Chapter Thirteen
Well, that’s set up. I’m picking up Jenny at eight tonight. Valentine’s day is tomorrow night, but we figured we’d grab a bite and maybe see a show tonight since it might not be easy to get show tickets or a table tomorrow.
I’ve been trying to call Grace all goddamn day, and all I get is her message machine. I left a message on the first try, but I’ve had stuff to do around here, and I don’t want to sound desperate.
It’s not like I’m worried or trying to impress her -- I’ve known Grace almost all my life, for Christ’s sake. But I don’t know her situation, and I don’t want to scare her off. That’s one thing about Grace. She tends to bolt and run, especially if she feels pressured. I don’t know why that is, but it’s a good thing to know, especially since I’m not interested in having her drop out of sight for several more years just because I said something stupid.
Of course, that doesn’t mean I won’t say something stupid. I just don’t want to say THE something stupid, the one thing that will trip her trigger. Saying stupid things to women happens to be a specialty of mine, a craft I’ve mastered after twenty-plus years of practice. I like to think that in a field of experts, I stand out as one of the all-time virtuosos. I am goddamn Bob Feller throwing a no-hitter when it comes to saying stupid shit that no woman in her right mind can respond to with anything like a positive reply. But most women will at least take a crack at it. Maybe they like the challenge; I don’t know. But Grace won’t even take a shot. You say the wrong thing to Grace, and you are leaving the ballpark, they’re turning out the lights and nobody’s seen her since the bottom of the third inning.
Heh. Baseball. I miss baseball, especially this time of year. I know the Indians are warming up in Winter Haven, but it’s still too long until Opening Day. I can’t stand the thought of no baseball for almost two months.
Baseball is important to me for many reasons.
Some of my earliest, fondest memories center around baseball. It has consistently, throughout my life, been the one thing I can depend on to pretty much be what it is, what it appears to be and what it promises to be. This has nothing to do with winning or losing, promises of another type entirely. I am talking about baseball's basic promise: it Is. Strikes and other nonsense notwithstanding, Baseball Is.
I remember as a very tiny child, listening to my parents and our friends and relatives discussing the Rocky Colavito trade. I had the sense something happened to someone we knew personally. Those adults, who would later try to drag me to church and civic organizations and teach me manners and compassion, had already accomplished that in part. They were together, mourning a loss, and determined that one individual's or group's bad behavior (in this case the evil manager Frank "Trader" Lane) would not determine their overall outlook or their opinion of the institution. "Ah well," they would say, "I'm still gonna wait and see what happens. It's a long season."
And, from their perches on the sunwarmed concrete steps of the back porch, they would take a pull of their Stroh's longneck, a puff of their Lucky Strikes, and start discussing the Tribe's chances for '66. When you are exhausted from a long day's work at the steel mill, the railroad or the firehouse (or from washing all the work clothes twice -- there was no "extra rinse" cycle in those days -- and hanging baskets of soggy, heavy cotton clothes out to dry -- in those days women didn't need weight training for 'toning') -- when you are exhausted and sore and losing hope for the world's state, it is a good thing to sit on one's porch on a summer night and talk baseball.
If you minded your manners and got good grades in school, the nuns would tuck a pair of Indians tickets -- box seats! -- into your report card. The Tribe gave them to the Diocese, and the Diocese gave them to us. They were printed paper tickets, red or orange, and they were a Sign from Above that good work is rewarded -- maybe not immediately or as specified, but 'if you do A, then B is a reasonable expectation' -- another lesson baseball taught me early. You would bug your dad every day from school's closing to game day. Then, when the big day came, you would climb into the passenger seat of the '59 Oldsmobile, Da at the wheel, and wave as solemnly to the neighborhood kids as if you were a head of state being chauffered. You'd go down to the game, and the Indians would of course not win, but your old man would buy you Sno-Kones and hot dogs and peanuts and lemonade, and he would drink several waxed paper cup beers, and you would get to watch the names you heard on the radio actually working in the field, and it would be wonderful. It was like proof the saints existed or something. Duke Sims, Leon Wagner, and the heartbreaking Sudden Sam McDowell, all there in living color, just as you had heard of them on the radio and watched them on the old black and white Philco with the foil on the antenna. It was as close to proof of the existence of something greater as some of us got, and there you were at your Dad's side, taking it all in.
Summer evenings, when my Dad worked overtime or night shifts or was out with the boys, my mother and we kids would listen to baseball on the radio. Ma was always busy with something -- painting a porch, repairing cabinets, stripping varnish from woodwork -- and baseball was her background noise. It was usually the Indians, but she wasn't averse to listening to a Reds game if we could pick one up -- growing up in rural Indiana, she was a big-time Reds fan too. So Ma would work, and baseball would be on the radio, and we would "help" by getting in her way, or we would sit on the porch playing with cars and trucks, or Kevin would come over, or my older brothers would be hanging out with their friends, and we would listen to the Indians and to Herb Score. Wounded by a wild ball at the height of his career, Score went on to become one of Cleveland baseball's most beloved voices. So, right there, I learned multitasking, the virtue of keeping one's mind engaged while working, and, from Score, that a career-ending injury can be the start of something else.
