Jimmy Baseball — Chapter 8

The legend of a Little League phenom

8.

We gathered as a team at the funeral home. Not exactly, sitting with our families instead of a designated Astros section, as we did in the dugouts during the baseball season. Most of our guys showed up and filtered into the parlor. Ducky, Eddie, and Mike were there too, of course. All our crew cuts grown up and filled out.

Mr. Velez walked Oscar through the room and sought out Mr. Burns and Eric. Brendan Logan and his father sat with Bryan and Mr. Flynn. We were young guys, but still kids, and we all felt it. Caught in that grey area of boys to men in a place we hardly knew about before tonight.

I wondered if the fellas shared the mixed emotions I did. Sadness over Jimmy, but overwhelmed with joy and relief to be alive. And I’d never find out since we’d never talk about it. The things we all left behind as kids that day and forced to handle as men, even if we didn’t feel like adults nor wanted to become grownups.

The Fister’s were taking Jimmy home for the burial. He was headed towards the heartland on his way to heaven. The same kid that used to wear his baseball uniform to bed. Jimmy Baseball. He looked all asleep in that nest of flowers at the head of the room.

It’s funny how your mind works at times like this. You begin to wonder why people die in the first place. Strangers listed in the obituaries of the newspaper and old folks like your grampa. Even kids, like Jimmy Fister. Life is so wonderful — why can’t we just stay and live all the time?

Why even bother granting life if someday it’s all going to end? Giving to take away continued to baffle me, even when Father Tom spoke about the magic, mystery, and promise of heaven.

Coach Banta walked into the room in a dress shirt and tie. Over his shirt were a sports jacket and slacks. He looked more like a professor than a bookie and a baseball coach.

You could tell Banta was busted up over this nightmare, and as always, I watched him closely. After saying his regards to the Fisters, he visited Jimmy. He knelt down beside his long-lost catcher and cleanup hitter. Banta pushed himself from Jimmy, said something to the Fisters, then searched out a corner. Standing by himself, he removed his glasses and patted his eyes with a handkerchief.

My parents told me it was time to say goodbye and brought me back towards the casket. I kneeled down and shut my eyes. I wished for those things I dreamed about on the bus ride over to the hospital.

I told Jimmy that I loved him and was proud to be his friend and teammate. The brother I never had and promised I would never forget him.

In between the funeral and the World Series, the Fisters packed their things and left Maple Valley for good. Jimmy’s dad remained to wrap up his contract with the chemical company.

From what I understood, he’d come to the house now and then to get stuff. Since Mr. Fister worked late, he bunked in a hotel by the office and who could blame him? Who’d wanna be in that big, lonely, and cursed house? A moving truck rolled up one morning, and that was the last we ever heard of them.

I’d often detour on my bike, just to pass their house. A new family moved in, and over time you realize things have changed forever and were never coming back. I decided to finally put it to rest for good, breaking out this idea about the Fister’s old house.

I pulled up on my bike, tilting the Huffy towards the lip of the driveway. Once my front wheel kissed the curb, I stopped to stare into the house. My last visit ever and I needed it to count. At thirteen, I wasn’t sure what closure meant, but here we were. It all felt right and what the moment needed.

I didn’t know I risked freaking out the new family as I staked out their digs. I began to look at the house and recall the fun moments, only months old but already long gone.

The front porch where we shared laughs, and the upstairs window of his bedroom with all his baseball posters, pennants, and bedspread with every major league logo. The backyard, where we tossed catch and played, fetch with Banjo, Jimmy’s Beagle puppy.

I closed my eyes, yearning to hear him speak and giggle. To also transcend and tell me everything’s okay and not be so sad. Not some half-baked seance. Rather, a form of connection that I could read, sort things out, and carry on.

“They moved,” a woman’s voice called out. I turned to see Mrs. Piper and her ratty dog materialize. Dumbfounded, I watched Mrs. Piper roll into focus like the villain from a grindhouse film. The facial language she gave back, loaded with total contempt, struck me like a backhand.

“I know,” I said, still caught in the rapids of the haze.

“Then why are you here?” Mrs. Piper asked.

“I feel like it,” I said, still a bit groggy.

“Do you always talk back to your elders? I ought to call your parents,” she said.

“Go ahead,” I told her.

“When you speak to me young man, you address me the proper way. As Mrs. Piper. Are we clear about that?” she said.

“If you say so,” I told her. I shrugged my shoulders and readied myself for liftoff.

