Away Games

                                       Prologue


         “Sometimes, life throws you a curve.” That, as with so many other tired

clichés, gets tossed around so much that, as a stone in a rushing stream

eventually loses all its rough edges and becomes round and smooth, the phrase is

gradually worn down and polished of any meaning it may have once had. I have

heard that phrased from time to time, but instead of faded, lifeless words, I have

now found deep meaning. True, my interpretation of the meaning has changed over

the years, but there is always a mysterious message in the words that touches

something equally mysterious deep inside me, bringing back floods of memories,

emotions, feelings. At first the phrase ripped like a jagged piece of volcanic rock,

opening bloody torrents of painful memories and anger. But time, like the stream,

has gradually taken off the harsh edges and softened the anger andpain. Now the

hurt is replaced with a vague dull ache that is always there, just beneath the

conscious mind; never overwhelming, unless released from its chains by some

powerful memory and allowed to run rampant through the soul, but always

there, making its presence known. The ache has been there so long now, that it

almost seems like an old friend. I might not know what to do without its constant

gentle reminder. Along with the ache are the memories. Some happy, some not

so happy. But also there, nonetheless. The memories too are locked away in

some basement closet of the mind, but they have more liberty than the pain. The

memories seem able to escape their bondage in a moment, and flood the mind with

emotion. As I contemplate these things, another tired cliché pops up from another

neglected cupboard in my memory: “Time heals all wounds.” It’s odd that some of

these prosaisms are so true, but some seem to be only wishful thinking. I have no

misconceptions that time heals all wounds. No, some wounds are too deep.

Some wounds are so damaging that they lead to a gangrene of the spirit. These

wounds will never completely heal. Oh, the hurt will become less severe over time,

and maybe you can hide the scar most of the time, but there will always be a pain

there to remind you of whatever part of yourself you have lost. Much like an

amputee, who has lost a limb many years before, occasionally wakes up to rub the

cramping arm or to scratch the itching foot, the man who suffers from phantom pain

of the soul can never completely find relief from the twinges. Yes, there will always

be a pain. Only after death, will one be free from the torment and find total healing.

         “What’s wrong grampa?” My six year old grandson had crawled up

beside me on the green plastic seats.

         “Huh?”

         “How come you’re not watching the game?”

         I blinked in the bright sunlight and tried to gather my bearings. Quickly,

my senses were flooded with noise, light, and smells. Popcorn, leather, cheesy

organ music, shouting, a beautifully manicured green expanse. That’s right, we

were at a minor league baseball game. Baseball games, whether live or on

television, have always brought back so many memories. Even just driving by a

stadium or playing catch in the yard brings back memories. It seems like the older

I get, anything can bring back memories. But baseball will always be something

special. Baseball has always been one of the few things that can truly form a bond

between men, be they friends, teammates, brothers, fathers and sons, or

grandfathers and grandsons. Baseball will always be linked in my mind to my

grandfather, and specifically to that wonderful summer so many long years ago…

         “Grampa, didn’t you hear me?” I turned toward the little hand tugging at

my belt and strained to hear the words over the increasing buzz of the crowd. A

glance at the field provided an explanation; our team’s leading hitter was at the

plate with the bases loaded.

         “I’m sorry. Guess I was just concentrating.” I smiled as I looked down

at the small almost-carbon-copy-of-myself-at-that-age sitting beside me with his red

cap and congealed yellow-orange nacho cheese at the corners of his mouth.

Interesting how time changes some things so completely, but leaves others alone,

almost like they are caught in some kind of never-changing eddy in time’s torrential

river. I thought of uncountable past games where the roles were reversed and it was

me with the cheese at the corners of my mouth looking up at one of the greatest

men I had ever known: my grandfather. I remembered him as almost god-like at

that point of my life. He knew everything there was to know. He seemed so much

wiser than my father. I remembered an almost desperate hope that I would be like

him some day. Then came the teenage years, and I lost respect for anyone older

than myself. We had drifted apart, my grandfather and I, much as I had drifted

apart from everyone in my life during that period. Now, seemingly centuries later,

here I was on the other side. Where had the time gone? Had I turned out like my

grandfather? I hoped so as I reached over, grabbed the red cap off the boy’s head

and tossled his dark blonde hair.

         “Watch this,” I whispered, as though I was divulging an ancient secret of

the universe. I pointed towards the pitcher’s mound as I continued. “The count’s 3-

2 and the bases are loaded. Carter’s got to throw his fastball here. You can bet

Wilson’ll be looking for it and then, good-bye!”

         My grandson’s eyes lit up with awe a few seconds later as the pitcher

broke towards the plate with a blazing fastball. We could almost see the huge

smile on the batter’s face as he unleashed his tightly coiled body and his bat met

the small white ball with the force of a bullet-train collision. The ballpark exploded

in a huge guttural roar as the ball arced into the ice-blue sky and left the green

confines of the stadium, clearing the outfield wall by a good 30 feet. I glanced down

at my grandson again and couldn’t stifle a laugh as he jumped up and down with his

eyes wide and a huge grin.

