and Seth jumped up and caught the ball. He was excited. He had never had anything like that happen before. Looking with excitement at his uncle, he saw the disapproval on his face.
“But Mo….”
Mo just shrugged. The people around him started chanting, “Throw it back! Throw it back!”
Seth didn’t know what to do. He looked to his uncle for guidance.
“Throw it back,” Mo said.
Sadly, Seth looked at the prize in his hand. He heard the voices chanting. With a sigh, he lobbed it in an arc back at the field. It bounced halfway between the wall and the base path. The crowd erupted in cheers around him.
“Good job Seth. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure have a good souvenir to take home today.”
Seth shrugged.
“It’s part of the game I guess.”
Mo smiled, “It is.”
It wasn’t long before the security people approached them in their seats. Mo looked at Seth and, in Hebrew, said “Follow my lead.”
The beefy security guy looked at Mo.
“Excuse me sir, you two need to come with us. You should bring your things with you as throwing the ball back on the field is a reason for ejection.”
“What are they saying Uncle Mo?” Seth asked in Hebrew.
“Let me speak with them,” Mo replied with a smile. In a heavy accent, Mo looked at the security person.
“This is my nephew’s first baseball game, he recently moved here from Israel. He thought when the crowd chanted ‘throw it back,’ that he was supposed to return the ball to the field. I have explained to him that you are not supposed to do that, you are supposed to keep the baseball as a souvenir.”
“You need to come with us.”
“Uncle Mo?” Seth looked at his uncle. He then looked at the security men and used a heavier accent, “I am sorry sir, I did not know. I thought the people around here were telling me that is what you do.”
The man in front of the them turned around.
“Hey pal, cut the kid some slack. His uncle’s trying to teach the kid the game. Leave ‘em alone.”
Around them a bunch of other people began chanting, “Leave the kid alone. Let him enjoy the game.
One of the security men radioed someone and then tapped the other on the shoulder. “I just got word to let the kid stay,” then looking at Mo, “but sir, if there are any other problems, you will need to leave immediately.”
“Thank you sir, thank you,” Mo replied.
Seth also thanked the guards as they moved towards the back of the seating area.
The man in front of them turned around.
“Hey buddy, you keep teaching the kid the game. He was right in throwing that traitor’s ball back onto the field.”
“Thank you for your help,” Mo smiled and offered his hand. The man shook it.
“Hey kid, do you play baseball yet?”
“Not yet.”
“You’ve got a pretty good arm on you, find a team in your area and start playing,” he said with a smile.
“Todah Rabah, thank you,” Seth replied.
“Kid, if you’re going to be an American, you gotta learn baseball,” the man said with a wink. “Now go back to watching the game with your uncle and enjoy.”
Seth smiled.
After things settled down, he asked his uncle why the guards wanted them to leave.
“They worry that when you do things like throw a ball back onto the field, that some people will start throwing other things and it will get crazy.”
“That makes sense. Why did everyone yell for me to throw the ball back?”
“Because we get mad at losing and players that betray us.”
Seth nodded.
“Perhaps another ball will come this way, this time by Kevin Youkilis.”
“From your mouth to the Creator’s ears,” Mo laughed.
Unfortunately that ball didn’t come and the Red Sox lost the game by one run, but before leaving, a number of people around them took the time shook his hand or asked if he enjoyed the game. As Seth and Mo left the park to head home, Mo looked at his young nephew.
As they Fenway, Mo took Seth to the large souvenir store across the street from park. He bought his nephew a t-shirt with the Red Sox logo and the team’s name written in Hebrew as well as a blue baseball cap with red “B” on the front.
“There, now you look like a fan,” his uncle laughed as the new ball cap covered the simple hand crocheted kippah on Seth’s head.
Seth smiled as his uncle lead him through the streets towards home.
“So what do you think of baseball now?”
“I think I like this game a lot. I would like to go again and learn how to play.”
“Those words are music to my ears Seth. I know your mother doesn’t understand, but I’ll speak to your father and, if I have to, I will teach you myself.”
