The Pesty Letter

It is commonly thought in baseball that bird baths are for fowl play. This was news to Pesty, however, as he jerked a two strike pitch down the right field line for his team, the Chronos, the ball crashing a feathered family’s haven as they washed, now showered, squawking over the foreign object that maimed the littlest—the ball and bird were indiscernible from a glance, both inanimate whiteness with red stitching, and the ball’s Spalding as curved and without smile as the bird’s beak. Pesty’s feet tore through the dirt to the tune of Sing, Sing, Sing, flinging brown specks around each base, ignorant and independent of the fact in his homerun trot, which it wasn’t. The opposing team waved their hands right—Pesty’s feet still drumming—and grew unruly as he slid into home, hustling and sliding as he’d always been taught, even on homeruns. Gloves were thrown off and hands formed balls—rain splashed down and bathed the players from the sparse clouds in the blue eye of the sky with sun glittering through each raindrop—as both teams squawked over the foul play.

In the scuffle, a dark club emerged from the trousers of an opposing Hi-Stories player, contrasting his skin color. He thrust it toward Pesty, who consequently removed his own from a pocket hidden in his zoot suit trousers, knocking it back. What had been a parched field of short August grass from the heat of summer—summer had been felt as early as April—became damp and dark from the brief splash of rain, losing its rough and worn yellow-green texture. Andy slid his arm around Pesty’s neck, tossing his teammate into the chalk dressing the third base line, now clinging to the black suit as it coughed off the ground, Andy’s eyes threatening Pesty’s opaque pair to convey transparency. Pesty relinquished the need to create unnecessary drama, lifted his hand and received the club from his opponent, pulled up, clapping the dust off his lapel—mixing it with rain water, a tempestuous mixture of color for the situation, for even his birth—and smiled into the light eyes of this boy, a trace of mocked scorn.

Banter from the warm and anxious crowd sitting in the splintered background perforated the field, wrapping it with a touch of professional nature for the mixed age baseball play of the New York pick-up game league, championship game. Give him a good crack, ‘atta-baby. Hit ‘em with the bat. Oh, just play the game. The rain eased and play would’ve continued despite, though it smeared the boyish faces and one could not tell whether it was rain or tears left from the brief scuffle. The opposing pitcher took his stance again, prepared his Bulova windup, a haughty one that took as long as the ten second commercial and generated discontent from the opposition. Pesty resumed his stance in the batter’s box, left hand on top of right hand gripping the ash Louisville Slugger, swatting the air over home plate like a club, a slight crouch with knees bent sitting over the inside of the plate to entice the pitcher to throw it where if Pesty rose up from it just a touch the pitch would be at his waist and could kiss it with the sweet spot and lash it with his tongue’s curl to at least the warning track. Pesty misjudged; the pitch was still too high after rising up and he struck out, the third out. What’re you thinkin’ Pesty? Blew it right past him. Sides switched. The Hi-Stories assumed offense and the Chronos arranged on defense accordingly.

Today, Gene played catcher with a name reflective of the stance jeans would hold in the next decade; tomorrow, as with this and every game, Sam Spade would pitch; who played first happened to be Big Al—whose name was often used as a pun among his teammates by asked swift and inconspicuous if anyone wanted to see ‘Big …l’ when they really asked if they want to see a ‘Big Gal’, the sucker saying ‘Sure’ and being treated with Al’s rotund sister with cherry Pez colored cheeks and a laugh sounding like a cherry stem caught in her throat; what player at second was Clarence, a name telling of the instrument he played; if you asked Charlie who played third base he’d say ‘I don’t know’ until he ran out to the base and took the position, thereby earning the nickname Hot Corner Charlie; ‘I don’t give a darn,’ was the team’s response when asked who wanted to play shortstop, so today it was Andy Arthur Keyes; Pesty, why, he’ll be mentioned soon, played left field, nicknamed for his style of hitting, scratching his way on base; and because right field was never mentioned, the list of players to name ended in center field with Just Jim, who argued every call he took to be unjust for the team as captain.

