A SPECIAL DAY
By Jeff S. Martindale
 

The season began on a warm April morning.  Imagine a dusty living room in a spacious old home in a rural Southern town.  Wood stacked next to a giant black stove blocking a dormant fireplace; a round table sandwiched by two wing-backed chairs sitting nearby. 

A man stood in the kitchen doorway.  He wore sandals with wool socks and a light windbreaker over a red polo shirt.  A tan beret perched atop his bald head.  He stood tall and distinguished, like a justice of the peace; but, due to the effects of advancing years, he moved deliberately.  His face was lively -- not unlike a child's, though wrinkled by age and too many days in the sun.  

"Hey, there," he bellowed, adjusting the hat on his head, "you ready?"
Aren't I always? I thought.

I knew my grandfather – I called him Papa – to be close-by as long as I could remember.  Only he and my grandmother inhabited the large house.  They slept in separate rooms, though they didn’t seem to mind.  They were each other's best friends.  She called him Dick.  My memory told me she always called him Dick, not his given name, probably since she was a child.

"I've been ready since before you got out of bed," he said, turning toward me with an obvious excitement in his eyes.  "I always get up before sunrise, but I guess you knew that.  Let's go.  We have a long drive ahead."

It always began the same way; the birth of a spring morning, and Papa, as though officially declaring the arrival of the season that replenished his energy and fueled the anticipation in his heart, declared, "It's baseball weather!  Let's get the car."

He retrieved the car, a monstrous black Cadillac with leather seats that stuck to the back of my legs.  He backed it into the yard, where he switched gears and followed the curving concrete driveway.  It followed a shallow ditch, where my brother and I once searched for frogs to tease Rags, their pet mutt and the best lap dog in three counties.  Rags barked at us now.

Almost an hour later we stood in the buffet line of a restaurant filling our plates with steaming eggs and biscuits.  Papa’s back hurt from sitting so long; he couldn’t drive long distances without pain – there was no short distance to get where we wanted to go – and he said he couldn’t wait until I got my driver’s license. Crunch! Pieces of over-cooked bacon fell in my lap and a yellow heap of scrambled eggs waited on the cheap china plate.  Papa ate very slowly, and now and then I wanted to speed him up, worried we'd be late to the game.  "Slow down now.  If you don't slow down, you'll get sick.  And there's hardly a place for that today."  

The dining room glowed in the morning sun.  Daylight turned the window into a prism: colorful rays mixed with the rising sun as we ate silently.  At last, when the sun rose over the horizon, we tossed down our napkins and, with satisfied sighs, got up from the table.  The restaurant was empty.  Our stomachs were full.

We discussed the day to come. I dreamed about this day all winter.  Eggs and bacon at sunrise, hot dogs and soda at the ball park, a scorecard to mark the occasion, hours alone with Papa. Why, we'd have so much fun you'd have to drag us home.

Now, with breakfast finished, we returned to the car, where a pair of winter gloves occupied his seat. Silently, lowering himself into the driver's seat, he took the gloves and fit them over his hands. They were rugged gloves, thick enough to numb a sensitive man's touch. No matter the temperature, Papa complained it was cold.  Last summer some relatives complained about the smothering heat in their house.  I remembered the sweat we wiped away!  Yet it didn’t bother Papa.  As we sat and cursed the weather, he sat unconcerned, as though cooled by an invisible wind. 

"I don't know what your complaining about," he said, "It's freezing in here.  Why, I just might have to start a fire."  
Papa loved to build fires.

Before the day could continue, the car needed gas.  Once Papa drove four hundred miles without filling up, a record for any car he owned, he said.  Not that I knew anything about gas mileage—it’s just that I'd listen to anything he had to say. At the moment, my hopes centered on the stadium four hours to our north with a seat waiting just for me.  To be honest, I really liked it when he stopped at gas stations because Papa let me pump the gas.  I would hold the pump like a gun until I knew it was just about to reach a whole number then release it right at double zero.  And he would give me a dollar before paying and say that I could spend it on whatever I wanted.  Three Musketeers bars were my favorite.

Papa always put some money aside to pay for our trip.  This cash he kept in plain view on top of his dresser next to the loose change and aftershave bottles.  He seldom moved the money from this seemingly unsafe location because, as was the case in many small towns, he never worried about it.  Papa had never locked his doors, nor did he intend to. He kept his car keys on the floorboard.  You'd think that one day he'd wake up and find a big empty spot in the carport but there had never been any surprises.  Yet.

Of the requirements that went into buying a tank of gas, high octane ranked first. Everyone knew you could buy high octane the cheapest at Buckshot's.  And that day, having finished our morning meal, we set out for Buckshot's, a gas station and convenience store near the river bridge.  I'd been there many times before, but in previous years our tradings had been with Buckshot's son, a lily-white man with bushy hair and a beer belly that seemed to defy gravity.  Actually, I'd never seen Buckshot, though Papa said he looked just like his son, only with a giant wad of tobacco in his cheek.  

They called him Buckshot because he hunted a lot, a man who never met a shotgun he didn't like.  Our pace slowed as we approached his establishment – a small boxy building adorned in and out with colorful auto racer flags and located by the levee under the shade of the river bridge where sunlight peeked through like a child's eye through a knothole.  People gathered at Buckshot's.  These assemblies happened day and night when the mind's clock said it was time to go.  Buckshot's was old but friendly.  I pushed open the door, and Papa, walking behind me, called, "Mornin', Buckshot."

My heart jumped a beat.  It was Mr. Buckshot himself! He was a giant, and he did have a wad of tobacco in his cheek.  He glared at me beneath bushy eyebrows and greeted us with a nod of his head.

