by Bob Mitchell
Aha.
After the ball is over. Double entendre. After the dance, this lovely, thrilling dance through time. And also after the baseball has performed its magic, has fulfilled its function as the vehicle for knowledge.
After the break of morn. Another double entendre? When the night has passed and he can see things in the clear light of day. And if the homonym of morn is considered—mourn—could it also mean after the sadness is gone, the sadness of Papa Sol’s disappointments, the sadness of Papa Sol’s disappearing? Could he somehow have sensed he was someday going to leave us?
After the dancers’ leaving, after the stars are gone. Yet another double meaning. After the visits to the past are over and the stage is empty and morning has broken. But also all the stars are gone now. The Dodgers and Giants of the ’51 epic are a distant memory. So are the Yankees and Giants of ’62. The Bosox and Mets players of ’86 are no longer Bosox and Mets. And even from the 2004 ALCS, only a handful of Red Sox and Yanks have remained with their teams.
Many a heart is aching, if you could read them all. There was certainly a bittersweet element in Papa Sol’s world. Like the Keats poem, this song is a Romantic piece, and Papa Sol was a Romantic whose ultimate baseball dreams were unfulfilled. But there is sadness for many hearts in this world, too. If I could read them all? Maybe this means me, as historian, making sense of the struggling and suffering of humanity?
Many the hopes that have vanished…after the ball. Many of Papa Sol’s hopes did vanish. The promise of the Thomson baseball. The dream that the Giants would win the Series again, that the Bosox would win the Series in his lifetime. But now, after the ball has performed its magic, what of my hopes?: What will you do after the ball? Well, my hopes are still strong. The baseball has given me more clarity about Papa Sol’s life and about History itself. And the Bosox did win it all in ’04, and hope is alive for even more glory. And of course, I have Sammy and Elfie and Kate, and the rest of my life to live.
What will I do after the ball? How will I conduct my life from this point forward? We shall see, Papa Sol, we shall see….
Seth draws in a mouthful of smoke from his Cohiba, expels it in a puffy, gray billow. He is experiencing the relief and the satisfaction of having completely deciphered Sol’s note, of having gained access to his secrets.
But all of them?
Seth is thinking about how much he has learned, but also about what may be unresolved. Are there still unanswered questions about Papa Sol’s life?
He is thinking about how doubt and ignorance are certainty and knowledge’s other side of the coin. About whether we can really know another human being. Aren’t there always secrets that are left unraveled? Don’t Papa Sol’s reflect those hidden, unshared pockets of experience harbored by every single human being who ever walked the earth? Don’t they reveal a universal truth about life, about its complexity and its unpredictability?
He is thinking about the old quandary that has preoccupied him for such a long time, that is the core question of his teaching and his new book. Is History, in fact, dead as a doornail, as Schopenhauer thought? Or can it be revived?
Shower time.
Seth rests his Cohiba in the ashtray, disrobes, enters the stall. The steamy pinpricks of water put him in a singing mood.
When the red, red robin comes bob, bob bobbin’…
Bob, bob—
Bob, bob—
Shades of Bacchus.
Seth thought he’d had enough epiphanies lately to keep him happy, but apparently, he’s not quite through with them. He can’t get the bob, bob part of the song out of his head, and now he knows why.
Palindrome!
He has always loved the concept of palindromes, those letter clusters or words or sentences that read the same backward and forward. Papa Sol first introduced him to these fascinating linguistic phenomena when he was around seven or eight, and ever since, he has delighted in them, sought new ones out. Started out with simple ones, like the first man’s pithy pronouncement, “Madam, I’m Adam,” and Napoleon’s melancholy musing on pre-exile days, “Able was I ere I saw Elba.” Then graduated to longer ones, like the telescoped history lesson, “A man, a plan, a canal—Panama!” His two favorites of all time are the culinary “Go hang a salami, I’m a lasagna hog” and the naughty “A slut nixes sex in Tulsa.”
And now bob, bob.
