by Cap Daniels
He looked down at me expectantly.
Does he expect me to thank him for telling me I’ll never play ball again? That’s not going to happen.
“Look, doc. I’m going to be a Major League ball player. It’s just a few broken fingers. I’m young and in great shape. I’m going to be fine, right?”
He lifted his clipboard and frowned. “I’m afraid it isn’t that simple, Mr. Fulton. We’ll be moving you up to your room in a few minutes and your family will be able to see you then. If there’s anything you need, the nursing staff will be checking on you regularly. You and I will talk again later this evening.” With that, he patted my leg and disappeared through the curtains.
2
The Recruit
My mind was reeling and my thoughts were completely disorganized. I had learned everything there was to know about the Kübler-Ross model in my psychology classes. The five stages of grief were pretty simple, but they clearly didn’t apply to me.
The doctor is wrong. My hand’s going to be fine.
Denial. Stage one.
Damn it! Why me? This isn’t fair! I’m too young and talented to have this happen. It’s not right!
Ah, anger. Stage two.
I’m going to make the sacrifices necessary to regain full use of my hand. I’ll just work harder than everyone else. I can do it. I can work harder and do everything right to use my hand and play ball again. It’s just going to take some hard work. That’s all.
There it is: bargaining. Stage three.
Then the tears came . . . and kept coming. I was alone, empty, hopeless, and destroyed. Nothing mattered since I couldn’t play ball.
What was I going to do? It didn’t matter. I didn’t eat. I didn’t talk. I barely slept. What I did was cry and wish I’d died on the field that day.
If I can’t play professional baseball, there’s nothing left for me.
Of course, depression. Stage four.
Stage five is acceptance. I never achieved stage five. Instead, I channeled stages one through three with the intensity of a laser and the subtlety of a bulldozer.
I endured three more surgeries that were, more or less, successful in transforming what had been a healthy, strong, capable right hand into a somewhat responsive hunk of flesh, pins, screws, suture anchors and pain . . . a lot of pain. The physical therapy was agonizing. I spent hundreds of hours flexing and relaxing, stretching and rotating, pushing and pulling, screaming and cursing. I was young, strong, determined, and pissed off. That combination makes for a volatile and dangerous cocktail.
Realizing, but still not accepting, that I would never again crouch behind home plate, I poured myself into the study of psychology in what remained of my senior year at UGA. I read every book I could beg, borrow, or steal. I attended every lecture given by anyone with a PhD. I even volunteered at Emory University Hospital’s psych department. The determination and drive I’d poured onto the baseball field was now dumped enthusiastically into the study of the human mind and its frailties, departures from normalcy, and especially its resilience. I spent every minute that he would allow with my favorite psych professor, Dr. Richter. He began to refer to me as his protégé, and I liked the moniker. I’d even begun calling him “Coach.” I’d done it mistakenly at first, but I came to realize that my mind had begun thinking of him as my coach. Mostly out of amusement, I think he actually enjoyed that revered title.
Twenty-one-year-old boys on the verge of becoming men need the influence of men of strong moral character. My father had been the epitome of character to me, but his life, and the lives of my mother and sister, had been snuffed out in the middle of the night on the edge of the rainforest in Panama just before General Noriega’s debacle in 1989. My mother and father had been U.S. aid workers on a humanitarian mission to provide medical care, education, and general comfort to orphans of that country. They’d worked throughout the Caribbean, as well as Central and South America for as long as I could remember. In fact, I’d learned to play baseball in the Dominican Republic with hordes of other children whose lives were nothing like mine. They lived in abject poverty in the third world and didn’t always know when they would eat their next meal. I was, from their perspective, a child of privilege from America, but baseball erased those imaginary cultural and economic lines. Baseball made us all the same. That had been fifteen years and a lifetime ago.
On one unusually warm Thursday evening in the library, I found myself surrounded by reference material, piles of notes, and stacks of audiotapes of interviews with psych patients. I simply couldn’t absorb information quickly enough to satisfy my thirst for the understanding of the human psyche. I was so engulfed in my studies that I hadn’t noticed Dr. Richter silently sliding his long, lanky frame into the oak chair across the table from me. I noticed him only after he’d lifted my weighty primary reference book to read the spine. Startled, I looked up to see his deeply-sunken eyes peering through his professorial, wire-rimmed glasses. I saw his lips form the words more than I heard the sounds he whispered.
