The dreadful nature of the past evenings emergencies required that I attend a mandatory meeting regarding them. With that unchangeable obligation, I arranged for John to shuttle tanner to the ball field.
Completing my critical stress debriefing around 7:45 pm, I frantically raced to park. I pulled into the parking lot around dusk, the time of day when darkness and light battle for supremacy. For now, the stubborn light refused to yield but long shadows foretold its rule was short lived. The tires squealed as I found a spot and braking brought the car to a rest. Lurching forward to peer over the dash, the sights, sounds and smell of baseball invited a relaxing smile which at this point seemed heaven sent.
Chuckling to myself, I quickly threaded through the bustling complex. Proud parents intently peered into the rusty chain link fence’s that enclosed each diamond. Their boys adorned in seasoned, soiled and warn hats and ill fitting tee shirts the league had procured excitedly peppered the 3 fields. This would be the last games for most of the lot, excepting the few who had already been ordained to the all-star team.
It was a marvelous time, summer was threatening, school had already became a forgotten memory having closed the doors for the season and now immersed in the bosom of Americana I could have swore I found Mayberry.
Approaching the dug out which resembled a glorified chicken coop I spotted John perched in his normal spot just inside the rustic fence. Slightly Squatting about fifteen feet from home plate his tanned arms tightly folded across his chest. Cocking his head slightly in my direction and nodding he acknowledging my presence, But the intense expression locked on his face never changed. Eagerly he watched as the developing game unfolded. I could almost feel His mind frantically racing trying to out wit or at least out-think his opponent. It was as if he were a gifted surgeon, this ragged field his patient and the boys his scalpel. Meticulously practicing his craft he occasionally roared out orders moving the boys this way or that or offering boosting encouragement designed to keep his fleshy surgical instrument sharp.
Though Belated I am delighted to discover I have only missed the first three batters. Out lot is visiting team this night and we are in the top of the first inning. With men on second and third bases, we have accrued one out and one run. Raising my fingers high above my head they became enmeshed with the dug out fence. Unnoticed for now, affectionately I studied my rising son. His shadow seemed to cast in every direction as the huge stadium lights began to chase away all hinds of daytime.
Tanner must have felt my presence; the emerging radiance on his youthful face told me I had been spotted. Suddenly he began to swagger in the on-deck circle which John had lightly scratched in the red sand just outside the dugout. His previous laid-back warm up swings now became thundering babe Ruth swats. I had seen the forgotten and faraway look in the continence of a few of Tanners teammates. Those who were dropped off and picked up at the park yet were alone in-between these two events. I knew how very much it meant to Tanner that I was there with him. And I felt it a solemn obligation as a father as well an opportunity to deflect the piercing arrows of criticism that the beast may garner.
Beyond Tanner and the on-deck circle standing tall at the plate was Alex Peddis. For a moment I admiringly watched as this tall slender boy leaned heavily on his outstretched bat waiting for umpire to brush a few specks of dust from home plate. He had truly proven the old saying,” the apple truly never falls far from the tree” undeniably true. A.J. Like his father had overlooked many of Tanners glaring complexities. He generally ignored the occasional outburst and at times seemed very generous with his friendship.
Repeatedly swinging the long aluminum bat he eyed John who was now standing near first base along the right field line. John jokingly spared with his young son as the boy cockily strutted to home plate and settled into the batters box. Gleefully he teased him regarding his propensity to over swing, unleashing a clumsy “aim for the fence“, home run swat which normally ended with the umpire proclaiming strike three.
Possibly purposely agitating his ribbing father over the laser guided chidings Alex watched two called strikes splatter into the opposing catcher’s mitt before slicing a fiery single into left field. Thundering down the base path, he reached first base rounded the corner and teasingly leaning toward second. Fervently thrusting his fist as he retreated to the bag then vigorously challenged Tanner to hit him home.
Tepidly rounding home plate my young lefty kicked up a bellowing cloud of dust and dug in. casting a nervous eye at me then the waiting pitcher he raised the bat and cocked his swing. With a violent swoosh he swatted at the pitchers first offering , wham the ball exploded into the catchers glove, “strike one”, called the umpire. The lonely echo of my hands spanking together drifted across the field meeting the thud of another fastball slapping leather. “Strike two”, the ump screeched causing Tanner to abruptly bristle. While the words of a silent prayer hung on my lips, the pitcher slung a rocket toward home plate. With a thundering grunt, Tanner unleashed a home run blow that would have made A.J proud. Swish the Air divided whistled around and then reconnected behind the slicing bat. In the midst of A.J., groans, John’s never ending verbal hype and the umpires most feared words, Tanner struck out. If it were possible for a tittering sprit to be further Humbled I saw it now as tanner head hung timidly drug himself and the bat to the dugout.
For a moment I only watched, empathetically observing tanners washed out expression. He had greatly struggled throughout the year with life, school and now baseball. Untangling my fingers from the meshed wire I gaited into the dugout and gingerly seated myself next to him. I became oblivious to all the commotion surrounding us, in my mind it was only me and my wounded son. Searching franticly, I looted my aging memory banks for an old forgotten recollection or some priceless treasure of understanding I could elegantly import righting tanners sinking ship. After rummaging for what seemed like an eternity amid countess warn out memories and well practiced metaphors I found in the cluttered blackness an abandoned pearl. Brushing my hand threw Tanner’s thick brown hair; I allowed its memory to encompass me.
As the surging recollection evolved it illuminated my thoughts with uncanny brightness. It was as if yesterday were 1979, still laying on the rubberized mat the rank smell of dried sweat and worse mixed with the scent of my own vomit.
It was the long awaited district three high school wrestling tournament. Through numberless grueling workouts and months of victorious Friday night battles, my twin brother DeRay and I had qualified as the number one seeds in our respective weight classifications. It was our senior season at the small rural high school which boosted mostly poor rough stock farm boys bussed in from the surrounding agricultural communities. This year the season ending tournament was hosted by our school and athletes and parents invaded the tiny farm town having traversed from most all parts of southern Idaho.
We were identical twins and often confounded our teachers and friends with our strikingly similar appearance. At one point to the absolute dismay of my exasperating mother the school photographer returned only one set of school portraits, convinced I am sure that he had mistakenly photographed the same student twice. But like many identical twins I suppose, in a struggle for dependence from an eerie body double our analogous ways did not extend into every aspect of life. This was especially true when it came to wrestling. Although we were unanimously voted co-captains of the grappling squad we approached success on the mat in much different ways. DeRay my senior by a mere seven minutes employed those additional four hundred twenty seconds to gain a decisive advantage. Methodical he developed a very mature and well thought-out even cerebral approach to wrestling. Unfortunately the echo of this calculated thinking process never reverberated with me. Instead of out-witting my grappling pray I stubbornly stuck with the brute method. This brainless tactic relied solely on base instinct and sheer muscle. Through out the eight years we wrestled competitively the inevitable truth was firmly established. DeRay’s thinking tactics excelled well beyond my own, yet because it differentiated us I stubbornly clung to my archaic visceral approach.
With the tournament nearing and the season behind, any lingering doubt regarding this matter again quickly dissipated. Peering at the win-loss records inked in the wrinkled tournament program DeRay’s record bordered on absurdity. Having accumulating 24 wins against one solitary loss he was certainly considered one of the states best. As for me, some would certainly consider 17 wins and 9 loss’s respectable. However I felt at times to be reaping the sour fruit of my boorish physical technique. Nevertheless, regardless of this slightly backward style I considered myself competitive and remained confident that I would advance to the upcoming state tournament.
Silently, I lounged lying comfortably on mats edge waiting for my first match to get underway. Looking up at the welcome banner that limply hung from the gyms naked rafters I poised myself for victory. Even as the team encircled the mat to begin our ceremonial warm-up routine I felt certain of a trouble free conquest over the three opponents I would face. Not only did I believe I could win, I expected it.