Sam patted his back pocket in the bottom of the inning, noir comic still in place, eyed his Carl Hubbell card traded away from Andy earlier in the day after buying a couple packs of Goudey bubblegum, placed it outside his fedora and took his place atop the mound, feet nudging the white rubber that reminded him of the stick of gum he was chewing and spit it out, kicking dirt over it, coughing like the dust kicked up and set in position. Gene peered out behind his catcher’s mask, fingers wiggling between his legs and settling on the pinky, accepted for an outside fastball. Sam kicked his leg high, a black swan, craned his arms over his head, nudging his fedora back where the batter would not only see Sam preparing to throw but also Carl Hubbell, extended his leg out and toward home plate and clawed through the remaining drops of rain with a white silhouette, for not only was the baseball white but so was Sam’s right hand, expelling the ball, followed through with his hand, a clashing backdrop. The batter, like many, couldn’t pick up the ball in time and whiffed for strike one with the ball cracking Gene’s MacGregor Goldsmith BD catcher’s mitt that emitted a mellow scent of softness, years of play and breaking in, oiled just that morning with extra care, set underneath his pop’s car and backed over, making sure it was broken in. The only solace one could take in Sam’s pitches was if the stitching calibrated just right to offset the clash or if Sam missed and left a pitch hanging and this went for Gene, too, sometimes dropping pitches and having to throw to first on strikeouts.

Questions surrounded Sam wherever he went. Sam, why’s your right hand painted white? “Soy caucásico,” he’d answer, his mom always made her son speak in Spanish and she’d have no part in hiding her Mexican and African background in America. “Someday I’ll paint my entire body.” What’s your real name, Sam? “Sam Spade,” he’d answer matter-of-fact while his teammates were the ones who came up with the two-pronged nickname for his love of Dashiell Hammett novels and for what the white drunkards would yell at him during games for his color. Sam, why do you hang out with Pesty—the most unfavorable player among others it seemed, but character is sometimes dictated by name—so much? Sam had no reply for this question, but would think of Pesty’s eyes, a similar shade of brown that reflected his skin, so Sam just smiled and tipped his fedora. Sam why do you carry cards of pro ball players around on your fedora? “I haven’t gotten mine made yet,” he’d assure them they were on the way. Sam, why do you wear a fedora? Sam, what’s in that case you carry around all the time?

The ball idled and hung on a pitch to the next hitter, dangling over the center of the plate on an invisible string, the batter smashing it back in the direction from which it came with a sharp sounding crack of the bat on cue with a popped bubble from the batter’s mouth, back up the middle—attentive noses could smell the burning of the bat. Sam’s left arm shot out perpendicular, his hand donned simply a fingerless and leather glove, making the stop and throwing to first base in consecutive motion. Out. Sam shook his hand grimacing around the mound as the infield tossed the ball amongst themselves. “Hey, Sammy, gonna get a real glove yet?” Andy quipped with a grin, handing him the ball with a smack on the back that said ‘Don’t do that again.’ “Hey spade,” bellowed a voice stilted by Acme beer from the stands, “my wife could use some help in the garden.” There were two reasons why Sam used a fingerless, leather glove while the others used fingered gloves. For one, it was a throwback to old-style play, or ‘tough play,’ something to get some of the men off his back. For two, it slid easily on his right hand when he decided to switch pitch, for he was a natural lefty and had conditioned his right arm to throw similar. Unfortunate to the batters, while Sam’s left hand was not painted, his pitches were nastier still, particularly his circle changeup and its movement. “Hey mister, tell your wife I’ll use her in the garden.” The sot rose from anonymity in the stands. “Who said that?” Big Al stepped forward from first base, putting to rest any notions the drunken man had of mishandling one of the players on the field as he stumbled to sit, causing the crowd to heckle one of their own for once. Ahh, si-down ya drunk. You’re drunk too ya bastard. Cover your ears, hon.