“Uncle Seth, why baseball? Why not a different sport.”
They walked along with the crowd for a little bit as his uncle thought.
“I like that the game does not have a clock,” his uncle said. “To me, when I am at a game, it is like taking part in Shabbat. You can’t rush it and you can’t slow it down. It happens the way it is supposed to happen. Sometimes it is incredible and by the end you feel refreshed and excited. Sometimes you just feel like there were things you would have rather have done. In the end, I feel a richer person for baseball.”
“What about the other sports. I know basketball but hockey?”
His uncle smiled.
“I think that will be the next thing I take you to, a Bruins game. Where baseball is organic and unfolds as it does, hockey is excitement and speed.”
“I think I’d like that. I think I would like to come to more Red Sox games too.”
“That I know we can do this summer. I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
I also received about 4 or 5 prompts about a dog getting loose on the field, prompts about balls landing in various types of beverages and lots and lots of prompts about different kinds of fights in the stands, on the fields or spilling over between the two.
Ah to be 10 again. :)
So here is today's story about a first game.
********
Seth had never been to a baseball game before.
His uncle told him that if he wanted to be a real American boy, he had to learn to love baseball. His Abba and Ima would shake their heads at the him.
“Seth is a good boy,” his mother would say, “he will like what he likes.”
“If he wants to be an American boy, he needs to learn to like what the boys here like,” Uncle Mo would say. “Soccer is OK but baseball, football, basketball and hockey are what kids here like. They play soccer, but they watch these other sports.”
“Pish posh,” Ima would say to her younger brother. “If we were in Israel…”
“But we’re not. We’re in Boston in America and in Boston you hate the Yankees and root for the Red Sox.”
“Red socks, blue socks, green socks. Who cares?”
“You will when your son is worried about friends.”
So Seth learned about baseball from his uncle. He bought him books like “Watching Baseball” by Jerry Remy. He watched games and explained what was happening on the field and who the players were. Seth absorbed it all like a sponge, so he was excited when, over Shabbat dinner, Seth announced, “I have 2 tickets for the baseball game tomorrow. It’s time for Seth to go to his first game.”
“Mo, we’ve talked about this,” Ima said.
“Yes we have, and I am taking him to the game tomorrow.”
Ima looked at her husband, but he just shrugged, “Who does it hurt if Seth goes to a game?”
The next day, Mo arrived early. He had a red t-shirt for Seth that said “Red Sox” on the front and on the back it said, “Youkilis” and the number of 20.
“Kevin Youkilis is one of the best baseball players out there and he also happens to be Jewish,” Mo told him. “If you were to work as hard as he does at anything, you will be a success.”
“Where are we sitting?”
“Ah, that’s a special surprise! We will get to sit on the Green Monster in the seats there.”
“The ones on top of the wall?”
“Those are the ones.”
“Sweet!” Seth said.
“An American all ready I see,” Mo said with a smile.
At the park, Seth had a hard time knowing where to look first. The green of the park, the colors of the people, the vendors selling everything from souvenirs to hot dogs to things to drink.
“If you want, there is a place where we can buy kosher food.”
“No, Abba said I can drink water and if there’s kosher ice cream I can have that.”
“Did he now? Mo rolled his eyes and tried to hide his frustration. “I tell you what, if you get hungry, there’s a place on the concourse that has kosher food. I don’t want you to go hungry during the game.”
“OK.”
The game started and Mo started to show how Seth how to keep score in the book. He explained to him the different positions and how each position was numbered one through nine, starting with the pitcher at one and all the way through to the right fielder.
The announcer then said, “Now batting, number 22, Johnny Damon.”
The crowd began to boo.
“Why are they booing?” Seth asked his uncle.
“Because Johnny Damon left the Red Sox for the Yankees. He did it after saying he’d never play for the Yankees unless the Red Sox made an offer that was an insult. They offered 10 million dollars a year and he still signed with the Yankees. I wish someone would insult me like that.”
