[Tib]

Wooden Bats and Old Ballplayers

The drive to Savannah was almost entirely in the rain, but I wasn’t in any kind of hurry, so it was actually relaxing. It gave me time to think about Hal, about his letter, and about Cliff. He and I still spoke on the phone about once a month, but that was far less than it used to be. The demands on my time had increased since leaving Kansas City, what with two kids, local investments, and several new endorsement deals, it seemed like all my free time was taken up by appearances and meetings of one kind or another.

The clouds had parted and the sky was clear by the time I pulled into the parking lot of the large, white, three-story apartment-style building that was the Oakdale Care Community, Cliff’s retirement facility. I prepared myself for what I might see. Cliff’s health had gone through some trying times since I left Hinesville. He had been hospitalized more than once with respiratory distress. He had diabetes, too. Eventually, the costs of medical care and hospitalizations led him to sell his home in Hinesville and move to Oakdale where he could receive 24-hour care. He was resistant from the outset, preferring to live alone on his own terms rather than with dozens of other seniors in a home with rules he didn’t make. But he was not healthy, and my old landlady, Miss Draper, had finally made him see that. It took her about a year to do it, which tells you how stubborn Cliff could be.

But I also saw his side of things. This kind of change, prompted by the requirements associated with declining health, was not a voluntary one. And, who, in the twilight of their lives, wants to follow someone else’s rules? But he always seemed in good spirits when I spoke to him. He liked talking baseball, especially Atlanta Generals baseball, but he also knew exactly what was going on with the Comanches, too. I wondered if he talked baseball with anyone at the home. I took a care package out of the trunk and entered the clean, bright reception area. The girl at the counter told me Cliff was expecting me and was waiting in the inner garden. I went down a tiled hallway, followed the signs, pushed open a glass door, and entered the shadowed chill of an interior courtyard surrounded by glass walls like a huge terrarium. Cliff sat near a small stone fountain, lit by a wide ray of sunshine; the only warmth.

He was in a wheelchair now. That was the first thing I noticed. And he was much thinner. I knew he was at a healthier weight now, but it was a small shock to see him like that. My memories of him did not contain any images like this. Ironically, he almost looked unhealthy. A heavy wool coat covered him from neck to toe. He had tubes in his nostrils which looped around his ears and traveled down into a small oxygen tank attached to the chair. An Atlanta Generals cap was perched slightly askew on his head. He saw me come in and looked up, beaming.

“Well, there he is!”

“You’re looking good, Cliff,” I said, shaking his hand.

“Don’t lie to an old man now,” he teased.

“No, I mean it. You’ve lost a lot of weight.”

He scowled. “It’s all this healthy food they try and feed me.”

“Is it that bad?”

“Davey, I haven’t had a bowl of chili since my birthday. I tell you, it’s Purgatory in here.” Then he winked and smiled. “Naw,” he added, “it’s not that bad. Everyone’s real nice.”

He looked me up and down. “Speaking of weight, you’re not the skinny rookie I met eleven years ago.”

I laughed. “You think they regulate your diet here, you should try playing for the Comanches. I haven’t had a bowl of chili in about a year.”

“You need your energy, raising two children. Chili energy.”

“I could do with some chili energy.”

“What’s this here?” he said, gesturing to the care package.

“This is something we put together for you.”

“You didn’t have to bring me anything.”

“Okay,” I said, getting up to leave. “I’ll just put it back in my trunk.”

“Don’t you dare!” he said. “The last gift I got were crocheted earmuffs.”

We spoke for about ten minutes, then it was time for Cliff to take his midday medications. Afterward, he took me on a tour of the facility. I’ll tell you, he zipped around pretty good. He might have been thinner now, and in a wheelchair, but he was still a strong man. He introduced me to the people on his floor, to his orderlies and nurses, and to the maintenance crew. He had a special rapport with each of them. Not at all surprising. Then we went to his room to open the package.

His room was clean and bright, with several framed prints on the walls. Flowers. A beach scene. I could tell they came with the room. But there were two others. On his nightstand was a framed photo of Dorothy, and on the wall above was their wedding picture. Next to the nightstand photo was the scrapbook, faded now, with thin brown cracks in the leather. And propped in the corner near his tiny writing desk was a bat, glistening, black as new asphalt.

“That can’t be Beatrice. Didn’t you make a cane out of her?” I asked.

Cliff looked over to it as if he had forgotten it was there. “Oh, no, that’s a new one. I guess you could say it’s Beatrice’s younger cousin. Beatrice is in the closet there. I don’t use her much anymore.” He gestured to his wheelchair.

“It’s beautiful. Where did you get it?”

“I made it. I had an idea about a bat and the maintenance shop here has a lathe. I had Roger buy me an ash core from a lumberyard and turned it myself, oh, six or seven months ago at least. Lacquered it myself, too. She turned out nice, don’t you think?”

I walked over, picked it up, and flicked it slowly side to side with my wrists. “She sure did. Good balance. Slightly longer barrel. Beveled cap.”

