He sat at his desk and he wondered could he actually do this? Should he wait? But hadn’t he waited long enough? The last thirty-four years. Had it been that long? It was a lifetime ago but then if he just closed his eyes, it was yesterday, no five minutes ago or it hadn’t happened yet.
He would retire in a few months and he’d have plenty of time. But then it was sort of tugging at him. No, haunting him. He had dreamed about it again just last night and her, her blond hair, her blue eyes, that incredible body. She was twenty-five years old. Jesus. And, it was that time of year right now, late May early June. Then he could just about see the red clay of the ball fields, the green grass and the oddest thing the tall buildings ringing the outside of the park. You could lose a fly ball in them. So different from the ball fields where he grew up in Queens where all there ever were, were trees ringing the ball fields. Yeah, he could just about see it all, even though it was all thirty-four years ago, 1971.
He should wait till he retired in four months. But then they weren’t giving him much to do anymore, certainly nothing new. A kindness as he was leaving so everyone just decided leave him be. No one would be feeling sorry for the old guy as he was only fifty-five. He was retiring early. Retiring not to stop working and play golf but to do the one thing he always wanted to do and never quite had enough time to do, write.
But then he looked at the clock it was five to three. He came in at eight, actually he’d been in the habit for years of coming in before eight but he logged onto the computer at eight and he left at four. He had nothing to do, he’d cleared his desk. So, what if he just started it? Just get the first page down? Why not? He knew it would not be much just a start, maybe a page. He’d written short stories and gotten them published too and a novel would start the same way. He could just close his door. His office didn’t have a window. He’d be writing on the computer so even if someone came in, it would look like he was just working as normal.
He got up and shut the door. Then he sat down at his desk. Then he went back, way back, the green grass, the red clay, and the buildings surrounding Central Park’s Heckscher fields. He was twenty-one. He’d gotten a summer job compliments of his old Fastpitch Manager, working for the Department of Parks as a Groundskeeper. The first thing he’d done on Heckscher fields was rake the ball fields. That was his job, keeping the fields in shape. Then he’d done something no one else had done which was to fill in the righthand batter’s box on the four fields. He went behind the small grandstands whose first deck was a team’s dugout the other four decks, were, for the spectators. Then he dug up the clay back there put it in the wheelbarrow and then filled in the batter’s box. Each of those four fields could have five games in a day and most batters were righthanded and by the end of the first week, there would be a hole that the hitter had to hit out of. Batters would push the surrounding dirt back in the batter’s box but after an inning or two, they’d be hitting out of that hole again. He’d always hated that as a player and now with shovels and rakes and the tools to fix that part of a softball field, he did just that.
The players took notice and thanked the park attendant Murphy and Murphy just smiled and told them he had a new assistant. He hadn’t gotten that ambitious, in his old age. Murphy, yeah Murphy he was a great old guy. The first thing Murphy asked him after reading his name off the Department of Parks paper work was. “What’s your mother’s maiden name?” And Murphy did that looking all serious too but he could see the glint in Murphy’s eyes.
In response he laughed and, said. “Kaye Harrington.”
To which Murphy said. “Good, good I never knew anyone by that name and you’re not my long, lost son Robert.”
“No.” He’d replied. “An’ just call, me Bobby everybody does.”
Murphy laughed.
Yeah, Murphy’s first name was John but nobody ever called him by his first name and John Murphy no relation to him, just the same last name, had been in World War II. Murphy was a combat engineer and before that he’d played in the Negro Leagues. Murphy was tall, thin but had all these wiry muscles. Almost as if his muscles had muscles. Once in a while Murphy would take batting practice with some team and just hit ropes. He could throw windmill too and he would throw it to the kids and he’d go easy on them and let them get hits and then feel real, good about themselves. Yeah, Murphy had played with the greats, Josh Gibson, Cool Papa Bell and Satchel Paige. Murphy told him how Paige had won a hundred dollars because one of his teammates had said Paige could throw a strike over a chewing gum wrapper. A guy, a white sports writer from the New York Times who had come down to write about their league, said not possible. His teammate said very possible, one hundred dollars possible. They went to Paige. Paige said he’d need three pitches. They had been on the bus but the bus had stopped for gas. They went to the nearest empty field and marked off sixty feet six inches. They put the chewing gum wrapper down on the ground. They let the sports writer from the New York Times, with the hundred dollars in his hand stand right behind the catcher. Paige did not warm up. He did not need three pitches. He threw the first pitch right over the chewing gum wrapper. Murphy ended the story by telling him that the teammate and Paige split the hundred dollars with everyone on their team.
When Murphy came back from the war and they integrated the Major Leagues, he was just, a little too old. But like a lot of veterans, the City of New York got him a nice job with the Department of Parks. He had some high civil service title as well. Murphy owned a home in Hollis Queens where he lived with his wife and two daughters.
