34 - July 1946

“I remember the hottest day in 1946,” said Mr. Johnson, “I was barely 12 years old and I went with my father to Ponce de Leon Park near downtown Atlanta. I remember seeing baseball greats like Rube Foster, Buck Leonard, Cool Papa Bell, and Josh Gibson.”
His memory obviously faded with age. Rube Foster had died in 1930, some four years before Mr. Johnson was even born.
However, he saw the rest of them.
“Why do I have to put on this shirt and tie?” he asked his father.
“Because Night Baseball isn’t something you get to do every day.”
Gus Johnson bent over and fixed little Robert’s bow tie and golfing cap. They took the bus to mid-town. Then, they walked to the stadium with a crowd that quite easily numbered in the thousands. It rose in the distance, a great cathedral of baseball, where mass took place as often as the good lords of baseball would allow.
Ponce de Leon Park sat on a gently rolling hill. Home plate was down and the outfield was up. A giant magnolia tree stood in deep center field. Anything caught in its branches was still in lpay, just like a childhood Wiffle Ball park. It must’ve been eighty feet tall if it was a foot. In spring, leaves unfurled and the tree took shape – a glorious bouffant of dark green leaves accented by the budding white flowers that delivered that unique scent to the stands behind home plate.
There were, however, four sides to this diamond-shaped park, and whenever the Atlanta Black Crackers (more affectionately known as the ABCs) played ball, all four sides were filled to capacity. It was especially true whenever a team from the more prominent Negro American and Negro National Leagues arrived to play an exhibition. That hot August day in 1946, the war was droning on and the casualties were piling up. Everyone wanted something to take their minds off the war.
Robert Johnson went with his father to Ponce de Leon to see the Homestead Grays. The Homestead Grays were from Pittsburgh in the far north and they had all the stars of days gone by, including Cool Papa Bell, Buck Leonard, and Josh Gibson.
They were all shadows of their former selves. It was particularly true for Josh Gibson, the catcher for the Grays.
Robert and his father waited in line for quite a while, just to buy tickets to the game. By the time they arrived, the infield stands and outfield bleachers were completely sold out. The only thing left were lawn tickets, situated on the slope behind the outfield fence.
“I’ll take two,” said Mr. Johnson.
They entered the stadium and proceeded around the stadium to the far gate. It opened into a large grassy area. Mr. Johnson grabbed Robert by the hand and led him out towards center field.
They stopped just on the near side of the magnolia tree. It afforded them a view of everything but the far part of left field. That was good enough for Robert.
The smell of two-stage fuel emanated through the hilly patch. So, too, did the sound of the generator that powered the outfield lights.
When the Homestead Grays trotted onto the field, the hilly slope came to life. The crowd let out a roar as old Buck Leonard, with his cool, casual smile and pop-bottle glasses came out and waved to the crowd. He normally played at first base, but today, there he was, standing in right field, within earshot of Robert and his father.
They all shouted his name. Some fans tossed fresh baseballs to old Buck so he could sign them and return them to the crowd with an effortless toss.
“Son, these guys are true heroes,” Gus said to little Robert.
“It says here they are in third place.”
“They’re still heroes to me.”
Josh Gibson, the Grays’ catcher, who was also known as the “Babe Ruth of the Negro Leagues”, stood behind home plate and surveyed the crowd. He twisted his cap so it faced backwards and fitted his mask over his face as he took his position behind home plate. From where Robert stood, the larger-than-life Gibson looked small, nearly insignificant. Still, Robert got to watch Cool Papa Bell go through his warm-ups. He reared back and let loose great fireballs that steamed towards home plate. They landed squarely in Gibson’s mitt, a fat round piece of leather stuffed with padding. Each pitch landed with a ‘Pop’ that echoed through the stadium. The sound was loud and clear, even from far out on the hilly slope.
It was a miracle to even see Josh Gibson play. He had gone into a coma in the spring of 1943 with a brain tumor. He refused to allow anyone to operate. Instead, he struggled against severe headaches and bouts of amnesia. By the time 1946 rolled around, his migraines could no longer be controlled by medicine.
When Gibson stepped to the plate, his figure towered over the others, even at such a distance.
The pitcher for the ABCs kicked his left leg high as he reached back with his right arm, the baseball held tightly in his hand. He let loose a mighty fastball that sped headlong towards the plate. Gibson swatted at it with his bat. With a smack, he sent it high and away. It flew towards Robert and his father. The right and center fielders ran into deep center, shagging down the fly ball. It dropped fast, landing just in front of the hilly slope and bounced over the outfield fence and into the crowd.
The shortstop waved his arms, forcing Gibson to stop. Gibson had reached second on a ground rule double.
“That, right there, is the greatest guy to ever play the game.”
“Including Babe Ruth?”
“Of course I’m including Babe Ruth. The Major Leagues is full of white owners. We can never prove Gibson’s better because they’ll never let Josh play in the Majors…Never.”
It didn’t matter anyway, because in three short months, Josh Gibson would have a stroke and pass into the afterlife. He was just 35.
Of course, it would only be another three months after Gibson’s death until Branch Rickey introduced Jackie Robinson to the world – changing that world forever.
On the way home from the ABCs game, Robert held a bag of popcorn in one hand and a soda pop in the other.
“Dad?”
“What is it, Robert?”
“I’m going to be a baseball player one day, just like Josh Gibson.”
“You are?”
Robert held his head high as he nodded affirmatively.
“Well, I’ll be your biggest fan,” said old Gus Johnson as he scruffed the top of Robert’s head. Robert took occasions to glance back at old Ponce de Leon Park and the bright white halo emanating from the stadium lights.
“Yep,” he said as he flipped his cap backwards to imitate the old catcher, ‘I’m gonna be just like Josh Gibson, just you wait and see.”
.

