Then something happened that makes baseball such a great game: confidence crept in. “If Donna can do it, I can do it,” was the silent but world-changing thought spreading around the field. There were no more dropped balls, no more wild throws by Jason. I could almost hear the voices of Harry Caray and Mel Ott calling this game at Carpenter Field.
US closed the gap to 6-4 in the fourth, when David hit his second homer of the game, driving in Justin, who had beat out a grounder.
THEM scored three more runs that same inning when Joseph, Jake, and Jason (who actually stopped at first this time) all singled and James tripled, increasing the advantage to 9-4.
The Major kept US at bay, turning a variety of superb lofted pitches into harmless popups or grounders, for easy outs—except for Mary, who struck out for her 33rd, 34th, and 35th straight times.
It appeared THEM had this game in the bag when Lyle singled, Joseph doubled to left, and Gentleman Jake sent them both scurrying home with a blooper to right in the top of the seventh. The 11-4 lead appeared insurmountable. William Saroyan once wrote:
Baseball is caring. Player and fan alike must care, or there is no game. The caring is whole and constant, whether warranted or hopeless, tender or angry, ribald or reverent. From the first pitch to the last out the caring continues. With a score of 6-0, two outs, two strikes, nobody on, only an average batter at bat, it is still possible, and sometimes necessary, to believe that something can still happen—for the simple reason that it has happened before, and very probably will again. And when it does, won’t that be the day? Isn’t that alone almost enough to live for, assuming there might just be little else? To witness so pure a demonstration of the unaccountable way by which the human spirit achieves stunning, unbelievable grandeur?
But like they say, “The game isn’t over until the fat lady sings.” There was hope.
Justin opened the final refrain with a sharply hit ball just out of the reach of Shoeless Jake, for a single. C hit a little blooper that barely cleared Jake’s glove, for another single. “You’re picking on me!” Jake yelled out. But you could tell he and THEM were still confident. They were smiling.
US got a break when I hit a fly ball that Jason lost in the bright sun over Carpenter Field, and it fell in for a single, to load the bases. Mary stepped to the plate and struck out for the 36th straight time. David then smashed a grand-slam homerun over the center-field fence that stirred the drunken fans, who had been napping in the stands for the last hour or so.
That made the count 11-8 with one out and wiped the smiles off of THEM.
Bob, the musician, followed David’s homerun with another blast over the fence. The back-to-back blows made it 11-9, and all of a sudden US and THEM were at the point William Saroyan wrote about—counting on the almost unbelievable, against all odds, hoping that today would be that incredible day.
Tony singled to keep the rally alive; Bill followed with a slicing single over the first-baseman’s head. The fans leaned forward in their seats. THEM became tense. Everyone was riveted as Donna stepped into the batter’s box. It was still going to take a miracle for US to come back to beat THEM, but the gods of softball seemed to be toying with this bunch today, using us as puppets for their amusement.
It isn’t always the Mickey Mantles or the Babe Ruths of the world who get the key hits that win the biggest games. It was Mookie Wilson of the New York Mets who hit the ground ball that trickled through the legs of Boston first-baseman Bill Buckner and deprived the Red Sox of the World Series Championship in 1986. The Mets beat the Red Sox 6-5.
And if Donna gets a hit at this moment, few will remember. But she will.
Tony was shaking at second and Bill was talking to his own personal Babe Ruth at first when Donna hit a chopper down the first-base line. Joseph raced up the line to get the ball and Steven moved over to cover the bag. But Joseph’s throw caught Donna in the back, and Tony and Mike raced home on the error to tie the game.
Justin and C both singled, to load the bases for me. It was my chance for glory. All I had to do was put the wooden bat on the rawhide ball and I would be the hero. I would receive the adulation of my teammates and cheers from the throng of twelve in the stands.
But it wasn’t to be. On the first pitch, I popped one up to the pitcher. That left the fate of the game in the hands of our little Mary.