         “How’d you know that, grandpa?” he asked excitedly. “You know

everything about baseball!” The red cap was askew on his head.

         I smiled, but simultaneously had to choke back tears as I thought of

another red cap from so long ago, now perched on a bookshelf in my study. “You

just know these things when you’re a grandpa.”

         I grabbed his hand and we began the long walk back toward the parking

lot, flowing with the crowd like two small pieces of driftwood on a swollen creek. It

was hard to think or talk due to the noise from the pumped-up crowd which was still

celebrating the walk-off grand slam which had won the game for their team.

          “Someday, you’ll know all these things and you can share them with your

grandson.”

         “I hope so”, he replied, beaming up at me. I recognized that adoring,

almost worshipful look on his face and knew that I had achieved exalted status in

his view. Probably even greater than Batman. I felt the familiar sting of tears at the

corners of my eyes as he skipped on ahead and called back toward me, “And I

hope I turn out to be a grampa just like you.”



                                       Chapter 1

         My hometown is a “small-to-medium size” town in the Midwest. At least,

that’s how the map-makers have always classified it. Life was pretty normal, in that

small-to-medium-size-Midwestern-town sort of way. The town had a population of

about 40,000. It was small enough that kids could still wander most of the streets

in the evenings without fear of much more than Billy Pinkerton’s mom catching you

sneaking through her flowerbeds. But, it was big enough that the whole town didn’t

know that Jeff Reynolds’ younger sister beat you up for laughing at her minutes

after it happened. Everyone was pretty friendly. Sure, you had the occasional

grumpy old man who would come out of his house and yell at you for driving by too

fast, but I don’t think remember anyone that was really evil or scary like some

people seem nowadays. Maybe it was just childhood naivety. The kids were all

pretty normal, too. Well, as normal as kids can be, I guess. Our worst prank was

to go egg someone’s car or toilet paper their house. Most of the time, we were just

typical kids. Many of the boys were in Cub Scouts and, later, Boy Scouts. Most

of my friends played Little League baseball.

         Baseball has always been one of my passions. I’ve always liked football

and hockey too, but when you’re 5’7” and 130 pounds during high school, you don’t

get much of a chance to play those kinds of games. Plus, glasses look funny

behind the facemask of a football helmet. Baseball was always more of my type

of game. Not as much running as in football, basketball, or soccer. You also have

to think a lot; analyze different situations, things like that. I played baseball the

entire time I was growing up: Little League, Babe Ruth, Senior League, and

American Legion. I also played on the varsity team my four years in high school. I

didn’t play college ball, since I wanted to concentrate on academics so that I could

go on to medical school (I had this crazy idea that a person could make more

money in medicine). But even though I didn’t play, I lived for baseball. I watched

any game I could on TV. I was lucky to go to college in a city that had a Triple A

minor league team, so I was able to go to many of their games. My love for

baseball was so infectious, that I’ve even made a baseball fanatic out of my wife

(although I must admit, it wasn’t that hard of a task…she’s always been a little fond

of the sport). I guess what I’m trying to say is that baseball has always been a part

of my life. It was a constant in my formative years, and in a way, I think it has had

a hand in making me the person I am today.

         Our family was fairly well-off. We weren’t rich, but we had everything we

needed and my younger sister and I also got many of the things we wanted. My

dad worked hard and sometimes wasn’t able to attend school plays, football

games, and other things. I guess he just wanted us to have everything we wanted,

but it was pretty frustrating. It would come to cause quite a few conflicts later on in

my life. Luckily, my grandpa was there to step in many times, and take me to

band concerts or baseball practice. We were blessed by my grandfather and

grandmother living right next door while I was growing up. They did move about 200

miles away when I was in high-school, but that comes later in the story. My

grandparents were typical of most grandparents, I think. They both grew up during

the Depression and my grandpa served in the Navy during World War II. My

grandma loved to cook and could make the best coconut cream pie you’ve ever

tasted. I don’t remember that my grandpa talked much, but when he did, everyone

listened. I guess I inherited that from him....that and his love of baseball. My

grandpa was one of those guys who would watch a baseball game on TV, but turn

the sound off so he could listen to the game on the radio at the same time. “The

radio announcers are better, because they have to make you see the game” was

his explanation. I have some unforgettable memories of him during long summer

evenings, sitting in his parked car under a tree outside the house, listening to a ball

game. He loved the St. Louis Cardinals. I never did ask why, but I also made the

Cardinals my team, and they have remained my team to this day. During my

elementary and junior high years, my grandpa and I could often be found listening to

a Cardinal game together or going fishing during the summers. My sister and I

spent many hours at our grandparents’ home; some fun, some not-so-fun, but all

memorable.

         As I grew up, I went through the typical phases of an adolescent boy.