“So he’s a jerk.”
“Pretty much.”
Damon swung and missed. The crowd cheered.
He swung and missed again, the crowd went wild.
On the third pitch, he connected with the ball. It soared through the air and Seth jumped up and caught the ball. He was excited. He had never had anything like that happen before. Looking with excitement at his uncle, he saw the disapproval on his face.
“But Mo….”
Mo just shrugged. The people around him started chanting, “Throw it back! Throw it back!”
Seth didn’t know what to do. He looked to his uncle for guidance.
“Throw it back,” Mo said.
Sadly, Seth looked at the prize in his hand. He heard the voices chanting. With a sigh, he lobbed it in an arc back at the field. It bounced halfway between the wall and the base path. The crowd erupted in cheers around him.
“Good job Seth. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure have a good souvenir to take home today.”
Seth shrugged.
“It’s part of the game I guess.”
Mo smiled, “It is.”
It wasn’t long before the security people approached them in their seats. Mo looked at Seth and, in Hebrew, said “Follow my lead.”
The beefy security guy looked at Mo.
“Excuse me sir, you two need to come with us. You should bring your things with you as throwing the ball back on the field is a reason for ejection.”
“What are they saying Uncle Mo?” Seth asked in Hebrew.
“Let me speak with them,” Mo replied with a smile. In a heavy accent, Mo looked at the security person.
“This is my nephew’s first baseball game, he recently moved here from Israel. He thought when the crowd chanted ‘throw it back,’ that he was supposed to return the ball to the field. I have explained to him that you are not supposed to do that, you are supposed to keep the baseball as a souvenir.”
“You need to come with us.”
“Uncle Mo?” Seth looked at his uncle. He then looked at the security men and used a heavier accent, “I am sorry sir, I did not know. I thought the people around here were telling me that is what you do.”
The man in front of the them turned around.
“Hey pal, cut the kid some slack. His uncle’s trying to teach the kid the game. Leave ‘em alone.”
Around them a bunch of other people began chanting, “Leave the kid alone. Let him enjoy the game.
One of the security men radioed someone and then tapped the other on the shoulder. “I just got word to let the kid stay,” then looking at Mo, “but sir, if there are any other problems, you will need to leave immediately.”
“Thank you sir, thank you,” Mo replied.
Seth also thanked the guards as they moved towards the back of the seating area.
The man in front of them turned around.
“Hey buddy, you keep teaching the kid the game. He was right in throwing that traitor’s ball back onto the field.”
“Thank you for your help,” Mo smiled and offered his hand. The man shook it.
“Hey kid, do you play baseball yet?”
“Not yet.”
“You’ve got a pretty good arm on you, find a team in your area and start playing,” he said with a smile.
“Todah Rabah, thank you,” Seth replied.
“Kid, if you’re going to be an American, you gotta learn baseball,” the man said with a wink. “Now go back to watching the game with your uncle and enjoy.”
Seth smiled.
After things settled down, he asked his uncle why the guards wanted them to leave.
“They worry that when you do things like throw a ball back onto the field, that some people will start throwing other things and it will get crazy.”
“That makes sense. Why did everyone yell for me to throw the ball back?”
“Because we get mad at losing and players that betray us.”
Seth nodded.
“Perhaps another ball will come this way, this time by Kevin Youkilis.”
“From your mouth to the Creator’s ears,” Mo laughed.
Unfortunately that ball didn’t come and the Red Sox lost the game by one run, but before leaving, a number of people around them took the time shook his hand or asked if he enjoyed the game. As Seth and Mo left the park to head home, Mo looked at his young nephew.
As they Fenway, Mo took Seth to the large souvenir store across the street from park. He bought his nephew a t-shirt with the Red Sox logo and the team’s name written in Hebrew as well as a blue baseball cap with red “B” on the front.
“There, now you look like a fan,” his uncle laughed as the new ball cap covered the simple hand crocheted kippah on Seth’s head.
Seth smiled as his uncle lead him through the streets towards home.
