So, I have a few essays that I wrote in my senior year of college, and, because I’m sort of proud of some of them, I thought I might start sharing them here, depending on how long they seem in blog form. I figure it’s probably best to start with what, I think, is the best written of all of them. I’m doing this despite the fact that it’s kind of a heavy one. But, you know, I spend a lot of time being kind of flippant and irreverent, and it’s nice to be genuine once in awhile. Without further ado, here is the first installment:
Summer Rain
It rained a lot that summer. I played on a men’s league baseball team and it seemed like every day we had a game, my father and I would spend the morning checking the weather report and discussing the possibility of a rainout. No matter the outcome of our conversation, the rain always seemed to stop just in time for my team to play. The fields were always soggy and poorly maintained and were always in cramped neighborhoods full of three-decker houses with no space between them. There was always a police car stationed nearby, presumably to watch the park’s basketball court for fights or drug deals or anything else suspicious.
I had been on my college team that spring and saw the summer team as an opportunity to improve my skills. Instead, I spent three or four nights a week on the bench, listening to men in their twenties make sarcastic comments in thick Boston accents and watching them put enormous wads of tobacco between their lower lips and gums. I said as little as possible and secretly wished every game would be rained out. But, I stayed on the team for the entire summer and though I would have rather spent those hours with my friends, I did not complain to anyone.
One night, it must have been in July, I sat with my legs outstretched to avoid the muddy water which had pooled up underneath the bench. I noticed my father slowly walk into the park, holding a green chair, folded into a carrying sack. If he had been at home, he would have been carrying another bag, with a tube connected to his body. Since he was out in public, he wore a bag discreetly attached to his leg instead.
He wore baggy jeans and a green flannel shirt, despite the night’s warmth and moisture. He sat alone near right field. I walked over and we had a brief conversation about the game. I probably apologized that he went through the effort to come when I wouldn’t be playing that night, and told him that I wasn’t sure how we scored our runs. He can remember the details of any sporting event, but that skill has always evaded me. When the game ended, I helped him out of the park, carrying my unused baseball equipment on one arm and the folded chair on the other and told him I’d see him at home.
About a month earlier, when he was in the hospital, I drove in with my mother to visit. He was still getting over the anesthesia and made frequent trips to the bathroom because of the nausea. He was weak, and tired, and didn’t say much. His fellow science teacher, Roland, and my father’s best friend Phil were there as well. The visit turned into a meet and greet; Phil, my mother and I were introduced to Roland and I talked to Phil about how I liked my first year away from home. There were a few comments on the details of the surgery, how long the recovery time might be, how my father was feeling, but most of the conversation avoided those things. If I pictured a gathering of these people in almost any other setting, my father would be smiling and gregarious. He would outshine all of us. But, during the visit, all his smiles were forced and most of his words were apologies for being so reserved.
When I was in seventh grade, my father taught me in science class. He was not in school the day his father died, so I must have found out sometime later in the day. My grandmother, my father’s mother, had passed almost exactly a year earlier. I remember her funeral vividly, perhaps because it was the first I had ever been to. I tried to prove my manhood by making it through the service without crying. I saw my father crying for the first time that day and ultimately, I succumbed to the sadness which surrounded me.
I don’t remember much from my grandfather’s funeral. My father read something in church, maybe a eulogy, maybe just a passage from the bible. Either way, he made it about three quarters of the way before choking up. What I do remember from my grandfather’s funeral is the ride to the military cemetery. The day was gray and raw. The ride took over an hour and I stared blankly out the window for its entirety, no thoughts in my mind. The burial service was short in comparison. My father’s immediate family was presented with a triangular folded American flag and there was a twenty-one gun salute and a trumpeter who played Taps. The song’s notes cut through the cold, wet air and I winced with every change in pitch. My father stood with his brothers and sisters. I stood a few feet away with my brother and sister and mother. Though we were not actually far apart, the distance between my father and me was overwhelming. I wanted to stand next to him. I must have imagined his strength would block out the trumpet notes and the gunshots and the pain and sadness they conferred.
At the end of that rainy summer, my sister was married. Her wedding was during the hottest week of the summer and the church was not air conditioned. My father had been laid up most of the summer. There had been complications and corrective surgeries. If there had not been, he would have spent the summer golfing and working on the house. What he dislikes, more than anything, is downtime. He is not comfortable relaxing. There is always something he could be doing. That summer, all he had was downtime.
The wedding reception was held in an outdoor tent at a local golf course. The squelching August heat lingered throughout the wedding-party pictures and the cocktail hour. Before my father gave his toast, the skies opened up and rain poured down. It bounced off the ground and into the tent and the catering staff rushed to lower the tent’s sides. The intense rain passed within a half hour and took the heat and humidity with it. When the rain stopped, my father gave his toast and opened with a line that went something like, “It’s been a hell of a summer and this has been a hell of day and I couldn’t be happier.”
The following fall, I decided to stop playing baseball. My experience on the men’s league team had been the final straw. I had sat on too many benches and had watched too many teams I cared about lose, and make excuses, and I could not do it anymore. I hesitated to tell my father because I knew he would be crushed. As I told him, I could not help thinking about all the hours he had spent over the years hitting me fly balls and throwing batting practice. I could not help thinking maybe I owed it to him to keep playing. If he agreed, he did not show it; he apologized for not having a better understanding of what my time on the team had been like that summer. He told me he wished he’d been feeling better. Then, he would have been able to show more concern for how I was doing.
I had played baseball for as long as I could remember, and the decision to stop playing tore me up. But, it meant nothing when compared to what my father faced that summer. He was penned in the house and resigned to the couch for most of the day. He did everything with a varying degree of discomfort. He never complained. Instead, he apologized, as though he were somehow responsible for the cancer which brought the surgery and for the unlikely complications which extended his discomfort.
I know I was wrong at my grandmother’s funeral. Being a man is not about suppressing emotions. It is not about being invincible. Rather, it’s about being able to break down completely and still have the strength and reserve to pick up the pieces. It’s about carrying yourself through pain and discomfort without a modicum of self-pity. It’s about driving to your son’s baseball game when it would be much more comfortable to stay at home.
Balancing on Painted Curbstones 