My first victim would be a tall lanky boy from a larger upstate high school. Twice we gruelingly sparred during the duel meets of the regular season. He was younger and less experienced and I exploited this amateurish plight bullying my way to win both matches, one by pin the other on points.
Meeting at the large orange emblem at the mats center, we limply Shook hands and offered unconvincing accolades. Retreating to the inner edge of the large circle that marked the boundary of the wrestling surface, I postured preparing for eminent attack. My mind confidently filled with visions of glory, of jubilant teammates showering celebratory congratulations, of a shiny gold medal dangling from a colorful ribbon.
My bodied readied, the whistle shrilled and undaunted I pounced. Blindly aggressive I Slithering beneath my advisories grasps easily capturing an unguarded knee. Swiftly locking ankles I furiously reeled in his thin thrashing body, then Like a rabid beast I Wildly Heaved myself upon my victim. Hopelessly snared and unable to escape, he succumbed crumpling sheepishly to the mat. Keenly aware of my opponent’s deflated optimism I sensed the end and rapidly moved for a killing pin.
Then In one excruciating moment, a moment that has haunted me for twenty-five years, the unexplainable occurred. With my rival wrapped tightly within my arms, with the aroma of victory in the air, my unrelenting stamina unexpectedly evacuated as the air in a tire-shredding blowout. Like a punch-drunk prizefighter struggling to survive the final round I halfhearted fought. My physical capacity collapsed and my insides churned like a boiling caldron. Weakened and lethargic I could not amass the strength to overcome my sudden listlessness. Seized by Unimaginable Frustration an acidic vomit forced its way into my throat and through tightly gritted teeth. In this chaotic condition my dreams were ruptured as the final whistle callously sounded.
Astonished over these agonizing turn of events, I slowly rolled over onto my churning stomach. Unbelievably stunned and confused I buried my puke covered face into the mat. My opponent victoriously celebrated as jubilant coaches and teammates thronged him. I could not comprehend this implausible loss. It all seemed surreal like a pinch proof dream.
Feeling textured reassuring hands stroke my battered shoulder tears welled and I fought back defeated sobs. Turning over again, onto my back I looked into my fathers face. He tried to smile but beyond the opaque grin worried wrinkles furled his forehead.
Then the rough cowboy that was my Dad evaporated and he Delicately Knelt beside me. Carefully bending over my sweat soaked body until our eyes converged; the gruff bellowing voice that I knew became a soothing whisper. Gentle as a mother’s la-la-bye-bye he calmly asks one question. He wanted to know if in this heart wrenching failure I had given all? Had I reached deep inside and extended every ounce of will? Tears again cascaded running along reddened cheeks before streaming into the valleys of my grimacing jaw and finally pooling on the floor.
Staring deeply into piercing blue eyes my lips quivered, the pain and agony of my broken spirit was beyond that which I had the ability to verbalize. Still, through tortured sobs I managed to speak and insipidly told my father I had. Looking away for a brief moment he survived the frantic hustle and bustle surrounding us. Drawing my attention to the carnival like atmosphere he drew near to me again. Curling a large weathered arm around my shoulders he told me it was all window dressings of life. What really mattered he strongly admonished is that I tried my best. That and that alone he continued made me a winner in his eyes.
Two decades later on a cracked and pant starved wooden bench I looked down on the dejected façade that covered Tanners face. His eyes clearly shown his building disappointment and in them I saw a glimpse of my own. Sliding closer I drew him near and slid my arm around him as my father had so many years ago. Wounded and erratically shaking, he looked up at me tears forming in his eyes. Fittingly it was now that my anxious brow furls while I forced a contrived smile.
Tenderly mopping troubled tears from tanners check and almost whispering I ask if in defeat he had given all. Tanner overcome by emotion managed to nod affirmatively. Desperately trying to check my own rising sentiments I warmly repeated my fathers tender words.
Feeling a bit embarrassed by the weepy trickle the fond memories had sprouted and Not wanting to embarrass Tanner with a public fatherly hug I slapped a resounding high five and retreated from the dugout.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Chapter 13
As the surging recollection evolved it illuminated my thoughts with uncanny brightness. It was as if yesterday were 1979, still laying on the rubberized mat the rank smell of dried sweat and worse mixed with the scent of my own vomit.
It was the long awaited district three high school wrestling tournament. Through numberless grueling workouts and months of victorious Friday night battles, my twin brother DeRay and I had qualified as the number one seeds in our respective weight classifications. It was our senior season at the small rural high school which boosted mostly poor rough stock farm boys bussed in from the surrounding agricultural communities. This year the season ending tournament was hosted by our school and athletes and parents invaded the tiny farm town having traversed from most all parts of southern Idaho.
We were identical twins and often confounded our teachers and friends with our strikingly similar appearance. At one point to the absolute dismay of my exasperating mother the school photographer returned only one set of school portraits, convinced I am sure that he had mistakenly photographed the same student twice. But like many identical twins I suppose, in a struggle for dependence from an eerie body double our analogous ways did not extend into every aspect of life. This was especially true when it came to wrestling. Although we were unanimously voted co-captains of the grappling squad we approached success on the mat in much different ways. DeRay my senior by a mere seven minutes employed those additional four hundred twenty seconds to gain a decisive advantage. Methodical he developed a very mature and well thought-out even cerebral approach to wrestling. Unfortunately the echo of this calculated thinking process never reverberated with me. Instead of out-witting my grappling pray I stubbornly stuck with the brute method. This brainless tactic relied solely on base instinct and sheer muscle. Through out the eight years we wrestled competitively the inevitable truth was firmly established. DeRay’s thinking tactics excelled well beyond my own, yet because it differentiated us I stubbornly clung to my archaic visceral approach.
With the tournament nearing and the season behind, any lingering doubt regarding this matter again quickly dissipated. Peering at the win-loss records inked in the wrinkled tournament program DeRay’s record bordered on absurdity. Having accumulating 24 wins against one solitary loss he was certainly considered one of the states best. As for me, some would certainly consider 17 wins and 9 loss’s respectable. However I felt at times to be reaping the sour fruit of my boorish physical technique. Nevertheless, regardless of this slightly backward style I considered myself competitive and remained confident that I would advance to the upcoming state tournament.
Silently, I lounged lying comfortably on mats edge waiting for my first match to get underway. Looking up at the welcome banner that limply hung from the gyms naked rafters I poised myself for victory. Even as the team encircled the mat to begin our ceremonial warm-up routine I felt certain of a trouble free conquest over the three opponents I would face. Not only did I believe I could win, I expected it.
My first victim would be a tall lanky boy from a larger upstate high school. Twice we gruelingly sparred during the duel meets of the regular season. He was younger and less experienced and I exploited this amateurish plight bullying my way to win both matches, one by pin the other on points.
Meeting at the large orange emblem at the mats center, we limply Shook hands and offered unconvincing accolades. Retreating to the inner edge of the large circle that marked the boundary of the wrestling surface, I postured preparing for eminent attack. My mind confidently filled with visions of glory, of jubilant teammates showering celebratory congratulations, of a shiny gold medal dangling from a colorful ribbon.
My bodied readied, the whistle shrilled and undaunted I pounced. Blindly aggressive I Slithering beneath my advisories grasps easily capturing an unguarded knee. Swiftly locking ankles I furiously reeled in his thin thrashing body, then Like a rabid beast I Wildly Heaved myself upon my victim. Hopelessly snared and unable to escape, he succumbed crumpling sheepishly to the mat. Keenly aware of my opponent’s deflated optimism I sensed the end and rapidly moved for a killing pin.
