Chapter 14

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.