Neugie's Notes: July 2008

(1)
I first noticed the old man while on the 19th minute of a one-hour jog. Or perhaps I should say I heard him first, and my curiosity—normally a dormant thing—got the best of me.
It was mid-morning in north Georgia, and while the majority was making the world a better place, I was undergoing a “sabbatical” suggested by my boss. I wasn’t such a bad employee, it’s just that I had trouble continuing on with life while, only two weeks before they had stuck my father’s body in an incinerator and burned him. He died in pain, of cancer.
Hours after his death, while standing at the Amoco trying to decide behind ‘credit inside’ or ‘credit here’, I realized we must go on.
Somehow I wasn’t ready to. Work-wise, I didn’t, and hence, there I was, a lone figure jogging down Route 76 in Georgia on a beautiful day when the more fortunate were probably trying to decide between a three iron or a five-wood, paper or plastic, martini with or without the olive. I was running, but we’ll get to me later.
I want to tell you about the old man.
His voice was what I heard and with my labored breathing it had to be loud. I had turned onto Maple, wherever that was, and an old but piercing shriek opened up the Georgia sky. “WHAT do ya mean, safe, are you out of your &**&$# mind! Come on ump, you’re missing a good game. Jeez! That’s okay, boys, shake it off, we’ll get these %$#’s out yet.”
Looking to my right I saw a baseball park, or what used to be one anyway. Grass and weeds had taken over a once lined and chalked infield, and the outfield fence, once holding up advertisements, now competed with tree limbs and bushes even to be seen. Moving closer, I saw the old man’s shape, sitting directly behind what I guessed was once home plate, though the plate was muddy brown and the batter’s boxes probably hadn’t seen chalk since Carter was in office.
His shape was almost comical. I almost laughed. Check that, I did laugh. How could I not? What can you say about a silly old man screaming and yelling at a baseball game that didn’t exist? I moved closer, to make sure it didn’t—the game I mean—and my observations were accurate. There was no one anywhere near, no game being played, no ump, no players, no concession stands.
Just the old man, and nothing more.
His brown socks came nothing close to matching his tattered, white tennis shoes. His legs and arms were matchsticks at best, and he had on a punished-by-time blue hat with a red bill. His hair hadn’t been as effected by the years, as he still had a bushy head of blond/gray hair, and he kept taking his cap off and pushing it over to the side, as if keeping it arms and legs distance where it wouldn’t interfere with his voice. Despite the warmth, the man had chosen a jacket to wear with his shorts, and he kept tugging at the zipper, seemingly keeping out whatever cold he may have felt.
“Come on kiddo, fire it right in there. This man can’t hit. Look at his knees waggling, he’s scared. You got him boy. Sit him down.”
I stopped, something I never allow myself to do when running and my direction took me straight over to the bleachers. No, he didn’t look like he wanted company; though I didn’t think he’d notice actually. Still, something about seeing this passion-filled geezer drew me.
At about ten yards and closing he heard me. Perhaps they were between innings and his attention was wandering, I wasn’t sure. But he looked over and locked into my eyes. His hat had a “T” on the bill; it was crooked to one side, pulled over low, keeping the sun and most of the vision from the man’s eyes. He had glasses, a funny round mouth and his large nose protruded way out, making him an easy figure to draw from a profile.
His gaze stopped me—he didn’t look so friendly, though I, perhaps on an adrenaline high from my run, continued forward anyway. The old man sized me up, then returned his attention to the game. With his eyes off me, this drew me closer, faster, and I hopped up onto the end of the dilapidated, worn bleachers.
“Mind if I join you?” I managed, perhaps more confidently than I intended.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass! I’m watching the game!” the man fired back. He leaned back momentarily on what was left of the bleachers, and that wasn’t much. Perhaps sturdy in its time, the wood now sagged even from the old man’s 130 pounds or so, and the bolts and nails piecing the whole thing together had gone to rust and then some. Splinters and shards of wood occupied most of any seat you chose, though I managed to slide my thin butt in a safe spot, perhaps five feet from the old guy.
“Get a hit, Billy. Keep your eye on the ball for Christ sakes. Come on. This guy can’t pitch. Getta hit!”
I wanted to speak, but what to say? What do you say when it’s, say, the bottom of the fourth inning and you think you want Billy, whoever or wherever he is, to get a hit? Or maybe I’m for the other team? That was it. I started laughing at the thought. Would the old man brain me if I cheered for the other team? Looking over, I sized him up. No, he was thin, worn down. Or, if needed, I was a runner, I could escape. That was it.
“Come on George, throw it right by him, this guy can’t hit. Throw him the heater. This wimp will never see it,” I hollered back, glancing over at the old man. His eyes threw off sparks, beams that went through his faded glasses and locked my eyes. He recovered though, and went back to the game.
Still, I wanted more.
“George, don’t waste a curve on this guy! Throw him your fast ball. Billy can’t hit dick.
Strike him out!”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, Billy can’t hit dick? He’s hitting .458 for Christ sakes. He’s on pace to break the school record. Can’t hit. Jeez, you young people….”
I wondered what ‘school’ he was referring to, but I popped right back.
“Sure he’s hitting .458, but look at who he’s doing it against?” I gestured towards an empty field, a field that hadn’t hosted bats, arms or gloves in ages.
He started to speak, but he heard a crack of a bat in his world, and the man was up so fast his cap almost spilled off his head. “THATA boy, Billy. Good shot, good hit! That’ll teach him. Yeah, how about that!” The man was clapping away, smiling, pumping his little fist in the air. “What do you say to that, young boy?” he fired at me. “Right up the middle, huh?”
Not wanting to be at a loss for words, I answered. “Yeah, sure was, dang if old Billy didn’t single up the middle.”
“SINGLE? That was a double for crying out loud! Good Lord boy, what’s wrong with your eyes?” Turning back to the game, he checked the zipper on his jacket and ignored me and my passion for the visitors. And why not? After all, Tim was up now, and apparently he was a pretty good hitter himself.
I watched for a few more minutes, or maybe for half an inning in the old man’s world, before excusing myself. “Sir, it was good seeing you. I’ll see you soon. Got to finish my jog.”
“Jog on outta here for all I care. Take your team with you. A bunch of spaghetti armed wimps your bunch is. Bring a real team over here next time!”
“Perhaps I will, sir, perhaps I will.”
He fired that look at me one more time, then dismissed me with a gesture of his arm. I headed back to Maple, away from the old man. But I still heard him. All the way down Maple and before I turned onto Cascade. From the pitch of his voice, I think Tim must have driven Billy in, but you never could tell.
After all, baseball could sometimes be a funny game.