Then In one excruciating moment, a moment that has haunted me for twenty-five years, the unexplainable occurred. With my rival wrapped tightly within my arms, with the aroma of victory in the air, my unrelenting stamina unexpectedly evacuated as the air in a tire-shredding blowout. Like a punch-drunk prizefighter struggling to survive the final round I halfhearted fought. My physical capacity collapsed and my insides churned like a boiling caldron. Weakened and lethargic I could not amass the strength to overcome my sudden listlessness. Seized by Unimaginable Frustration an acidic vomit forced its way into my throat and through tightly gritted teeth. In this chaotic condition my dreams were ruptured as the final whistle callously sounded.
Astonished over these agonizing turn of events, I slowly rolled over onto my churning stomach. Unbelievably stunned and confused I buried my puke covered face into the mat. My opponent victoriously celebrated as jubilant coaches and teammates thronged him. I could not comprehend this implausible loss. It all seemed surreal like a pinch proof dream.
Feeling textured reassuring hands stroke my battered shoulder tears welled and I fought back defeated sobs. Turning over again, onto my back I looked into my fathers face. He tried to smile but beyond the opaque grin worried wrinkles furled his forehead.
Then the rough cowboy that was my Dad evaporated and he Delicately Knelt beside me. Carefully bending over my sweat soaked body until our eyes converged; the gruff bellowing voice that I knew became a soothing whisper. Gentle as a mother’s la-la-bye-bye he calmly asks one question. He wanted to know if in this heart wrenching failure I had given all? Had I reached deep inside and extended every ounce of will? Tears again cascaded running along reddened cheeks before streaming into the valleys of my grimacing jaw and finally pooling on the floor.
Staring deeply into piercing blue eyes my lips quivered, the pain and agony of my broken spirit was beyond that which I had the ability to verbalize. Still, through tortured sobs I managed to speak and insipidly told my father I had. Looking away for a brief moment he survived the frantic hustle and bustle surrounding us. Drawing my attention to the carnival like atmosphere he drew near to me again. Curling a large weathered arm around my shoulders he told me it was all window dressings of life. What really mattered he strongly admonished is that I tried my best. That and that alone he continued made me a winner in his eyes.
Two decades later on a cracked and pant starved wooden bench I looked down on the dejected façade that covered Tanners face. His eyes clearly shown his building disappointment and in them I saw a glimpse of my own. Sliding closer I drew him near and slid my arm around him as my father had so many years ago. Wounded and erratically shaking, he looked up at me tears forming in his eyes. Fittingly it was now that my anxious brow furls while I forced a contrived smile.
Tenderly mopping troubled tears from tanners check and almost whispering I ask if in defeat he had given all. Tanner overcome by emotion managed to nod affirmatively. Desperately trying to check my own rising sentiments I warmly repeated my fathers tender words.
Feeling a bit embarrassed by the weepy trickle the fond memories had sprouted and Not wanting to embarrass Tanner with a public fatherly hug I slapped a resounding high five and retreated from the dugout.
It was the long awaited district three high school wrestling tournament. Through numberless grueling workouts and months of victorious Friday night battles, my twin brother DeRay and I had qualified as the number one seeds in our respective weight classifications. It was our senior season at the small rural high school which boosted mostly poor rough stock farm boys bussed in from the surrounding agricultural communities. This year the season ending tournament was hosted by our school and athletes and parents invaded the tiny farm town having traversed from most all parts of southern Idaho.
We were identical twins and often confounded our teachers and friends with our strikingly similar appearance. At one point to the absolute dismay of my exasperating mother the school photographer returned only one set of school portraits, convinced I am sure that he had mistakenly photographed the same student twice. But like many identical twins I suppose, in a struggle for dependence from an eerie body double our analogous ways did not extend into every aspect of life. This was especially true when it came to wrestling. Although we were unanimously voted co-captains of the grappling squad we approached success on the mat in much different ways. DeRay my senior by a mere seven minutes employed those additional four hundred twenty seconds to gain a decisive advantage. Methodical he developed a very mature and well thought-out even cerebral approach to wrestling. Unfortunately the echo of this calculated thinking process never reverberated with me. Instead of out-witting my grappling pray I stubbornly stuck with the brute method. This brainless tactic relied solely on base instinct and sheer muscle. Through out the eight years we wrestled competitively the inevitable truth was firmly established. DeRay’s thinking tactics excelled well beyond my own, yet because it differentiated us I stubbornly clung to my archaic visceral approach.
With the tournament nearing and the season behind, any lingering doubt regarding this matter again quickly dissipated. Peering at the win-loss records inked in the wrinkled tournament program DeRay’s record bordered on absurdity. Having accumulating 24 wins against one solitary loss he was certainly considered one of the states best. As for me, some would certainly consider 17 wins and 9 loss’s respectable. However I felt at times to be reaping the sour fruit of my boorish physical technique. Nevertheless, regardless of this slightly backward style I considered myself competitive and remained confident that I would advance to the upcoming state tournament.
Silently, I lounged lying comfortably on mats edge waiting for my first match to get underway. Looking up at the welcome banner that limply hung from the gyms naked rafters I poised myself for victory. Even as the team encircled the mat to begin our ceremonial warm-up routine I felt certain of a trouble free conquest over the three opponents I would face. Not only did I believe I could win, I expected it.
My first victim would be a tall lanky boy from a larger upstate high school. Twice we gruelingly sparred during the duel meets of the regular season. He was younger and less experienced and I exploited this amateurish plight bullying my way to win both matches, one by pin the other on points.
Meeting at the large orange emblem at the mats center, we limply Shook hands and offered unconvincing accolades. Retreating to the inner edge of the large circle that marked the boundary of the wrestling surface, I postured preparing for eminent attack. My mind confidently filled with visions of glory, of jubilant teammates showering celebratory congratulations, of a shiny gold medal dangling from a colorful ribbon.
My bodied readied, the whistle shrilled and undaunted I pounced. Blindly aggressive I Slithering beneath my advisories grasps easily capturing an unguarded knee. Swiftly locking ankles I furiously reeled in his thin thrashing body, then Like a rabid beast I Wildly Heaved myself upon my victim. Hopelessly snared and unable to escape, he succumbed crumpling sheepishly to the mat. Keenly aware of my opponent’s deflated optimism I sensed the end and rapidly moved for a killing pin.
Then In one excruciating moment, a moment that has haunted me for twenty-five years, the unexplainable occurred. With my rival wrapped tightly within my arms, with the aroma of victory in the air, my unrelenting stamina unexpectedly evacuated as the air in a tire-shredding blowout. Like a punch-drunk prizefighter struggling to survive the final round I halfhearted fought. My physical capacity collapsed and my insides churned like a boiling caldron. Weakened and lethargic I could not amass the strength to overcome my sudden listlessness. Seized by Unimaginable Frustration an acidic vomit forced its way into my throat and through tightly gritted teeth. In this chaotic condition my dreams were ruptured as the final whistle callously sounded.
Astonished over these agonizing turn of events, I slowly rolled over onto my churning stomach. Unbelievably stunned and confused I buried my puke covered face into the mat. My opponent victoriously celebrated as jubilant coaches and teammates thronged him. I could not comprehend this implausible loss. It all seemed surreal like a pinch proof dream.
Feeling textured reassuring hands stroke my battered shoulder tears welled and I fought back defeated sobs. Turning over again, onto my back I looked into my fathers face. He tried to smile but beyond the opaque grin worried wrinkles furled his forehead.
Then the rough cowboy that was my Dad evaporated and he Delicately Knelt beside me. Carefully bending over my sweat soaked body until our eyes converged; the gruff bellowing voice that I knew became a soothing whisper. Gentle as a mother’s la-la-bye-bye he calmly asks one question. He wanted to know if in this heart wrenching failure I had given all? Had I reached deep inside and extended every ounce of will? Tears again cascaded running along reddened cheeks before streaming into the valleys of my grimacing jaw and finally pooling on the floor.