“I remember the hottest day in 1946,” said Mr. Johnson, “I was barely 12 years old and I went with my father to Ponce de Leon Park near downtown Atlanta. I remember seeing baseball greats like Rube Foster, Buck Leonard, Cool Papa Bell, and Josh Gibson.”
His memory obviously faded with age. Rube Foster had died in 1930, some four years before Mr. Johnson was even born.
However, he saw the rest of them.
“Why do I have to put on this shirt and tie?” he asked his father.
“Because Night Baseball isn’t something you get to do every day.”
Gus Johnson bent over and fixed little Robert’s bow tie and golfing cap. They took the bus to mid-town. Then, they walked to the stadium with a crowd that quite easily numbered in the thousands. It rose in the distance, a great cathedral of baseball, where mass took place as often as the good lords of baseball would allow.
Ponce de Leon Park sat on a gently rolling hill. Home plate was down and the outfield was up. A giant magnolia tree stood in deep center field. Anything caught in its branches was still in lpay, just like a childhood Wiffle Ball park. It must’ve been eighty feet tall if it was a foot. In spring, leaves unfurled and the tree took shape – a glorious bouffant of dark green leaves accented by the budding white flowers that delivered that unique scent to the stands behind home plate.
There were, however, four sides to this diamond-shaped park, and whenever the Atlanta Black Crackers (more affectionately known as the ABCs) played ball, all four sides were filled to capacity. It was especially true whenever a team from the more prominent Negro American and Negro National Leagues arrived to play an exhibition. That hot August day in 1946, the war was droning on and the casualties were piling up. Everyone wanted something to take their minds off the war.
Robert Johnson went with his father to Ponce de Leon to see the Homestead Grays. The Homestead Grays were from Pittsburgh in the far north and they had all the stars of days gone by, including Cool Papa Bell, Buck Leonard, and Josh Gibson.
They were all shadows of their former selves. It was particularly true for Josh Gibson, the catcher for the Grays.
Robert and his father waited in line for quite a while, just to buy tickets to the game. By the time they arrived, the infield stands and outfield bleachers were completely sold out. The only thing left were lawn tickets, situated on the slope behind the outfield fence.
“I’ll take two,” said Mr. Johnson.
They entered the stadium and proceeded around the stadium to the far gate. It opened into a large grassy area. Mr. Johnson grabbed Robert by the hand and led him out towards center field.
They stopped just on the near side of the magnolia tree. It afforded them a view of everything but the far part of left field. That was good enough for Robert.
The smell of two-stage fuel emanated through the hilly patch. So, too, did the sound of the generator that powered the outfield lights.
When the Homestead Grays trotted onto the field, the hilly slope came to life. The crowd let out a roar as old Buck Leonard, with his cool, casual smile and pop-bottle glasses came out and waved to the crowd. He normally played at first base, but today, there he was, standing in right field, within earshot of Robert and his father.
They all shouted his name. Some fans tossed fresh baseballs to old Buck so he could sign them and return them to the crowd with an effortless toss.
“Son, these guys are true heroes,” Gus said to little Robert.
“It says here they are in third place.”
“They’re still heroes to me.”
Josh Gibson, the Grays’ catcher, who was also known as the “Babe Ruth of the Negro Leagues”, stood behind home plate and surveyed the crowd. He twisted his cap so it faced backwards and fitted his mask over his face as he took his position behind home plate. From where Robert stood, the larger-than-life Gibson looked small, nearly insignificant. Still, Robert got to watch Cool Papa Bell go through his warm-ups. He reared back and let loose great fireballs that steamed towards home plate. They landed squarely in Gibson’s mitt, a fat round piece of leather stuffed with padding. Each pitch landed with a ‘Pop’ that echoed through the stadium. The sound was loud and clear, even from far out on the hilly slope.
It was a miracle to even see Josh Gibson play. He had gone into a coma in the spring of 1943 with a brain tumor. He refused to allow anyone to operate. Instead, he struggled against severe headaches and bouts of amnesia. By the time 1946 rolled around, his migraines could no longer be controlled by medicine.
When Gibson stepped to the plate, his figure towered over the others, even at such a distance.
The pitcher for the ABCs kicked his left leg high as he reached back with his right arm, the baseball held tightly in his hand. He let loose a mighty fastball that sped headlong towards the plate. Gibson swatted at it with his bat. With a smack, he sent it high and away. It flew towards Robert and his father. The right and center fielders ran into deep center, shagging down the fly ball. It dropped fast, landing just in front of the hilly slope and bounced over the outfield fence and into the crowd.
The shortstop waved his arms, forcing Gibson to stop. Gibson had reached second on a ground rule double.
“That, right there, is the greatest guy to ever play the game.”
“Including Babe Ruth?”
“Of course I’m including Babe Ruth. The Major Leagues is full of white owners. We can never prove Gibson’s better because they’ll never let Josh play in the Majors…Never.”
It didn’t matter anyway, because in three short months, Josh Gibson would have a stroke and pass into the afterlife. He was just 35.
Of course, it would only be another three months after Gibson’s death until Branch Rickey introduced Jackie Robinson to the world – changing that world forever.
On the way home from the ABCs game, Robert held a bag of popcorn in one hand and a soda pop in the other.
“Dad?”
“What is it, Robert?”
“I’m going to be a baseball player one day, just like Josh Gibson.”
“You are?”
Robert held his head high as he nodded affirmatively.
“Well, I’ll be your biggest fan,” said old Gus Johnson as he scruffed the top of Robert’s head. Robert took occasions to glance back at old Ponce de Leon Park and the bright white halo emanating from the stadium lights.
“Yep,” he said as he flipped his cap backwards to imitate the old catcher, ‘I’m gonna be just like Josh Gibson, just you wait and see.”
.

33 - July 11 1982

It had been five years to the day since Erica Johnson went to Cincinnati Mercy Hospital because of a stroke that nearly turned fatal. It was remarkable to me because I was sitting in the stands just behind home plate at Veteran’s Memorial Stadium in Philadelphia. In fact, we were all there, including Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, my dad and mom, Fitzie, Lee, Mr. Heinz, and my grandma.

And, of course, Erica and me, who moved to the front row just after the announcer called the daily line-ups. Fitzie and Lee soon joined, sitting on either side. Erica opened the program to the centerfold and broke the spine. She followed along, filling in names and positions until she filled in the seventh Philadelphia Phillies batter, when she dropped her program on the concrete beneath her seat. When the announcer got to the eighth guy in Philadelphia’s lineup, he was met with a loud cheer and a standing ovation.

“Byron baby!” shouted Fitzie. His shout echoed clear across the field. We continued applauding.

“Get on out there,” said the Phillies’ coach.

“Me?”

“Of course you, don’t let your fans down.”

Byron tipped his cap and mask at us, his adoring fans. A crowd of other fans joined in as Mrs. Johnson was quick to point out that Byron was ‘my son’. Strangers patted Mr. Johnson on the back. Mr. Johnson’s smile was bright white, a stark contrast to his dark black skin. It looked even brighter as his smile was pasted on the Jumbotron at the other side of the stadium.

When Byron came to crouch behind home plate at the beginning of the game, he had to endure another standing ovation. He just smiled and motioned for us to sit down.