All my life, baseball has been there. It was the only 'date' on which I really felt comfortable during my adolescence because I knew and understood what was going on, there was something to talk about, and we were in a public place and out in the sun. Movies and other indoors entertainments were not as enjoyable -- I had to make small talk and had to pray I didn't make a complete klutz of myself, such as a gangly, tall guy like myself does at dances and miniature golf. If I could talk a girl into going to a baseball game, though, she was on MY territory, baby, and confidence was mine. Plus the likelihood of her old man suspecting me of being an axe murderer, a pimp or a Communist was considerably lessened.
When later in life I went through some troubles, I could always count on listening to a baseball game to make me feel better. It was a combination of happy childhood memories, the orderly predictability of nine innings and 27 outs in most cases, and enough flexibility that it didn't always happen that way, thus keeping it interesting. When Grace was going through her first divorce, and she would come over, there was nothing unaffordable, immoral or challenging about our sitting at my wobbly wooden kitchen table, swigging beers and listening to the '86 Indians take a worse trouncing than even we had taken in our personal lives. And there was always the remarkable Tom Candiotti to remind you that even in the worst of times, there is something to look forward to.
Baseball is a constant down at 19, too. Sitting around the firehouse listening to baseball, out on the concrete apron on a summer evening watching the girls go by, drinking lemonade or occasionally some beer somebody sneaks into the house -- well, there is nothing better than that. That and watching the poor goddamn cadets polishing the engine while we sit there on our webbed folding aluminum lawn chairs, telling them they missed a spot.
Through all the ups and downs of my life, baseball has been a constant. I do not admire the way it has become a money sport, and I do not like the crybabies. But I have a feeling that just as music survived disco, the Church survived Vatican II and fashion survived the '80's, baseball will endure.
It HAS to, for Christ's sake. I am not going to die, happy or otherwise, unless Cleveland wins a Series in my lifetime, and nobody wants a 118-year-old grouch hanging around.
Well, anyway. I gotta go get ready to pick up Jenny. I hope we have fun tonight. Chester is a pal, but he’s not much company. Always bitching, doesn’t care about anything but dinner or whether I brought him something, hogs the covers, so forth. Which pretty much describes my last six girlfriends, too, but at least Chester can’t talk.
Okay, I am going to try to have a positive attitude here. Maybe Jenny will be all right. New season, fresh start.
Of course, I have to be optimistic. I’m an Indians fan.
*****
I’ve been trying to call Grace all goddamn day, and all I get is her message machine. I left a message on the first try, but I’ve had stuff to do around here, and I don’t want to sound desperate.
It’s not like I’m worried or trying to impress her -- I’ve known Grace almost all my life, for Christ’s sake. But I don’t know her situation, and I don’t want to scare her off. That’s one thing about Grace. She tends to bolt and run, especially if she feels pressured. I don’t know why that is, but it’s a good thing to know, especially since I’m not interested in having her drop out of sight for several more years just because I said something stupid.
Of course, that doesn’t mean I won’t say something stupid. I just don’t want to say THE something stupid, the one thing that will trip her trigger. Saying stupid things to women happens to be a specialty of mine, a craft I’ve mastered after twenty-plus years of practice. I like to think that in a field of experts, I stand out as one of the all-time virtuosos. I am goddamn Bob Feller throwing a no-hitter when it comes to saying stupid shit that no woman in her right mind can respond to with anything like a positive reply. But most women will at least take a crack at it. Maybe they like the challenge; I don’t know. But Grace won’t even take a shot. You say the wrong thing to Grace, and you are leaving the ballpark, they’re turning out the lights and nobody’s seen her since the bottom of the third inning.
Heh. Baseball. I miss baseball, especially this time of year. I know the Indians are warming up in Winter Haven, but it’s still too long until Opening Day. I can’t stand the thought of no baseball for almost two months.
Baseball is important to me for many reasons.
Some of my earliest, fondest memories center around baseball. It has consistently, throughout my life, been the one thing I can depend on to pretty much be what it is, what it appears to be and what it promises to be. This has nothing to do with winning or losing, promises of another type entirely. I am talking about baseball's basic promise: it Is. Strikes and other nonsense notwithstanding, Baseball Is.
I remember as a very tiny child, listening to my parents and our friends and relatives discussing the Rocky Colavito trade. I had the sense something happened to someone we knew personally. Those adults, who would later try to drag me to church and civic organizations and teach me manners and compassion, had already accomplished that in part. They were together, mourning a loss, and determined that one individual's or group's bad behavior (in this case the evil manager Frank "Trader" Lane) would not determine their overall outlook or their opinion of the institution. "Ah well," they would say, "I'm still gonna wait and see what happens. It's a long season."