Staring deeply into piercing blue eyes my lips quivered, the pain and agony of my broken spirit was beyond that which I had the ability to verbalize. Still, through tortured sobs I managed to speak and insipidly told my father I had. Looking away for a brief moment he survived the frantic hustle and bustle surrounding us. Drawing my attention to the carnival like atmosphere he drew near to me again. Curling a large weathered arm around my shoulders he told me it was all window dressings of life. What really mattered he strongly admonished is that I tried my best. That and that alone he continued made me a winner in his eyes.
Two decades later on a cracked and pant starved wooden bench I looked down on the dejected façade that covered Tanners face. His eyes clearly shown his building disappointment and in them I saw a glimpse of my own. Sliding closer I drew him near and slid my arm around him as my father had so many years ago. Wounded and erratically shaking, he looked up at me tears forming in his eyes. Fittingly it was now that my anxious brow furls while I forced a contrived smile.
Tenderly mopping troubled tears from tanners check and almost whispering I ask if in defeat he had given all. Tanner overcome by emotion managed to nod affirmatively. Desperately trying to check my own rising sentiments I warmly repeated my fathers tender words.
Feeling a bit embarrassed by the weepy trickle the fond memories had sprouted and Not wanting to embarrass Tanner with a public fatherly hug I slapped a resounding high five and retreated from the dugout.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Chapter 12
Chapter 12
The dreadful nature of the past evenings emergencies required that I attend a mandatory meeting regarding them. With that unchangeable obligation, I arranged for John to shuttle tanner to the ball field.
Completing my critical stress debriefing around 7:45 pm, I frantically raced to park. I pulled into the parking lot around dusk, The time of day when darkness and light battle for supremacy. For now, the stubborn light refused to yield but long shadows foretold its rule was short lived. The tires squealed as I found a spot and braking brought the car to a rest. Lurching forward to peer over the dash, the sights, sounds and smell of baseball invited a relaxing smile which at this point seemed heaven sent.
Chuckling to myself, I quickly shuffled threw the bustling complex. Proud parents intently peered threw the rusty chain link fence’s that enclosed each field. Their boys adorned in seasoned, soiled and warn hats and ill fitting tee shirts the league had procured excitedly peppered the 3 fields. This would be the last games for most of the lot, excepting the few who had already been ordained to the all-star team.
It was a marvelous time, summer was threatening, school had already became a forgotten memory having closed the doors for the season and now immersed in the bosom of Americana I could have sworn I found Mayberry.
Approaching the dug out which resembled a glorified chicken coop I spotted John perched in his normal spot just inside the rustic fence. Slightly Squatting about fifteen feet from home plate his tanned arms tightly folded across his chest. Cocking his head slightly in my direction and nodding he acknowledging my presence, But the intense expression locked on his face never changed. eagerly he Watched as the developing game unfolded. I could almost feel His mind frantically racing trying to out wit or at least out-think his opponent. It was as if he were a gifted surgeon, this ragged field his patient and the boys his scalpel. Meticulously practicing his craft he occasionally roared out orders moving the boys this way or that or offering boosting encouragement designed to keep his fleshy surgical instrument sharp.
Though Belated I am delighted to discover I have only missed the first three batters. Out lot is visiting team this night and we are in the top of the first inning. With men on second and third bases, we have accrued one out and one run. Raising my fingers high above my head they became enmeshed with the dug out fence. Unnoticed for now, affectionately I studied my rising son. His shadow seemed to cast in every direction as the huge stadium lights began to chase away all hinds of daytime.
Tanner must have felt my presence, The emerging radiance on his youthful face told me I had been spotted. Suddenly he began to Swagger in the on-deck circle which John had lightly scratched in the red sand just outside the dugout. His previous laid-back warm up swings now became thundering babe Ruth swats. I had seen the forgotten and faraway look in the continence of a few of Tanners teammates. Those who were dropped off and picked up at the park yet were alone in-between these two events. I knew how very much it meant to Tanner that I was there with him. And I felt it a solemn obligation as a father as well an opportunity to deflect the piercing arrows of criticism that the beast may garner.
Beyond Tanner and the on-deck circle standing tall at the plate was Alex Peddis. For a moment I admiringly Watched as this tall slender boy leaned heavily on his outstretched bat waiting for umpire to brush a few specks of dust from home plate. He had truly proven the old saying ,” the apple truly never falls far from the tree“ undeniably true. A.J. Like his father had overlooked many of Tanners glaring complexities. He generally ignored the occasional outburst and at times seemed very generous with his friendship.
repeatedly swinging the long aluminum bat he eyed John who was now standing near first base along the right field line. John jokingly spared with his young son as the boy cockily strutted to home plate and settled into the batters box. gleefully he teased him regarding his propensity to over swing, unleashing a clumsy “ aim for the fence“, home run swat which normally ended with the umpire proclaiming strike three.
Possibly purposely agitating his ribbing father over the laser guided chidings Alex watched two called strikes splatter into the opposing catchers mitt before slicing a fiery single into left field. Thundering down the base path, he reached first base rounded the corner and teasingly leaning toward second. Fervently thrusting his fist as he retreated to the bag he vigorously challenged Tanner to hit him home.
Tepidly rounding home plate my young lefty Kicked up a bellowing cloud of dust and dug in. casting a nervous eye at me then the waiting pitcher he raised the bat and cocked his swing. With a violent swoosh he swatted at the pitchers first offering , wham the ball exploded into the catchers glove, “strike one”, called the umpire. The lonely echo of my hands spanking together drifted across the field meeting the thud of another fastball slapping leather. “Strike two”, the ump screeched causing Tanner to abruptly bristle. While the words of a silent prayer hung on my lips, the pitcher slung a rocket toward home plate. With a thundering grunt, Tanner unleashed a home run blow that would have made A.J proud. Swish the Air divided whistled around and then reconnected behind the slicing bat. In the midst of A.J., groans, John’s never ending verbal hype and the umpires most feared words, Tanner struck out. If it were possible for a tittering sprit to be further Humbled I saw it now as tanner head hung timidly drug himself and the bat to the dugout.
For a moment I only watched, empathetically observing tanners washed out expression. He had greatly struggled throughout the year with life, school and now baseball. Untangling my fingers from the meshed wire I gaited into the dugout and gingerly seated myself next to him. I became oblivious to all the commotion surrounding us, in my mind it was only me and my wounded son. Searching franticly, I looted my aging memory banks for an old forgotten recollection or some priceless treasure of understanding I could elegantly import righting tanners sinking ship. After rummaging for what seemed like an eternity amid countess warn out memories and well practiced metaphors I found in the cluttered blackness an abandoned pearl. Brushing my hand threw Tanner’s thick brown hair, I allowed its memory to encompass me.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Finding an empty parking space I rolled the car to a stop, shut off the engine and cranked down the driver side window. Tanner quickly flung open the passenger door and raced to join the remainder of the rambunctious boys who were just arriving. My mind was still awash with thoughts, I felt to savor them a bit longer.
Leaning back into the seat I quietly closed my eyes. One by one the colorful ruminations vacated my mind leaving behind only lingering impressions. slowly even those pungent feelings faded until all the flowery notions were gone.
Opening my eyes again, I threw my glance toward the baseball diamond. John had positioned his team into two parallel lines. Half of the boys on one side the rest on the other. Like a spirited general directing his troops he then began barking out orders. The boys really had no need for Johns growling directions. After numberless trips to this field, after hours of baking in the broiling sun, they knew exactly what he expected. And on queue each began flinging well worn baseballs threw the parched desert air. Back and forth the balls soared as arms loosened and mitts popped.