He knew.

He must have always known.

I met Byron Johnson at the beginning of the 1974 Major League Baseball season when our fathers took us to watch Hank Aaron hit his 714^th career home run. Byron was thirteen and I was twelve. He had baseball swagger even back then. As I watched him step to the plate and pull on his catcher’s mask, it wasn’t much different than it had been eight years earlier. He crouched into his position and waited for the pitch. This time, though, he was right where he should be: in the Majors.

Sure, he was playing for the Phillies, but just like the rest of the world, everything that is right comes in the right time.

Yes, it had been almost five years since Erica went to the hospital with her brother and me by her side. Now, I was at her side, just behind home plate, shaded toward first base and the home team dugout, just like always since I started going to baseball games with Byron’s family.

We sat and waited for the first batter to approach the plate. It was Los Angeles second baseman Steve Sax. My Dodgers were playing against Byron’s Philadelphia Phillies.

Still, I had worn a faded Cincinnati Reds t-shirt and faded Reds cap, which blended well with the pinkish Philadelphia colors. Erica wore Byron’s old Bond Hill Phillies ball cap, which looked just like the authentic caps other fans wore. She pulled it down hard on her head so the bill completely shaded her eyes.

The Dodgers and Phillies had split the first two games of the three game series. During the second game, Bo Diaz, the Phillies’ starting catcher, had bruised his knee during a collision at home plate with Sax. The Phillies immediately looked to Byron to fill-in for Diaz

As Sax stepped into the batter’s box, Byron crouched and Erica mimicked him, pulling her knees to her chest and placing her feet squarely on the concrete barrier in front of us.

Larry Christensen started on the mound for the Phillies. He was one of a string of talented veterans in the Phillies bullpen. He delivered on that promise, even though Ron Roenicke hit a single and Dusty Baker got to first on an error by third baseman Mike Schmidt. Still, he made it out of the first with a double play. The second inning was much easier, with three up and three down..

In the top of the third, he faced the bottom of the Dodgers’ batting order. Bill Russell, the eighth batter, grounded to third for an easy out. Pitcher Fernando Valenzuela singled, followed by a double for Sax. Now, two runners were in scoring position. Christensen tossed an intentional walk to Roenicke to load the bases, with only one out.

Slugger Dusty Baker stepped to the plate and immediately clipped Christensen’s first pitch to shallow left field, allowing two runs to score.

Byron joined Mike Schmidt, Pete Rose, and coach Dallas Green on the mound.

“Larry, you alright?” asked the coach.

“Yeah, I’m fine, that slider to Baker just sort of hung in the center of the plate.”

“Just relax,” interjected Byron, “we’ll feed that slider to Cey. He loves to swing at junk.”

Christensen raised an eyebrow.

“Listen, kid, I pitched to Roy Campanella and Yogi Berra before you were a twinkle in your mama’s eye.”

Byron stood there silently.

“Leave him alone, Christy. He’s just trying to do his job,” said Schmidt. Then, he gave Byron a pat on the rump with his glove hand. Rose followed with a pat with his own gloved hand. Christensen capped it off by palming the top of Byron’s head with his glove.

“Hey!” interrupted Green, “we’re at a ball game, not the circus! Let’s get these guys out and get back to business!”

Byron trotted home, a little embarrassed, but a little wiser. Christensen threw three straight junk pitches: slider, curve, slider. Baker attempted to steal on the second pitch. Byron shifted his feet as Baker increased his lead from first. When the pitch came, Byron was already in position. His hand was on the baseball as soon as he stabbed it with his mitt. He reeled back and fired towards second. Second baseman Manny Trillo had simultaneously shifted towards the base. The throw steamed over Christensen’s head and landed perfectly in Trillo’s glove just before Baker made it to third. Byron’s first put-out attempt sent a clear message to all of the National League speedsters: “Don’t even think about it.”

 Cey did connect on the last pitch. However, with Baker out, his pop fly would leave Roenicke stranded at third. The Dodgers now led, 2-0.

The Phillies, however, responded in the bottom of the third. Byron was also the first of the Phillies to bat.

Fernando Valenzuela didn’t have the advantage of scouting reports on Byron. Still, Valenzuela relied on his powerful fastball for his first two pitches. Both pitches were low and inside. Byron swung at both. The count was 0 and 2. One more strike and Byron was out.

Valenzuela reared back and tossed high heat. It sailed along at chest height until it reached the plate. Byron pulled his bat around and met the baseball squarely. It headed directly back to Valenzuela, but bounced on the front of the mound and caromed to the left, towards shortstop Bill Russell. It caught Russell off-guard. The ball hit the heel of his glove and dropped to the ground. Russell quickly picked it up and fired it to first. It flew into the stands. Byron advanced to second. Although the scorekeeper counted both the hit and the extra base as errors, Byron made it to second. Our entire section gave him another standing ovation. Second baseman Steve Sax displayed the rookie catcher with his hands.

“Take a bow, kid.”

Indeed, Byron took a bow. It was slow in coming, but a growing contingent of fans stood and applauded for the twenty-one year old rookie.

Like I said, he knew. Byron also scored the first run of that three-run inning, off a Pete Rose single to right field.

In the fourth inning, the Dodgers scored a third run to tie the score 3-3. The Phillies answered with a Manny Trillo home run to give the Phillies a 4-3 lead. Unfortunately, Byron struck out after an eight-pitch battle where he ripped a couple fouls down the right field foul line after patiently waiting through three curve balls that were low and far outside the strike zone.

“You want to take a walk around?” Erica said to me.

“Sure, that sounds good. I’m a little hungry anyway.”

We circled the stadium and watched the people enjoying the game. Phillies fans were a varied bunch. Some young, some old, some men and some women, not even all the fans were wearing Phillies garb. Some were in green Eagles t-shirts. Others were wearing New York Mets caps and Dwight Gooden Jerseys. Still others were even wearing the black and gold of cross-state rival Pittsburgh Pirates. One thing was absolute: there wasn’t anyone wearing Dodger Blue, not even me. 

“What would you like to eat?”

“I’ll eat whatever you’re eating.”

“How would you like a Philly Cheese Steak?”

“Like I said, I’ll eat whatever you’re eating.”

I ordered a couple of cheese steaks, a bucket of vinegar fries, and a large pop. We continued around the stadium, taking turns holding the food and eating it as we returned to our section. By the time we returned, it was the bottom of the sixth. Byron was in the on-deck circle.

“Get down here,” said Mr. Johnson.

