“Wanna Play Catch…”

It was 1978, ’79 or… 

…maybe early 1980. 

I forget but it doesn’t really matter none, maybe a little, you judge. 

Changed my career path, some of my life, hurt then, hurts now, will hurt tomorrow too. 

That’s life, shit happens, the smell lingers, you deal. 

Enough of that, comes know the story of Michael and his wife, Elizabeth… 

…and a game of catch. 

Buffalo, NY, a tree lined street with a sort of park running down the middle of it, hard to explain but it was an old school boulevard kind of street. 

Cars could only go one way, the “odd” side of the street could only go North, the “even” side, only South. 

Only those who didn’t live on the street complained, the residents though protected their Boulevard as it was a friend. 

Children played on the grass, with chalk they laid out hopscotch games, scribbled who loved who, hearts drawn in white, yellow, blue only to be washed away in the rain but… 

…always drawn again. 

I have always believed it was chalk on the sidewalk that taught young kids about life to come. 

And that the rain were tears. 

The street was lined with homes built in the late 1890’s or early 1900’s, most of the homes were of the two family variety, one family lived on the first floor, another family above them on the second floor. 

Second floor families got a porch that usually came with a bright green fabric awning like thing that covered the entire area. 

Walk down the street during summer you would hear WKBW radio playing hit songs of the day or some baseball game, Yankee’s usually, Red Sox sometimes, or just family talk interspersed with the pop of a beer can opening.  Nothing fancy a six-pack of Genny Cream or Bud. 

3rd Floor Walkup

They were the bookends of the street. 

Two on each corner. 

Eight in all. 

3rd floor walkups. 

Two bedrooms in the back of each apartment, one bathroom, a small dining room, small kitchen with gas stove, large living room up front. 

Fancy stairwell with curved wood rails, in wall globe lights (used to run on gas) on each landing, 48 stairsteps from top to bottom. 

Built year in dispute, 1890’s maybe, earlier in doubt, 1900-1910 more probable. 

Basement carved out of stone, small garden in the backyard, wrought iron bench to sit on, bird bath always filled with water. 

First floor:  Newly married, baby on the way, discussions about moving to the suburbs. 

Second Floor: Music Professor at Buffalo State University, weekend gigs at bars around town, 10 years on the 2nd floor, thinking of moving down to the 1st floor if the young couple move out. 

Third Floor:  Michael & Elizabeth and a cat named Riley.  Michael, retired fireman, born in Hamburg, NY June 15th, 1910, Elizabeth, retired nurse, born in Kenmore NY, April 19th, 1912. 

Both on Social Security, pensions and investments which includes the building they live in.  “I pinch pennies and Michael, he just pinches me,” Elizabeth. 

We are sitting at a yellow flowered metal table in their kitchen.  Elizabeth is pouring us all a cup of tea.  She gently puts it down on the cloth placemat in front of me, then she slides her chair closer to Michael, puts the teacup in his right hand and gently helps him lift the cup to his lips. 

“There you go Mike, there you go not hot now, sip.” 

And then she looks at me, her hand shaking as she lowers the teacup, she looks at me and starts to say something when suddenly Michael turns toward me, a shaking hand lands on my arm and as I turn to look at him, I suddenly hear him say: “Wanna play Catch…” 

Slowly, gently, his shaking hand push something across the table towards me and when I look down, I see an old baseball glove coming my way and faintly written on the leather thumb is this “mike.” 

“You wanna play catch…Mr.” 

And when I look across at Elizabeth, I see a tear drop into her cup of tea… 

db

“Well, I'm here to tell you now each and every mother's son
You better learn it fast, you better learn it young
'Cause someday never comes.”

Someday Never Comes

CCR

Back this story up some. 

Forgive my memory, forgive some of the facts, it was after all 4 decades or so ago. 

I was a 28 year old college kid, I was on path to a degree in Gerontology, even though I couldn’t seem to spell the major right. 

From what I remembered one course had us go out in the field and check up on elderly folks who were in the system, whatever system that might have been. 

Michael and Elizabeth were my third stop that day. 