As Mary strode to the plate swinging a bat, her friend Tina cried out from the stands, “Come on, girl! Hit that ball! Pretend it’s your ex’s nuts! Show ’em what you can do!” Victory was within our grasp with the score tied at 11-11. Donna was on third base.
Mary had struck out seven times today, and the Major was salivating on the mound for his own personal-best strikeout record. The Major had the heart and soul of Mother Teresa, but he wasn’t about to fool around with the game on the line, and he uncorked two straight “mystery pitches” that the diminutive Mary swished at harmlessly, for two strikes.
That famous mystery pitch, when lofted toward the plate, appeared to be rotating forwards. Then, about halfway to the batter, the ball would reverse directions and rotate backwards in some quirk of physics that only the great ones like Gaylord Perry, Rollie Fingers, and the Major could understand.
Mary, along with everyone in the stands and on the field, knew what was coming: another mystery pitch. The spectators all lifted their brown paper sacks to their lips and then held their breath. Mary waved the bat rhythmically and stared the Major down. Perturbed, the Major did something he never did—he spit! There would be no mercy. This was going to be the best mystery pitch ever.
The Major took his stance, brought the ball back, and then moved forward as he let go of the ball. Mary’s muscles tensed and her eyes widened as the spinning ball arrived at the plate and she put all of her 97 pounds into one mighty swing.
It was her Moonlight Graham moment.
The bat caught a portion of the ball, sending it gyrating wildly toward the only spot on the field where a hit was possible, considering the cast of characters on the field: halfway down the third-base line.
Grady, playing third base, tossed his cane aside and hobbled toward the whirling ball. The Major, his groin pull causing him agonizing pain, winced and stepped lightly toward the line.
Donna, feeling the gravity of the moment, was off at the crack of the bat—340 pounds of determination. The ground was shaking.
The catcher, Robert, at 138 pounds after three good meals—something he never got—held his position at the plate, unafraid.
The Major doubled over in pain and went to the ground, but he kept crawling for the ball.
Grady stumbled forward, grabbed it, got to his knees, and flung it awkwardly toward home plate. His valiant effort was four feet wide, pulling Robert (fortunately for US) off the plate and out of harm’s way as Donna touched home and hummed the theme song from Dragnet—“Daaa, da da daa... da da daaaaa!”
Maybe the fat lady didn’t sing, but she sure hummed.
Mary touched first base and then jumped on Joseph, throwing her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. Joseph made an impeccable reception of the tiny woman and spun around as all the players on the field joined in celebrating this improbable ending.
Yes, the field was full of believers that day. And just as Kevin Costner had done on the big silver screen, C asked, “Is this heaven?”
Chapter 24
HOW MUCH FOR THAT DOGGIE?
A large, gold-painted statue of a lion guards the entrance to a city oasis, which is appropriately named Lions Park. It sits squarely in the center of town.
The homeless had been using it as a shelter at night, sleeping under the metal bleachers of the softball fields. But early-morning joggers, aghast at seeing humans lying on the ground covered by dirty blankets, complained, and soon routine police patrols and locked gates kept the destitute out.
The park was heaven for my little dog, Willow. A grand spread of well-watered green grass for rolling, tall trees for shade, and a constant cool
breeze off the saltwater channel on which it was located all made for a perfect place, to the canine mind. Willow knew where we were going blocks before we were in sight of the lion because she could smell the park. She would begin a dance of ecstasy, hopping back and forth between my lap and the passenger seat as I drove.
That is exactly what she was doing one late July morning as we pulled into the park after breakfasting at Sally’s. I pulled the van to a stop under a shade tree about eight-thirty. The park was nearly empty. Willow was first out the door; as soon as I cracked it open, she was off to smell the world.