“I thought you were going to miss him,” said Fitize.

If we had returned another five minutes later we would’ve missed his turn. On the very first pitch, he nipped the lower half of the ball, sending it straight up into the air. It came down just in front of us, where the catcher fielded it for a foul out.

By the beginning of the seventh inning, Christensen’s pitch count was already 114. Traditionally, starting pitchers were expected to last around 100 pitches before the skipper yanked them. Coach Green had been reluctant to use another pitcher’s arm, especially since the Phillies would be facing the New York Mets next, their divisional rival. The Phillies needed every win they could muster.

The top of the seventh, however, got off to a rocky start. Dusty Baker tripled to right and Christensen managed to walk Ron Cey. The next batter was slugger Pedro Guererro. Rose and Schmidt approached the mound. Byron joined them.

All three veterans looked to Byron. Christensen was the first to speak.

“Whaddya think I should do, kid?”

Byron pointed to himself with the catcher’s mitt.

“You’re asking me?”

“Yeah, I’m asking you.”

“Guerrero’s tough. He’s got a good eye and can hit just about any pitch you give him. I say you send him only fastballs, low and inside. Hug the plate, but make him swing. He’s likely to hit the ball near his knuckles. It’ll be a choppy grounder to first. If Pete plays it tight, we’ve still got the option to come home and set up the double play. No runs scored, nothing harmed.”

Christensen nodded and everyone returned to their positions.

Christy delivered two straight fastballs and both landed just inside the plate for a 2-0 count. Still, Byron signaled for another fastball and placed his mitt out to the left, framing the very same area for Christy’s third pitch.

Christy nodded. Then, he contorted into his wind up. His delivery was strong, but smooth. The balll, which was originally headed directly at Guerrero’s knees, slowly drifted in towards the plate. Guerrero pulled his bat down, fast and hard, towards the ball. He did manage to connect with the thin part of the bat, but he hit a line drive straight up the middle. Christensen put out his glove and stabbed it for the first out. He then fired to Schmidt, who was already covering third base. The throw beat Baker back to third, and just like a game of pitcher’s mound, Baker was called out as Schmidt converted the double play.

Christy walked the next batter and Coach Green trotted out to the mound and told Christy to hit the showers. His time was up.

The skipper called to the bullpen. Reliever Ron Reed came out and dispatched the next four batters with two strike outs and no hits. Byron came out to the corner of the netting after the Dodgers’ last at bat in the top of the ninth.

“What are you guys doing tonight?”

“We’re headed back to the hotel,” said his father, “and then maybe we’ll go out for dinner. How long will it be until you’re ready?”

“Aw, I don’t think I can go out tonight. We’re headed to New York at midnight.”

“That’s okay. We’ll take a rain check.”

Byron nodded before he trotted back to the dugout and joined his teammates in the locker room for an after-game pep talk. Then, they’d shower and load onto the bus for the eight-hour drive to Manhattan.

Meanwhile, we loaded into our three cars and headed out to the Ramada Inn by the freeway. It was an old ramshackle of a place that sat next to a gas station with a Stuckey’s at the far end of the road. Our hotel rooms were located at the end of a third floor balcony that overlooked the road. Each of the rooms had two double beds. I’d be rooming with Fitzie and my parents. The Heinz and Johnson families both had their own rooms. As soon as we picked out our places, Fitzie and I were ready to go.

“Can we go over to the Stuckey’s?”

Sure,” said mom, “but don’t bother the others. They probably want to get their rest.”

We both agreed, but we immediately went next door to fetch Lee. Then, we knocked on the Johnson’s door. Erica answered.

“Want to go to the Stuckey’s?”

“Absolutely!”

“Erica,” said her father, “I don’t know if it’s safe.”

“I’m with the boys,” she insisted.

Mrs. Johnson nodded to her husband and he nodded to Erica. We were off in a snap.

“Let’s get something to eat,” said Fitz.

“You’re hungry at this hour?”

“If we don’t eat now, we’ll have to wait until the morning.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

We squeezed into a booth near the back and waited for our menus. When the waitress arrived, I suddenly realized that Fitzie and I were the only white people in the place. Sure, Lee was sort of white, but his skin had a dark complexion. Fitzie and me – well, we were as white as white could be.

“What’ll you have?”

“What do you got?” asked Fitz.

“Anything you can imagine. Pecan pie, corn fritters, sweet yams, black-eyed peas…”

I glanced over the menu. Everything on it was soul food.

“What do you think?” I asked Erica.

“To be honest, I don’t know what any of it tastes like.”

“It’s all good food. What kind of things do you guys like?”

“Meatloaf, potatoes and gravy, tacos, hotcakes…”

The waitress scrunched her nose and dug the eraser of her pencil into her scalp.

“You’ve just about got me stumped…how about if I get you four different dishes and you can figure out what you like and what you don’t?”

I looked around the table. Everyone’s face was blank.

“Sure!” I said.

“How much money do you have?”

“Twenty bucks,” I said.

“Oh, then this’ll be easy.”

A few minutes later, she returned with a complete selection of food.

We cleaned all of our plates, mostly through trial and error. If one of us didn’t like something, we surely liked the other. At the end of the meal, we even had enough money left over for malts.

“That was great!” said Fitz. We all agreed.

There were people gathered outside; all were black. For some reason, the four of us were both invisible and outstanding. Still, nobody said a thing to us, even though I could feel the weight of their stares as we headed across the lot and towards the hotel.

As we climbed the stairs, a voice called out. It was one of the boys from the parking lot.

“Hey,” he shouted, “what are you guys doing out here?”

“We went to the ball game.”

“You were at the Phillies game?”

“Yeah,” added Erica, “my brother plays for them.”

“Nun-uh.”

“Yeah-huh. He’s the catcher.”

“Your brother is Bo Diaz?”

“No, he’s Byron Johnson.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“Well, you will. He just came up from the majors.”

“That’s cool.”

He ran back to the parking lot and we headed up to our rooms. It was just around sunset, so we dragged the wire-backed chairs from our rooms and sat on the porch. I rocked my chair onto its back legs and propped my feet on the railing. Soon, the boy returned with a few friends.

“You want to do something?”

“Nah,” Lee responded cautiously.

“We’ve got cards.”

“Come on up,” said Erica.

They rushed up the stairs and ran towards us. Their feet pounded on the concrete balcony, which provoked Mr. Johnson to poke his head out the door.

“What are you kids up to?”

“We’re going to play some cards,” said Erica.