With unrepentant contempt, he read the spine of the oversized text book. “Abnormal Psychology . . . ha! What other psychology is there?”
He removed his glasses and slid them into the ancient sleeve that was firmly attached inside the pocket of his threadbare, short-sleeved, button-down shirt, then he licked his thin lips and looked around. “Mr. Fulton, my boy, what are you doing? You aren’t going to learn how the human mind works in this compost heap of intellectual bullshit. We learn the ways of the mind by observing the behavior of its keeper.”
I wondered two things about Dr. Richter. First, why didn’t he ever call me Chase? He’d never called me by my first name—only Mr. Fulton. Second, why did he harbor such contempt for academia? After all, he was an academic. He had, on far more occasions than I could remember, spoken of the weaknesses of academic study, instead, preferring listening and observing. He was not only unique in his physical appearance, but he was also alone among the staff of UGA in his poor opinion of the importance of classroom lectures. Before the dawn of another Monday, I would learn the answer to at least one of my questions.
“Mr. Fulton,” he said, “you’re bright, ambitious, strong, and not unlike I was a lifetime ago. You’ll graduate from this fine southern institution of higher learning on Saturday. Have you thought about how you’re going to unleash your talents on the world come Monday?”
I’d given that question absolutely no thought. I’d been so consumed by my desire to learn that I had no idea what I would do with all of that knowledge when I finally left school. I didn’t like how that made me feel. I felt as if I’d already failed in my future before my future had actually begun.
Before I could stumble through any poorly delivered answer, he nodded painfully slowly and looked over each of his shoulders as if he was going to tell a dirty joke he didn’t want anyone else to hear. I was intrigued.
He leaned forward and closed my book. “I have some people I’d like for you to meet, Mr. Fulton. There are some things you should know about me, your parents, and especially about yourself, so let’s go for a walk.” He pocketed the pile of plastic cassette tapes that had been lying on the table and gathered my stack of notes.
What does he mean? What could he possibly know about my parents? He’d never met them. Was he guessing, or was he playing one of his mind games designed to teach me yet another universal psychological truth that would never appear in any textbook?
I had learned that he was never without a surprise, and that he was constantly teaching, even when he didn’t intend to be doing so. I think that may be what made him such an incredible professor—and coach.
As we left the library, Dr. Richter winked at a middle-aged librarian who was looking through her bifocals at the card catalog and holding her chin at an angle that seemed painfully high. The demure librarian blushed and smiled coyly at Dr. Richter’s flirtation.
I bumped his shoulder with mine. “You old dog, you.”
“You
have no idea, my boy. You have no idea.”
Our walk continued down the aged stone steps and onto the sidewalk. We passed a few students who were obviously searching for any excuse to avoid studying.
Without looking at me, Dr. Richter spoke softly but confidently. “Mr. Fulton, things are almost never as they seem, and if they are, then we perceived them incorrectly. Take me, for example. I’ve not always been a professor. I spent the first thirty years of my adult life mostly overseas. I worked for the government . . . sort of. It was a good life, Mr. Fulton. A life full of interesting people, places, and opportunities. It isn’t for everyone, but it was certainly right for me. I see in you the same things that made me very good at that sort of work. I see adaptability, intellect, natural curiosity, and an ability to see things that others cannot or will not see.”
My confusion was compounding.
“I know none of this makes any sense right now, but it will all come together for you this weekend. What’s the use in going to a stuffy old graduation ceremony anyway? I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at six. Pack a bag for the weekend. Bring a nice shirt and a tie if you have one . . . and some boating clothes.”
All I could muster was a confused, “Okay.”
A car horn blasted and continued for several seconds. I reflexively turned to see what had caused the driver to create such a commotion. It didn’t take long to determine that it was a lover’s quarrel in a dark parking lot. I chose to ignore it and turned back to Dr. Richter, but he had vanished.
We were on a sidewalk, on the campus of the University of Georgia, over a hundred feet from any building, and this old, worn-out, mysterious man had disappeared into thin air.