Tanner stood about half way along the outer line of young men. Making an elongated loop with his arm he lazily tossed the baseball toward the inner row of boys. The ball made a smacking sound as is plopped into the waiting mitt of a tall lanky boy named Alex Pettis. Brown eyes and brown hair towered over smallish nose and jagged chin. Alex or A.J as he is affectingly known is Johns only son and Tanners closest friend. Purposely I use the descriptive word “closest” instead of “best”. “Best”, would infer a level of friendship beyond what they enjoy. Yet it is the nearest thing to camaraderie tanner now expects.
Reaching into his cavernous glove A.J. retrieved and returned fire, rocketing the baseball toward tanner. I watched for a moment as I had many times this spring. Soon their image’s melted into the others becoming a mass of flailing arms and swooshing baseballs.
exiting the car i found my way to the edge of the field. Secluding myself near the left field line I sought refuge under the same towering elm which calmed my thoughts during try-outs. The field was flooded with sound as the boys continued their warm ups. But amongst the swishing splatter of baseballs finding leather a gentle breeze sprayed the joyful laughter of a small child across the complex. Cranking my head in the direction of the echoing jubilation I scanned the large softball diamond sandwiched in between two lesser little league Fields. Playfully giggling as she scooted across the green grass of the outfield a small child tightly squeezed a long stick surrounded by yards of string. Trailing not far behind the petite youngster a ragged triangle shaped kite alternatively bounced then skidded along the turf. Amused by the excited laughter my attention drew from the Tanner and the monotonous goings on.
I found my self very much enjoying the innocent efforts of the child to raise the stubborn kite. Just when I felt the grounded kite would never sail a rush of wind caught and lifted the angular craft. The string rapidly unraveled from the smooth stick and the kite danced into a wispy blue sky. Watching the acrobatic kite hang on the stiff breeze I pondered its flight. The wind it seemed had buoyed the thin colorful plastic that clung to cross shaped sticks. The kite continued to soar and with each measured gain in altitude the little girl corresponded with increased excitement. Merrily she skipped across the field intently eying the rising toy. Concentrating solely on the spiraling kite her riveted stare failed to detect the hole which housed one of many sprinkler heads scattered across the field. Catching her tiny shoe in the shallow divot she plunged awkwardly downward flopping onto the wind raked turf. The taut string quickly escaped her petite fingers as she reached out to break the fall. No longer bound by the thin cotton line the proud kite turned sideways sliced the sky and dropped to the earth.
A sudden gasp escaped my lungs and my eyes widened as the spectacle unfolding before me. But before I could react the gangly toddler bounded to her feet and raced to the kite. Cheerfully Giggling along the way, the Smallish child reached, regrouped and readied the kite for another speculative flight.
Cooled from the summer heat by the leafed giant my thoughts shifted from the delightful laughter to my tender seed once again. I re-visited my reluctance regarding Tanner pitching this baseball season. I had anguished incessantly regarding this mater. My soul cried for relief and closure. Then as the two separate thoughts merged into one. I envisioned a correlation between the lofty kite and my brave son. I vividly recalled the failure of the kite once the string was loosed. it was the tense twine not the gusty breeze that buoyed the craft. And though the boosting wind greatly encouraged the kites plight. The very thing that seemed to restrain the tailed craft actually made it soar. I also realized that the budding faith tanner held of himself was as the tensioned string. And mine parodied the lofty wind that cheered the kite to flight. I began to recognize that He not me ultimately had to provide the binding conviction to lift his own spirit. And Even though my innermost gusts were opposed to him pitching. It became obvious he and only he held the taut line to his own success. And Though my tortured reservations refused to be suppressed I inhaled deeply, relented and determined to advised the coach of my decision. God willing, Tanner would have his day.
Finding an empty parking space I rolled the car to a stop, shut off the engine and cranked down the driver side window. Tanner quickly flung open the passenger door and raced to join the remainder of the rambunctious boys who were just arriving. My mind was still awash with thoughts, I felt to savor them a bit longer.
Leaning back into the seat I quietly closed my eyes. One by one the colorful ruminations vacated my mind leaving behind only lingering impressions. slowly even those pungent feelings faded until all the flowery notions were gone.
Opening my eyes again, I threw my glance toward the baseball diamond. John had positioned his team into two parallel lines. Half of the boys on one side the rest on the other. Like a spirited general directing his troops he then began barking out orders. The boys really had no need for Johns growling directions. After numberless trips to this field, after hours of baking in the broiling sun, they knew exactly what he expected. And on queue each began flinging well worn baseballs threw the parched desert air. Back and forth the balls soared as arms loosened and mitts popped.
Tanner stood about half way along the outer line of young men. Making an elongated loop with his arm he lazily tossed the baseball toward the inner row of boys. The ball made a smacking sound as is plopped into the waiting mitt of a tall lanky boy named Alex Pettis. Brown eyes and brown hair towered over smallish nose and jagged chin. Alex or A.J as he is affectingly known is Johns only son and Tanners closest friend. Purposely I use the descriptive word “closest” instead of “best”. “Best”, would infer a level of friendship beyond what they enjoy. Yet it is the nearest thing to camaraderie tanner now expects.
Reaching into his cavernous glove A.J. retrieved and returned fire, rocketing the baseball toward tanner. I watched for a moment as I had many times this spring. Soon their image’s melted into the others becoming a mass of flailing arms and swooshing baseballs.
exiting the car i found my way to the edge of the field. Secluding myself near the left field line I sought refuge under the same towering elm which calmed my thoughts during try-outs. The field was flooded with sound as the boys continued their warm ups. But amongst the swishing splatter of baseballs finding leather a gentle breeze sprayed the joyful laughter of a small child across the complex. Cranking my head in the direction of the echoing jubilation I scanned the large softball diamond sandwiched in between two lesser little league Fields. Playfully giggling as she scooted across the green grass of the outfield a small child tightly squeezed a long stick surrounded by yards of string. Trailing not far behind the petite youngster a ragged triangle shaped kite alternatively bounced then skidded along the turf. Amused by the excited laughter my attention drew from the Tanner and the monotonous goings on.
I found my self very much enjoying the innocent efforts of the child to raise the stubborn kite. Just when I felt the grounded kite would never sail a rush of wind caught and lifted the angular craft. The string rapidly unraveled from the smooth stick and the kite danced into a wispy blue sky. Watching the acrobatic kite hang on the stiff breeze I pondered its flight. The wind it seemed had buoyed the thin colorful plastic that clung to cross shaped sticks. The kite continued to soar and with each measured gain in altitude the little girl corresponded with increased excitement. Merrily she skipped across the field intently eying the rising toy. Concentrating solely on the spiraling kite her riveted stare failed to detect the hole which housed one of many sprinkler heads scattered across the field. Catching her tiny shoe in the shallow divot she plunged awkwardly downward flopping onto the wind raked turf. The taut string quickly escaped her petite fingers as she reached out to break the fall. No longer bound by the thin cotton line the proud kite turned sideways sliced the sky and dropped to the earth.
A sudden gasp escaped my lungs and my eyes widened as the spectacle unfolding before me. But before I could react the gangly toddler bounded to her feet and raced to the kite. Cheerfully Giggling along the way, the Smallish child reached, regrouped and readied the kite for another speculative flight.
Cooled from the summer heat by the leafed giant my thoughts shifted from the delightful laughter to my tender seed once again. I re-visited my reluctance regarding Tanner pitching this baseball season. I had anguished incessantly regarding this mater. My soul cried for relief and closure. Then as the two separate thoughts merged into one. I envisioned a correlation between the lofty kite and my brave son. I vividly recalled the failure of the kite once the string was loosed. it was the tense twine not the gusty breeze that buoyed the craft. And though the boosting wind greatly encouraged the kites plight. The very thing that seemed to restrain the tailed craft actually made it soar. I also realized that the budding faith tanner held of himself was as the tensioned string. And mine parodied the lofty wind that cheered the kite to flight. I began to recognize that He not me ultimately had to provide the binding conviction to lift his own spirit. And Even though my innermost gusts were opposed to him pitching. It became obvious he and only he held the taut line to his own success. And Though my tortured reservations refused to be suppressed I inhaled deeply, relented and determined to advised the coach of my decision. God willing, Tanner would have his day.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Chapter 10
Chapter 10
Baseball means springtime and here in the southland the desert is alive, things are new again. Recently while driving Tanner to practice I spotted on the side of the road something uniquely different. The Desert once barren, scared and uncomely now stood alive with unmatched beauty. Wild flowers in bloom changed the landscape from nothingness to that rivaling a royal garden.
