The Batter Swings…

Greetings Dear Reader,

I attended my last baseball game of the season last night.  I had hoped to see my beloved Braves whilst they were in Milwaukee during September but other constraints will prohibit this.  Still last night was a perfect night for baseball.  The breeze was light, the temperature cool, and the humidity tolerable. 

The hotdogs, chips, and soda were perfect.  The Mallards won and there were some amazing plays.  Via my smart phone I also watched the Braves with their fourth in a row.  I got to thank the staff at the park who have been so good to us all summer.  Mallards’ baseball has provided me with some great memories this summer. 

Last night it reminded me of the lessons that it has taught me all my life.  I felt the primary emotion that baseball has always instilled in me…Hope.  To celebrate, here is an excerpt from my book Sheetrock.

Late Night Radio

Sometimes magic and peace is carried on the air.  I have mentioned, and will probably mention again the torpid nature of summer nights in Georgia.  Should you grow weary of my bringing it up, you may assume that I am unbalanced from the insufferable southern heat.  This is one of the reasons I live in the northern Midwest.  People here complain about the heat as if it were real while I step out into the sixty degree August nights with excitement.  The folks around here think I am nuts too.  Two different regions of a rather large country can’t be all wrong.

August 1969 settled in with a thickly quilted blanket of humidity that threatened to smother us all in our sleep.  Our two story Victorian house stood on a street where breezes had been outlawed and intense heat was a welcome inveterate intruder.  Air conditioning was something rich people had and the single oscillating fan we owned was in the feral custody of my mother and sister.  An attempt to cool myself on the kitchen floor resulted in feeling glued to the linoleum by my own sweat and a scolding for getting the floor dirty.  To this day I cannot abide my bare skin on linoleum. 

My only partial refuge from the heat is the massive upstairs screened-in porch.  Lying on, not in, my sleeping bag allows me to catch the breezes that dare violate the aforementioned prohibition.  Sitting next to me at just the correct angle for the best signal is my small Dino® transistor radio from the Sinclair Oil Company; a gift from my Grandfather.  The Atlanta skyline is much less than in later years and on clear nights like this one, I can see the blue saucer of the Polaris room and the gold capitol dome.  I know that just beyond that dome lay my one true Mecca. 

Much is happening in the world on August 15, 1969.  Just south of Cuba a tropical depression, the third of the season, receives the notable name, Camille.  Some young adults are gathering a hundred miles north of New York City in Max Yeager’s pasture for some outdoor music and art.  The Beatles finish the final recording session for a record at Abby Road studios.   

None of these events matter to me.  My Grandfather has recently passed away and in its infinite wisdom, NBC sees fit to cancel Star Trek.  My sister’s cat ate my canaries the previous week.  Only one true joy remains in my life and it lies just beyond the capitol dome.  Royalty is in residence at the Chop Shop and they are winning more games than they are losing.  Milo Hamilton [1] and Ernie Johnson speak in hushed tones of a possible pennant.  The Saint Louis Cardinals are in town and a win could put the Braves in first place.  Ron Reed is pitching and pitching well.

In the bottom the third inning, the prankish gods of electricity play their first ill-timed joke of the evening.  A passing plane causes static and I miss the smooth call of Milo Hamilton intoning, “Going, going, gone,” as Tony Gonzalez slams a two run homer and the Braves take an early lead.  There is no instant replay, no slow motion, just the fading ethereal voice of a score missed by a lone porch bound boy.

It is 1969 and some things are acutely true.  AM radio is not ever clear on small transistor radios.  There are only about a thousand 7-Eleven Stores® in the entire country and none of them are near my home.  Every commercial everywhere explains that alkaline batteries last five to seven times longer than regular batteries.  Alkaline batteries cost more than regular ones so my mom never buys them.  Regular batteries die in the top of the eighth inning just as the Cardinals score two runs to chip away at the Braves’ eight-run lead.

I know the crackling sound too well.  Ernie Johnson intones, “Cardinals score!”  Then there is the silence.  I listen hopefully for the promising second crackle that signifies a passing plane, a meteorological anomaly, or an invisible radio imp bent on keeping me from hearing the baseball game.  Only silence follows. 

Immediately my mind reaches for the impossible.  I shake the radio, hold it to my ear, and turn the volume up full blast.  The silence remains.  I pull out the battery and reseat it. [2]   Only silence is consistent.  There must be a living battery somewhere in the house.