The next thing a then twenty- one, year old Bobby Murphy did on those fields was umpire. It was on a Saturday, the Fastpitch League. Bobby had to work on Saturdays which he didn’t mind at all. The only bad thing was he could only get to play in a, choose up game on Sundays and it wasn’t even Fastpitch. But then Central Park was packed on a Saturday. It was Manhattan where the women were special, very special. Maybe the most beautiful women in the world, at least Bobby liked to think so and they walked through that park. And, Saturday was that Fastpitch League, where the pitchers threw with that windmill motion. The pitchers would take the ball up in a reverse circle over their head and then turning their bodies sideways, they’d snap their body forward, in a motion resembling a windmill. The ball would come out underhand but it came in faster to home plate than a baseball thrown by a Major League pitcher because the Windmill pitcher was closer. The pitching mound in Fast pitch was only forty-five feet from home plate, not the regulation sixty feet six inches of baseball. And, it was almost impossible to throw the ball straight with that windmill motion. The ball would just drop down naturally on a fastball. Or the Windmill pitcher could just flick their wrist at the end of the pitching motion and the ball would jump up for a curveball or just come straight up for what was called a straight riser. It was harder to hit than a baseball and most Major League hitters were lucky, if they could just make contact off a really good windmill pitcher.
Yeah, Bobby loved that league. He loved to watch their games which he’d do after he’d fixed the fields for them. He had played that game out in Queens. He had even played on a team that had won a City-wide tournament too only a few years back. So, he could really enjoy watching them and then one day one, of the two, man umpire crew had to leave early and couldn’t umpire the last game. He’d been cleaning up a mess someone had left behind the Grandstand when the main umpire Frank came over and asked him if he could just umpire the bases.
Bobby had gone to Murphy who getting ready to watch the game and asked. “They need an Ump for the last game. Can I umpire?”
Murphy had smiled and, said. “I don’t know, can you?”
They’d both laughed and Murphy said. “Of course, don’t worry about that. As long as we’re here, take care of the fields and no one complains about that, we’re just fine.”
Having two umpires was necessary in this game, in this league. As the home plate umpire had to concentrate on the pitches and the league was filled with highly skilled players, some of whom had played in the minor leagues. Since the pitching was so hard to hit, runs were at a premium. Most of the games were decided by a run or two with the final scores being 2 to 1, 3 to 2 or even 1 to 0. A high scoring game was 5 to 3. So, outs recorded at any base were import and a missed call or a bad call at any base, could determine the outcome. And, it was a money league. The winning team won money, not just trophies.
So, he umpired the bases while Frank a large, heavy set and imposing man called balls and strikes.
The game went along smoothly. There was just that one play at second that was tough but he’d gotten it right too.
________
There was a knock at the door and he snapped out of it.
“Open.” He, said.
The door opened halfway and the beautiful face of his boss Edwidge Guillame looked in.
“Working overtime?” She teased.
He looked at the clock in the lower righthand corner of the computer screen. It said 4:11.
He shook his head. “Not hardly.”
She smiled at him and, said. “It’s a little late in your career for that. Don’t make me call your wife.” Then she laughed and closed the door. He wondered if he ever wrote about his current Boss Edwige Guillaume, if he could capture her beauty.
He sat back in his chair and looked at the screen. How much had he written? He looked at the lower left-hand corner of the document’s page. Five pages it said. Was that possible? It seemed like he’d been writing for a few minutes and maybe a page or two but it had been over an hour. No, he hadn’t been writing all that time. He’d been thinking back and then writing but still. It seemed like five minutes and no more.
He hit the save button, then printed it with the printer next to his desk spitting out the five pages. Then he thought should I save it to his memory stick? Was it something yet? Then he went into his brief case and got his memory stick. The one he kept his short stories on inserted it into the port and saved it to that too. He put the stick in his brief case and headed for the door.
As he reached the door with his hand out to open it, he got that image in his mind for the umpteenth time and vivid too, so vivid he felt as if he could just reach out and touch her. It was Melissa sleeping in the bed in the early summer morning. The early morning sun still weak the light in the room all gray and filled with shadows of the night. She slept peacefully, her blond hair half covering her face. She was lying on her side. Her large breasts hidden under the sheet, her large curving hips also under the sheet. She was all angles and soft round mounds, sexy, alluring, just, so special. Could he ever capture all that? That summer was really all about her, so long ago, so magical. It started with the Park, the ball fields and the games but then it was her, all her. His first love affair before he knew anything about anything. And, just a love affair too, no mortgages, no kids, no, all the things that would come later in life. It had been living in his mind all these years, as it probably would for the rest of his life. But could he write it? Could he get it out?
He’d come in early, real early before anyone even showed up.
* * * *
To read more go to: Outskirts Press, More Than You Know by Don Frankel or Amazon,
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