The effectiveness of Sam’s left-handed pitching and his circle change was a temporal matter. The screwball was still a select favorite in the repertoire of pitch selection all the way up to the professionals for the time. Sam always wondered why after he attempted the pitch and encountered a violent backlash of arm pain over the next week. The wrist snap it required was too aggressive and too overt thanks to common usage. Instead, Sam opted for the circle changeup, perfecting his wrist rotation to produce similar movement and to not tip his pitch to the batter with such violence. His left-handed windup was much more meticulous and thoughtful. It was drawn out as a prayer with Sam turning, slight leg raise, bringing the ball to his forehead, a look of a blissful kiss and graced the sky gliding the ball forward. Amen. Ah, get on and throw the pitch. ‘Nother beer. Would you like some Cracker Jack, dear? He used the circle change to catch the next batter looking on strike three. Peanuts flew into the air, voices rose and hands clapped. The crowd was ecstatic and their cheers for once drowned out the marching of drab olive green and barrack brown uniforms and cunt caps outside on the cobbled streets.

Between innings, neighborhood girls would swing their skirts through the stands—the patched skirts drew the loudest applause for their sacrifice to the cause overseas—and cheer on the boys with pomp and circumstance, the boys not paying them attention, sounding like off note trumpets and trombones reverberating inside Carnegie Hall down the street. The boys spit at the dirt over this—some trying to imitate professional counterparts and chew—because they found extravagant displays during a game to be a dilatory nuisance and most girls resembled thirty-four cent milk gallons and they wanted them thin and sweet like Coca-Cola (the real coke Cola from decades past). But there was one girl who put on a display that the boys did not mind. Her name was Marjorie and she wore a small, revealing bathing suit the color of bubblegum the players chomped. Her display was one of sacrificial protest while the display of other girls was ostentatious with their corset bathing suits hidden away. “Make do and mend,” her mother told her while scraping clothes for the effort. She made do all right in mending her bathing suit, her mother and other’s appalled over how it revealed why the boys called her Margarine, her creamy, light buttery legs showing off and her Karo corn syrup eyes flashing with either scorn or regard depending on what you thought of her outfit. To the boys, the trumpets and clarinets of Artie Shaw played Stardust for her.

She made Dagwood sandwiches for the Chronos after their games and enjoyed Krispy Kreme doughnuts with them despite the scarcity of eggs and sugar, of which Clarence did not partake. Sometimes she came upon steak and oysters for carpetbag steak and they all dined in style while people waited in lines throughout parts of the city to get scraps. The boys enjoyed being eight cent loaves of bread for her to spread upon. They were a community reminiscent of the cooperative Andy lived in, the one where she could go with Andy and Sam and share a light with Andy, which made Sam paranoid because he knew the police would pin him for supplying their visions and laughter, Marjorie’s strident laughter pierced stiletto skies over Andy’s playing of Benny Goodman on Sam’s clarinet for them. Quiet, Mary Jane. No, it’s Margarine. And she enjoyed engaging the veterans that watched the baseball games sitting outside the dugout to chat with the boys.

“Sounds like Bally Bumper down at the shop won’t be around much longer,” one veteran remarked. He had one leg, the other a mere stump remaining from a land mine involvement in the Great War that resembled his Arrow beer can.

“Don’t yank on my suit, Stump,” cried Marjorie. Pin games were a keen interest of hers and she was the self-proclaimed guru of them. She was a craftswoman at the slam tilt while not setting off the sensors.

“Sure thing, those spring-loaded bumpers are as wasteful as Pesty’s zoot suit to the effort.”

“They’ll all be gone soon enough,” forebode another veteran, a remarked scoundrel in the trenches, even during holiday ceasefires, now pacified after a reflective period of time.

“Just gambling machines to those politicians,” the first agreed.

“They won’t let a man gamble but they’ll let him vote?” Andy chuckled, stretched his bat behind him and strode to the plate.

“Smart boy,” the second cheered for Andy to knock one out. “Come on Boy make a real difference in something.”