It was a Friday, my plan was to do the interview, look around, burn some time up then drive down Elmwood Ave to the “New” WKBW-TV studio/building and pick up my wife, Barb and hit a couple of happy hours, Wendy’s or La Nova pizza picked up for late dinner on the way home. 

It never came to that. 

Sitting in a very clean kitchen at a very clean 1950’s yellow metal table, seat tops in matching colors, perc-coffee pot like thing perc-ing, that I could take but… 

…a gentle lady about the same age as Tess my beloved grandmother, sat across from me crying, where the hell was that in my Gerontology study guide. 

Trust me, the experts who wrote it forgot to mention this. 

For five minutes or so I just kept scanning the “observation” papers I had in a three ring binder… 

…looking for something, anything, tell me what to say… 

…the experts crapped out on me, dumb ass book… 

…Elizabeth though did not… 

…Elizabeth reached across the table, put her hand on mine and said this, said EXACTLY this, “It’s okay, it’s okay, it will be alright.” 

But it never did. 

Never fu*king did… 

…be alright. 

MICHAEL

‘Don, your name is Don right.” 

I shook my head yes. 

“Do you want to know about my Mike.” 

I wanted to leave, I wanted to run, I wanted to puke but as I looked to my left side… 

…there was Michael smiling at me… 

…hand still on the baseball glove… 

…still waiting for me to play catch with him. 

“My Mike, you know, was a fireman.” 

At the word “Fireman” her Mike smiled. 

“My Mike saved people, that’s why he joined up, to save people.” 

I wasn’t medically trained but I knew this, didn’t think anyone will be able to save her Mike. 

Suddenly a bell, a tiny sounding bell rang, Elizabeth stood up, went over to a tiny hook took the apron off it and slid it over her head, somehow tied it in the back and walked over to the old gas stove. 

Next to me her Mike smiled. 

“Hope you like homemade chocolate chip cookies,” she said while pulling the baking pan out of the oven. 

Suddenly from behind me, “Yes Lizzie I love chocolate chip cookies.” 

And then, out of nowhere came this, “I hope you too like chocolate chip cookies… 

…Don.” 

And the baseball glove with Mike written on it got pushed a little bit closer to me. 

“After cookies, wanna play catch Don.” 

Over at the stove Michael’s Lizzie…smiled… 

…and handed me a cookie. 

db

Catch

Between dreams, and real life, there is baseball. 

It is the sport of memories both on the field… 

…and in the seats. 

I’m not a huge fan of the game, wouldn’t be a fan at all except for one thing… 

…my father’s cologne… 

…the feel of his large hand holding my tiny hand… 

…popcorn… 

…and the sound of bat on ball and… 

…the unmistakable chorus of the fans rising to watch the arc of the ball and… 

…simply the sweetest sound of leather on leather of… 

…the catch. 

Elizabeth

There are no cookies, chocolate chip or otherwise. 

No coffee on the stove, no bowl of hard candy next to the rocking chair. 

Rewind here a couple weeks back, here goes: 

“Mike, I have to pick up my wife at work but I promise, PROMISE I’ll come back and we can play catch.” 

And then I gently move his baseball mitt across the table and back to him. 

“Promise.” 

“Yes.” 

“Ok good, Lizzie can I have another cookie…please.” 

Back to the present. 

“It’s okay Don, it’s okay.” 

But it wasn’t, okay, not even close, cookies or not. 

With school, life, family and other stuff it took me three weeks, three Fridays to get back to Mike and our promised game of catch. 

A week and a half after I left on that Friday, Mike passed. 

(40 some years later I still have to take a break after typing that above sentence, truth) 

And sitting on the table between me and Elizabeth… 

…is Mike’s baseball mitt. 

I can’t touch it, I can barely look at it. 

On the countertop next to the breadbox sits one sympathy card. 

I am not here on some sort of social services prying mission, I am not here because it is near the end of the semester and I need to pad a grade, I am simply here to… 

…play catch… 

…with Mike. 

And he is dead. 

“We were married young, you know Don.” 