(2)
I had rented a cabin, purposefully in the middle of nowhere. It was an hour north of Atlanta and it was the same cabin my changing pack of friends and I had always rented. In high school, we came north to celebrate the prom, the baseball title, getting laid for the first time, weekend trysts or attempts thereof, or just the enjoyment of getting away.
In college, the tradition continued. We had discovered the meaning of life here and had written it on a napkin. (Stuck napkin in my pocket; washed it two days later). Had talked Phil through a painful love life. Had been talked through an 0-15 slump during postseason. Had tried marijuana for the first time (and inhaled!) and spent the night laughing and wondering exactly why.
As adults, a colleague and I had once written a marketing presentation here that was delivered to our boss and trashed in front of at least 17 people. Had practiced meditation and failed miserably. Had made the decision to leave my marketing job and become a “consultant”, whatever that was. Had made another decision not to “consult” anymore, because I wasn’t really sure what they wanted to know. Or what I knew for that matter.
This place was all about releases, physical and mental, activity, noise, camaraderie.
This only amplified my depression as I turned the key, jimmying it back and forth, and heard the echo of the opening, unaccommodating door.
It was the first time I’d ever come here alone. The walls appeared to be creaking, waiting for me to put in a CD, waiting for the sound of an opened beer, the blender or for me or my friends to start saying something stupid. I had to laugh aloud thinking of it, and it quickly reminded me of the old man. What was the difference? He sat by baseball fields. I had my cabin.
I plopped my running shoes on the floor under the end table and settled back on the living room couch. It was a two-level cabin, situated off the road far enough to be out of view of passing motorists. The nearest neighbors were walking distance, but, unlike Atlanta, my phone could ring and surrounding families couldn’t hear it. I could crank up REM and not get a phone call. Could sit on the deck and smoke a cigar and not bother anyone but myself with the smoke.
It could sleep eight, and we had tested it and added more for good measure on occasion. Steep stairs ran from the kitchen to an upstairs bedroom, a walk straight through the front door led to a living room with a fireplace and a couch, and moving further still took you to a deck that overlooked some woods.
A bedroom split off from the backside of the living room, complete with a bathroom. The furniture was old but in working order and a television set waited in the corner of the living quarters, waiting for human touch. In all my trips here, I had never supplied it. After all, our world was always more important than the days supply of murders, deaths and arsonists. News reminded me of… well, it just reminded me
The silence didn’t help things when I stretched my legs out on the couch. Dust flew up as I plopped down. Spiders darted among webs carefully constructed throughout the living room. A rug, once throwing off brilliant prisms of red, white and blue, now contained only a dirt yellow tint, mixed carefully with mud, mold and age.
The staleness and solitude of the place did nothing to pick me up, or even make me attempt a cheery attitude. I had read somewhere where life, reduced to its simplest form, was the ability to sit in a quiet room alone, and enjoy the time spent.
Like the boxer on the ropes getting punched from midsection up, I was in serious trouble.
After pacing from kitchen to bathroom to living room to upstairs to downstairs, I realized I couldn’t sit for 10 seconds, much less a few minutes. Picking up an old Sports Illustrated, I tried to occupy my mind. Something about old news just didn’t do it. Yes, the Braves did win the World Series, about four World Series’ ago. Throwing it back down, I recalled something Indiana hoops coach Bobby Knight was quoted as saying, “If rape is inevitable, why not sit back and try to enjoy it?”
Depression was inevitable. How do you enjoy it? Laughing at my misery, I realized that occupying my time on this sabbatical was going to be a challenge. After the hustle and bustle of the big city, with all minutes, hours and days tediously penciled in by me, a boss, or a subordinate, the idea of doing nothing was going to be a chore and then some. In Atlanta, I had phones, fax machines, modems and the Internet.
Here, I had the hyperactivity of a noisy, cluttered mind.
Tossing the magazine back on the table, I again thought of the old man. I could still hear him, could still see him. What had happened? Who was he? What led him to that field at that time? Was his team any good?
Shaking off the thoughts, I walked across the dusty floor, making sweaty sock prints along the way, and tried plugging in the television. It didn’t work. Finally, I lay down and slept, and dreamed of the old guy.
Yes, I would have to say that during my “sabbatical”, it was definitely the old man that sustained me.