“Three out of ten’s a hell of a lot better than one in fifty million,” the Stump agreed.

“Hey Andy, I thought your kind didn’t play on teams, why’s that captain got you suited up?” jeered a drunkard from the crowd. “He’s too young to remember Teddy the Trust Buster, old Roosevelt,” announced another with a giraffe’s glee reaching above the murmuring of others. Those around him sneered in unison with a chant Andy modified in his head to the sound of ‘An artist, an artist!’ as he molded his feet into the batter’s box and stroked his bat like a paint brush ready to streak a white rainbow across the sky’s canvas. But Andy Arthur Keyes’ paintbrush turned out to be a spoon as he swung, flinging the ball like a CheeriOat, though like a circular grain of oat, the ball floated so far as a lazy pop fly to be caught by the second baseman in shallow center field: a dream, soggy and disintegrated in a golden, milky glove. “Still a smart boy,” the second veteran assured. “Yeah, smart boy—”

“Foolish kid,” Clarence’s words uttered amidst the cigarette smoke billowing from his mouth, a product of addictive patriotic respect to the posters outside that captioned ‘We Want Camels!’ underneath three officers in uniform. He held his glove—Rawlings, Bill Doak model—over his heart, whispered the Pledge to himself and tossed it in the dugout for a bat.

“Quite a patriotic glove,” observed the Stump. “Going to enlist and stop the fascists?”

“Someone will have to.”

“Ever read Il Duce’s manuscript on his doctrine, Boy?”

“No sir.”

“It says those Blackshirts believe in continuous warfare. Sounds suicidal to me, don’t it to you? Not an eye for an eye, but everyone’s eye? They’ll eventually stop themselves.”

“And by that time we’ll all be dead, is that your logic?”

“Perhaps you’re too young now, but you’ll find out soon enough once you’re over there, since it seems that good old Franklin is fixing to get us into this war somehow, that war is just the debilitative effect of bureaucrats over the laypeople, their self-indulged political struggle for domination of others,” the second veteran pontificated.

Clarence scoffed. “Is that why you were such a trench scoundrel?” He strode to the plate, but was too innerved over the conversation that had been brought up and would later prompt posters alongside ‘We Want Camels!’ to warn against loose talk and struck out, looking on three pitches. He’s out. I’m out of beer. Take me out to the ball—. No, you’re too early to sing that ya drunk.

“You know what they ought to do,” Marjorie suggested as Pesty stuttered in the on-deck circle. “They should make the pin games more like baseball so you can bat the ball around and change the game more. Then it wouldn’t be seen much as an outcome of luck.” The group huddled around her, contemplated and consulted it was a fine idea as the umpire roared for Pesty to hurry: “Batter up.”

Pesty slinked to the plate looking for an outcome better than last time. “Let’s go Pesty, show everyone baseball’s version of a pin game,” Marjorie cheered and the crowd behind her joined in yelling ‘Pesty Bumper.’ He flipped the first pitch with an inside out swing to the third baseman with the ball bumping off of his miscalculated charge. Marjorie led the cheer from the stands as Pesty’s feet drummed down the line to an internal Buddy Rich. The ball bounced to the shortstop as if he were playing pepper, backing up the third baseman, and cannoned his throw in front of the first base bag. A fellow in the stands rose to the crowd’s onomatopoeia of cannons, shooting his popcorn up, showering the crowd to a buttery ovation. The ball was caught in front of Pesty, coming to an abrupt stop as he was tagged on the cheek to the now groaning of the crowd. They say Harry Mabs was watching the game that day, but the revelation of Pesty’s at-bat would not be realized for six years down the road. No score after the bottom of the fourth.