I closed the door and hustled to catch up with her as she hurried from tree to tree, sniffing and marking the territory. But the troubles of the day were on my mind, and I couldn’t seem to shake them enough to fully share her bliss. The prevailing thought as I walked along was, “What in the hell am I going to do?” My gas gauge was near empty—maybe the tank held enough to get to the nearest filling station, but that was about it—and I didn’t have two nickels to rub together. I was going to have to find money on the ground, or have it fall out of the sky, just to keep going. I had not felt this low and desperate in months, and I didn’t want to have to beg again. I had hoped to run in to C at Sally’s and ask for a few dollars, but he must have slept in. Then I thought I would see if the Major could provide some assistance, but he was out begging for money himself—to keep Sally’s doors open.
Willow could usually feel my distress, but even she was slow on the uptake this morning. We were, after all, at the park at this moment, and it was a beautiful morning. She threw herself to the ground and rolled in the grass, then got up and ran with the wind at her back until some other smell filled her nostrils and brought her to a halt. My task was just to follow along behind and watch out for predators—like pit bulls, or the animal control truck—that could spoil this frolic for her.
These visits to the park were the best thing I could do for her. Often I felt bad that she had gotten stuck tagging along with me on this journey—having to sleep in a cold car, having to stay in the car while I ate at Sally’s or at a local church, seldom getting a bath, and never getting the pampering she had received as a puppy. I’d considered trying to find her a comfortable home, one that was warm in the winter and cool in the summer, with a soft couch to rest on.
A couple of cars were pulling in as Willow began leading me back toward the shade and the cup of water she knew awaited her in the van. As we approached our ride, a man in a big new truck pulled in right beside us. He was talking on his cell phone and left his motor running. It was a diesel Club Cab 4x4, and he had to talk loudly to be heard over the engine.
“Can you hear me now?” he asked the party on the other end of his connection. “Good. I just pulled into this city park down by the water. The reception is much better here. Anyway, I expect the Johnsons to call for me this morning. Tell them the price has gone up to three hundred eighty thousand on the house on Rocky Point. We’ve got three potential buyers.”
He quit talking for a moment. Then he turned off the engine and began to step out. “Wait a minute. You’re breaking up. I’m getting out of the truck so I can hear you better,” he said. “Okay, I can hear you now.” He was pressing the phone closer to his ear and walking away from the truck. “Well, I’ll have to take care of that when I get back.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, then pulled one out and lit it. “I already stopped by the Martins’ this morning to let them know they are going to have to cough up another twenty thousand for that place on Pine Road.” He paused, taking a drag on his cigarette. “And before I forget it, my travel agent is supposed to drop off the tickets for the Cancun cruise. I’m heading out to Gold Mountain to play golf—I’ve got an eleven o’clock tee time. I’ll stop in the office at six to look over all those papers. Just leave them on my desk.”
Willow had jumped in the van to get her drink of water, and I had spent those few moments summoning the courage to walk around the van and ask the man for help. He snapped his cell phone shut, tossed his cigarette to the ground, and snuffed it out with his foot. He was already reaching for the door handle, and his back was to me as I nervously spoke up.
“Sir, I hate to bother you, but I’m having a tough time right now.” He turned to look at me. “I need to borrow five dollars for gas to put in my van.” The words seemed to tumble out of my mouth, and I had a sinking feeling that I had asked the wrong person.
“What’s the deal?” he asked.
“It’s a long story,” I said, “but I lost my home, my job, and a lot more, and I’m living in my van now.”
His eyes traveled to the van, where Willow was now sticking her head out the window. “I don’t like to give money to street people,” he said. “I always think it goes to alcohol or drugs.”
“I don’t drink or do drugs,” I said, hoping that I sounded convincing, even though I was feeling labeled and judged.
“I sell real estate for a living,” he said. “I’m trying to rebuild the city by bringing people in here who have money. People like you hanging around just lower the property values. And if people just give you money, you just keep on hanging around.” For some reason, he felt the need to explain his position to me. “This town is on the way up,” he continued. “The trouble is there have been too many low-income and homeless people for too long. We need people to buy out the poor and fix up those slums and let the poor move down to Oregon or California, or to wherever will take them. You know what they call this town over in Seattle? They call it ‘Bummertown.’”