“Alright, but be quiet. People are trying to get their rest.”

We organized ourselves into two groups of four and played spades late into the night. Finally, my father told Fitzie and me to come inside. Lee and Erica followed suit as everyone said their goodbyes.

For the trip home, I do remember traveling with the Johnsons. Erica and I sat in the back seat. Mr. Johnson drove while Mrs. Johnson rode shotgun. Erica sat behind her, to my right. It was good because I offered up my right pinky and she locked it down with her left pinky.

 It is only faintly that I recall that, because the trip was otherwise unremarkable. We likely played car games like I Spy, Perdiddle, or Slug Bug, but it was so long ago now, I’m really unsure.

That weekend, however, was the last time my family took a road trip with the Johnsons or the guys.

Erica went to college in Boston that fall. Both Lee and I graduated from UC the following spring. Fitzie finished officer training and went on to serve in the Army for the remainder of his life.

As for Byron, he only played three more games for Philadelphia, remaining hitless in his next 11 plate appearances. He was sent back to Reading for the remainder of 1082. Then, he was traded to the Montreal Expos for a pair of young prospects. The Expos, who had future Hall of Fame catcher Gary Carter behind the plate, really didn’t have any use for Byron at all. He was relegated to AA for the first half of 1983. When he refused the opportunity to be a minor league catching coach, he refused. Then, he was dropped altogether.

He returned to Mount Adams for a short time before heading the whole way back t o Bond Hill. He married a local girl and they had two kids. He coached both of his boys in his father’s old league for a few years while holding down a mid-level job at a local bank.

A short time later, Erica was married and living somewhere near downtown Boston.

I stayed near Cincy and raised two girls. One played soccer. The other begged to play a new musical instrument each and every autumn. I spoiled them as much as possible, even if neither of them liked baseball at all.

Still, Byron and I got together for day trips to Riverfront to watch the Redlegs. Whether it was the Dodgers or not, I’d always be sure to wear my old faded blue ball cap and Byron would be sure to wear whatever brand new Reds cap he’d just purchased from the Team Shop. Afterwards, we’d head to one of our houses, adjourn to the porch with a bucket full of iced-down bottles of beer and talk about the good old days.

With every fresh bottle of beer, he’d unscrew the bottle cap and pinch it between his thumb and middle finger. Then, he’d lean back and snap his fingers sharply. The bottle cap spun away from him and fluttered through the air in a soft arc. Then, it would clank against the pavement as it landed in the roadway in front of the house until it skittered to a stop.

Sometimes, those most golden of moments would surface out of nowhere – just like loading the JUGS machine with tennis balls, swatting at fireflies, or just telling jokes in the dugout while waiting for Coach Klein’s latest variation of his same old pep talk.

And, as Coach Klein always used to say, “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

.

32 - August 1, 1977

In the weeks following her admission to the Intensive-Care Unit at Cincinnati Mercy, Erica Johnson’s most ardent fight with Sickle Cell had reached its peak. The crescent-shaped red blood cells had congregated and blocked the blood flow within part of her brain.

A giant pool of stagnant blood had clotted and clogged part of the right side of the brain, shutting down a slew of vital processes.

The first visible sign was her twitching left eyelid. Then, she felt the tremors all across the left side of her face. Her left cheek sparkled with electric sleepiness. Her lips were like liquefied earthworms struggling for air after a fresh spring rain. Her left nostril felt fat and fleshy. Even the top of her head was partially numb. When she rubbed her hand across her scalp, it tingled, no different than a limb anyone could experience after a long, awkward sleep.

Half-words and broken phrases tumbled out of her mouth as she begged her mother for help. Mrs. Johnson recognized the signs immediately. She’d seen Robert go into convulsions and talk in half-sentences several times before. In fact, she’d become hardened like a battle-tested nurse, able to react quickly and act efficiently to come to her husband’s aid.

When Erica stumbled over her words, however, Mrs. Johnson stumbled through her own thought processes. The shock of hearing her little girl’s dysfunctional speech elicited the worst possible reaction in Victoria Johnson. She completely froze.

Robert, however, was nearby. So, too, was Byron, and in an instant, both of them sprang into action. Mr. Johnson tended to Erica while Byron called the fire department.

“I felt totally worthless,” Victoria confessed to her husband.

“You did just fine.”

“I didn’t do anything. I just stood there. I could’ve killed her.”

“Under the circumstances, your reaction was perfectly normal. I don’t think anything more could have been expected.”

Those words were of little comfort to Mrs. Johnson. After all, Erica was her only daughter and youngest child. She had taken all the classes with her husband and read all the first aid manuals. In all reality, she scoured them, keeping the guides in her bedside table for late night reading material.

Reading and rereading those little first aid manuals, however, seemed useless.

“I let her down,” said Victoria.

“For once and for all, Victoria, you did no such thing. You’re only human.”

The first week in the hospital, we all took turns staying with Erica. I held her hand tightly whenever I was there, day or night. Her condition fluctuated as her body rejected the latest round of blood transfusions.

“Oh, here he comes again,” she moaned.

“Who?”

“The King Crab of Death.”

“The what?”

She grasped her chest as she attempted to breathe. Her face contorted in pain.

“It’s like a giant crab grabbing onto my chest and crushing my rib cage.”

“Should I call a nurse?”

Erica hyperventilated as she nodded to me.

I ran into the hallway and frantically looked both ways.

“Nurse, please come here quickly! We need your help!”

The nurse sprinted toward the room and looked Erica over. She simultaneously picked up the phone and punched the call button. A battalion of nurses and doctors quickly came to Erica’s rescue. Then, they went to work on Erica as the nurse shooed me away.

She leaned over Erica as she administered chest compressions. Then, I watched as people rushed into the room. The attending physician checked Erica’s airway.

“Are we getting any respiration?”

The nurse shook her head.

“Hold on a second while I insert an airway.”

He tipped Erica’s head back and carefully intubated her. Then, he connected a Foley bag and squeezed gently, forcing air into Erica’s lungs. Another nurse entered the room and started checking vital signs. An orderly pushed me aside as Erica’s caregivers carted her to the elevator.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“The cardiology unit,” said the orderly, “she’s going into cardiac arrest.”

Erica, in her gurney, and a group of four loaded into the elevator and then disappeared as the doors closed. I stood alone in the hallway for only a moment, stuck in a sort of limbo. As soon as I snapped out of it, I headed downstairs to the waiting room. I found a payphone and dropped a pair of dimes into the slot. Without thinking, I automatically dialed the Johnson’s phone number.