I must’ve been watching the lover’s quarrel longer than I realized. I tried to shake off the confusing gibberish that Dr. Richter poured into my head, but I couldn’t do it. Something told me my confusion had only just begun.
3
The Last Weekend
of My Life
As rebellious as most people are between sixteen and twenty-four, there is still an inherent desire, even in those rebellious years, to please the people we love and respect. I was no different. I wasn’t going to let my coach down, so I was packed and wide awake at five-thirty Friday morning. He arrived ten minutes before six in his VW Microbus. Prior to that moment, I had no idea what he drove, but I wasn’t surprised. I climbed aboard the microbus and tried to imagine what mysteries the coming weekend would uncover.
I remembered him telling me that he’d worked for the government before becoming a professor, but he’d been intentionally vague about what that meant. I was naïve and essentially clueless about how real life worked, so I assumed he’d been in the army, or maybe the navy. For some reason, he struck me as a navy man.
There are moments in history when people have been famously wrong about things. When Napoleon believed he could win at Waterloo and when Julius Caesar thought that meeting with Brutus in mid-March would be a good plan, they were only slightly more wrong than I was that particular morning.
Before I’d settled into the perch that VW calls a front seat, Dr. Richter offered me a cup of coffee. I thankfully accepted. I usually didn’t mind early mornings, but I’d gotten so little sleep the previous night that I was definitely in need of caffeine. My mind wouldn’t stop churning over what the weekend would hold. I was excited and even a little nervous. Nothing that my young mind could come up with would remotely approach what I would soon learn about Dr. Richter— and about myself.
We drank our coffee and hardly spoke for the first fifteen minutes of our ride. When we pulled into the Athens-Ben Epps Airport, my curiosity was piqued. We passed through a security gate that opened when Dr. Richter pressed the button on a small garage door opener hanging from the mirror. The gate closed behind us, and we pulled up to a hangar that looked like an enormous version of his microbus.
“Grab your gear and let’s go.”
I did as he said, shouldering my backpack as I followed him to the door. When we walked through the heavy steel door, I heard a metallic click. An electric motor begin to whir as the massive hangar door rose. The light of the morning sun spilled into the hangar, and a silhouette of a P-51 Mustang slowly revealed itself. The plane glistened in the morning sun and appeared to be flying while motionless on the spotless hangar floor. Emblazoned across the right side of the fuselage in elegant script, I saw “Katerina’s Heart” and a painting of a beautiful, fair-haired woman sitting seductively with her legs crossed. She was smiling as if she knew a secret she would never tell.
“Isn’t she breathtaking?”
“She certainly is,” I answered. “It’s a P-51, right?”
“Very good, my boy. That’s exactly what she is. She’s the reason the French aren’t eating sauerkraut and speaking German. You’re in for the ride of your life, Mr. Fulton.”
Having never seen one up close, I stood in awe of the massive warbird. “Is she yours?”
Instead of answering, he climbed aboard a little tractor attached to the tail wheel of the Mustang and pushed her out of the hangar and into the bright morning sun. He then put the tractor back into the hangar and pulled his microbus in alongside it. As the door closed, he walked around the airplane, pulling and pushing, peering and feeling every inch of her. He watched her react to his touch and seemed to enjoy feeling the machine beneath his hands. After he’d finished inspecting every surface, we climbed aboard—me in the front and him in the rear.
The panel in front of me was a masterpiece of dials, screens, and instruments of every kind. I’d flown all over the western hemisphere with my parents, but never in anything like this. We donned headsets so we could hear each other when we spoke. I was surprised at the clarity and ease of talking back and forth. Finally, after feeling the rudder pedals and control stick wiggle around for a few seconds, I heard the engine roar to life. It was the most impressive sound I’d ever heard. It seemed to ooze raw power and yearned to fly.
Why has he never mentioned that he was a pilot? What else will I learn about my mentor this weekend?
I listened as Dr. Richter spoke with the air traffic controllers in a language that was certainly foreign to me. We taxied to the runway and waited for the controller to clear us for takeoff.
Finally, we rolled onto the runway and I got my first taste of the Mustang’s power. The engine bellowed and roared, belching orange fire from the exhaust. Feeling the plane accelerate down the runway was breathtaking. It was clear that the Mustang was no ordinary airplane. She was something special. As the tail wheel left the ground, I was rewarded with my first clear sight through the windshield. It was astonishing to see the sun gleaming off the propeller as the blades disappeared in their arc.
