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.
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."
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