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Wednesday, August 9, 2000
Once upon a baseball By Christopher P. Winner We were at a baseball game in Washington, D.C. It was 1966 and I asked her if she'd come out. She was reluctant at first, daunted by an amusement she hardly understood. She wanted me to concentrate on all things classical. She sought my attention when Sir Ralph Richardson came to town as Ivanov. She pulled me toward Sir Lawrence Olivier, who was briefly a Washington Hamlet. Largely, though, I balked at these remarkably highbrow invitations. Was I not a baseball boy? I squirmed in Richardson's presence, annoying both black-tied men and white be-gowned ladies at the National Theater. No wonder that my mother finally yielded to my small baseball begging. Perhaps, she may have thought at first, attending to so transient an affection might eventually bring me around to Chekhov. How can that be?, she asked again, eyeing the big man who stalked to the plate; how can he swing that small stick? And for what purpose? I sighed my 11-year-old's exasperated sigh. That, mother, is Frank Howard, left fielder for the Washington Senators of the American League. That is the big man, who with one swing can send the small white ball into the bleachers. But she didn't understand bleachers, not yet. I would point, as if into the heart of her old Europe, and she would examine those faraway seats. One day, though, Frank helped. A mighty cut sent a Joel Horlen fastball into dead center. I rose. So did Eddie Stanky, the little manager of the Chicago White Sox. My mother stood also, following the flight of the ball with her eyebrows. By the time Howard's drive left D.C. Stadium, she was applauding, as if a tenor had finished his aria. She called him "the Jolly Green Giant," stealing a slogan from the kitchen corn we ate at dinner. By the time we attended our third game, she knew and liked the erstwhile catcher, a Cuban by the name of Paul Casanova. When he smiled, his white and gold teeth gleamed in the late afternoon sun. Smiles were warm that summer. We took a tram and three buses to get to the stadium. I skipped on the rails. I listened to the small AM radio to get the scores. I told her whenever the Jolly Green Giant had struck a home run -- which was a frequent occurrence in the 1960s. She referred me to the famous saying about the Senators: "First in war, first in peace and last in the American League." When she left our small family, she promised to return and attend a game. That never happened. Howard retired, managed and vanished. Casanova just vanished. We never spoke of baseball, my mother and I, until 12 years ago in August. She lay dying in Washington. The sun was unkind to her sunken features. Only her hair still shone. How can it be, she asked, that so much time has passed since the Jolly Green Giant? The next day, he returned to the plate, a final memory, and we both watched the flight of that ball.
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