Baseball and Gramps




	WRITE 2 THE HEART Stories that are aimed "Write 2 the Heart" May 1, 2003 Cheryl Speir, Editor, moderator@write2theheart.com ----------------------------------------------------------- Welcome to your latest issue of "Write 2 the Heart" You are receiving this newsletter because you requested a subscription or a friend generously forwarded their copy to you. To subscribe send a blank e-mail to subscribe@write2theheart.com. ------------------------------------------------------------ Baseball, summer, and little boys just go together. I'm sure little girls fit into the equation also, I have no experience with them. Today's story is sure to bring a smile as you remember games played and games watched, but most of all because of the continuation of love and traditions from one generation to the next. ------------------------------------------------------------ Baseball and Gramps By Michael Lee Anderson ------------------------------------------------------------ I kicked the sand below the dugout bench. Our coach had just announced the starting line up for tonight's game and it didn't include me. That was nothing new. Considered a "substitute," I seldom ever got to play in a real game. I'm not sure I even wanted to be at the ballpark that evening in 1958. My grandparents were supposed to arrive from Indiana. I'd rather spend time with my "Gramps." Wait a minute. Who was that climbing into the right field bleachers? Could it be? It was! It was Gramps. He must be coming to my game tonight. I could see Gramps, but could he find me? He looked over the field, but I wasn't there. Could he even see me in this fenced cage of a dugout? Ever since I can remember I've liked baseball. My Gramps liked baseball too. When I would visit his house, we would watch the television and cheer for the Chicago Cubs. After the game, if there were still time before supper, Gramps and I would go outside and toss the ball back and forth to each other. Gramps had lost the fingers on one hand in an accident at the soap factory where he worked. To this day I'm not sure how he played catch with me, but he did. My grandmother (I called her Bobo) would call us in to wash up before we sat down to the table. We would still be talking about baseball when Gramps would take his silverware and lightly bang his glass, then, my glass, and even Bobo's glass, like a drummer. He would sometimes take his fork, pretend it was a microphone, and act like he was announcing a game. Bobo would tell him to stop, as if she was mad at him, but I knew she wasn't really. She thought he might be setting a bad example for me. For my eighth birthday, Gramps presented me with an Ernie Banks autographed Louisville Slugger. It was a club-of-a-bat that was too big for me to use, but that was fine by me, as most days I just wanted to look at it, maybe swing it, and pretend I was ol' Ernie himself. I cherished it for years. So tonight's game is special. This is the first one my grandfather has ever been able to attend. Unfortunately, it wasn't looking too good that he would see me play. The innings unwound. Three up. Three down. Three up. Three down. Sure there was some excitement from time to time, but my little bottom was only "gathering splinters" from sitting on the hard weathered bench. It was the last inning. The field lights came on as darkness was approaching. Our Westlake Warriors team had a slight lead. I peeked out from the dugout and gazed into the stands trying not to sink further into a pity party for myself. Was my Gramps disappointed? He had come all this way just to see me play, and it looked like it just wasn't going to happen tonight. "OK. Let's take the field. Only three more outs", the coach yelled. Then, in what seemed like a surreal slow motion voice that sounded like a Saint Bernard dog, I heard the Coach say "Anderson, go in and play second base." I hopped off the bench, grabbed my glove, straightened my hat, and ran out onto the field. I didn't look, but I felt my Gramp's eyes watching me as I turned to take my position. I was eager and afraid at the same time. I wanted to do good because my Gramps was there, but then what if I made an error? What would he think of his "little slugger"? The first batter struck out. The second batter flied out. This was the Wolverines' last chance. The glare from the lights on the next batter's helmet bothered me some. As he stepped up to the plate, the fans voices grew louder. I could feel my heart beating through my t-shirt. And on the very first pitch, the batter swung and - CRACK! - He hit the ball! He not only hit the ball, he slapped it hard. It was a "screamer" of a ground ball that skimmed over the dirt infield like a low-flying Frisbee. It was coming almost directly at me. It was undoubtedly my play. I clumsily moved about two steps to my left, toward first base, and with legs spread, stooped down and knocked down that speeding bullet. It stung my hand. My glove had only acted as a shield to stop it. The fans gasped as the ball settled about two feet in front of me. I saw the batter racing towards the bag as I nervously bent over, picked up the ball, and threw it to first. SLAP! The umpire yelled "Out!" and the game was over. Sitting directly behind first base bag, about halfway up the bleachers, I could see Gramps in the crowd. He was the first to stand up cheering. Our eyes locked on each other's. All time seemed frozen. I could sense the pride he was feeling and I still remember his smile that magical night. My Gramps liked baseball, but he loved me. I didn't know how much I loved my Gramps until a year later. I was in sixth grade and they called me out of class to tell me I had to go home. Something terrible had happened. Inside our house, my mother was preparing to leave for Indiana. She only told