The middle of the game went by with relative ease and little advancement. Hot Corner Charlie dove and snagged a line-drive shot between Andy and himself, flipping the ball while suspended in air before hitting the ground to second base for a double play. Ooh, aah. Did you see that? Did it all in mid-air, fine play. Just Jim asked him how he did it and Charlie just grinned, “I don’t know.” Big Al was hit twice. First he was hit lumbering over the plate and then his wide figure caught the throw back from the catcher to pitcher. Just Jim took it as flagrance, foul play, and argued. The umpire just shook his head and laughed, asking him to point out anything related in the rules and the blurred crowd jeered Jim by rattling the fences behind home plate with empty beer cans—the full ones bounced back and hit some of them. Jim continued to argue, kicking dirt and chalk lines. He eventually was tossed when he told the ump to “stop salting the game, cracker.” With that, the events of confusion and controversy followed in the eighth, after the seventh inning stretch, a sight of drunken men singing, yelling along to ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame’ like they were chasing a pretty young woman down the street, their flushed red faces plastered against each other’s, stupidly grinning, arms waving and stumbling over bleachers, leaving mother’s to hurry their children away and girls to push down their dresses and scream in disgust, unless the man was a soldier, which then they’d cajole.

The bottom of the eighth inning ended with only one pitch thrown. Charlie started well enough with a bunt that dribbled down the third base line and sat on the chalk and the opposing third baseman tried to wave it foul while Charlie sprang across the first base bag, setting the table. Big Al was hit, again, which started the controversy, though it was ignored at first since it was Big Al. Big Al hunkered over his first pitch, swung and missed as Charlie was stealing second and as he was lumbering back into the box was nipped by the catcher’s snap throw to second. The umpire declared interference and Al was out. Jim’s replacement came up next and he too swung at the first pitch, it later being obvious that the opposing pitcher tossed fat ones over the plate in accordance with the team’s plan. Though much smaller than Big Al, Jim’s replacement was caught in the way while Charlie stole third and the catcher made another snap throw to get him out. Gene shifted his brow. The second interference was too scripted, but this sat in the back of his mind as the runner on third lurked in a game whose score was locked in zeroes. The first pitch to the next batter, Sam, was an obvious ball and he let it pass. Charlie was but a few steps off third and the catcher still snapped a throw to third base. This time his throw was ill-intentioned at the batter rather the baseman. Nonetheless, Sam was called out for interference. None of the pitches involved with interference were recorded.

Gene had shown little emotion throughout the game except when he yanked cigarettes from Clarence and smacked his glove down when he held it over his heart. He’d even let the flagrance on Big Al slip, but the calculation by the other team was clear and unmistakable by everyone except the umpire. “Oh come on, you’re working together.” Gene complained, rushing out, picking up a bat and pointing it at the ump as an accusatory finger. The ump turned his back and motioned for the other team to take the field. “Hey, don’t turn your back on me. It’s just because of Sam being colored. Stop salting—.” The rest of Gene’s team rushed through the grins of the other team to hold him back. “Flagrance,” Gene cried, wrestling with Clarence who was tugging him outside the field. “Let go of me. Go fight your war you hired killer.” Clarence threw him against a meat truck parked on the street across the field. “Come back and put your gear on when you’re ready to play baseball,” Clarence implored and left his friend fuming at the ground.

The ump let Jim come out and take Gene’s spot during warm-ups for the top of the ninth while Gene flung open the back of the meat truck and ravaged inside, filing through rationed and sacrificed national disgust no one on his team had displayed before. A flick of bottled kerosene within Gene spilt over into a flame as he set about to scorch the external construct suffocating him. “Tell Adolph I’ll catch his pitches,” shouted Gene. The crowd spilt with beer and peanuts sobered and turned in shapeless disbelief as Gene began batting the meat from the truck into the street. He hit a line drive with a steak and smacked a few chops for homeruns with red juice misting the street and sprinkling his face a cold mauve. To the second veteran he appeared as a ghastly figure from his past in the trenches and Stump just mourned a gaze over his one leg. Even Marjorie and Andy could not believe such protest while Gene drove hamburger meat into the bushes of a neighboring house and dressed its windows with cow specks. He tomahawk threw the bat down the street along with the meat and tonight would be the night people had less to eat than before. Composing himself again, Gene leisured back to the field and donned his catcher’s gear as the ump returned from down the field where he had retrieved refreshment. “You smell like the hamburger I just had. A bit too raw for my liking, though.” He smiled. Gene’s lack of amusement filtered through his squinted eyes and out his mask back up at the ump and settled down, determined to call the best inning of the game.