He wasn’t there the next day. I guess the ballplayers had a day off. Maybe the field needed repairing. Could be they were on strike. Who knew what happened in his world? Still, when rounding Maple, I cruised in for a closer look at the bleachers and the field, as if expecting something.
The afternoon heat was beating on my head, but my curiosity was enough to delay my jog somewhat. Still, there was only this field, these weeds, the trash everywhere, the branches on the fence, advertisements on billboards long ago fallen down. There were even scoreboard numbers lying around under the board, the product of the good old days. No electronics here. If you scored two in the top of the first, somebody had to run find the ‘2’ in the stack of numbers and place it up there in the slot for the top half of the first. Otherwise, how would anybody know?
I jogged on.
But the next day, he was back.
And boy was he pissed.
“GOOD GOD MAN! HOW in the HELL can you make that call? He was out by a mile! Come on ump, that’s the third one today. Now you’re really pissing me off.” The man was irate, but his voice seemed—hoarser than it was two days ago—almost as if someone was doing a poor job of dubbing words into a loud man’s body.
I had timed my jog for this—making this the one hour point where, if the old man was there, I could join in the fun. Let’s see, can I take time out of my busy schedule? Think I can work in a baseball game between naps, jogs and meager attempts at filling my time? Why not?
I walked over, catching my breath while sizing up the old guy. He had on jeans this time, still wore the jacket despite the heat, and his hat was still shaking around on his head, violently reacting to the “bad call.’
Catching my air, I wandered over quietly to my own spot to cast my opinion. Plopping down in my seat, I silently watched while the man stood and shook his tiny fist in protest. If he heard me approach, he never acknowledged.
“I don’t know sir, I think he missed the tag,” I offered after realizing he wasn’t going to even consider me.
The old man’s entire body wheeled on me; he was standing and he almost jumped at me as I offered my opinion. “You again. What in the %$#$# hell do you know? You can’t see either. I don’t know why we let you folk come over here. Bunch of blind %$#;s. The man pivoted back, suddenly clutching his stomach for a second, before regaining the laser-eyed look and resuming his interest in “the game.”
Truthfully, I was a little nervous about sharing the bleachers with the old guy, but once he settled back in and Darrin (of all people!) delivered a single up the middle, I took advantage of the old man’s change of mood by leaning back comfortably in my sky box.
His eyes blazed over for a second, then he returned back to the game and let me be. There was silence for an inning or so. The old guy plopped his faded jeans back in his seat and things were quiet for a while, though I couldn’t really tell whether the game was boring or if he wasn’t feeling so well. He would grab his stomach now and again, and with each wince it seemed his breathing would skip a bit. Still, his body language told me that how he felt on this particularly today wasn’t any of my business, so I just watched.
My attention wandered with the silence, and I found myself watching an outfield chase between two blue jays and a mockingbird. The overgrown outfield conditions were being put to good use, I guessed, as they cackled loudly while the old man and I sat in the summer Georgia sun.
Finally ending the silence, I gathered up the nerve to seek information from the old “fan.”
“Who’s pitching today?” I finally managed while the teams I suppose were changing sides.
At first I thought he wasn’t going to answer. He looked at me, turned away, then looked back again. With a sigh, I returned my gaze to the field. “Bobby’s pitching, who the hell you think?” he muttered and not so willingly.
“Yeah, Bobby. Good man, that Bobby.”
Nothing.
“Uh… sir? Bobby who?”
“Jesus, how am I supposed to watch the game with you over there. Shut your pie hole! Bobby Tretlin’s pitching!”
“I thought Bobby played third?”
“Hell no, Bobby’s never even heard of third. He’s a pitcher and an outfielder for Christ sakes!”
I crossed my legs and started wringing the sweat out on the ground. Focusing back on the field, I dared to go on. “Sir, uh, who’s playing third then?”
“%$# Timmy Warlock’s at third! Anymore questions or can I watch the game?”
“May I ask one more?”
“You just did, now get the hell outta here!”
“Sorry to bother you, but who’s the best player?”
“Huh?” His eyes and even his hat tilted up at this one, as if he couldn’t believe I didn’t know. For a split second, I actually detected a peaceful expression, but he quickly replaced it with his fire. Still, when his words came out, they were softer somewhat—more quietly delivered.
“Jonathan’s the best player,” he said. “Best glove, best arm, best bat. Jonathan’s the man. Yes sir.” He had tailed off at the end of the sentence, almost talking to somebody else. His face even seemed to regain some of its color.
Figuring this as good a stopping point as any, I left the old man alone. I had my names to investigate, he had his ball game to watch. “Have a great day, sir,” I offered politely as I slid off the bleachers, carefully avoiding splinters, and started away. “See you soon.” Pivoting off the bleachers onto the ground, I glanced back over my shoulder at the old guy while walking away.
He didn’t respond, just tilted his head ever so slightly at me. Going to the bill of his hat, he took it off, stroked his hair, put the cap back on, and returned to his game.