The water splashes on his back, and he is feeling enlightened as he cogitates:
Bob (Thomson)
Bob (Richardson)
BB (Billy Buckner)
Walter Retlaw
SS (Solomon Stein)
All palindromes from his visits to the past. All the same backward and forward. Backward and forward. Just like his trips through time, his round-trips through time, his shuttling from present to past and back again. Reminding him once again of Kierkegaard’s aphorism regarding History:
Life must be lived forward, but it can only be understood backward.
Seth hops out of the shower, and it occurs to him that his age—33—also happens to be a palindrome. Not to mention Wally’s apartment number—303. But enough already! He dries himself, gets dressed for his class with the bushy-tailed ones. It is nearly one thirty, and he’s gotta skedaddle.
Just as he is putting on his Red Sox cap, he has the granddaddy of all epiphanies. What if…What if Papa Sol is, really and truly…still alive? Dear God. Why didn’t this occur to him with such searing clarity before now? Did he just come to accept the fact that his grandfather had died after these past two years? Or was the idea of Sol’s being taken by an old Yankee Stadium sweeper to a tiny apartment in the Bronx, with possibly irreversible amnesia, as witnessed during a possibly real trip to the past, just too preposterous for him to believe completely, deep down?
Clinging to his nascent hope, encouraged by his epiphanies of the meaning of Papa Sol’s note and the twelve letters and all the prima facie evidence and now the palindromes, and buoyed by the increasingly strong belief—backed up by a trusting Kate—that his trips to the past must have been real, Seth, Hamlet-like, at long last springs into action.
“Hi. Is this four-one-one? Yes, Bronx, New York City. Do you have a listing for a Walter or a Wally Retlaw? That’s r-e-t-l-a-w. On the Grand Concourse.”
Seth waits for thirty seconds, then: “You don’t? Are you sure? Well, could you please check again?”
Same story.
Beads of sweat form on Seth’s forehead. “Well, thanks, anyway,” he says and hangs up. So near and yet so far. Just like his grandfather, here he was, with his high hopes, only to be disappointed. Then, an idea, and he redials Information.
“Yes, can you give me a number for the missing persons bureau of the borough of the Bronx, in New York City?”
Seth writes down the number and thanks the operator.
He dials the MPB and finally gets a human being on the other end.
He tells the lady Wally Retlaw’s name. He gives her the address on the Grand Concourse, plus Apartment 303. He says that his grandfather might be living with Wally and describes precisely what Papa Sol looked like last time he saw him, during the trip back to 2004. Then he waits.
And waits.
When the lady comes back to the phone, she says that yes, there is in fact a person named Wally Retlaw still living on the Grand Concourse and yes, there’s a person living with him who fits his description of Solomon Stein and yes, Wally did contact the Bureau about two years ago but no, Mr. Stein had no ID and no one ever answered the notice or called the MPB and by all means, here’s Mr. Retlaw’s unlisted phone number and the best of luck to you and your grandfather.
“Thank you so much. You don’t know what this means to me. I really, really appreciate your help. Bye now.”
Land O’Goshen!
Seth dials up Wally, and his fingers are trembling so badly, he doesn’t think he’ll make it through the eleven numbers. Maybe Wally’s not home? Maybe the nice lady was wrong, and Papa Sol is no longer there? Maybe someth
ing happened—
“Hello?”
“Hello, am I speaking to Wally Retlaw?”
“This is he. And who might this be?”
“Well, it’s a long story, Wally, but I’ll get right to the point. My name is Seth Stein. Is there a man with a beard who’s about five-nine and seventy-eight years old living with you?”
“Yep, been a close friend of mine for two years now. Why do you ask?”
“Well, his name is Solomon Stein—I call him Papa Sol—and he’s my grandfather. He’s been missing for two years, and—”
“Now, how do I know you’re his grandson?” Wally says protectively.
“Um…I guess you don’t for sure, but please believe me, I am.”
“But even if you are, how did you know he’s living with me?”
