Spring, Summer and Fall.. (Winter and I are separated. That's sepArated with an A. I learned that, I think, 2nd divorce.)
Victor, you just did a blog on things you love.
I will always love that there are so many things to love. It don't take much. Open one's eyes, and boom shaka laka - whoop, ther' it is... much... much to love.
The gift. The gift of eyesight. God Bless those that don't posess it, they teach us so well. Life is for loving, eyesight is not to be taken for granted. It's a literal wonder.
Sports. Turn left if it ain't your thing, and that's cool. Participation, back when the body agreed to participate. I loved me some teammates who very much disliked losing. I loved awaiting at the dugout gate for my teammates arrival from running to home - the high five, the excitement he had for scoring a run, the appreciation for the high five.
Sports are (should be) full of compliment. You might kick someones butt on the tennis court, or, in ping pong, but... if it's a team sport, it ain't (just) you babe.. I said a no, no no it ain't you. It takes a bunch. I love that about (team) sports. If Patrick took the field by himself against the Bills, it would be a hella long day. He very much understands that. Appreciates that. Compliments those.
I love when a single is stretched (I think maybe I can make it to 2nd) to a double thanks also to the first base coach who frantically waved him on.. The guy who backpedaled to the wall and made a spectacular catch? Sure, it was wonderful, but it'd never happened had not the outfielder next to him been his eyes and megaphone for his path to the wall as he intently followed the ball.
Yes, that pitcher has a mean-ass fast ball, an impossible to hit curveball, but the ball would bounce stupidly to the backstop if it tweren't for his catcher - the one who knows exactly what pitch to call, when, and the guy who scoops up strike three outta the dirt, throws to first to retire the batter.
That guy who doubled. He can maximize his lead because the dude coaching third tells him "you watch 2nd, I got the shortstop. One out, go hard on anything hit to the rightside." It's not all about Maury, Ricky or Lou, but, they wouldn't be bad teammates to have.
We saw Mecole Hardman fumble the punt, give the other team the ball on their side of the field. We saw as he sprinted to the bench, covered himself up with a big coat, saying to himself "I can't believe that happened, I feel crappy, my teammates will lose their trust in me." Then, Travis walked by, pulled the coat off, said "Next time baby, it's all you next time." Mecole put the coat back on. Patrick ran to him, uncovered him, "We NEED you. You're gonna make a play." He did. That's a little thing I like about sports. Man helping man. Or, woman helping woman.
After the game. Uh huh, played organized stuff until my age or inability told me I could not play organized stuff - then I played slowpitch. I loved me some slowpitch. Especially after the game. It's where one got their ego pumped up, or, deflated, made three errors and asked by a teammate if per chance they'd buy back that glove you got at the garage sale.
For years, I COULD NOT BELIEVE people actually strike out in slowpitch. I told myself "If I strikeout, that's it, I'll see you guys later, hasta la vista." Then, I struck out. In addition to having to buy a 30 pack of beer for the next game, I heard the play by play of my strikeout for over an hour as our team sat beyond the right field fence having a cold one. OK, maybe I'll rearrange my 'take' to, "When I become a detriment, yeah, that's it, when I become a detriment, THAT's when I'll quit." That's all fancy for, "Oh shit, I struck out, it CAN'T be over, for I love it so much." (It could be worse, guys on one of the teams we played, if they struckout, they HAD to wear a tutu on the field the next half inning.) Another reason I love sports, that stuff.
Opponents. If there weren't opponents, there would be no games. In our Sunday night "Beer League", which I make no apologies for playing decades in, you know, love, your opponents. Mostly after the game, but sometimes even during. You know them, where they work, their wife and kid's names, what they drive, and you even let 'em know when their taillight is out. There is humor. Turn left here if your ears are easily offended. Band camp, a guy came to the plate, good hitter, fun, funny guy. Longtime opponent. We'd all seen him bat 500 or more times before. "He goes both ways!!!" the shortstop hollers. "Yep" the first baseman agreed. IE, all, be ready. I was catching. That's where they put guys that really should have ended their careers a couple of years ago, but it's a numbers thing, and you're needed. So, I told the good hitter, fun, funny guy "Did you hear what they are saying? That you go both ways?" He looked me dead in the eyes and said "Eh, 20 bucks is 20 bucks." Sorry, kinda, but I did warn you.
Apple. That's a nickname. Sports, softball = nicknames. Orville. T-Bird. Toad. Toad's son Tadpole. Chump. Delbert. DW. Wags. Chief. Tuna. Mad Dog. Softball is where you spend 20, 30, 40 years of happiness, then you think back, "The hell was that guy's real name?"