And, from their perches on the sunwarmed concrete steps of the back porch, they would take a pull of their Stroh's longneck, a puff of their Lucky Strikes, and start discussing the Tribe's chances for '66. When you are exhausted from a long day's work at the steel mill, the railroad or the firehouse (or from washing all the work clothes twice -- there was no "extra rinse" cycle in those days -- and hanging baskets of soggy, heavy cotton clothes out to dry -- in those days women didn't need weight training for 'toning') -- when you are exhausted and sore and losing hope for the world's state, it is a good thing to sit on one's porch on a summer night and talk baseball.
If you minded your manners and got good grades in school, the nuns would tuck a pair of Indians tickets -- box seats! -- into your report card. The Tribe gave them to the Diocese, and the Diocese gave them to us. They were printed paper tickets, red or orange, and they were a Sign from Above that good work is rewarded -- maybe not immediately or as specified, but 'if you do A, then B is a reasonable expectation' -- another lesson baseball taught me early. You would bug your dad every day from school's closing to game day. Then, when the big day came, you would climb into the passenger seat of the '59 Oldsmobile, Da at the wheel, and wave as solemnly to the neighborhood kids as if you were a head of state being chauffered. You'd go down to the game, and the Indians would of course not win, but your old man would buy you Sno-Kones and hot dogs and peanuts and lemonade, and he would drink several waxed paper cup beers, and you would get to watch the names you heard on the radio actually working in the field, and it would be wonderful. It was like proof the saints existed or something. Duke Sims, Leon Wagner, and the heartbreaking Sudden Sam McDowell, all there in living color, just as you had heard of them on the radio and watched them on the old black and white Philco with the foil on the antenna. It was as close to proof of the existence of something greater as some of us got, and there you were at your Dad's side, taking it all in.
Summer evenings, when my Dad worked overtime or night shifts or was out with the boys, my mother and we kids would listen to baseball on the radio. Ma was always busy with something -- painting a porch, repairing cabinets, stripping varnish from woodwork -- and baseball was her background noise. It was usually the Indians, but she wasn't averse to listening to a Reds game if we could pick one up -- growing up in rural Indiana, she was a big-time Reds fan too. So Ma would work, and baseball would be on the radio, and we would "help" by getting in her way, or we would sit on the porch playing with cars and trucks, or Kevin would come over, or my older brothers would be hanging out with their friends, and we would listen to the Indians and to Herb Score. Wounded by a wild ball at the height of his career, Score went on to become one of Cleveland baseball's most beloved voices. So, right there, I learned multitasking, the virtue of keeping one's mind engaged while working, and, from Score, that a career-ending injury can be the start of something else.
All my life, baseball has been there. It was the only 'date' on which I really felt comfortable during my adolescence because I knew and understood what was going on, there was something to talk about, and we were in a public place and out in the sun. Movies and other indoors entertainments were not as enjoyable -- I had to make small talk and had to pray I didn't make a complete klutz of myself, such as a gangly, tall guy like myself does at dances and miniature golf. If I could talk a girl into going to a baseball game, though, she was on MY territory, baby, and confidence was mine. Plus the likelihood of her old man suspecting me of being an axe murderer, a pimp or a Communist was considerably lessened.
When later in life I went through some troubles, I could always count on listening to a baseball game to make me feel better. It was a combination of happy childhood memories, the orderly predictability of nine innings and 27 outs in most cases, and enough flexibility that it didn't always happen that way, thus keeping it interesting. When Grace was going through her first divorce, and she would come over, there was nothing unaffordable, immoral or challenging about our sitting at my wobbly wooden kitchen table, swigging beers and listening to the '86 Indians take a worse trouncing than even we had taken in our personal lives. And there was always the remarkable Tom Candiotti to remind you that even in the worst of times, there is something to look forward to.
Baseball is a constant down at 19, too. Sitting around the firehouse listening to baseball, out on the concrete apron on a summer evening watching the girls go by, drinking lemonade or occasionally some beer somebody sneaks into the house -- well, there is nothing better than that. That and watching the poor goddamn cadets polishing the engine while we sit there on our webbed folding aluminum lawn chairs, telling them they missed a spot.
Through all the ups and downs of my life, baseball has been a constant. I do not admire the way it has become a money sport, and I do not like the crybabies. But I have a feeling that just as music survived disco, the Church survived Vatican II and fashion survived the '80's, baseball will endure.
It HAS to, for Christ's sake. I am not going to die, happy or otherwise, unless Cleveland wins a Series in my lifetime, and nobody wants a 118-year-old grouch hanging around.
Well, anyway. I gotta go get ready to pick up Jenny. I hope we have fun tonight. Chester is a pal, but he’s not much company. Always bitching, doesn’t care about anything but dinner or whether I brought him something, hogs the covers, so forth. Which pretty much describes my last six girlfriends, too, but at least Chester can’t talk.
Okay, I am going to try to have a positive attitude here. Maybe Jenny will be all right. New season, fresh start.
Of course, I have to be optimistic. I’m an Indians fan.
*****
posted by CB | 7:20 PM
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