I didn’t, to be honest I didn’t answer ¾’s of the questions the social service people wanted me to ask, I thought it was more snooping than science. 

I was supposed to look in the cupboards, I didn’t. 

I looked at Elizabeth and Michael and they looked pretty nourished to me. 

I was supposed to pay attention to their verbal skills…I didn’t since we talked and laughed thru the whole hour. 

Their surroundings is their surroundings, quit being noisy. 

I was there on my own, no pen, no forms, no judgement…just me…and my baseball mitt. 

The week before I had met with my “Guidance” counselor at UB and quit all things “Social.” 

Transferred into the film program at the school, Media Studies…major Documentary Scriptwriting/Filmmaking. 

When asked why the change I told the lady, “Pictures are worth a thousand words, Social Services only gave me 120.  I’ll do my report with a lens.” 

I didn’t ask how Mike passed, exactly how do you do that face to face with his widow… 

…huh. 

How the hell do you think she is doing. 

“We voted together in 13 Presidential elections you know, Don.” 

I did not. 

That question wasn’t on the list. 

“He,” and she laughed, “was a Mets fan, me I’m a Yankee gal all the way.” 

Didn’t know, not on the question list. 

“I prefer cats, he preferred dogs so we got one of each several times over the years.” 

Nope. 

“He smoked, I didn’t, he liked “his” beer, I liked my wine.  We never drank to much, just right we used to say, we drank just right, even clicked beer glass to wine glass and…”

Then the sobbing came. 

Large scale reality is nebulous at best, memories of clinking a wine and beer glass, that is human core stuff, that shakes the stuff you are made of no matter what kind of stuff you happen to be. 

I got up from the kitchen table chair and hugged an old woman I had only met three times… 

…we both cried.

“Would you like a cookie, you know for the road…” 

I had been handed a fancy napkin to wipe my tears away, “No thank you, I’m good…” but in fact I wasn’t… 

…good….

“I’ll walk you out Don, need the exercise and fresh air.” 

And so in single file we walked down the ornate staircase, I was first in case Elizabeth tripped, at least I could ease the fall. 

Finally in the vestibule we hugged and then… 

“Here Don, we have no next of kin, you take this, my Mike would like you to have it…” 

And from out of a pocket of her apron she handed me the baseball that was in Mike’s baseball glove. 

It was old. 

It was dirty. 

It was Mike’s. 

I thought of trying to give it back but I knew she wouldn’t take it… 

…and so I did take it… 

…it is in fact the baseball in the photograph. 

Mike’s baseball.

Then, “…from now on please just call me… 

…Lizzie.” 

I promised I would, but never had the chance… 

…Lizzie died during my senior year. 

I like to think that wherever they are now, they are together… 

…and they are eating baked cookies… 

…and that Lizzie says yes when… 

…Mike asks… 

…simply… 

…Lizzie do you… 

…Wanna Play Catch. 

db

Epilouge

Most of this story is TRUE. 

There was a Michael and Elizabeth, but not with those names, my internal respect dictates I give them their true privacy. 

I have quoted them to the VERY BEST of my memory…but our meeting was decades ago and currently when writing this I can’t actually remember what day this is. 

There ya go.

So why did I write this, a complicated simple reason: 

Tomorrow isn’t a given, even less likely next week, next year, blah blah blah… 

Now matters. 

Today, matters. 

Quite putting shit off especially with family and loved ones. 

Forget all the political stuff happening, politicians don’t give a rat’s ass about you, only…ONLY your family and friends do. 

Embrace those you love, those you like, and possibly a couple of relatives or neighbors. 

The more love you give the more love you get. 

Make time for love, make time for being there, make time for listening, make time for your legacy. 

Be kind even to those who are not kind to you.   

To all the married folks, make time for each other. 

Laugh together and cry together. 

Dance in the moonlight to music only you folks hear. 

And remember no matter how long, or short you have been married it doesn’t hurt to ask each other this… 

…Wanna Play Catch. 

There are fairy tales, and there are truths… 

…and in between there is baseball. 

db