“So, this is what it’s like to be a fighter pilot, huh?”
Dr. Richter chuckled. “No, Mr. Fulton. This is how it used to feel to be a fighter pilot. Today’s jet jockeys are computer operators. Thirty years before you were born, this is how real men ruled the skies over Europe, with two feet on real, metal rudder pedals, one hand on the stick, and one finger on the trigger.”
As we climbed through the cool morning air, my fascination slowed down enough to take in the scenery and wonder of what was actually happening around me.
Unexpectedly, at least to me, the left wing fell out of sight and the world began to rotate around us. One second, the Earth was beneath us and disappearing. The next, it was above us and moving so fast I knew my coffee would come back up. Suddenly, the sky was up and the Earth was down again. We’d done a barrel roll to the left in what seemed like a microsecond. Amazed, I twisted my head so sharply to look back at Dr. Richter that I swore I felt my spine crack. I could barely see him around the seat back and all the gadgets, but I could make out his satisfied, crooked smile. He looked twenty years old. He was clearly in his element and completely alive.
I remembered the feeling of doing exactly what I was meant to do. I remembered how comfortable and exciting it was to pull my face
mask down and feel my long legs curl up beneath me when I crouched behind home plate. I remembered how it felt to know exactly what the batter was thinking and how I could read the runners’ intentions in the way they moved their feet. I remembered knowing precisely what was going to happen next when the pitcher started his stretch and the runners began to fidget. Yes, I knew exactly how Dr. Richter felt. He was at home and completely in control. I missed that feeling more than anything, and I wondered if I would ever know that feeling again.
We leveled off at eleven thousand five hundred feet over eastern Georgia. The rising sun was just off to the left, casting its yellow-orange glow over the seemingly endless fields of pine trees. Atlanta was off to the west, but there was no evidence of anything resembling a concrete jungle from where I sat. The world looked green and peaceful. It was beautiful in the way that only simplicity can be. It was too vast to understand or comprehend, but it was breathtaking. I knew we would see the Atlantic Ocean before long, and I couldn’t wait. I’d always loved the water—especially the ocean.
Dr. Richter hadn’t said a word for fifteen minutes and I wondered why he was so quiet.
Just then, his voice came through the headset. “What do you think, Mr. Fulton?”
“I think it’s astonishing.”
“Well said, my boy. Now that she’s sufficiently impressed you, let me tell you a little about Katerina’s Heart. As you properly identified her, she’s a North American P-51D. We converted her to a two-seat model so I wouldn’t be lonely. The boys at the Rolls-Royce plant built that big ol’ twelve-cylinder Merlin engine out there. That thing makes almost eighteen hundred horsepower. The whole big, beautiful thing weighs about eleven thousand pounds when she’s full of people and gas. I’ve had her do nearly four hundred and thirty miles per hour up high, but she’s old like me, so I don’t push her that hard. I’m good to her and she’s extremely good to me. That little snap roll we did just after takeoff is one of the nasty characteristics that these old girls developed when they started putting the bigger engines in them. They get a little squirrely on takeoff if you don’t hold on to them. I did that one on purpose so you could see how nimble the old girl is, but they used to unexpectedly do that on a regular basis before some smart engineer-type decided that he could reign that in with the addition of an aerodynamic fin. It worked, too, and it saved the lives of a lot of pilots and a bunch of airplanes. Without the P-51”—he sighed—“well, my boy, I don’t even like to think of how the world would look today without the P-51. Ask any old bomber crew who their guardian angels were over Britain in nineteen forty-four and they’ll tell you, without fail, it was the Mustangs. That was my war, son, and probably your grandfather’s war too. Not this particular one, but I flew several of these old things back then, over there. I don’t know what became of the ones I flew, but I’m sure thankful to have one that’ll never be shot out from under me again. It reminds me of the days when the Russians were our friends and it was okay to shoot first and ask questions later. Now we hate the Russians, or we used to hate them, but now we sort of like them again since Reagan had them knock down that wall they loved so much. Now we’re afraid we’ll hurt somebody’s feelings if we flex our American muscle too hard.”