“Hello?” said Mrs. Johnson.

“Hi, Mrs. Johnson, it’s me, Jacob Jolley.”

“Yes, Jake. What’s wrong?”

It wasn’t an unusual question, especially considering the recent string of events and it shouldn’t have taken me by surprise at all. Still, I replied as a matter of fact. Erica was sick. 

“Erica just went into surgery.”

A vacuum rush of air swept up from the mouthpiece as Mrs. Johnson gasped in shock.

“Mrs. Johnson? Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes dear, I’m fine. We’ll all be there as soon as possible.”

I stayed near the payphone, manning it like a switchboard operator, making calls to every number that came to mind. When I finished scanning the personal Rolodex in my mind, I scanned the phone book.

“How many people did you call?” asked Byron.

“I’m not sure, maybe twenty, maybe more.”

“That’s so insensitive and thoughtless.”

“Huh?”

“This is a private family matter.”

Byron stormed off in a huff, leaving me alone at the payphone again. When I told Fitzie what happened, he agreed with Byron. It wasn’t the opinion I expected or wanted. When I turned to my father, he offered his own bit of personal insight.

“Look Jake, not all people are like you. They don’t wear their hearts on their sleeves. Whether it’s Mr. Johnson or Byron, they usually keep a good part of their private lives private. The reason you don’t see that is because you’re part of their inner circle.”

“Oh.”

“Well, what’s done is done. Just be there for Byron and like all wounds, it’ll heal, given enough time.”

I sat in the waiting room with my friends and family, keeping clear of Byron. For the next few days, we didn’t even speak to each other.

“She’s back in the ICU,” said my mother, “do you want to go visit with her?”

“I don’t know,” I sighed.

“Come on, it’ll be good for you. Plus, I’m sure she wants to see you, too.”

I rode up on the elevator with my mother. I was hardly thinking about Erica at all; my head was occupied with thoughts of what I’d say when I saw Byron. As we headed down the hall, we ran into Mr. Johnson, who was reclining uncomfortably on a hard plastic chair just outside Erica’s room.

“How’s she doing?”

“She’s hanging in there, but the doctors say the blood transfusions aren’t taking, so there’s still quite a long way to go.”

In an attempt to comfort Mr. Johnson, my mother patted him briskly on the back. It felt forced, like she wasn’t sure how to act – other than fill in the blank space between words. He gave her a reassuring smile before returning to his chair. We headed into Erica’s room.

Byron sat with Mrs. Johnson on the opposite side of the room. As we entered, Byron glanced up from his copy of Sports Illustrated, but only momentarily. Mrs. Johnson, however, not only acknowledged our presence, but moved to greet us.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you guys.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Victoria. How’s Erica holding up?”

“She’s doing better.”

I stood beside the bed, pondering over Erica. A slew of tubes trailed from her arms and belly. An oxygen mask delivered a slow, steady supply of oxygen as she slept. I stood there momentarily, listening to Erica’s breath keeping a steady rhythm as the bellows moved up and down. Finally, she emerged from sleep.

“Hey,” she said with a slight gasp.

“Hey.”

She pulled the oxygen mask from her face and rested it upon her forehead. She squinted as her pupils narrowed in the bright fluorescent light. Her lips were ashy and gray. I reached out my right hand and hooked my pinky with hers. A faint smile lit up her face.

“It’s so good to see you,” she said.

I nodded. She turned her attention towards my mother, who was standing on the opposite side of the bed from me.

“It’s good to see you too, Mrs. Jolley.”

She leaned up towards my mother and my mother bent down and embraced her tightly. Erica exhaled deeply as she hacked and coughed. My mother immediately eased Erica onto the mattress.

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry.”

Erica waved her off casually, as if to tell her not to worry. Still the coughing and hacking continued as Mrs. Johnson came over and placed the mask on Erica’s face. Erica inhaled deeply. A fresh supply of pure oxygen raced through Erica’s bronchial tubes, relaxing the muscles in her chest. Those little sickle-shaped cells seemed to breathe easy, too, as Erica’s eyelids fell slightly.

“She needs her rest. Maybe we should clear out and give her some time to herself.”

My mother nodded in agreement, so we said goodbye to Erica – at least for now – and the five of us (including Mr. Johnson) headed to the elevator. I remained silent as I stared directly at the floor indicator over the doors. It rang out the floors as it counted backwards from six to L. Then, we quietly disembarked.

The adults sat in their normal groupings: men with men and women with women. I sat to one side of Fitzie and Byron chose the other.

“How’s she doin’?”

“She’s just a little tired,” said Byron.

“That’s good, right?”

“Yeah, I guess so, but I’ve never seen her as weak as this.”

I remained silent on the matter, but Erica’s spirits did seem unusually low. It was as if she’d already given up the fight. The battle inside her body continued though, as her diseases continued to devastate an already failing system.

“Erica?” said the nurse, “how are you feeling today?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“You’re holding up really well, considering all things. Just keep positive and we’ll get through it, one day at a time.”

Another set of blood work and x-rays came back on the last day of July. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson met with the doctor in his office to discuss the results.

“Well, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, as we look at her numbers, there are a few areas for concern. First of all, her white count is extremely high. That means her body is fighting off some disease. That looks to be a simple chest cold, but given her pre-existing Sickle Cell, no cold is ever simple. On top of that, her lipids are high, and cholesterol’s clogging her arteries.”

Mrs. Johnson shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“I wish that was the worst of it.”

The doctor turned on the light box and turned off the overhead lights. X-ray images of Erica’s brain delivered the horrifying news in black and white.

“Do you see this black portion? That’s the original blood clot. There’s an extra mass we’re worried about, it’s the lighter gray area beneath the clot. It could be something as extreme as a hemorrhage or a tumor. Either way, we have to go in and investigate. Even if it’s just a blood clot, that’s where the brain is no longer getting blood, which means it’s malnourished. If we don’t operate, these parts of the brain will die and she’ll lose those functions forever.”

Mrs. Johnson remained silent and Mr. Johnson nodded agreeably. The doctor gave them time to visit with Erica.

“Hello, dear,” said Mr. Johnson as he bent over and planted a kiss firmly on his daughter’s forehead. Erica smiled.

Mrs. Johnson pulled her lips between her teeth and pressed down firmly. Her jaw quivered the slightest bit as she tried to speak.

“Mom, what is it?”

Mrs. Johnson drew a deep breath as she tried to speak. She raised her hand to her face and firmly pressed her fingers against her quivering mouth.