Sam struck the first batter out throwing left-handed. The next two hitters reached base on faltering circle changeups. The switch was made to the right hand for Sam with two on and one out, runners at first and third. The first pitch to the next batter left Sam’s hand just as he wanted. But on the follow through his shoe caught and he collapsed to the ground. There was no backdrop to mask the ball, leaving the batter free to discern the pitch, belting it with a deep thud in front of the left field warning track. Pesty backed up to the fence, his team waving him in for playing too deep. The ball was descending in its arc when Pesty raced in across the soft sod colored a deciduous green. He raised the back of his glove to the sky, the ball careening off it back into the sky. The crowd murmured and the runner on third dashed toward home on what he took as a misplay, but Pesty kept running according to his plan, following the ball again, grasping it from the air when it came down again with his bare hand for one out and rocketing it back in to third. The runner was too far off before he could catch on to Pesty’s deception and was doubled off to end the top of the ninth. Better play than Charlie’s. Had me fooled. Watch out for my beer.

Gene chewed his way through the dugout of smacking lips over sunflower seeds to lead off the bottom of the ninth, resolved to end the game now. “Don’t be Casey at the bat,” sloughed Clarence. Gene cast a sidelong smile at his friend, exposing his gritty red teeth masked with hamburger still, juice sliding down his chin and staining unshaved hairs. The opposing catcher chuckled as Gene walked a determined line to the right batter’s box. Gene looked down and caught his laugh, spitting meat into his catcher’s mask. The ump told them to break it up as the catcher ripped his mask off and jolted toward Gene who just laughed in return.

The first two pitches breezed past Gene on the outside corner, leaving the catcher to chuckling again. Gene glanced back, swinging his bat far back as he could to hit him. “Enough,” bellowed the ump as the two nearly went at it again. “Just make sure he doesn’t interfere,” Gene warned. The pitcher took to the mound and looked in to his battery mate for the sign. Gene glanced down and back and caught a pointer finger, glanced back to the mound to see the pitcher nod his head in agreement; Gene smirked. The pitch, sure enough, was a fastball, down the middle of the plate. Gene’s eyes glazed over with a dazed smile on his face. He closed his eyes and pictured the meat—a cow, a steak in saran wrap—opened them and swung with all his might for it. He was too late. The ball hit the catcher’s mitt before he was around on it. The meat was still fresh on his hands and the juices released the bat, letting it soar over the left field dugout. Casey had struck out and the crowd griped, booed, the fences rattling again. What a joke. Used up his good hits on the meat. I’m hungry. But the catcher was so amused by all of this that he dropped the ball.


Run!


Gene darted down the first base line through the cacophony of the booming, roaring crowd with dirt flying in the face of the catcher, stunning him and stunting his throw to first. Three-fourths down the baseline the catcher loaded a throw to first. It connected with the back of Gene’s helmet, it soaring off toward second as the runner drove his foot through the first base bag like a jackhammer, dust lingering in a brown haze over the white bag. He was adamant, rounding sharp right of first base and shouting at the catcher for flagrance once again. “Play the game,” Clarence yelled, getting into the on-deck circle, waving left for Gene to get back on first as Andy walked to the plate and told the catcher to sit back down and catch the game.