“So what do you think of baseball now?”
“I think I like this game a lot. I would like to go again and learn how to play.”
“Those words are music to my ears Seth. I know your mother doesn’t understand, but I’ll speak to your father and, if I have to, I will teach you myself.”
“Uncle Seth, why baseball? Why not a different sport.”
They walked along with the crowd for a little bit as his uncle thought.
“I like that the game does not have a clock,” his uncle said. “To me, when I am at a game, it is like taking part in Shabbat. You can’t rush it and you can’t slow it down. It happens the way it is supposed to happen. Sometimes it is incredible and by the end you feel refreshed and excited. Sometimes you just feel like there were things you would have rather have done. In the end, I feel a richer person for baseball.”
“What about the other sports. I know basketball but hockey?”
His uncle smiled.
“I think that will be the next thing I take you to, a Bruins game. Where baseball is organic and unfolds as it does, hockey is excitement and speed.”
“I think I’d like that. I think I would like to come to more Red Sox games too.”
“That I know we can do this summer. I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Story Eight: Weird but True
Today's prompts were a tornado of ants and a player bitten by a shark. I was asking myself if I was going to have to write a spring training story when I decided to google baseball player bitten by a shark and found out that Chad Rogers, a pitching prospect for the Cincinnati Reds was bitten by a 5' bull shark when surfing off the shores of Galveston. The Reds put him on the Dayton Dragons for the 2011 season (the Lowell Spinners of the Reds system) where he did well.
Who knew?
Then I decided to see if there were other odd baseball injuries and discovered a bunch of them. So I thought about it. You know that weird kid in the room that always retains odd bits and pieces of information? I know I was one of them... like why do I remember astronmer Tycho Brahe had a prosthetic nose after he lost a chunk of his in a duel? I don't know, but I do. So what happens when that kid and a friend go to the game knowing Sean Rodriquez of the Tampa Bay Rays got stung by a ray in Florida?
Hey, we weird kids are out there and sometimes we need to be recognized.
*******
Tony and Aaron poked at the ants with a stick while they waited for the train that would take them into Fenway Park. Nearby their parents sat on a bench in the little shelter the MBTA had at stops for people who wanted to escape from the weather when waiting for trains.
“Did you ever notice how ants tend to swirl around like a tornado?” Tony asked as the he poked at them. The ants would change their spiral a bit to avoid the stick.”
Aaron dug a shallow trench with his stick to watch the ants scurry around and through things too.
“Kind of. Hey, did I tell you about the baseball player in Texas that got bit by a shark?”
“No way! Dude, are you’re lying.”
“Yeah way. You can look it up on line.”
“Dude, you mean to tell me a pitcher got bit by a shark. How’d that happen and to who?”
“Some prospect named Chad Rogers was surfing in Galveston and a bull shark bit his foot. It took like 60 stitches to close it up but they say he’ll be able to pitch next year.”
“That’s weird.”
“You know what’s weirder? You know how we’re going to the Rays game today? Well Sean Rodriquez got stung by a real Ray at the beach.”
“That’s crazy talk,” Tony said to his friend.
“I know!” Aaron held up his free hand as if taking an oath.
“Why do you know these things?”
“I don’t know. I guess I remember things that are weird.”
“Boys,” Aaron’s father called, “the train’s coming.”
They dropped their sticks and joined their parents for the ride on the sleek green line train from Brookline to the Fenway Park stop. At the park, the boys pushed their way through the crowd to watch batting practice before the game.
This was the best part of the game for Aaron. He loved being up against the wall, a black sharpie in his pocket and a baseball in his hand hoping for a player to sign his ball for him.
“Hey, do you think we can get Sean Rodriquez to sign something?” Tony asked his friend.
“I don’t know, the other team doesn’t usually sign stuff. Maybe if we can convince your dad to go over to the third base side near the Rays dugout we can.”
“Do you think he’d draw a ray or something on there?”