Mesmerized and bemused I stared while my thoughts drifted. In my minds eye I saw the same flowers last spring. Words to describe them inspiring, glowing, budding, and thriving. As they bask in the suns inspiring warmth they bloomed.
Yet As summer aged and fall beckoned, they noticed a subtle transformation. The ever-present warmth had cuddled and loved, encouraged and nursed them with the loving care of a devoted parent. Now regrettably with a delicate shift of seasons its radiant tentacles struggled to reach the tender vine. Undeterred by the slight withdrawal the flowers remained tall and defiant, refusing to accept natures long odds. Nevertheless receding like a balding mans hairline the warmth continued to fade. Soon the evolving environment became drastically different and entirely intolerable. The spastic weather which at first was only slightly cooler turned bitterly cold. a once enveloping balminess that had adoringly wrapped it with a gentle embrace was gone. The fragile flower sensing the rude change inevitably weakens. its petering persistence escapes and sloughing determination disappears. Lastly, unable to survive the harsh elements withering it succumbs. Wilted and faltering the tender vine withdraws desperately tunneling into ground. Instinctively the dying flora hoards its last drop of energy, its final ounce of strength inside a single bulb buried deep within the increasingly frigid soil.
Its prostrated glory now secreted, the once glorious blossom again perceives itself as nothingness. Secluded in this icy hell it Waits, it desires, it hopes, it secretly prays for the warmth.
As Time grinds, winters fury hammers away at the protective tundra. With each passing day the killer frost inches closer threatening to devour the hidden pod.
Winters bitter stay was far to long, all looked bleak for the trembling plant. However, for the survivor patience pays off. Something vaguely familiar penetrates the hostile tomb and awakens the imperiled slumber of the fraught bulb. The warmth has returned, gently reaching beneath earths thawing crust it radiates. Purposely seeking and fondly encouraging the waking corm. Heartened by the glowing affection the bulb gains strength. Until recently the caustic and frozen soil had chilled the secluded pod, now it heated the seed with such zeal, The small kernel sprouted with confidence. Slowly at first, the burgeoning shoot branched upward, cautiously guarding against an unexpected spring freeze. Pulling itself skyward it reaches and spins with promise burning inside. Surging rapidly , Unstoppable now suddenly it breaks threw the crusted soil. Basking fully in the golden sun light it continues rising, expanding, budding and lastly blooming again.
Driving further, the swath of artistic flora gave way to concrete sidewalks. Tanner sat quietly in the passenger seat aside me. My illuminated thoughts shifted turning to him. I realized he was not unlike the tender pod. Once a dazzling orchid fully arrayed in magnificent wonder. Then things changed, the beast betrayed him. masking his beauty the demon revealed only his ugliness. His vivid splendor disguised, shallow friends peered at a deceptive shell. Friendly and warm summer relationships chilled, suffering a fall like change. Gradually lukewarm but survivable civility became a biting artic frost.
Tanner was fully aware of the swirling northern winds which proceeded an icy shift of views concerning him. He sensed his entire existence had tilted on its axis, allowing the frigidity of wintry associations to the replace nourishing warmth. A balmy high pressure gave way to a blustery blast of arctic, propelled by a rapidly developing low.
Like the wild flower, he persisted, desperately trying to salvage his increasingly frigid relationships. But with each nippy rejection, with each frozen friendship his inner trust, his fragile confidence retreated. And like the radiant vine, feeling the warmth withdraw he weakened and started to doubt. Soon it seemed his purpose blurred and a hardy resolve dissipated.
Trying to salvage his fleeting will, I lie my encompassing love around him, hoping to shield his depleted spirit. But unseen, unheard and unheralded, tightly tucked within his inner sanctum my son, a once glorious blossom viewed himself as nothing. Secretly secluded yet plainly seen Buried deep, deep within he Waited, hoped and desired that a spring warmth could Bloom him once again.
Tanner feeling the silence of my thoughts called my name. Glancing quickly at him, I
wondered if it were possible that a boy of a mere 12 years could comprehend the extent of
my unconditional love. I Wondered if his maturing yet juvenile mind could understood
the intricate complexities of life. I contemplated the brittle seed securely stowed
Inside. Would it view the climatic change of which I have written as passing storm or
Cataclysmic event.
Regardless baseball had truly roused his Tanners drooping bud. Feeling the healing
Warmth of Johns sincerity It had began to noticeable swell.
Nearing the baseball complex I noticed John and a few of Tanners team mates had made their way onto field. Pairing off the eager young boys began playing catch in the outfield.
Turning the car into the parking lot I thought again about the flower. How the warmth gently coached the feeble seed. Fondly encouraging the secreted pod to rise from its icy grave. Yet, though seduced by the amiable invitation, it cautiously guarded against a early thaw followed by a destructive freeze.
I knew Tanner had felt the nurturing warmth of this encouragement. His self esteem was straining against the protective fortress that surrounded his tender heart. It manifested itself thru his revived confidence. The way he held himself, even in the way he dealt with the erratic beast. Soon a delicate blossom would proudly rise from the safety of its shell. I hoped It would survive if accosted by a late frost of frigid disappointment.
Baseball means springtime and here in the southland the desert is alive, things are new again. Recently while driving Tanner to practice I spotted on the side of the road something uniquely different. The Desert once barren, scared and uncomely now stood alive with unmatched beauty. Wild flowers in bloom changed the landscape from nothingness to that rivaling a royal garden.
Mesmerized and bemused I stared while my thoughts drifted. In my minds eye I saw the same flowers last spring. Words to describe them inspiring, glowing, budding, and thriving. As they bask in the suns inspiring warmth they bloomed.
Yet As summer aged and fall beckoned, they noticed a subtle transformation. The ever-present warmth had cuddled and loved, encouraged and nursed them with the loving care of a devoted parent. Now regrettably with a delicate shift of seasons its radiant tentacles struggled to reach the tender vine. Undeterred by the slight withdrawal the flowers remained tall and defiant, refusing to accept natures long odds. Nevertheless receding like a balding mans hairline the warmth continued to fade. Soon the evolving environment became drastically different and entirely intolerable. The spastic weather which at first was only slightly cooler turned bitterly cold. a once enveloping balminess that had adoringly wrapped it with a gentle embrace was gone. The fragile flower sensing the rude change inevitably weakens. its petering persistence escapes and sloughing determination disappears. Lastly, unable to survive the harsh elements withering it succumbs. Wilted and faltering the tender vine withdraws desperately tunneling into ground. Instinctively the dying flora hoards its last drop of energy, its final ounce of strength inside a single bulb buried deep within the increasingly frigid soil.
Its prostrated glory now secreted, the once glorious blossom again perceives itself as nothingness. Secluded in this icy hell it Waits, it desires, it hopes, it secretly prays for the warmth.
As Time grinds, winters fury hammers away at the protective tundra. With each passing day the killer frost inches closer threatening to devour the hidden pod.