“I knew you would notice that,” said Cliff. “Had to do it on the sly with Roger as a lookout. The folks here don’t like arts and crafts that aren’t on the list.”

Then I had an idea. “You want to get out of here for a while? We can open your package when we get back.”

Smiling, Cliff said, “You read my mind, and I know just where we should go, but we have a small problem. The nurses don’t like excursions that aren’t on the schedule, either.”

I smiled back. “I won’t tell them if you don’t.”

I wheeled Cliff out a side door, timing our exodus perfectly with the clockwork hall patrols of the staff. I pushed him quickly across the side lot and in seconds we disappeared into a large stand of trees that bordered the property. We emerged from the shadows onto a sunlit sidewalk that followed the left field fence of a baseball field.

“What is this?” I asked.

“This belongs to the Savannah Christian College Golden Knights,” said Cliff. “Sometimes I watch their home games from my window. Let’s go sit in the stands.”

I took Cliff down the access ramp behind home plate and sat next to him in a stadium seat. He looked out at the field, still spotted in areas from the morning rain, like he was trying to soak up as much of it as he could. “It’s good to get out. Smell that grass?”

“I sure do,” I said.

“Machines can’t make that.”

Of course, machines had been making artificial turf for decades, but I knew what he meant.

Then from a pocket deep inside his coat, Cliff produced a large bag of unshelled peanuts. He dipped a hand inside and rustled around, glancing over at me with the utmost confidence.

“Really?” I said.

“Gotta eat peanuts when you’re at a ball field,” he said.

“Where did you get those?”

“Roger got them for me. I’m not supposed to have them, but Roger and I see eye to eye on many things.”

“I’ve got to meet this Roger,” I said.

“One day you will,” said Cliff. He took a deep breath, as if to soak in the smell of the grass, then coughed for a while. It nearly doubled him over.

I put a hand on his back. “You okay?”

Clifford Tyler straightened his back and looked at me. “Yes. Don’t worry, Davey. I’m fine. Really. Let’s enjoy our excursion.”

“Okay then. Give me some of those,” I said.

And for the next half hour we sat together in the stands, not another soul anywhere in sight, ate peanuts, and made a complete mess on the ground with the shells. We talked about his life in the home, his health, and the state of professional baseball. It was great. Eventually, the topic came back to the myriad sins of modern technology.

“I can’t get over that bat, Cliff. Don’t see wooden bats like those much anymore, with all the composites nowadays. I mean, some guys still use them, but --.”

“Composites,” said Cliff with a scowl. “Molded bats. Designed by computers now. It’s a sin, is what it is. No craft. No imagination. It gets easier and easier for a machine to make a hundred identical things and harder and harder for a man to make one wonderful thing.”

“It smelled great.”

“Yes,” agreed Cliff with a single nod. “It smells like baseball.”

“Composites don’t have a smell.”

He eyebrows lowered in contempt. “Another sin.”

“Composites don’t sound like wooden bats, either,” I said. “They make this kind of loud clicking sound. Weird. Wooden bats make a sound like, like -- .”

“The application of skill,” said Cliff.

My eyes lit up. “Yes! Exactly. Very well said, Cliff.”

“Oh, that wasn’t me. That’s what Danford Harrison wrote in his book.”

“Danford Harrison? You know, I know his grandson Del.”

“Do you truly?”

“Yeah. He was a journalism student at Washburn when I was in Topeka. He writes for the Baltimore Post now.”

“Do you ever talk to him?”

“Sometimes, when we’re in Baltimore.”

“Well, the next time you see him, tell him his granddaddy was a heck of a writer and a good friend.”

“Did you know him?”

“He was working on one of his books when I was with Birmingham. Traveled with the team for a while. Talked to him a few times. Some of the fellows teased him, you know.”

“Teased him about what?”

“Let’s just say they were skeptical anyone would care to read a book about black baseball. You know what he told them? He said, ‘Baseball loves its history, and black baseball is baseball history. One day, your experiences will be important.’ That was years before the Richmond Rifle came along.”

“Well, I will definitely tell him.”

Cliff became silent. He squinted at the sky, then looked around the empty diamond. “You know, they cut funding for this field. That’s why there’s brown patches in the outfield and the grass isn’t edged. It’s a little frog-haired, too, along the lines. Doesn’t look crisp. Looks like no one’s interested anymore. This could be a beautiful field, if someone put some time into it.”

“It’s the off-season. I mean, it is winter now.”

“Yes,” Cliff replied tiredly. “It is.”

I sensed his sadness. “I’m sure it’s just a budget thing,” I said.

“Ah,” he said, dismissively tossing a few peanut shells on the ground. “It’s always something. Sometimes, Davey, it feels like all the good things in the world are fading away, like wooden bats and old ballplayers.”

And in that moment I thought of Hal, and what he told me about memories. “They won’t fade away if we remember them.”