“Victoria, wait outside,” said Mr. Johnson.

Mrs. Johnson pulled the door closed as she left. Erica’s eyes grew wide with anticipation.

“Dear, we spoke with the doctor this afternoon and he says you’ll be headed into surgery tonight.”

“I know.”

“What did the doctor tell you?”

“He told me my chances aren’t the best.”

Mr. Johnson nodded. His little girl was handling it flawlessly. He reached out and held her hand in his. Then, he clamped the second hand on top of her outstretched hand, creating a tiny sandwich. Her tiny fingers were chilly, but they warmed slightly under his warm and gentle touch.

“Who do you want me to send in next?”

“Send Jake…and my brother.”

“You want me to send both of them…at the same time?”

Erica nodded.

Mr. Johnson gave his daughter a slight sideways glance. Then, he gave her a wink and a nod as he smiled at her. He knew, if anyone could fix the two of us, it was Erica.

“Byron, Jake,” he called, “Erica wants to see the two of you.”

We stared each other down for a moment as Mr. Johnson motioned for us to get off our seats.

“Why does she want see both of us?” asked Byron.

“Beats me, why don’t you find out for yourselves?”

We headed to the elevator together – or as together as we had to be. We still remained silent the whole way up to the sixth floor – and down the hall, too.

Erica shifted in place as the two of us entered her room. Byron went to the far side of the room, which placed the bed (and Erica) between us. She frowned at both of us, one then the other.

“What is wrong with you two?”

She motioned for me to move around the bed and stand next to her brother, so I did. We stood awkwardly beside each other, unable to make eye contact with her.

“Byron, he was just trying to help.”

“But your disease isn’t anyone’s business.”

“He did it because he was concerned.”

Byron folded his arms.

“Apologize to him.”

“I’m sorry, Jake. I know you were just trying to help.”

“No problem.”

“Now is everything all better?” said Erica.

We both nodded.

“Good, now hug.”

We both glared at Erica as she kept a straight face. Then, a smirk sneaked out of the corner of her mouth, followed by a whole-hearted laugh. She took a deep breath through her oxygen mask and moved it onto her forehead and smiled. She followed a light, raspy cough with her one-of-a-kind smile.

“The doctor told me I had to keep positive and seeing the two of you fight wasn’t helping me one bit. Now, I’m good to go.”

We each hugged her tightly and wished her well before she went into surgery. After that, we returned to the lobby and waited.

The first hour was long and arduous as we sat in the waiting room and waited. The television always seemed to be tuned into a channel none of us would normally watch. Of course, that also meant it wasn’t WLWC, which also meant we didn’t get to watch the Reds game.. That, of course, had been the way of things ever since we arrived at Cincinnati Mercy.

The second hour was shorter than the first. The third was shorter than the second, and so on and so on. Meanwhile, it probably dragged on for the surgical team attending to Erica.

They began with anesthesia. It was a delicate operation, due to the fact they would be carving directly into her cerebral cortex. The sub-dermal mass had to be kept alive and working, or else they’d risk further damage.

They gave a light dose of general anesthetic to keep Erica just below the level of consciousness.

The nurse used a pair of scissors to chop the hair short. Then, she took an electric shaver to create a bald patch for the field of surgery as the general anesthetic took hold. The remaining anesthesia was administered in two phases: the nurse massaged jelly into the bald patch and after the injection site was numb, the surgeon injected a needle into artery just ahead of the clotted matter.

By the time Erica arrived in the operating theater, the surgical team grew to about ten.

The chief neurosurgeon created an incision in the skin where he’d operate. He peeled away a flap of skin to reveal the sub-derma and skull. The nurse applied suction and liquid to keep the target area as clean as possible. Then, the surgeon drilled a small pilot hole in the skull. That was followed by additional drillings, creating a two-inch entry point for the scalpel. Light suction carefully pulled blood away from the soft brain matter beneath the clotted artery. Then, the surgeon used a sharp probe to clear the clot from the artery. It turned from purple-black to light red as clots of blood were siphoned away by the blood pumping through Erica’s brain.

Another surgeon reached in with a spoon-bladed scalpel and pushed the artery aside. The chief surgeon nipped at the hemorrhage while another surgeon used suction to remove the gelatinous red hemorrhage. As they neared completion, they changed from suction to forceps and a water stream, to avoid damage to the fragile brain tissue.

When they finished, the surgeons patched their work with bone, skin grafts, and a form of Super Glue. It was at least ten hours until the surgeon came out to see us.

“How is she?” asked Mr. Johnson.

“She’ll be fine. She just needs to take it easy for the next couple of weeks. You know what they say, ‘slow and steady wins the race.’”

It wasn’t, of course, a matter of weeks, but the way Erica would go about her daily routine for the rest of her life – the specter of death would always loom over Erica and her family, even if it took its own sweet time getting there.

We spent our days after that surgery much like the days we’d spent before, although Erica would never again play Wiffle Ball with us, let alone softball or even go biking to Kennedy Park with the boys.

She did, however, sit in the bleachers, keeping score and cheering for us. Whenever someone hit a foul ball, a team of friends made sure Erica was out of harm’s way. Sure, it was a little over-protective, but Erica loved the extra attention. Still, she found a way of making lemons into lemonade.

In the meantime, the rest of us just breathed deep and stepped light.

.

31 - April 3, 1982

A typical day in southwestern Ohio during the first week of April usually meant unseasonably cold weather accompanied by heavy rain showers. In Oklahoma, however, it meant hot and blustery days.

I took the Greyhound bus to Oklahoma City to see Byron play a short time after he had been shipped up to the AAA level. The trip was long and arduous. The bus hit every whistle stop along the way, which ended up being about once every ninety minutes. A trip that would normally take twelve hours lasted a day and a half. The mixed bag of passengers could best be described as eclectic; at worst, they were a who’s who of societal leftovers.

The guy sitting behind me had a week’s worth of stink on his clothes and he managed to stay on the bus for most of my trip. I would’ve changed seats, but the bus was packed. Instead, I just held my nose next to the window vent and inhaled carefully. I also got off at each stop to catch a much-needed breath of fresh air.

When I finally arrived at the bus station in the wee hours of the morning, Byron was there to greet me.

“How was your trip?”

“Long and grueling,” I muttered.

“When we get home, you can crash on my bed. I‘ll just go ahead and sleep on the couch.”

My head hit the pillow and I was out like a light. Byron didn’t interrupt me until late in the afternoon.