“Okay, Wally. This may sound crazy, but please hear me out. I know you may not believe me, but this is the God’s honest truth. I…I was given this very special baseball by my Papa Sol and it took me back in time to a few historical ball games and no one could see or hear me and I was at that Game 7 in Yankee Stadium, where you found him in a daze after everyone had gone, and then I followed you both back to your apartment and saw you take care of him—”
“But that’s ridiculous. You traveled back in time? No one could see or hear you? You entered my apartment? What do you take me for, a—”
“Wally, please believe me. I was there. And, anyway, listen to me, how else would I know that his wound was on the right side of his forehead and it was swollen and a little purple around the edges and there was a single trickle of blood running down his cheek and you wiped it clean and you asked him if he had a wallet and he said no and you said you didn’t live far and on your bed there’s a blue plaid comforter and on the wall in your living room there are pictures of Satchel and Josh and Cool Papa—”
“So his name’s Solomon Stein?” Wally says, relenting. “Always wondered what his real name was. I been calling him Josh, after Josh Gibson. Also wondered whether he had a family—”
“Listen, Wally, I’d really like to thank you for taking care of my Papa Sol all this time and for being his friend. It means an awful lot to me.”
“Yes indeedy, my pleasure entirely. We had ourselves some good times, I can tell you. And he’s been the best darn Yankee Stadium assistant I ever had. Now, I’m guessing you’d like to have your Papa Sol back real soon, right?”
“You took the words right out of my mouth, Wally. His wife, Elsie, misses him terribly, as you can imagine. And so do I. And his great-grandson, Sammy, too.”
“Well, son, where do you live?”
“Cambridge, Massachusetts.”
“Tell you what I’m gonna do. First thing tomorrow morning, Josh, er, Papa Sol and I are gonna get in my car and drive up to Cambridge, Massachusetts, and I’m gonna deposit him right at your doorstep, I am. I know how big this moment will be for you all, so I’ll just drop him off, knock on the door, and be on my merry way. But you can be sure that I’m not planning to be a stranger and that I’ll be coming up to Cambridge to visit him probably more often than you’d like.”
“That’s very kind, Wally. Know that you will always be welcome in my home.”
“There’s just one thing I should tell you about Josh, I mean Papa Sol—”
“What’s that, Wally?”
“Seems he doesn’t remember anything meaningful about his past, so be prepared. I know he loves baseball, I can see it in his eyes, but whenever I start to talk about the old days, he doesn’t seem to recall any of the players. Must’ve been that bump on the head—”
“Yes, I know about that. I was really hoping he’d start remembering about his past by now, but truthfully? We’ll all be thrilled just to get him back the way he is.”
Thank God for kind and loving people like Wally in this world, Seth is thinking as he says good-bye and thanks again to the compassionate Yankee Stadium sweeper.
Elsie Stein and Sammy Stein and Seth Stein and Kate Stein-to-be are waiting in the living room of the grizzled, gray-shingled Stein residence for the Big Moment. On the walls are signs with brightly colored writing that the whole family helped to create:
WELCOME HOME, PAPA SOL!!!
WE LOVE YOU, PAPA SOL!!!!
PAPA SOL, YOU’RE OUR HERO!!!!!
Kate is nervous, mostly for Seth, and Seth and Sammy are nervous, mostly for Elsie, and Elsie is beside herself with excitement and emotion and can hardly hold back the tears.
Small talk among the four is stopped dead in its tracks by the long-awaited knock.
Seth opens the door, and there he is.
Papa Sol.
Solomon Stein stands at the threshold between stoop and vestibule, at the threshold between a life without a family and one with.
To the relief of all, he appears not to have changed much physically since his last sighting in the fall of 2004, although a few more gray hairs and wrinkles have insinuated themselves on his head and face.
There Papa Sol stands at this double threshold, a faint smile gracing his lips, and it is clear that he has just returned from a grand adventure. Not unlike certain heroes of literature, like Odysseus and David Copperfield and Dorothy Gale, Solomon Stein—heroic and long-suffering—has been on a tortuous journey and has endured hardships and obstacles and has returned home to comfort and love.