me that something had happened to Gramps while he was at work and they had taken him to the hospital. I stayed at home with my step-dad. That evening, I went to the basement to be alone and to pray and plead with God not to let Gramps die. Later, the telephone rang. My step-dad answered it above in the kitchen. Straining my ears, I could hear him say small words like "Oh" and "That's too bad" between the long lapses of silence. Then the words came I didn't want to hear: "So when will the funeral be?" I sunk to the basement floor and began to sob into my hands, trying to be silent. My step-dad hung up the phone, but I didn't want him to call for me and I didn't want him to tell me anything. I didn't want to hear the news from anyone. I moved to the far corner of the basement, slumped down, and buried myself into a boyish ball of tears. Today, when my grandchildren come to visit and we sit at the table for a meal, I take my silverware and bang lightly on their various glasses and cups, like a drummer. Sometimes my fork becomes a pretend microphone and I announce, "The Atlanta Braves are on the air." We all break into a tomahawk chop with more drumming. My wife tells me to stop as if she is mad at me, but they know she's not really. After we finish, little voices sometimes say, "Pop, can we go play catch?" and I grab my mitt and we're gone. Michael Lee Anderson new.song @ juno.com You are encouraged to write to the authors to let them know what you think of their story, just remember to remove the space before and after the @ symbol. The space is placed in the address to protect our writers from viruses and email harvesting programs. Have a comment on today's story? Send it to: moderator@write2theheart.com ---------------------------------------------------------------- Michael Lee Anderson works for the Parable Group, an association of Christian stores. He is the Treasurer of the Cherokee Christian Writers Group and lives with his wife Kathy in Ball Ground, Georgia. -------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------- Letters From Our Readers -------------------------------------------------------------- I have a feeling Kathe just touched on some of the highs, or should I say lows, in her life. 50 years of wedded excitement, that is hard to imagine when you are at the beginning of your wedded life. I hope to aspire to her years! Cassie I can relate to the "walking drugstore." Sometimes I wonder why I eat, or rather how I have room for food after taking all the medication I need each day. I'm so glad that Kathe had a happy ending to the deer incident. I am sorry it has seemed to be ongoing. She sure does show good humor in the face adversity. In His joy Jamie --------------------------------------------------------------- Military Prayer Reminder --------------------------------------------------------------- As you read over this list of names, please take that moment to pray for these young people and their families: Chris Speir Tim Speir Alan Thaddeaus Howard Todd Holland Graham William Julie Sagel Jessie Marshal Thompson Jason Eric Hernandez Kristin Danielson Please continue to pray for our country, our leaders, and our troops at this time. If you have loved ones in the military, or who are being called to go overseas, send their names (first and last or first only) to be included in our prayer reminder. --------------------------------------------------------------- Chocolate Alert! I know that got your attention! I am working on a chocolate cookbook to be given away on Write 2 the Heart's web site. This work in progress is tentatively called "Write 2 the Heart of the Chocolate Lover." Anyone who would like to join in the delicious fun, send a chocolate recipe with a brief bio to be included after each recipe. Send as many as you wish. --------------------------------------------------------------- Cheryl's Corner Yesterday when I got dressed, I just grabbed an old t-shirt and a pair of shorts to put on. I noticed they needed ironing, but thought since I was not going anywhere and I was just going to be cleaning out the garage and getting dirty it wouldn't matter. After all, no one was going to see me. That thought was furthest from the truth. There was a steady stream of traffic to my front door. It was mainly delivery of packages with parts David had ordered for his motorcycle. I didn't know there were so many ways to send packages! Then my brother stopped by as well as one of the young men on our prayer list who is home on leave. I was thrilled to see them, but sure did wish I had a little warning so I could have been presentable. But then, maybe the cobwebs in my hair added that little extra something to my appearance. I have heard from a few of the young people we are praying for, they wish to thank you for your continued prayers. Don't be afraid of sending in names, if we get more than can be handled in this e- zine, I will have my favorite webmaster create a web page and include a link each week. Let's continue to cry out for God's protection on our military. Maybe someone can help me. I was listening to a Christian talk show on the radio while driving. I heard of a program to send Bibles to the Middle East through military chaplains. A soldier can't take a Bible with him, but he can receive one while there from a chaplain. I would love to support this cause. This appears to be a wonderful loop hole to get Bibles into an area that has been closed to Christianity. I didn't hear the entire program. Anyone know of an address for this? God Bless, Cheryl ----------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------------------- © 2003 Write 2 the Heart Nothing may be reproduced or published without the written permission of the individual author or copyright owner. All rights belong to the authors.