“Now you’re being kind of a jerk. I mean,” Aaron took his matter of fact tone, “would you ask Chad Rogers to draw a shark on something?”
“Probably,” Tony said before he started yelling, “Pedey! Pedey over here!! Can I have a ball please?” as Dustin Pedroia shagged some balls near by with a couple of other players. The other kids began yelling to him and Kevin Youkilis as they tried to focus on the batter at the plate surrounded by a net cage as they took practice pitches from a guy behind a screen on pitches mound. Pedroia focused on the players on the field, but after the boys yelled some more he gave them an absent minded wave and went back to his practicing.
Aaron picked up the conversation again.
“How would you like it if like you got hit the face or something and someone asked you to sign something and draw a broken nose?”
“I’d think it was kind of funny.”
“I think you’re weird.”
Tony shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe I’d want to do something to make people notice me like wear two different shoes or something like that. You know, be that weird guy people watch.”
“Hey,” Aaron elbowed Tony and nodded. The gate to the field was left slightly open. “Do you have something with you?” he whispered, “we can get some Fenway dirt.”
“Wicked!” Tony said as Aaron shushed him. Tony dug through his pockets and found a small tube with a cork at the top.
Both boys grinned.
“Perfect!” Tony declared. “I totally forget I was going to get some ants on the way home to see if they’d get along with the ants in my yard.”
“This is so much better.”
“I know,” he grinned. “You be lookout and I’ll try to fill it up. We’ll split it later.”
“Cool.”
The two edged their way towards the slightly ajar gate. Tony dropped down on his knees and crawled through the gate. He didn’t go out far, but enough to scoop up some of the reddish dirt that lined the warning track and base paths into the tube before shimmying back and standing up. He held up the tube and the two boys grinned.
A member of the ground crew noticed the open gate and came over and closed it.
The boys high fived each other.
“Just in the nick of time baby!” Tony declared as he slipped the precious tube into his pocket.
“The only thing cooler, if we can get our baseballs signed today by someone cool.”
“Is shark bait here?”
Aaron punched his friend in the shoulder. “I told you, his a pitching prospect so he’s not really playing yet.
The players were starting to pack up their stuff. As they headed toward the dugout, Dustin Pedroia approached the wall as the kids yelled for an autograph. Aaron pushed through to the front holding out his ball and sharpie yelling, “Would you sign my ball please Mr. Pedroia sir?”
The player laughed.
“Sure kid, this is for not for eBay right?”
“Yeah!!!” Aaron and Tony yelled together holding out the baseballs from their pockets.
He took the balls, one at a time, and signed them with the Sharpie Aaron had held out. They moved away from the wall and the crowd, examining the baseballs as they headed towards their parents a couple of rows back.
“Dad look!” Aaron yelled, showing his father his prize.
“Do you boys want me to hold those in my bag?” asked Tony’s dad. They handed their prized possession to him to keep them safe.
“Not bad,” Aaron’s dad said, “infield dirt and signed balls. You two scored quite a haul so far.”
The boys looked at each other.
“You… um, saw that?” Tony said.
His father fiddled with his camera a bit and then showed the boys the pictures of Tony crawling onto the field to scoop up the dirt.
“Whoa!”
“Tony my boy, there’s not much parents miss. Remember that even if we’re not looking, we’re always looking.”
The boys looked at each other.
“What do you two say we get to our seats and settle in. Maybe pick up some hot dogs or something on the way?”
“Nah,” said Tony, “the hot dogs always taste better when they come the guy selling them in the stands.”
His father laughed, “I agree. But we still need to get to our seats.”
“Hey dad,” Tony asked, “do you think we can get Sean Rodriquez’s autograph?”
“Why would you want that?”
“Because,” Aaron said, “he got stung by a real ray at the beach in Florida. Don’t you think that’s funny? A member of the
Tampa Bay Rays got stung by a sting ray?”
“That is pretty funny,” his dad said, “but not today pal. It’s time to settle into our seats and get ready to enjoy the game. Your moms are waiting for us over there and I think they’re getting a bit lonely.”