“Well, I never…” Mrs. Piper said, acting all perturbed, as only Mrs. Piper could. She stepped forward and glared at me as if there was something left to do. What it was, beat me. And the way Mrs. Piper hawked over me, like she bought the sidewalk, and demanded I leave this nook of town at once.

“What the heck’s your problem, lady?” I asked. There was a weird pause as we stared. I could tell my comeback boiled her ass, and she looked ripe and ready to toss her own counter punch.

“Now you get off that bike, and come over here right this instant and apologize,” Mrs. Piper said.

A stern voice with the volume raised just a clip, all in control. Her posture, pitch, and tone indicated I wouldn’t be allowed to leave until I did as told. I didn’t know what words or thoughts to use. Everything went white noise, wishing I could pull a secret lever and get me out of this jam.

Pissed to hell, I backed up the bike to wheel off and be gone. The old hag steamed, still waiting for the gold-star treatment. Flustered, I wished I was older and smarter. This didn’t seem right. Matter of fact, it felt very wrong and out of whack. I jimmied the Huffy and tried to pedal off. Tried.

When I hit the street, I slowed down and glided through a lazy eight. I riffed a sudden jolt of liberty, free from Mrs. Piper and her toxic gravity. Something mysterious and all-powerful, that I had never experienced before. And it felt great. A sudden urge to flap my arms like a big happy bird, and voyage into forever.

“Hey Mrs. Piper, did you say somethin’?” I called out as I looped around. I’m not trespassing — I’m grooving! And I’m not goin’ anywhere until I feel like it! Mrs. Piper didn’t own the block, and she didn’t respond either. Instead, her and that muskrat of a dog, waiting for the kid on the bike to prep his latest stunt.

Once I rolled through and straightened out, I buzzed right up to Queen Hemroid. The bicycle, balance, and timing all kosher, I dipped the Huffy and flashed her my middle finger.

“Suck this bone lady,” I said. The dog yipped, I smiled, and Mrs. Piper looked mortified. I swiveled the bicycle back toward the street and raced home.

Later that evening, Mrs. Piper called the house to rat me out. When I answered the phone, her snobby voice gave me chills.

“This is Mrs. Piper. I want to talk to Sandra. Is she there?” she said.

“Why do you get to call everybody by their first name, and the whole freakin’ town has to call you Mrs. Piper?” I asked.

“I want you to stop talking. Put down that phone right now and get your mother,” Mrs. Piper said.

“What is this about?” I asked.

“You know very well what this is about. Now get your mother before you have more trouble, buster.” Mrs. Piper said.

I put the phone down and turned to get Mom. This typhoon wouldn’t check off. Instead, I stopped and pressed the sayonara pin, disconnecting Mrs. Piper and her pompous attitude.

I ran towards Mom to give her my side of the violation before Mrs. Troublemaker redialed. I fessed up and told Mom I was guilty with an explanation. I added I was sorry, and it would never happen again. Ever.

Still, no idea what shit storm I drummed up. Flipping an elder the bird is a no-no. Even this witch for that matter. The cables juiced up and the phone rang.

“I’ll get it,” Mom said. Mom raised the horn and hitched it to her ear as Mrs. Piper returned from the ether. Mom’s eyes scanned me over as I heard a muffled voice babble through the receiver. I knew that look. I told Mom the truth and didn’t leave anything out, despite Mrs. Piper’s flurry.

Fink Lady droned on about the nation’s polluted youth and suggested boot camp before junior ends up in Boys’ Town. Mom told Mrs. Piper to stick her pitchfork somewhere else and blast off already.

“No, I don’t allow that Mrs. Piper, but Jerry told me what happened,” my mother said. Mom paused then continued, “And as far as an apology, you could forget it. It’s about time somebody stood up to you and that busy body mouth of yours. Don’t ever call this house again, unless it’s an absolute emergency,” Mom said.

I glowed while Mom dished out the business. Dying to hear Mrs. Piper’s comeback, I asked as she rested the phone.

“Nothing. She hung up,” Mom said while shaking her head and rolling her eyes as if the episode was plucked from a sitcom sketch.

Have to admit, Mom slugged that one into the stars. Not all gruff like Mrs. Kilroy back at the Maple Valley Pool, but she cleared the bases in my book.

I still caught the riot act with the high sign but wasn’t grounded or fined any allowance. We buried the incident and let it go. A handsome victory for the ages, in that autumn from hell.