Where was I.. .Oh yeah, Apple. We were playing in the hole in Excelsior Springs they call a ballfield. It gets wet, lasts forever. I think it's where mosquitoes originated. Anyways, a bright, sunny day. Exceedingly high pop up. To short. To Apple. Apple is the smartest, probably the most capable, calmest person I've ever played with. A popup to him, you don't even watch, you head to the bench if there are two outs. Apple was balding, but we only made fun of him for that on days that end in Y. Apple wasn't wearing a hat.. we complained, lovingly, of the glare. He maybe cracked a smile. A little one. He was camped. Under the ball. The very last second, I mean THE very last second, he lost it in the sun. I'd said he was the smartest. Lemme think about that for a sec. My face ain't perty, but, if it were me camped under the ball and I lost it, I'd put my head down and run like hell the other way. Not Apple. He continued, for that millisecond he had, to look for it. That noise when a hammer hits concrete? That. THAT's what it sounded like as it careemed off his skull into space. So high into space, we weren't sure if the ball was in Ray or Clay County. Those of us not near the play were, sure, concerned that Apple was OK, but first, we rolled on the ground in laughter until the ball came down. It did, finally, what seemed to be a full one minute later. Chump. Chump was playing third - he caught the ball. We, sure, were concerned for Apple's well being, but Chump catching it only extended our laughter, our rolling on the ground.
Apple was OK. He had a smile. No, not on his face, but on his forehead, from where the seams embedded as the ball crushed his skull. In all these thirty years since it happened, we never ever said a word about it to Apple, unless of course, the day of the week ended in Y. That seam mark on his forehead lasted a month. It was kinda like a hickey, cept you couldn't wear no turtleneck to cover it up. You'd think he'da wore a cap to cover it up. Wasn't his way. Good dude.
Good dudes. Life is about good people. Ya gravitate toward 'em. Why, we never figured, wives, girlfriends would come watch, AND stay for the two and a half hours we'd sit beyond right field after the game to talk about our one hour game. Maybe the reason one or two of mine forgot to follow me home. Eh, all good. I loved me some softball.
Softball teammates are special. You love 'em like the coal miners ya work with. Like your cousin that lives in Indy. Like you're wife's sister's husband, even though he may drink all your beer when he comes over. (I made that one up, I think it was the other way around, but he loved me still.) IE, once a softball teammate, always a lifetime friend. You battled together, which, is fancy for, loved, teased, threw water balloons at, threw 'em knuckleballs when you warmed up just to piss 'em off and make you laugh even more.. Forever stuff. Good stuff. Maybe you had to be there. I was. For five decades.
I Googled to see how many pill's Carters has. Couldn't find it. I've had more teammates than Carter has pills, i feel safe to say. Yes, we shared some beer. (Went thru 'fads' of Schlitz, Hamms, Oly, PBR, Old Style, Bud, Bud Light, Miller Lite, you name it.) Like life, there were changes. Changes at shortstop, right center field, manager, sponser, changes of wives, girlfriends, trends.. gloves lost. Gloves soaked, laces busted. Windshield's busted. Hot dogs for 200. Ice. Of course for beer, but also for strawberries, sore arms, pop-ups off the forehead, and sure, to ward off heatstroke.
Small towns, big towns, perfectly manicured fields, fields where the grass was so high, if you didn't get the ball before it stopped rolling, you may never find it. Crappy umps, crabby umps, fun umps, umps who didn't show up. Races to the preferred dugout that had shade. Laughter. Laughter to tears.
There was even this one time. Small town up North. There was an old lady (no, she didn't live in a shoe) who supplemented her income by collecting aluminum cans. She was truly pretty old. We'd seen her there a few times, and we weren't sure if she even spoke she was so quiet. She wore a dress. Hat. Saddle oxfords. One smartass on our team, after a game and after a couple of whatever the fad beers it was we were drinking, tied an empty can to the line on his fishing pole. He would 'cast' the empty beer can out, await the little old lady - and as she bent, reached for it, he would wind it in a tad, rolling it a few feet. She'd try again. Same thing. For shame for shame, his teammates were laughing. He finally stopped and she picked up the can, broke the fishing line off, put it in her bag. They even say, the next day, this smartass dressed up in a dress, hat, saddle oxfords and pretended to be her. I don't believe it. I'm from Missouri, Show Me. (Twas the days before cell phones). Forgive me Father, I did sin. Not proud, but, a story I've heard retold a hunnerd and seventy-two times since.
I'll get outta here. I will never play softball again - but you can never erase the fun, memories of it all. Seven of my ten fingers are still straight. One of my two thumbs look normal. My IRA would probably be double had I invested properly insteada purchasing the ice, fad beers, hot dogs, gasoline for trips, Icy Hot, towels, gloves, bats, balls, hats, uni's, spikes. (The bastas made fun of me because I wore Puma spikes. I think 1970-something was the last year they made 'em. What's so funny about that? They lasted!)
Softball been berry berry good to me. You maybe had to be there. ZERO REGRETS. Truly glad I was.
By Henry Aaron Gibson Forward by Hillerich and Bradsby
Love, Victurd
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