The boys reluctantly let their dads steer them back towards the concourse so they could head out towards the right field box seats. As they pushed their way through the growing crowd.
“Hey Tony, did I tell you about the time Wade Boggs missed a week of play because he was putting on his cowboy boots, fell off the couch and strained his back? Not only that, one time Sammy Sosa sneezed wicked hard in the club house and ended up having back spasms and couldn’t play for the Cubs that day.”
“Why do you know this stuff?”
Aaron shrugged, “I don’t know but it’s kind of cool don’t you think?”
Tony grinned, “Yeah, I guess it is. Any more weird baseball injuries I should know about before today’s game starts?”
“I’m sure I’ll remember something.”
“I’m sure you will too.”
Who knew?
Then I decided to see if there were other odd baseball injuries and discovered a bunch of them. So I thought about it. You know that weird kid in the room that always retains odd bits and pieces of information? I know I was one of them... like why do I remember astronmer Tycho Brahe had a prosthetic nose after he lost a chunk of his in a duel? I don't know, but I do. So what happens when that kid and a friend go to the game knowing Sean Rodriquez of the Tampa Bay Rays got stung by a ray in Florida?
Hey, we weird kids are out there and sometimes we need to be recognized.
*******
Tony and Aaron poked at the ants with a stick while they waited for the train that would take them into Fenway Park. Nearby their parents sat on a bench in the little shelter the MBTA had at stops for people who wanted to escape from the weather when waiting for trains.
“Did you ever notice how ants tend to swirl around like a tornado?” Tony asked as the he poked at them. The ants would change their spiral a bit to avoid the stick.”
Aaron dug a shallow trench with his stick to watch the ants scurry around and through things too.
“Kind of. Hey, did I tell you about the baseball player in Texas that got bit by a shark?”
“No way! Dude, are you’re lying.”
“Yeah way. You can look it up on line.”
“Dude, you mean to tell me a pitcher got bit by a shark. How’d that happen and to who?”
“Some prospect named Chad Rogers was surfing in Galveston and a bull shark bit his foot. It took like 60 stitches to close it up but they say he’ll be able to pitch next year.”
“That’s weird.”
“You know what’s weirder? You know how we’re going to the Rays game today? Well Sean Rodriquez got stung by a real Ray at the beach.”
“That’s crazy talk,” Tony said to his friend.
“I know!” Aaron held up his free hand as if taking an oath.
“Why do you know these things?”
“I don’t know. I guess I remember things that are weird.”
“Boys,” Aaron’s father called, “the train’s coming.”
They dropped their sticks and joined their parents for the ride on the sleek green line train from Brookline to the Fenway Park stop. At the park, the boys pushed their way through the crowd to watch batting practice before the game.
This was the best part of the game for Aaron. He loved being up against the wall, a black sharpie in his pocket and a baseball in his hand hoping for a player to sign his ball for him.
“Hey, do you think we can get Sean Rodriquez to sign something?” Tony asked his friend.
“I don’t know, the other team doesn’t usually sign stuff. Maybe if we can convince your dad to go over to the third base side near the Rays dugout we can.”
“Do you think he’d draw a ray or something on there?”
“Now you’re being kind of a jerk. I mean,” Aaron took his matter of fact tone, “would you ask Chad Rogers to draw a shark on something?”
“Probably,” Tony said before he started yelling, “Pedey! Pedey over here!! Can I have a ball please?” as Dustin Pedroia shagged some balls near by with a couple of other players. The other kids began yelling to him and Kevin Youkilis as they tried to focus on the batter at the plate surrounded by a net cage as they took practice pitches from a guy behind a screen on pitches mound. Pedroia focused on the players on the field, but after the boys yelled some more he gave them an absent minded wave and went back to his practicing.
Aaron picked up the conversation again.
“How would you like it if like you got hit the face or something and someone asked you to sign something and draw a broken nose?”
“I’d think it was kind of funny.”
“I think you’re weird.”