I knew it all too well. I just stood there, feeling completely defeated.
The man looked at Willow and asked, “That your dog?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s Willow. Willow, my van, and some clothes—that’s all I have left.”
“How much did you pay for that dog?”
It seemed like an odd question, but I decided to answer. “She cost six hundred when she was a puppy,” I said.
He stepped closer to the passenger side of the van, where Willow was standing on the seat with her front paws on the door. “Will it bite me if I reach out to pet it?” he asked.
“No,” I said. The thought of Willow biting anyone almost made me laugh.
He reached out cautiously to pat her head. Willow accepted his attention, then jumped down and over onto the driver’s seat.
“How much do you want for that dog now?” he asked, looking directly at me.
His question caught me off guard. I was silent.
“My daughter might just like a little dog like this,” he said. “Cleaned up, it might be kinda cute.”
“I really need the money—but I couldn’t sell my dog!”
He laughed and shook his head, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a money clip. He slowly peeled a hundred-dollar bill from the clip and held it out. “Here. I’ll give you a hundred bucks for the dog, right now.”
I shook my head.
He used his thumb and forefinger to get another hundred from the clip. “How about two hundred?”
“No, thanks.”
“Okay,” he said, looking at Willow again. “Does it have all its shots?” he asked.
“She’s due. It’s been maybe two years since she’s seen a vet,” I said.
“Well, then,” he said. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do.” He took two more hundred-dollar bills from the clip. “I’ll give you four hundred for it. That should get you down the road and buy a few nights in a motel. Four hundred—that’s my last offer.”
I stared at the money in his outstretched hand. “Thanks for the offer,” I said. Then I looked him straight in the face. “But I can’t sell her. She’s my friend. I couldn’t sell her for any price.”
The man laughed again. Then he tucked the money back into his money clip and put it in his pocket. “Everything is for sale,” he said. “Houses, boats, cars—and people, too. It’s just a matter of price. That’s what I’ve learned.”
Then he turned a
way.
“Good luck,” he said, getting into the truck and starting the engine. He looked over his shoulder and backed out, turned his truck around, and pulled away.
I stared after him for a moment. I was shaken. A part of me wanted to argue with him and convince him he was wrong—that everything was not for sale—that everyone did not have a price. But a small part of me wasn’t all that sure.
And maybe that was the difference between the “haves” (at least those who flaunted what they have) and the “have-nots”—that sense of certainty that they have answers to all the questions of life. I wasn’t too sure they even had all the right questions. I wondered at what point on this journey the wheeler-dealers traded in their sensitivity, caring, and compassion for the cockiness of those who are able to carry and flash a large roll of bills.
It occurred to me that in some ways, perhaps—no, I was certain—I had a lot more real value than the man in his truck. I didn’t have money for gas, but I did have Willow. And, desperate as I might be feeling otherwise, I still had the comfort of some dignity.
I stepped over to the van, resolving to wait until someone else pulled in so I could try again. “Come on, Willow,” I said to my friend, opening the door. “Let’s take another walk.”
She cocked her head and gave me a sideways look, then jumped from the seat onto the pavement. I closed the door and we headed for the grass. She knew what was valuable, too.
Willow stayed right by my feet as we walked across the asphalt. The thought of being without her had unnerved me. “Geez, Willow!” I said, looking down at her. “You’re worth more than I am! But you know I couldn’t sell you, not for a million bucks.”
As soon as our feet hit the grass, Willow lowered her nose and was off again, following a new scent. I let her race ahead, and I walked slowly along the outfield fence of one of the softball fields.
As I passed center field, I saw a softball lying in the grass ahead. I walked over and picked it up. It was an almost-new ball that must have been hit over the barrier the night before and left behind. I tossed the ball up in the air a few times as I kept walking behind Willow. She raced over to the fence to smell a piece of folded-up paper lying next to the chain links.
Breakfast at Sally's Page 26