For a moment I couldn’t breathe.  Papa continued never missing a beat:  "Need to fill 'er up.  Ten bucks worth."

Buckshot’s gaze penetrated more.  Then he smiled.  I couldn't believe it!  Buckshot smiled at me!  

"Which one of you is a baseball fan?"

Papa smiled.  I tried but couldn’t.

Buckshot frowned.  "That's no way to go to a baseball game."  He retreated into the shadows and reappeared seconds later carrying a bright red baseball cap.  He adjusted the fitting at the back and placed it on my head.  "Five dollars."

Papa paid him with a ten and a five.  Suddenly, as Buckshot studied the bills in his meaty hand, his face thawed.  "Tell ya what," he proposed, returning the five to Papa, "bring 'em a win and we'll call it even."

Papa insisted but Buckshot wouldn’t take his money.

The Cadillac, filled with fuel and new hope, purred like a friendly kitten.  The air conditioner whirred, for my benefit not his. A scented freshener sweetened the air. Anxious expectations occupied my thoughts.  In four hours we would reach our destination.  A baseball stadium, teeming with people, basking in the attention.

Why did we go there?

Tradition.  Not necessarily an original one: indeed, someone much smarter conceived the idea.  People the world over went to baseball games.  Like the President.  Like the preacher at my church – who talked about it in his sermon the Sunday before, and the kid who bagged groceries at the corner store. Baseball compelled people, complete strangers to one another, to converge at the cathedrals we call ballparks, or so we thought.  Also, the scorecards we kept from previous games, the souvenirs purchased from curbside stands, and the trading cards stained with bubble gum residue made me feel connected to a beautiful time beyond the man with his stories of a world so wonderful.

Now a spring rain fell against the windshield. Yesterday we watched the forecast; the weatherman promised a magnificent day. The sun disappeared. This rather upset me, but Papa insisted on optimism – drawing on sixty years of experience.  We looked so forward to attending the season’s first game; the thought of it evoked bright eyes and wide smiles.  So Papa began to whistle.  I recognized the tune.  And I could sing: that's what I liked to do, sing to his whistling.  My singing voice echoed through the car; our sounds clashed like thunder; he laughed.  Inside myself, I felt as warm and dry as the buffet bacon, bolstered like a strong hand beneath me. The fingers of his winter gloves gripped the steering wheel: Take me out to the ball game, he whistled, his sandals tapping the beat.  Take me out to the crowd.

I think about the trip from the previous season.  Then I think of my grandmother.  She is very angry.  A short woman with deep eyes, a raspy voice smoked by sixty years of cigarettes, and a tongue that wouldn’t stop.  "You gave him beer!  A ten-year old!  What were you thinking?  He's much too young!  His mother will be very upset!  What will I tell her?  No!  YOU tell her!  I can't tell her!"

Rags slithered under the table.  Papa stood stoically. He bit his lip. She smoked a cigarette and blew the smoke above her head.  Even after she went to sleep and the house fell silent except for the hum of the fan in her room, I lay awake worried that I got Papa in trouble for asking to sip his beer.

"Don't worry," he said, sitting in his winged-back chair.  "It's not your fault.  You're too young to understand."

"It is my fault," I said, "I am too young.  Maybe I shouldn't go anymore."

He sat forward in the chair.  Rags jumped on his lap – where he was always welcome – and he scratched her tummy.  "I'll make it up to you next year.  We'll go up for a weekend.  Two, no, three games.  I know where we'll stay.  Right next to the stadium.  In a room with a view of the field.  What do you say?  I know I can't wait till next year!"

Next year.  Fallen rain glistened on the sidewalk; the sun peeked from behind the clouds, warming the humid air.  A car horn called.  A souvenir vendor sold merchandise on a curb across the street.   Soon, by the entrance to the hotel, we gave up the car.  Papa walked first.  I followed, holding his hand.  A block more: I thought of cheering fans; of hot dogs that drip mustard on my scorecard; of a manicured field brilliant with green grass and pampered dirt.  Here, there, a camera flashed, a child smiled, a reunion of strangers reminded me that spring had arrived.  Always, the path led me to this place.  Another lane to cross: a hurried commuter sped past us; traffic police controlled the crowds.  On the far curb, a father took a picture of his son.  Papa saw them, too.  He squeezed my hand tighter as he took a deep draw of the spring air.  "Almost there," he said, as though he needed to say it.

Scents of hot dogs, foot-long and juicy, filled the air.  Red hats covered every head; eager fans descended to the field, hoping to gather a signature or two.  Having filled our hands with enough food and drink to satisfy us, we searched for our seats.  "They should be good ones," said Papa.  "Real close to the field.  So a boy can catch a ball."  Our seats were twice as good as I expected.  I saw my hero, standing at the plate. He hit the ball with a distinctive crack of the bat.  Every few seconds I had to catch my breath, realizing that we finally made it.  But I knew that the moment was fleeting; Papa’s advancing age cautioned me.  Many memories would be made before the lonely highways led us home; and I am understating when I praise the man who taught me about the game we loved.  

"Where do ya come from?" asked the usher, leading us to our seats, his mid-western accent so thick you could cut it with a knife.

"Tennessee," Papa said proudly.

A vendor stopped by.  He leaned down and pitched, "I have souvenir baseballs.  Signed by the team.  Only ten bucks."  Ordinarily Papa was tight with his money, but this time he promptly retrieved his wallet and purchased the ball.

"Here you go," he said, placing the ball in my hands.  I thanked him.

He smiled.