(3)
The locals didn’t have any information for me—none that mattered anyway. He was simply the crazy old man. “Every town has one of them,” a husky man at a gas station told me. “That old coot has been sitting there for years, yelling and carrying on. No one even pays attention to him anymore.”
A waitress was even less helpful. “What do you want to know about him for? You’re not from around here are you?”
“I think he got beat over the head so much when he was young, his brain just popped,” my nearest neighbor said. Her husband agreed. “I kinda stay clear of the old guy, myself.”
Flustered, I vowed to keep digging. Though at first it was because I had no life, it was now my mission. I had to laugh at the thought of this mission, but still, my curiosity was piqued. Climbing in my two-door, Chevy truck, I recalled what my teacher used to tell me years ago: When in doubt, go to the library. So I did.
I found it, without much trouble. It wasn’t much, just a one story, brick building just on the other side of town. Still, it was easy to find—a beauty of small places. And it proved fruitful.
It was well kept—shrubbery out front, a freshly painted sign, and the windows were being cleaned even as I drove up. Pulling into one of the spaces, I tried to unwrinkle my T-shirt somewhat and not appear as if I’d just crawled out of bed. No luck, but who cared? Somehow I just couldn’t picture too many people breathing right now that really cared what I looked like.
Inside, the help seemed friendly—a cheery young lady welcomed me and asked if there was anything she could do, just holler. Not wanting to intrude and being a bit shy around attractive women, I first walked past, but then thought better of it. “Maybe you could help me…” I began.
“Sure, ask.” She was probably in her 30’s, brown hair tied in a bun, glasses slipped comfortably over her nose, and she was dressed professionally—nice dress, polished shoes, the works. Her eyes were blue, inquisitive, her face didn’t appear as if a zit would ever have dared to rest there and it was evident she’d spent time outside of this place, judging from her tan. When she stood, her slim build made me guess she exercised somehow and she moved quickly from her seat to the end of her cubicle.
In layman’s terms, she was a babe, but I reminded myself of my quest and quickly silenced the devils perched on both my left and right shoulder blades.
“Well,” I’m not from around here,” I started again. Her laughter cut me off.
“Sorry,” the instant someone new comes in here, the whole town knows about it. Where you from?”
“Atlanta,” I brushed my hand at this, not wanting to discuss me. Still, she seemed genuinely interested—maybe not so much in me but a good listener out of habit.
“I was concerned about the old man at the….” Her laughter told me she knew who I was talking about.
“You were wondering about old George at the baseball field,” she finished. My opening eyes told her she’d nailed it, and I sat in silence waiting for her to continue. She reached across the desk and grabbed me by my hand. “Come. You need to talk to our head librarian, Mrs. Stewart.”
“Mrs. Stewart?”
“Yeah, she’s my mother. She can tell you everything you want to know. Be careful, though, she tends to run on a bit.”
She exited her desk and led me back through two narrow shelves of books—fiction - Ra-Ro, the sign announced. At the end of the aisle, a door faced us, and she stopped on the outside and pointed to the door. “Straight through, there’s her office.”
“His name is George Leonard,” Theresa Stewart began. She was probably late 60’s, early 70’s, hair matching her daughters save the color—a before/after picture if you will. She sat before her desk, pictures flanked her on all sides—certificates, photos of a man pulling in a huge fish, mother at daughter’s graduation, high school and college, a family photo, and a photo of a ground breaking, possibly of the building in which we now sat.
I had taken a seat in front of her desk, reminding of the days of getting sent to the principle’s office. I could have sworn it WAS the same chair back as my old school, one that made it impossible for me to sink down in my seat. It held me upright, made me face her front and center.
“What’s his story?” I began as I again refused her gesture towards the coffeepot that sat behind her. She tilted her head upward, sort of chuckled to no one in particular as she collected her thoughts and prepared to face me again. Her face was easy to look at, probably had knocked a few dead in her time, making it easy to see where her daughter got her looks.
“George has been sitting at that field for over ten years now. Ten years,” she said again for effect. “His wife left him, he’s got no family to speak of and his whole life is out there in those bleachers.”
I had given her my other names from the day before’s lineup—she knew them both. She stopped me while trying to recall one of the last names—as if the provided information was more than enough.
“They were all on that team—a good team, possible state contenders if you believe the papers.
“What happened?” I asked, shifting my leg up over my knee. It was a sitting position preferred by women and one that had actually gotten me my butt kicked in high school. Still, I could never bend my legs that much.
“His son, Jonathan, died. That’s what happened.” She shook her head, trying to clear the memories.
“Let me guess. Car accident. Killed by a drunk driver. Right?”
“No,” she looked up again. “Well, you’re half right. It was a car accident, though I’m afraid he was the drunk driver. I don’t know, I don’t know for sure. Families keep that sort of thing secret you know. Still, it is a small town….” She took a deep breath and continued. “They had just won the region championship - I believe that’s what it was. Anyway, apparently the team had a little celebration. Jonathan was on his way home from the North Carolina border—it’s only about twenty miles north you know. He rounded a curve too fast.” She snapped her fingers, signifying the quickness of his death. “Just like that.”
“God I hate to hear stuff like that.” I offered sincerely.
“Boy, don’t we all,” she agreed. “You know, death is a tough thing no matter where you are. But to me, it seems to be intensified in a small town. I don’t know, everybody knows so much about each other—everybody IS a part of each other. Somebody young like that goes, the whole town’s in shock. For months, years even.”
I paused, uncrossed my legs. “So the old man never recovered.”
“You could say that,” she nodded, looking at her desk for comfort. “He still goes out there every spring and summer. Still cheers the team on. Same names, same team, same tournament coming up. He never let it go.”
“Poor guy.”
“Yes, people tried to help him at first. But he was a stubborn old guy before the accident. Now…he’s ten times worse. Still, he doesn’t bother a soul, and he’s got more passion than most sane people I know. You gotta hand him that.”
I left without further interrupted her day. She assured me she wasn’t busy. Since I wasn’t either, I looked for her daughter on the way out. She was going through files while talking on the phone.
Jesus wept.