Winters bitter stay was far to long, all looked bleak for the trembling plant. However, for the survivor patience pays off. Something vaguely familiar penetrates the hostile tomb and awakens the imperiled slumber of the fraught bulb. The warmth has returned, gently reaching beneath earths thawing crust it radiates. Purposely seeking and fondly encouraging the waking corm. Heartened by the glowing affection the bulb gains strength. Until recently the caustic and frozen soil had chilled the secluded pod, now it heated the seed with such zeal, The small kernel sprouted with confidence. Slowly at first, the burgeoning shoot branched upward, cautiously guarding against an unexpected spring freeze. Pulling itself skyward it reaches and spins with promise burning inside. Surging rapidly , Unstoppable now suddenly it breaks threw the crusted soil. Basking fully in the golden sun light it continues rising, expanding, budding and lastly blooming again.
Driving further, the swath of artistic flora gave way to concrete sidewalks. Tanner sat quietly in the passenger seat aside me. My illuminated thoughts shifted turning to him. I realized he was not unlike the tender pod. Once a dazzling orchid fully arrayed in magnificent wonder. Then things changed, the beast betrayed him. masking his beauty the demon revealed only his ugliness. His vivid splendor disguised, shallow friends peered at a deceptive shell. Friendly and warm summer relationships chilled, suffering a fall like change. Gradually lukewarm but survivable civility became a biting artic frost.
Tanner was fully aware of the swirling northern winds which proceeded an icy shift of views concerning him. He sensed his entire existence had tilted on its axis, allowing the frigidity of wintry associations to the replace nourishing warmth. A balmy high pressure gave way to a blustery blast of arctic, propelled by a rapidly developing low.
Like the wild flower, he persisted, desperately trying to salvage his increasingly frigid relationships. But with each nippy rejection, with each frozen friendship his inner trust, his fragile confidence retreated. And like the radiant vine, feeling the warmth withdraw he weakened and started to doubt. Soon it seemed his purpose blurred and a hardy resolve dissipated.
Trying to salvage his fleeting will, I lie my encompassing love around him, hoping to shield his depleted spirit. But unseen, unheard and unheralded, tightly tucked within his inner sanctum my son, a once glorious blossom viewed himself as nothing. Secretly secluded yet plainly seen Buried deep, deep within he Waited, hoped and desired that a spring warmth could Bloom him once again.
Tanner feeling the silence of my thoughts called my name. Glancing quickly at him, I
wondered if it were possible that a boy of a mere 12 years could comprehend the extent of
my unconditional love. I Wondered if his maturing yet juvenile mind could understood
the intricate complexities of life. I contemplated the brittle seed securely stowed
Inside. Would it view the climatic change of which I have written as passing storm or
Cataclysmic event.
Regardless baseball had truly roused his Tanners drooping bud. Feeling the healing
Warmth of Johns sincerity It had began to noticeable swell.
Nearing the baseball complex I noticed John and a few of Tanners team mates had made their way onto field. Pairing off the eager young boys began playing catch in the outfield.
Turning the car into the parking lot I thought again about the flower. How the warmth gently coached the feeble seed. Fondly encouraging the secreted pod to rise from its icy grave. Yet, though seduced by the amiable invitation, it cautiously guarded against a early thaw followed by a destructive freeze.
I knew Tanner had felt the nurturing warmth of this encouragement. His self esteem was straining against the protective fortress that surrounded his tender heart. It manifested itself thru his revived confidence. The way he held himself, even in the way he dealt with the erratic beast. Soon a delicate blossom would proudly rise from the safety of its shell. I hoped It would survive if accosted by a late frost of frigid disappointment.
Chapter 9
Chapter 9
Each week, between games John runs the fledgling Red sock’s thru especially healthy practices. In those grueling workouts one thing is certain. Sometime, somewhere whether he is shagging fly balls in the outfield. Corralling a sizzling grounder while guarding second base, Or just mulling around the water cooler. Tanner will relentlessly hound John. He will Beg him unceasingly, undaunted he endeavors to chip away at Johns better sense. Even the cynical pessimism of his doubting teammates fail to faze him. God love him, he only seeks one thing, one chance, one person who believes. He only wants to stand on a rubber topped mound and heave an apple sized orb forty long feet.
However, Just as Tanner refuses to relent neither will John. When Frankly cornered by Tanners inescapable hounding and forced to reply. He looks deeply into the paralyzing stare and jettisons his escape pod reply. When your dad tells me your are ready are the words that pile tanners burden of hope upon my shoulder and skillfully Avoids the question like a weaving curve ball displeases the striking blow of a bat.
Returning from another torturous baseball practice Tanner excitedly stormed threw the front door. Charging up the stairs and stuttering he sought me. Ping-ponging down the hall and poking his head in each room he repeatedly called my name. Hearing my name echo throughout the house I followed the verbal vibrations. Worried something was amiss I rushed to him. seeing me, his exacerbated sputtering became increasingly incoherent. numberless vowels and consonants fought for the right to burst into words. Kneeling down I moved my hands across his shoulders. Then warmly smiling I suggested that he relax. Taking in a deep settling Breath he somewhat regained his fleeting composure. After Checking his emotions and deciphering their verbal encryption he began to decode the perplexing word puzzle. Slowly exhaling he spoke in a forced and deliberate tone.
John it seemed, warn down by tanners pestering persistence was considering using him as a relief pitcher in an upcoming game. After a long seasons of ups and downs this game, the last would also sadly bring the season to an abrupt end. Joining Tanner in his stammering exacerbations, I withdrew my cell phone intent on calling the coach. My fingers betrayed my excitement, vibrating like a jackhammer they danced around the key pad. Raising the phone to my ear it began to ring signally the third attempt to dial had been successful.
Overflowing with anxious anticipation, each agonizing ring smothered my evaporating patience. Restless, I began to rhythmically pace, though annoyed by the steady note less tone. Tanner still trembling with boyish excitement intently watched my awkward ballet. An emerging toothy grin pealed back and threatened to avulse his thin lips.
Hearing a cheery voice bid me greetings Mercifully deflated my ballooning angst. John constantly exudes utmost enthusiasm. And Proving my point almost ran me over with his upbeat tone. As usual he was exploiting this sunny disposition to try and suck me into his positive perception of the world.
Having seized my attention he Hastily repeated what Tanner had labored to relay. Stopping mid sentence, he paused shortly, as if second thoughts captured his words. The brutal image of wayward baseballs peppering unwary batters may have been dancing in his head.
Moving forward again with his sentence, he quizzed me about Tanners readiness. In replying, I painted an optimistic picture of tanner’s progress. Then leaving space for the nagging doubt still lingering in my mind. I Finishing my appraisal by expressing concern about breaking his burgeoning confidence.
In my subconscious, in the tiny space that i secretly stuff all unwanted remembrances, one slyly escaped. Cruelly Replaying itself center stage, The vexing image was all to clear. Last season after skillfully wearing down his coaches resistance with a well rehearsed con-job. He convinced the skeptical coach into letting him throw one inning of baseball.
One inning, three outs, how bad could it be. Bad, proving he was far better at sweet-talking than pitching Tanner shockingly hit three of the first five batters he faced.
The painful image of naive batters grimacing with pain and surprise has faded over time. The unforgiving looks of incredulity and disgust sewn on the puckered faces of opposing coaches and parents, I may never forget. Those severe stares quickly buried Tanner in a grave of uncertainty.
Distressed and apologetic John rushed to the mound. Tanner teary eyed and red faced shook like a wet dog. John knelt in front of my setting son, his eyes also welling with tears. As much as he cared for my young man he had no choice. Amid a swelling chorus of cat calls and worse John stretched out a quivering palm and retrieved the game ball from Tanner. devoured by his crushing failure Tanners confidence straightly crashed.
Having accomplished its design the troubling recollection vanished. John sensing my haunted apprehension reminded me again, it was my call. My insides squirming as fading hope and rising fear battled within. I love my children more than my own life and when they hurt, I am also pained. Because of Tanners many challenges I anguished over this decision. The bright hope of Spring seemed to wane. With summers scorching heat my confidence had wilted. After a brief pause I asked John for a few days to ponder before announcing my verdict.