Andy struck out. Gene danced off of first base attempting to entice a throw from the catcher who faked and lobbed a throw back to his pitcher. Gene scampered off with his cleats making light indents over the earth, well over halfway to second by the time the pitcher had received the ball. The throw to second ran to the inside, but Gene slid to the outside and was safe. “Gene can steal on the throw to the plate or back from the plate. It doesn’t matter.” He stood up and grinned, leaving the dust clinging to his starch white jersey. Will ya look at that? Never seen someone reverse steal. He’s fast. Not as fast as I can chug this beer, watch me. Clarence pounded home plate and pointed his bat toward center. The crowd squealed thinking he was calling his shot like the Babe. Gene nodded his head back toward his teammate and friend, understanding. He knew his pal would hit him home for the winning run without a homerun. The pitcher smirked and curved a pitch outside. Clarence popped it up to right-center field to the sinking of the crowd’s sobered clamor. But in an attempt to imitate Pesty’s move in the top of the inning, the outfielder tried to fake the misplay and coax Gene off of second far enough to throw him out. The play was bobbled and Gene scurried off, making his way around third by the time the ball was picked up and flagged to the cutoff man who winged it to the catcher, the throw going up the line. Both catchers anticipated a showdown; the one with the ball prepared for collision while the other barreled down on him. Gene felt like he’d been thrown up against the meat truck again, but this time it gave and he stumbled on through and fell into darkness. When he opened his eyes they coughed with the dust confined in the black chest protector of the catcher. His head puckered up with vision returning without a cloud of chalk, noticing a figuration of red stitching a couple feet away and felt the clutching of someone else’s hand in his. The two players rose up to realize they were holding hands in the dirt, both searching for the ball. It sat feet away on home plate. Sensibility returned as the fence rattled, the crowd exploded like gunfire and napalm, the Chronos rushed the field and Marjorie’s voice exclaimed with stridence as Gene stretched his hand and the other’s toward the white diamond. Gene’s hand dropped upon the plate; the other’s on the ball, still in a handshake.


Safe!


The game ended one to nothing.


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Pesty
Dated: April, 1942
Weather: Rainy and fowl

Dear Clarence,

This is my first letter to you, as I’ve just found you, and it very well may be my last letter. Time has come for me to leave New York. “Ain’t a place for a Negro in professional ball, ain’t a place for a Negro here,” they say. There’s not much left anyway so I’ll study elsewhere and continue to play toward our dream. Sam was down at Carnegie for a memory of Benny Goodman and ’37. Cops got onto him. “That fedora keep your wig tight, son? How many wigs you tighten these days?” They found his clarinet case empty, thought he’d already emptied out the marijuana stash they allegedly got him for. Just because it was him, because of his ancestry. The clarinet, of course, was with Andy. He got nabbed by an undercover named Ronald Ian Alfred Anderson in the cooperative for illegally distributing music by playing Goodman on the clarinet for everyone in public. That’s as much of a reason they needed. Charlie, Jim and Al still work against the new ruling. They outlawed pin games. The mayor even put on a scene smashing them all, including Bally Bumper. Marjorie took it as best as she could considering her time now is spent working. All you men are gone so they need the women now.

I can only think back to our games on the field. Life is baseball: the defense always has the ball, take what you’re given, succeed thirty percent of the time and hope the pitcher makes a mistake and leaves one hanging to hit out and score. A thirty percent success rate? That’s us. Our final nine innings were nothing. We were nothing. DiMaggio and Williams arrived at about the same rate of success by different ways a level above everyone else that year. Gene and you have, too. You’re fighting in Europe with your dream and word is some of the camps are playing baseball in Germany. I only figure it is Gene making the best of his enlistment over that incident. Still, though DiMaggio and Williams succeeded roughly four out of ten times that’s a sixty percent rate of failure. We had our few hours on the diamond, but all there is in the end is the war. The history books will exude this war and gloss over our trivial accounts. We’re not the victors, we cannot write. Hardly is history seen from the small eyes of the individual, tending toward the histrionic for grand narration, solved. But I hope someone down the road will tell a story of the stereotypes cast into and buried among the bombs and guns. It rains so much now. I’m sure the birds are plenty bathed. They better be. The stench anymore is so foul. Will you ever write me back?

Signed,
Simply “Pesty”

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“Dad, come play catch.”

“Just a second, Son. Almost done writing.” I guess that’s the best I’ll get it. After all, I was never there, and all I have is this letter. “Coming.”