(4)
I found the tools in the shed of my cabin, though I didn’t need many. In fact, a lawn mower, some clippers and a bunch of trash bags would do just fine. I had come out to the garage right after awakening, almost on autopilot. I had spotted the mower across the spider webs and dust balls. Straddling boxes, discarded furniture and more webs, I spotted a gas can right next to it. With enough gas luckily in it, I filled the tank and started the mower. Oddly enough, it perked to life on the third try, though the original sound told me it wasn’t too happy about it.
Loading the truck, I made the half-mile drive to the ball field. Pulling into the graveled “parking lot” this marked the first time of my stay when I was glad the old man wasn’t there. Guess it would be hard to mow grass in the middle of the third inning. I laughed to myself picturing it. Exactly how mad would the guy get? Even pictured him and his bird legs chasing me through the outfield, around the bases, up through the bleachers and out into the parking lot, hitting me with his game program, or Pepsi cups, or whatever he could find for ammo.
But no, today was another off day for the team. Perhaps they had a road game, I wasn’t really sure.
The sun announced its presence with authority, but I barely noticed. Instead, it was Wendy’s sacks, discarded beer bottles, plastic sacks, brown bags, bottle caps, and good Lord the rocks! A ball hit on this infield would carom away as if on a bumper pool table.
Still, I used an abandoned cardboard box that had just enough weight on it to use to drag the infield with. It was archaic, but it got the baby rocks off and pulled some more to the surface. From there, it was me testing out my own rusty arm, firing rocks into the woods, aiming for trees, laughing at myself and my body for being so out of shape. It was work, but it was fun. After all, when's the last time a working man when out in his backyard to fire rocks at trees?
So the next day I came back and I worked some more. The following day, ditto. It was the next day when my "work" was interrupted.
Apparently, there was a game going on. The old man was there but I still figured I could run out and drag the infield between innings. Right? Perhaps not.
“Get your #@$% off the field sonny! We’re trying to play a game here!” The old man’s voice was a direct opposite of his appearance. I would’ve sworn there was no way a bellow of that pitch could have come from a skinny old man with chicken legs and a jacket pulled up around his throat.
But it did. Boy did it ever.
I wasn't going to leave, though, so I waited. I waited in the “dugout,” not really sure how to proceed. Cleaning up while waiting, it was the old man who gave me my cue. “Now you can drag the &%$# infield. The inning’s over. Hurry up, would you?”
I laughed at the thought of it. An old man sitting, screaming at an abandon field. A younger man running out across it all with a cardboard box. What’s going on here anyway?
Yes, I guess you could say that it was official: an insane man had become my insanity - he and his field and his passions. I laughed constantly in the days that followed, not at myself, but from reactions I got from the locals. Heads shook, windows rolled down, laughter traveled across my infield and reached my ears. “Must be a relative,” I heard one of them say.
Still, to their credit, they never once got out of their car and offered to kick my ass. I have to give them credit for that. Growing up in a small town, I found it quite unusual not to be goaded, or to have my manhood questioned, or my sanity.
They just rolled their windows back up and kept moving. Hell, they should thank me. I gave them something to talk about while I was there.
Through it all, I worked. The grass was now mowed, though I’m sure the motor is now shot due to shooting out all the rocks. My cardboard box was replaced and reinforced by three more I had purchased at the local hardware store. No, I won’t even go into the looks the man gave me when he sold them to me. For a second, I didn’t even think he was going to accept my cash. He did, though, but not before rolling his eyes and giving me this look; this look that told me who I should realize how stupid I am.
Whatever. Silly humans.
It was about a week later when it happened. I myself had declared this a day off, the old man and the doubleheader be damned. With blisters on my hands, a sore arm from all the rock throwing, and needing a general break from my four-to-eight hour days on the field, my schedule for today was a jog and a lot of sleep - nothing more.