He nodded. “The world moves on, Davey, my boy. So I guess that’s all we can do.”

“It’s good to know you still follow the game.”

“Always. How are things with the team?”

“Oh, you know, mostly fine.”

“And what does ‘mostly fine’ mean?” asked Cliff, eying me intently.

“I’m coming up on the end of my contract. Wondering what they’ll do.”

“Ah. Well, don’t worry. Teams will always need good defense.”

“Good defense is fading, too, it seems,” I said. “The trend is toward power. Shortstops now are among the best power hitters in the league.”

He pointed a thin finger at me. “Still have to have someone who can stop the ball from rolling. Forty homers is more than ten homers, but fourteen errors is definitely better than forty errors.”

“If only you were running the team,” I said.

“You tell them they can call me when they get stuck and I’ll help them out,” said Cliff with a smile.

Just then I saw a man in a light blue windbreaker walking on the left field sidewalk. He was looking at us. Cliff saw him, too. “Uh oh. Trouble.”

“Who is that?”

“One of the guards. Let’s make a break for it.”

“Is that one of the orderlies?”

“That is Roger come to collect me,” said Cliff.

Roger was a thin black man about thirty-five. He smiled when he got near us. “I thought I might find you here,” he said. “Sneaking out again, eh, Mr. Tyler?” Cliff scowled but said nothing. I introduced myself and discovered Roger was also a big Generals fan. Having this in common with Cliff did not deter him from his responsibilities, however.

“We have to head back, Mr. Tyler. You missed lunch.”

Cliff held up the empty peanut bag. “I’ve had lunch.”

“You’re going to get me in trouble with that. No one is supposed to know I give you those.”

“I know it. Let’s go then,” said Cliff.

I wheeled Cliff back to the home with Roger following behind us. When we reached his room, Roger took his leave and we were alone again. “It’s nice to have a partner in crime,” I said.

“Roger understands,” replied Cliff. “Not many do anymore.”

“Let’s open your package.”

I brought him several photos of Gwen and the kids, a ball signed by the Comanches, and one of my Chicago game jerseys (which he requested long ago but I never got around to giving him). I also gave him a framed photo of the picture I took with him years ago in his hospital room with Glendon Winters, Reggie Mayberry and Rooster Wells.

“These are lovely,” said Cliff. “Thank you.”

“You are very welcome.”

He held up the jersey. “This doesn’t make me a Comanches fan.”

“Yes, yes, I know.”

“But I’ll always be your best fan, whatever happens.”

“And I’ll be yours. It was great to see you Cliff. I’m glad you’re doing well, even though you can’t have as much fun as you’d like.”

He winked at me. “I don’t get caught every time.”

Roger arrived and announced it was time for him to rest. I shook Cliff’s hand and helped Roger get him into bed for his prescribed afternoon nap. Although he professed not to be tired, he was asleep by the time I left the room. I placed the care package items on his desk and closed the door as silently as I could, stealing one more look at him dozing in bed. Then Roger and I walked to my car.

“I’m glad you came. It will do wonders for him,” Roger said.

“It seems like you also do wonders for him.”

Roger gave a thin smile. There was a little pain behind it. “I do what I can.”

I gave Roger a serious stare and said, “So what’s really going on?”

Roger shifted his weight onto his other foot. “I’m not allowed to share protected health information, but I can tell you he’s doing alright under the circumstances.”

“What does the future look like?”

Roger paused. He looked over his shoulder at Cliff’s window, then back to me. “He won’t leave here.”

I let that sink in. I guess you’re coming back to Savannah, I said to myself, but then again, you knew that. “How long?” I asked.

“Can’t say. Could be months, could be years. The demands of his care will increase, and the effectiveness of treatments on respiratory ailments like his will be reduced the longer he lives with them.”

Now it was my turn to look up at Cliff’s window. “The old ballplayer is fading away.”

“Yes,” said Roger. “He is still strong physically, but the disease is taking its toll.”

I could only nod. “What if I took him? Brought him to Chicago? Put him in a care home there?”

Roger smiled. “He said you would ask that. It’s his decision, of course, but he won’t go. He’s already told me. Doesn’t want to be a burden.” Roger reacted to the look on my face. “I know, I know. But it’s his call and he’s already made it. Besides, it wouldn’t improve his condition, moving to a colder climate.”

I gave Roger my contact information. “When it becomes serious, call me.”

“I will.”

I got in my car and started it up. Roger remained at the window. I rolled it down. He placed his hands on the door sill and looked in. “I think you should know. You are in his will. He left you some things.”

“What things?”

“I don’t know. I’m only going by what he’s said in my conversations with him. He’s got some things in on-site storage, but I don’t want to speculate. Just --, just be ready.”

“I will.”

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Driscoll.” With that, Roger tapped his palms on the windowsill, turned, and walked back into the home. I let the car idle for a minute, then left the parking lot, now bathed in afternoon sunlight. Christmas was coming and I had a plane to catch.


Next up: meet Del Harrison