During high school, I entered my rebellious stage. I wore the black leather jacket,

listened to hard rock music, and yes, I had the “mullet” haircut – spiked in front,

past my shoulders in back. Looking back now, I don’t know how my parents didn’t

ship me off to Siberia, but I’m thankful they stuck with me. I had grown close to my

grandpa during my early years, but I guess like many other American males, I

drifted away during high school. It wasn’t “cool” to spend time with your grandpa

when you could be spending time trying to sneak beer or get the head cheerleader

to notice you.

         My senior year in high school was a tough time for me. The

rebelliousness went far beyond just wearing a leather jacket and smoking a couple

of cigarettes. I began to lose interest in school and extracurricular activities. I

actually quit the baseball team that year. My grades suffered. My home life

suffered. I started to get more argumentative with my parents. I broke curfews and

other house rules. I decided that maybe I didn’t want to go to college after all. I

figured I’d just hang around the house for a few years and decide what I wanted to

do. Then life decided to get my attention. My grandpa was diagnosed with end-

stage emphysema, which meant that, in essence, he would slowly smother to

death. Suddenly my world imploded. My grandpa, dying? Granted, he had

smoked for about 50 years, but how could my grandpa be dying? I went through all

the typical stages of grief (although I didn’t know the names of all of the stages at

the time). I denied, I raged, I bargained. I didn’t get to the acceptance stage until

much later. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever reached that stage yet. I believe I’m in

the ‘ignore it and try not to think about it too often’ stage (I’ve never actually been

able to find that stage in any psychology textbook). My anger and rebelliousness

grew. I lashed out at everyone. I broke up with my girlfriend and began to sneak

more beer. I decided firmly that I wasn’t going to go to college and get some lame

job for the rest of my life. My parents tried to encourage me and were actually very

supportive (although I wouldn’t admit it at the time), but they bore the brunt of my

fury.

         My grandparents had, by that time, moved to a larger city about 3 hours

from where we lived. I’m still not sure why they moved, but I guess it was to be

closer to their other children and possibly to avoid being such a “strain” on my dad

and our family.

         My dad was the one who came up with the idea. “Why don’t you go to

the city and spend some time with your granddad?”

         “No thanks. I’m pretty busy.”

         “With what? You don’t do homework anymore. You quit all your extra-

curricular activities. Your mom and I are worried. You used to have such high

goals and big dreams. Remember when all you wanted to be was an aerospace

engineer? Or an astrophysicist? How about all those times you and Scott Murray

used to try and figure out the gravitational force that would develop if your heads

became black holes?”

         “Shut up and just leave me alone.”

         “I’m just trying to help, son. I don’t want you to get stuck in some dead

end minimum wage job like a lot of your friends are headed for.”

         “Oh, now you want to help. You’ve always been too busy working

before, but suddenly you want to butt into my life? Thanks, but no thanks.”

         “Now come on…”

         “No, you come on. I’m tired of all this. I’m tired of hearing about how I’m

just grieving and all that crap.” Just leave me alone.”

         “I just think it would be a good idea for you and your grandpa to spend

some time together before he passes. You haven’t even seen him in a couple of

years. I remember you used to be inseparable during baseball season. Hey, that

gives me a better idea. Why don’t you two go on a baseball road trip? You could

spend a couple of weeks together and go to a bunch of different major league

games. How does that sound?”

         “Stupid.”

         “Son…”

         “I don’t want to go, okay. Just let me deal with this my own way.”

         “I think this would be good for you. I’ll even pay for it.”

         “Dad, I said NO! I’m not interested. Please get off my back!”

         “Your mom and I are really worried about you. We just want you to be

okay and help out however we can.”

         I realized that I could not stay in that house any longer or I would go

insane. I decided to run away. Then it hit me…if I went on the trip, it

would get me out of the house, for a few weeks at least.

         “Okay, I’ll go. There. Are you happy? Is that what you wanted? Now

will you just get out and leave me alone?”

         My dad just lowered his head and slowly turned and walked out of my

room. I guess it was at that point that, somewhere deep in my confused

adolescent brain, I began to realize how messed up I was; how much I had been

hurting people. I had never seen that look on my dads face before, that look of utter

dejection. I think that subconsciously I noted a spark of love, of caring. Although I

didn’t yet admit to myself, and wouldn’t for several years yet, a part of me realized

that my dad did care. Looking back from several years distance always gives one

such clearer vision. I guess that’s why yet another old “wise saying” gets batted

around: “Hindsight is always 20-20.” In this case, as in most others, that is true. I

can see now that at the moment my dad turned and walked out of my room, I

realized he loved me. He had been trying, in his own way, to show me. I know now

that he worked so long and so hard all those years in order to give my sister and I a

great life, and chances that he never had. But at the time, I was filled with that

typical teenage anger at everything. It wasn’t because I knew that my dad loved

me, or even because I loved my grandpa, that I agreed to go on the trip. It just

seemed at the time to be the easiest way to get my parents to leave me alone.