I rounded the corner, the same corner I had first noticed the old man a couple weeks earlier. This time it wasn’t the man or his voice that captured my attention. It was the flashing lights of the ambulance. It was the sound of the gurney clanging out of the back of the truck. It was the urgent voices of the medics. It was the old man being placed on the gurney, being loaded carefully. He looked… horrible, even thinner if possible. His face was bone thin, his hair was matted and everywhere, his eyes were closed. But I think it was his mouth that got me - that closed mouth with no sound coming out. It was so depressingly silent, so scary, so threatening.
They loaded him on the back and they carted him off, leaving me standing, gaping, at an empty baseball field with no spectators.
(5)
The old man was terminally ill. Cancer. Spreading. Too far gone. It had started in the colon, but it had quickly attached itself to the rest of the body. In fact, the liver was the next victim and after that…
I guess you could say my first visit to see the old guy wasn't exactly met with open arms. No, instead he turned and spit in a cup and actually turned up the television. Still, I could be stubborn too, so I didn't leave. There he sat in pajamas, his pillow filled with his flying hair, his mouth open, ready to accept the next syllable from the newsman before he'd go into a tirade.
I stood in running shorts; eventually I sat, invitations be damned.
Finally, he glanced at me again and, having no choice, he accepted my presence. "Why are you here?"
Staring at my running shoes as if for answers, I started to speak, then stopped. After all, why was I here? "Don't you have anything better to do than pity some dying old fart? You trying to clear your conscience about something? Is that what it is? What the hell do you want? Don't you have anything better to do with yourself than hang around me and drag the infields at baseball games for Christ sakes?"
I looked him dead in the eye; he expected me to turn away, but I didn't. "You know, sir, I've been doing something very important this past week or so."
"You haven't done #$@. That's just what's wrong with kids these days, they think they're so #@# important. What the hell have you done?"
"I've been giving your son a better place to play, that's what I've done."
The man turned and his mouth opened—but nothing came out. Opened again, nothing. He dropped his gaze, turned back to the field, lowered his head. Then the old man did something so unexpected my mouth dropped open as well. He began to cry. Loud. Unashamedly.
I started to close the distance, then thought better of it. Instead I sat, then gazed back out at the field, trying to imagine those days when his son, Jonathan was king and papa was the most proud.
He lifted his head minutes later, recovering as quickly as his pride would let him. Slowly, he lifted his head and peered out, collecting his thoughts, sorting his memories. He never looked over at me, but when he began talking, I had to move closer just to hear him. His voice was … different somehow… without the edge of tough years, without the tone of power, without much of anything but—I guess peace would be the word, something I hadn’t come to expect from the guy.
“God, he had an arm,” he said. “Run, catch, throw, hit, you name it. Speed, jeez he could get down that line. A sacrifice bunt was a double he was so damn fast. Saw him strike out 16 in a seven inning game. Two homers off of Santos over in Rabun, a no-hitter in the region finals one year. Grades? Hell he made A’s, maybe a couple of B’s. Had friends coming and going always. Not just because of his talents. Hell, he was a nice kid.” It almost sounded as if he was pleading for someone to believe him, to bring him back. “Never bothered a soul. Never bragged. Just loved to run and jump and play. Would somebody please tell me what’s wrong with that? Wh…” He couldn’t finish.
At first, I didn’t even consider saying anything. The man needed his words, needed this time. But when he dropped his head again and tears flowed out, my body moved over there before my mind could stop me. I stood, uncomfortably at first, behind him and his chair. And I did the only thing that a person can do in a situation like this. My left hand reached out and touched the man on the shoulder, a reassuring gesture. Not a hard grip, but firm enough to let him know that he was being held, that some people really did understand, some people really could feel some of his pain, though perhaps not take it all away.
He felt it… he really did. I saw the goose bumps run up and down his arms, could literally feel his hair prick up somewhat. He stiffened at my touch, slowly brought his head up—didn’t say a word.
“Bless you George,” I said. “Bless you.” I put my other hand on his other shoulder, gave him a firm squeeze, then walked out the door.