He does not seem to recognize any of his loved ones, but despite his affliction, he is still a profoundly sensitive man, and everyone in the living room can feel that he appreciates the warm reception and is aware of the affection permeating the house and senses that he is surrounded by people who surely and most obviously love him deeply.
Papa Sol reciprocates the reception with the sweetest of smiles.
Grandma Elsie is the first to break the ice. She approaches her husband of sixty years and throws her arms around him in a wild embrace, her tears drenching the lapel of his jacket. Papa Sol is bewildered at first, but his look is soon transformed into one of acknowledgment and appreciation and pleasure. He must be someone pretty important to this lovely woman to merit such a greeting.
“Sol, my dahlink! It’s your Elsie, your sweetie pie! I’ve missed you so, my love!” she says, knowing full well that Sol is not yet, and perhaps will never again be, the husband and lover and pal and companion he once was to her.
Sol retains his sweet smile, but Elsie knows what the deal is. Still, she is ecstatic to have him back once again.
Seth and Sammy and Kate take turns hugging, kissing, and squeezing the Guest of Honor. Papa Sol knows that he is appreciated and wanted and loved, whoever all these nice people are.
Seth takes Sammy aside and cradles his son’s face between his two loving hands.
“Remember the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team?” he asks.
“Sure,” Sammy answers, unsure of where this is leading.
“Well, remember what the announcer, Al Michaels, said at the end of the game, when they upset the Russians?”
“Do you believe in miracles?” Sammy answers in his little announcer’s voice, proud of the sports trivia genetic material passed on from Papa Sol to Seth to him.
“Well, do you?” Seth asks. “Because if you don’t, how in the world do you explain the fact that the Bosox won the Series two years ago and that Papa Sol just came back to life and that tomorrow morning I’m gonna call your mom and ask her if we can please be friends from now on?”
Sammy’s face lights up with the broadest smile in the history of the universe. No words are necessary to express what he is feeling in his heart.
Looking across the living room at his Papa Sol, Seth can’t help musing upon the quirkiness of life and all the wonderful and not-so-wonderful things that have befallen Solomon Stein, this remarkable yet flawed human being. He is pondering the trajectory of Sol’s secret life: the Thomson Frustration and the Terry Fiasco and the Buckner Bungle and the amnesia and the ultimate inability to savor, at long last, the attainment of the Holy World Series Grail by h
is beloved Bosox. He is ruminating on Papa Sol’s dark side, but also on the bright side of Sol, this amazing husband and father and grandfather and great-grandfather and person. How unfair that his life had to turn out like this. Yet as Papa Sol always told him, per aspera ad astra: You can never get to where you want to go without struggles and challenges. So despite the setbacks, there is always hope for a new beginning. That’s the way the old Papa Sol would want it, and that’s the way it will be.
And while the champagne is being uncorked and sipped and Papa Sol is feeling more comfortable with the situation and the conversation is warming up all around, Seth Stein has one final epiphany. For no apparent reason, the P.S. at the end of the note his grandfather left him emerges in his brain. As he sips his Korbel, he suddenly realizes that the letters P.S. stand not only for Post Scriptum, but also for…Papa Sol! So maybe the message ends not only with what will I do after the ball has performed its magic, but Papa Sol, what will become of you?
Seth looks across the room at Grandma Elfie, who has her arms wrapped around her husband. Solomon Stein is feeling the profound love of this woman he doesn’t recognize.
Elsie smiles at Papa Sol and he smiles back at her and then the smile is passed along, like a sacred family love note, from Elsie to Kate to Sammy to Seth.
It is the best of times.
In the midst of the joy, Seth remembers something that Gordon had told him on the phone when he called for the medical advice. Something about how it is possible for a familiar visual object to have a positive affect on a person afflicted with retrograde amnesia.
Sanguine Seth knows just what to do and goes into his grandfather’s den. Sitting on the large oak Solomon Stein desk is the old picture album of baseball cards that just last week Seth had returned to its original and rightful owner.
Emerging from the den, he brings the album over to his Papa Sol, who is now seated on the sofa.