Each week, between games John runs the fledgling Red sock’s thru especially healthy practices. In those grueling workouts one thing is certain. Sometime, somewhere whether he is shagging fly balls in the outfield. Corralling a sizzling grounder while guarding second base, Or just mulling around the water cooler. Tanner will relentlessly hound John. He will Beg him unceasingly, undaunted he endeavors to chip away at Johns better sense. Even the cynical pessimism of his doubting teammates fail to faze him. God love him, he only seeks one thing, one chance, one person who believes. He only wants to stand on a rubber topped mound and heave an apple sized orb forty long feet.
However, Just as Tanner refuses to relent neither will John. When Frankly cornered by Tanners inescapable hounding and forced to reply. He looks deeply into the paralyzing stare and jettisons his escape pod reply. When your dad tells me your are ready are the words that pile tanners burden of hope upon my shoulder and skillfully Avoids the question like a weaving curve ball displeases the striking blow of a bat.
Returning from another torturous baseball practice Tanner excitedly stormed threw the front door. Charging up the stairs and stuttering he sought me. Ping-ponging down the hall and poking his head in each room he repeatedly called my name. Hearing my name echo throughout the house I followed the verbal vibrations. Worried something was amiss I rushed to him. seeing me, his exacerbated sputtering became increasingly incoherent. numberless vowels and consonants fought for the right to burst into words. Kneeling down I moved my hands across his shoulders. Then warmly smiling I suggested that he relax. Taking in a deep settling Breath he somewhat regained his fleeting composure. After Checking his emotions and deciphering their verbal encryption he began to decode the perplexing word puzzle. Slowly exhaling he spoke in a forced and deliberate tone.
John it seemed, warn down by tanners pestering persistence was considering using him as a relief pitcher in an upcoming game. After a long seasons of ups and downs this game, the last would also sadly bring the season to an abrupt end. Joining Tanner in his stammering exacerbations, I withdrew my cell phone intent on calling the coach. My fingers betrayed my excitement, vibrating like a jackhammer they danced around the key pad. Raising the phone to my ear it began to ring signally the third attempt to dial had been successful.
Overflowing with anxious anticipation, each agonizing ring smothered my evaporating patience. Restless, I began to rhythmically pace, though annoyed by the steady note less tone. Tanner still trembling with boyish excitement intently watched my awkward ballet. An emerging toothy grin pealed back and threatened to avulse his thin lips.
Hearing a cheery voice bid me greetings Mercifully deflated my ballooning angst. John constantly exudes utmost enthusiasm. And Proving my point almost ran me over with his upbeat tone. As usual he was exploiting this sunny disposition to try and suck me into his positive perception of the world.
Having seized my attention he Hastily repeated what Tanner had labored to relay. Stopping mid sentence, he paused shortly, as if second thoughts captured his words. The brutal image of wayward baseballs peppering unwary batters may have been dancing in his head.
Moving forward again with his sentence, he quizzed me about Tanners readiness. In replying, I painted an optimistic picture of tanner’s progress. Then leaving space for the nagging doubt still lingering in my mind. I Finishing my appraisal by expressing concern about breaking his burgeoning confidence.
In my subconscious, in the tiny space that i secretly stuff all unwanted remembrances, one slyly escaped. Cruelly Replaying itself center stage, The vexing image was all to clear. Last season after skillfully wearing down his coaches resistance with a well rehearsed con-job. He convinced the skeptical coach into letting him throw one inning of baseball.
One inning, three outs, how bad could it be. Bad, proving he was far better at sweet-talking than pitching Tanner shockingly hit three of the first five batters he faced.
The painful image of naive batters grimacing with pain and surprise has faded over time. The unforgiving looks of incredulity and disgust sewn on the puckered faces of opposing coaches and parents, I may never forget. Those severe stares quickly buried Tanner in a grave of uncertainty.
Distressed and apologetic John rushed to the mound. Tanner teary eyed and red faced shook like a wet dog. John knelt in front of my setting son, his eyes also welling with tears. As much as he cared for my young man he had no choice. Amid a swelling chorus of cat calls and worse John stretched out a quivering palm and retrieved the game ball from Tanner. devoured by his crushing failure Tanners confidence straightly crashed.
Having accomplished its design the troubling recollection vanished. John sensing my haunted apprehension reminded me again, it was my call. My insides squirming as fading hope and rising fear battled within. I love my children more than my own life and when they hurt, I am also pained. Because of Tanners many challenges I anguished over this decision. The bright hope of Spring seemed to wane. With summers scorching heat my confidence had wilted. After a brief pause I asked John for a few days to ponder before announcing my verdict.
Chapter 8
Chapter 8
A piercing sting in my palm sent shivers up my spine. Another fastball had speedily arrived on time and on target. Religiously, We had been tossing this hide-surrounded orb back and forth for over a month. Up until now, it looked certain that Tanners dream of actually pitching tittered perilously close to extinction. With each wayward throw I Painfully watched his confidence drain. He became very exasperated and littered the air with verbal venting. Leaning over the makeshift home plate i pretended to flick at a light coating of reddish dirt. I hoped to stall Tanner and force him to recoil his vexing gyrations. Earnestly I prayed growing pessimism would not blur his tenuous goals. I had hoped something would happen, something to inspire his failing will, something to make him reach further, dig deeper and try harder. Without a miracle, It seemed fragile hope would die a slow agonizing death and decaying it would rot like smoldering trash.
But now studying his gleaming blue eyes, he seemed reborn as if he had finally begun to slay the demons that help him hostage. I sensed the twin perfect pitches had buoyed him greatly, rejuvenating his deteriorating spirit. Though a pair of unexpected strikes meant little in terms of achieving actual flawlessness. Yet, instincts breathed that indeed something inside tanner subtlety changed. And though it was a small thing, He no longer appeared so desperately disheartened. For the first time hope swelled within me. I had resisted its tender whispers. Hiding within, I cradled my heart with a veil of protection. Now Crouching over the tattered base carefully studying Tanners changed demeanor I Felt genuinely blessed. I knew not whether it was Gods answer to my silent prayers or Tanners dogged determination. Yet In that dusty weed strewn vacant lot He budded and began to bloom.
A piercing sting in my palm sent shivers up my spine. Another fastball had speedily arrived on time and on target. Religiously, We had been tossing this hide-surrounded orb back and forth for over a month. Up until now, it looked certain that Tanners dream of actually pitching tittered perilously close to extinction. With each wayward throw I Painfully watched his confidence drain. He became very exasperated and littered the air with verbal venting. Leaning over the makeshift home plate i pretended to flick at a light coating of reddish dirt. I hoped to stall Tanner and force him to recoil his vexing gyrations. Earnestly I prayed growing pessimism would not blur his tenuous goals. I had hoped something would happen, something to inspire his failing will, something to make him reach further, dig deeper and try harder. Without a miracle, It seemed fragile hope would die a slow agonizing death and decaying it would rot like smoldering trash.
But now studying his gleaming blue eyes, he seemed reborn as if he had finally begun to slay the demons that help him hostage. I sensed the twin perfect pitches had buoyed him greatly, rejuvenating his deteriorating spirit. Though a pair of unexpected strikes meant little in terms of achieving actual flawlessness. Yet, instincts breathed that indeed something inside tanner subtlety changed. And though it was a small thing, He no longer appeared so desperately disheartened. For the first time hope swelled within me. I had resisted its tender whispers. Hiding within, I cradled my heart with a veil of protection. Now Crouching over the tattered base carefully studying Tanners changed demeanor I Felt genuinely blessed. I knew not whether it was Gods answer to my silent prayers or Tanners dogged determination. Yet In that dusty weed strewn vacant lot He budded and began to bloom.
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