(6)
That was our last conversation, though I did see him one last time before he moved off to watch his son play on greener fields, bigger stadiums, and in front of more fans. He wasn’t well and he was in great pain, but he was still happy.
“The bases are loaded for Christ sakes! Don’t %$^ bother me now. Jonathan’s up. Aren’t you people watching?”
His eyes were closed, his jaws were clenching in pain, his hands were on his stomach, but he was announcing that game as if by doing so, his voice or what he was seeing could somehow make it all go away.
I had walked in – the nurses at the desk just nodded me through. What did they care if I wanted to see some crazy old man? Nobody else had bothered to give him a visit, let the man have a visitor.
“Look for the CURVE BALL, Jonathan, the CURVE BALL. He’d be an idiot to throw you a fast one. Come on, use your head sonny. Use your noggin’.”
Me and my McDonalds sack plopped down in the chair, watched the old man, listened to the game. The way he was calling it, and grimacing, and calling it some more, heck I was interested in how it would come out.
“MAN it doesn’t get any better than this. Bases juiced, two outs, down by a run, bottom of the last inning. It’s enough to make an old man older, I tell ya’. OLDER!”
He grabbed his gut again after yelling older, pressed his bony hands almost into his innards.
I was on the edge of my seat, just waiting for his call. Surely Jonathan would come through for the old man, right? Surely there was a God.
“What’s the count?” I asked.
“QUIET! It’s 2-1, keep up. Watch the game!”
He snapped at me so quickly I wanted to watch it; really I did.
A nurse peered in, wondering if the old man had lost it again or, maybe just maybe, she wanted to know what the score was, too. I put my fingers to my lips, perhaps overstepping my bounds in telling her to keep quiet in her own habitat. So what? You heard the man. The bases were juiced. Two-one count, bottom of the last inning. And Jonathan was up for Christ sakes!
She winked at me, then looked at George sadly. I found myself closing my eyes, not wishing to feel his pain, but wanting, oh so wanting Jonathan to deliver. I, too, was picturing him out on that field, that clean field minus all the debris – minus all those beer cans, minus all those Wendy’s sacks and bottle caps, and 8 X 11 school papers and faded, torn crap that I didn’t even know what it was. On that field with the base paths wiped down, the grass trimmed just so in the infield, a little looser in the outfield, the batter’s box smoothed out just so.
There he was. Jonathan up. A beautiful spring day. The locals not giving a good damn about anything. Nothing, that is, except Jonathan delivering, somehow taking this pitch down the pipe and tattooing it over the wall. A mob at home plate. The “crowd” on its feet. The whole world right, at least for a day.
“HEEEEEY!” My eyes opened as George bounced up, practically bouncing to his feet in reaction.
“Go ball! GO BALL! GO! GO!”
“Home run?” I asked.
“HELL no, it’s off the wall.” George didn’t even look at me. Tears were running down his face. He lay back down in pain but his eyes were still open, his little fists pumping in the air. One run, come on, hurry, two runs! Hurry damn it. Beat the throw, beat the throw!”
I closed my eyes to see the throw. Saw the leftfielder play the carom perfectly off the wall, turn with his hat flying off and throwing it for all he was worth to the cut off man. The shortstop, the stated cut off man, taking the throw and humming that pill through the Georgia sky, the runner hauling his butt as if a propeller was inside it. Running, running, the ball carrying, the catching waiting, waiting, the umpire with his mask off. WAITING.
“He’s SAFE!” I almost swore I saw it exactly as George called it. The runner sliding in, Jonathan just standing on second watching the whole thing, the ump leaning forward, the dust flying up, the crowd leaning in, most lining the fences.
“He’s safe! He’s safe! He’s safe!”
George’s pain got the best of him here. He curled up in the fetal position, tears rolled down his face, he let out a scream. It was half happiness, half pain. Unfortunately, it sounded mostly like pain.
Still, I noticed a smile on that face underneath the tears. An almost peaceful look behind the expression; a man who could die while he was still on top of the world, A man who just watched his boy double in three to win the game in the county championship; a man who could swear that everything would work on just fine as long as you did the right thing, paid your taxes, made good decisions and kept your nose clean.
Yes, George Leonard was a man who could die in peace, pain be damned.
And that’s exactly what he did.
The nurse and I were both silent. We were both riled up from the game; both so happy for Jonathan, and George and all the happiness in town that day. To see him do that and then just… die. Well, it was … almost paradoxical to see such happiness and glee and then…death.
She walked over, slowly, lifted the sheet above his eyes. She looked at me. Walked over. Patted me on the arm.
“Bless you, too, sonny.”
Then she walked out.