Tony shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe I’d want to do something to make people notice me like wear two different shoes or something like that. You know, be that weird guy people watch.”
“Hey,” Aaron elbowed Tony and nodded. The gate to the field was left slightly open. “Do you have something with you?” he whispered, “we can get some Fenway dirt.”
“Wicked!” Tony said as Aaron shushed him. Tony dug through his pockets and found a small tube with a cork at the top.
Both boys grinned.
“Perfect!” Tony declared. “I totally forget I was going to get some ants on the way home to see if they’d get along with the ants in my yard.”
“This is so much better.”
“I know,” he grinned. “You be lookout and I’ll try to fill it up. We’ll split it later.”
“Cool.”
The two edged their way towards the slightly ajar gate. Tony dropped down on his knees and crawled through the gate. He didn’t go out far, but enough to scoop up some of the reddish dirt that lined the warning track and base paths into the tube before shimmying back and standing up. He held up the tube and the two boys grinned.
A member of the ground crew noticed the open gate and came over and closed it.
The boys high fived each other.
“Just in the nick of time baby!” Tony declared as he slipped the precious tube into his pocket.
“The only thing cooler, if we can get our baseballs signed today by someone cool.”
“Is shark bait here?”
Aaron punched his friend in the shoulder. “I told you, his a pitching prospect so he’s not really playing yet.
The players were starting to pack up their stuff. As they headed toward the dugout, Dustin Pedroia approached the wall as the kids yelled for an autograph. Aaron pushed through to the front holding out his ball and sharpie yelling, “Would you sign my ball please Mr. Pedroia sir?”
The player laughed.
“Sure kid, this is for not for eBay right?”
“Yeah!!!” Aaron and Tony yelled together holding out the baseballs from their pockets.
He took the balls, one at a time, and signed them with the Sharpie Aaron had held out. They moved away from the wall and the crowd, examining the baseballs as they headed towards their parents a couple of rows back.
“Dad look!” Aaron yelled, showing his father his prize.
“Do you boys want me to hold those in my bag?” asked Tony’s dad. They handed their prized possession to him to keep them safe.
“Not bad,” Aaron’s dad said, “infield dirt and signed balls. You two scored quite a haul so far.”
The boys looked at each other.
“You… um, saw that?” Tony said.
His father fiddled with his camera a bit and then showed the boys the pictures of Tony crawling onto the field to scoop up the dirt.
“Whoa!”
“Tony my boy, there’s not much parents miss. Remember that even if we’re not looking, we’re always looking.”
The boys looked at each other.
“What do you two say we get to our seats and settle in. Maybe pick up some hot dogs or something on the way?”
“Nah,” said Tony, “the hot dogs always taste better when they come the guy selling them in the stands.”
His father laughed, “I agree. But we still need to get to our seats.”
“Hey dad,” Tony asked, “do you think we can get Sean Rodriquez’s autograph?”
“Why would you want that?”
“Because,” Aaron said, “he got stung by a real ray at the beach in Florida. Don’t you think that’s funny? A member of the
Tampa Bay Rays got stung by a sting ray?”
“That is pretty funny,” his dad said, “but not today pal. It’s time to settle into our seats and get ready to enjoy the game. Your moms are waiting for us over there and I think they’re getting a bit lonely.”
The boys reluctantly let their dads steer them back towards the concourse so they could head out towards the right field box seats. As they pushed their way through the growing crowd.
“Hey Tony, did I tell you about the time Wade Boggs missed a week of play because he was putting on his cowboy boots, fell off the couch and strained his back? Not only that, one time Sammy Sosa sneezed wicked hard in the club house and ended up having back spasms and couldn’t play for the Cubs that day.”
“Why do you know this stuff?”
Aaron shrugged, “I don’t know but it’s kind of cool don’t you think?”
Tony grinned, “Yeah, I guess it is. Any more weird baseball injuries I should know about before today’s game starts?”
“I’m sure I’ll remember something.”
“I’m sure you will too.”
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