Careful to avoid interrupting my mother, I walk quickly behind the couch.  If I break the hypnotic gaze between her and the television, it will only trigger time-consuming questions resulting in completely useless advice and somehow the dead battery being my fault.  After clearing the living room, I accelerate to warp six.  Rushing into the kitchen, I yank open the utility drawer, searching frantically for another 9-volt battery.  I only find screwdrivers, a lone D cell, some odd screws, and three cockroaches.

Even my own mind is set against me as it ponders the possibility of getting electricity from cockroaches.  I waste desperate seconds wondering if I could build a small treadmill for them to run on and power a generator.  The less creative more practical part of my brain kicks the day dreaming creative part in the butt to get me moving on task again. 

Desperate, knowing that the Braves eagerly await the return of my listening ears I scramble to my room.  Several of my toys take 9-volt batteries.  The ray gun is dead.  The fire spark breathing Godzilla is spark-less.  On the shelf above my bed is the small flashlight I use for reading at night.  It uses a 9-volt battery.  I pry it open and the battery is gone.  I am sure my sister took it for one of her stupid dolls.  I vow to deal with her later.

The search for batteries becomes hopeless so I sneak into my mother’s room to use her clock radio.  This is one of the deadly trespasses.  In her mind, my use of the clock radio can only end in it being damaged and unusable.  It is never on.  She does not even use it as an alarm clock.  I turn the volume all the way down and turn on the radio.  Tuning to the approximate location of WSB radio station, I settle quietly on the bed.  Inching the volume up, I only allow enough so that I can make out the announcers.  During my search for power, the Braves have come to bat.  Even without me there to support them, they have only allowed two runs.  The team, obviously the victim of some unfair practices by the Cardinals, goes down quickly in the bottom of the eighth. 

As is his custom, Milo Hamilton intones the spell that assures victory.  At the close of every eighth inning of every home game where the Braves lead, he chants the incantation destined to invoke success, “and now it’s Hold ’em Braves.”

The spell works.  The Braves hold the lead and win, catapulting them into the division lead.  I quietly turn the radio back to my mother’s favorite unused station.  Switching it off and smoothing the bed covers, I make my way to the kitchen for a celebratory glass of iced tea. 

After washing, drying, and putting away my tea glass, I walk out to the porch.  The Braves are, for the moment in first place.  Somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico, a tropical storm will turn into one of the most devastating hurricanes in history.  In Woodstock and on Abby Road, music will change the lives of an entire generation.  The country is in turmoil and in peril.  On the upper porch of an old Victorian home on one of the few cobblestone streets left in Atlanta, a young boy lays down on his red, white, and blue sleeping bag.  Whispering silently to the night sky he drifts toward sleep feeling the first breezes of an approaching thunderstorm.  The last thing he says before the dream cobwebs claim him is to his recently departed Grandfather.  “We got ‘em this time Sam.  We got ‘em this time.

1 Milo Hamilton may be one of the finest sports casters ever to offer play by play over the airwaves.  A knowledgeable gentleman, he never slams the other team or participates in negative speculation about the Braves when they slumped.  He and Ernie Johnson consistently spoke of baseball with reverence and scholarship but kept it at a level that young boys could appreciate and respect.  At the time of this writing both of these fine men still work in the broadcast booth making baseball a better place for all of us.  Milo, you taught me how to disagree politely and speak statistics with vivid color.  Ernie, you are the epitome of a Southern gentleman.  You both made the ninth year of my life more bearable.  Thanks!

2 For those of you who find yourself in the position of desperately needing a few more minutes of battery time with alkaline batteries, here is a handy trick.  Bang them on something.  Take them out of the radio, flashlight, or whatever and bang them on something.  Most to the time, depending on how much juice the device draws you can get more use from the batteries. I did not know this at age nine.  Remember that this suggestion is not a guarantee and only for emergencies like listening to baseball games or reading under the covers after bedtime.  It is not for ones like getting lost in caves.  If you are planning to get lost in a cave, take lots of extra batteries and a carbide lantern or two (if you do not know what a carbide lantern is, look it up, they are cool), some beef jerky, an apple or two, and a couple of bottles of water.  

* * * * * 

I cannot say where I am but as the batter swings and summer flies, I remember that my Grandfather taught me that baseball is all about hope.  Even in the darkest days of the Braves’ losing seasons, he remained a loyal fan.  Eventually I will run out of summers but until I do there is always hope.

Wishing you joy in the journey,

Aramis Thorn

Mat 13:52 So Jesus said to them, "That is why every writer who has become a disciple of Christ’s rule of the universe is like a home owner. He liberally hands out new and old things from his great treasure store."