(7)
It was September the 15th the day he died, for those of you scoring at home. At 2:15 in the afternoon, right there in front of me, me with my unopened Big Mac and my soft drink. Right in front of the nurse and her cute little hat. The local paper ran the smallest of blurbs, only a paragraph. Newspapers often can fuel my anger, and when I saw that man’s life reduced to a paragraph well hidden on page 15D of a small paper, I couldn’t help but get a little hot. What the hell was on the first three sections, and the first 14 sections of D? Page 15D. One paragraph.
But still I smiled. Because the best news rarely does get in newspapers, nor do the best people. He didn’t want news or deadlines, the results of meetings somewhere in rooms with round tables and coffee served and minutes kept. He didn’t want his picture, didn’t want conversation.
He loved the game. He enjoyed the smell of the grass. The crack of the bat. The sound of the ball hitting leather, the whip throw to second, the pivot and the snap throw to first, the look back at the ump. He enjoyed grabbing his kid by the hat and giving him a quick pat on the back. Just a whack on the back. A day at the ball field. One more bag of popcorn. Come on, just one more inning. What’s wrong with that? Could anyone tell me?
I threw the paper aside. Thoughts fought for priority in my head. None of them won out. Confused, I sat back down, then got up again. Had no idea what I was going to do, no idea how to pay tribute.
In the end, I drove north. It even reminded me of that first day jogging, the first day I saw the man. I parked my car on Route 176, right there by this old run, down, dilapidated ball field. The grass had popped back up and with a passion. Tree limbs were again over the outfield fences. Candy wrappers, beer cans and assorted results of nights out were gathered everywhere.
I didn’t walk out on the field as I had intended. Instead, I sat in the bleachers, right in the middle. Who knows, I may have seen some kind of game myself, probably spoke out loud, probably had people wondering about me as they drove past. But this I remember, and if you choose not to believe me, most would tell you that’s probably a good thing. In fact, pat yourself on the back if you don’t. After all, it means you’re sane.
Me, I looked up, and dang if the sun didn’t peek its way between two clouds, not a full shot, but a cameo, a teaser shot if you will. No, I don’t consider myself vain, but somehow I knew that peak was mine, those rays and the gentle wind that blew through my hair was for me and for me only.
The wind and sun brought out the goose bumps, and it was while peering back out at the field when I heard it. Whether it came from inside of me, from the sun or wind, or if from my imagination, I don’t know. I don’t care. I only know and heard this:
“Son, if you’re feeling sad right now, then you’re missing the whole point.” That was the voice, that was what I heard and that was what I chose to act on. It sounded sort of like the old guy, though in a more muffled, far away voice. My hair stood up, a car passing by would have laughed at the young guy sitting fully erect on a field in the middle of nowhere.
I laughed. So hard I cried. And I sat staring out at that field. How long? Not a clue. But eventually I got up, and instead of walking out to keep the field in good shape, I started slowly back to my car. The field had its day and they were good ones. Change happens. New fields are being built somewhere. Future stars are off somewhere learning the fundamentals.
I stopped at the car and looked out again. Gazed back at the sun. The old man and Jonathan would be just fine. They always would be. The field in front of me needed no more attention.
After all, my two friends had found a better place to play.

Neugie's Notes

Thursday, July 31, 2008

Acers upset #1 team!

Friday, July 4, 2008

Meditations from the Peachtree Road Race

Thursday, July 3, 2008

A Better Place to Play

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