“Come on, it’s time to get up.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s time to go to the ballpark.”

Sun shone brightly in my eyes as I rolled out of bed. Not even a hot shower helped me much as I got ready.

“I’ve got four tickets lined up right behind home plate.”

“Four? Why four?”

“My folks are going to be there, plus you, plus Chick Washington.”

“Ah,” I said, “I’m finally going to meet the infamous Chick Washington.”

“I think you’ll like him,” said Byron.

“As many Chick Washington stories as your father has told me through the years, I can’t imagine I wouldn’t.”

We hurried to the park, only so I could wait while the Phillies went through their warm-ups.

I sat where I always sat whenever I watched Byron play ball – right behind home plate and just to the right, between the netting and the home team dugout. It was always comforting to sit in that same familiar place, no matter where we were.

Byron’s at-bat didn’t come until the bottom of the third, since Byron was eighth to bat, only ahead of the pitcher.

Pitch one was a slider that beat Byron to the plate. Pitch two was a fastball, high and inside. The third pitch was a curve that fell low and wide. The umpire called out, Ball!”

Byron should have stepped out of the batter’s box to regain his composure, but he was still tense from the long string of strike outs he’d posted over his last few outings. He gripped the bat tightly in his two hands and hoisted it high above his head, ready for pitch number four.

The fourth pitch came right down the pike and Byron watched it the whole way from the pitcher’s hand to the catcher’s mitt.

“Strike three, batter. You’re out!”

Byron pounded his baseball bat fiercely against home plate and wrung the handle in his hands as he strode back to the dugout.

“Another God damned strikeout,” he grumbled to himself. It was a phrase that had been hissing through his teeth an awful lot lately. He was sick to his stomach about it, too.

When Byron approached the dugout, batting coach Cot Deal greeted him just inside the warm-up circle.

“Ignore the count; the count means nothing.”

As Cot’s guiding hand came upon Byron’s right bicep, Byron jerked away.

“Byron…”

“Not now, Cot, not now.”

Byron looked over to the stands where we sat and watched him play – or at least watched him strike out. The hits still weren’t coming.

“Byron,” called Chick, “come here a second.”

Byron trotted towards us.

“What did Cot say to you?”

“He told me to ignore the count.”

Chick nodded, “yep, that sounds just about right.”

“What do you mean?”

“What was your count on that last pitch?”

“It was one ball and two strikes.”

“What kind of pitch were you expecting?”

“Some junk, maybe a curve, maybe a slider.”

“What kind of pitch did you get?”

“A fastball.”

“Of course you got a fastball, straight down the middle of the plate, too. That was a perfect pitch to hit to any part of the field, but you just stood there and watched it drop right into the catcher’s mitt.”

“I know; I messed up.”

“You didn’t just mess up, you’re messed up. You’ve got all these pitchers roaming freely inside your head like goats in a pasture. They’re eating all your grass and you’re just standin’ there in a soggy old mud patch wondering what’s going wrong.”

Chick never minced words. Still, his words landed gently on Byron’s ears. Byron had heard Chick’s hard advice time and time again. Byron headed into the dugout and sought out Cot Deal.

“I’m sorry, Cot, you’re right.”

“It’s okay. You’re just in a slump, that’s all. We’ll work on that, too.”

Even though his batting average had been sub-par when he was playing AA ball, the Phillies needed a catcher with strong defensive skills, a good arm, and pitcher management and they needed him quick. Byron was the obvious choice. They moved Byron out to Oklahoma City to get coached at the AAA level. His catching fundamentals were nearly perfect.

He batted again in the fifth, seventh, and eighth innings. He went 0-4 with two strike outs. Luckily, the remainder of the batting roster was filled with hitters, so the Phillies didn’t necessarily need his input. Oklahoma City won 7-4.

His batting problems needed an extensive overhaul from the brain down and the next day, the Oklahoma Phillies had a hole in their schedule. Cot Deal and the coaching staff used that free time to overhaul Byron’s batting skills.

I tagged along with Byron. Mr. Johnson and Mr. Washington were there, sitting up in the cheap seats. I climbed up the bleachers to one of the top rows and looked down upon a day of baseball practice.

A tall but stocky man with a snarling face and a cotton-top head of coarse white hair stood in the batting cage talking to one of his players while Byron crouched down in his usual position behind home plate.

The fastballs came in and Byron caught them casually. With each pitch, his mitt dipped into place and met the ball just behind the plate. Each time it did, the ball popped in the soft leather heel of his mitt. Byron flicked his wrist and deposited the ball in the plastic pickle bucket beside him. The ball bounced against the plastic bottom, sounding out the quick, quiet rhythm of pitch-and-catch.

“You know what, Byron?” said Cot, as he interrupted the rhythm of batting practice, “your father did you the worst disservice ever when he bought that Jugs machine.”

“What are you talking about?”

“How long did you own that machine?”

“We had a pitching machine as long as I can ever remember.”

“Your father drilled you every day on that machine, right?”

Byron nodded.

“Your father even taught you the proper care and maintenance for it, right?”

“Yeah, of course, you’ve seen me fix our machines.”

“I know, because you’ve taught our team manager things he didn’t even know about those machines, but how many hours of batting practice did you take from that machine?”

“I don’t know, a lot, I guess.”

“A lot?”

Byron rose from his catcher’s stance and stood next to Cot.

“Not much, I guess.”

“Exactly,” said Cot, “your father taught you day in and day out, but he only focused on your catching skills and completely skipped over the batting. I see all these nuances in you, both good and bad. You do these little things behind home plate that set you apart from every single catcher in triple-A ball. In fact, you’re more seasoned as a catcher than some pros I’ve seen. Yet, you make these little mistakes in the batter’s box that set you apart, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come here,” said Cot as he stood behind the boy and directed him through his batting stance, swing, and follow-through.

“Let’s start by breaking down this stance…”

“This stance has worked for me all my life until now.”

“That’s because you were playing against untalented players. When your competition is weak, you become weak. What’s worse is you were hitting the ball back then, so coaches let you make mistake upon mistake without correcting you. Let’s see you swing away.”

Cot directed the pitcher to deliver a fastball straight down the center as he stepped away from the cage. The pitch sailed in at waist-height and Byron connected with it easily, sending a grounder toward first base.

“See? I hit it there, didn’t I?”

“Barely, and that’s because you muscled through it. You’re still using your skill and not proper mechanics. When that ball comes out of the pitcher’s hand, your whole body stiffens, just like a golfer who keeps slicing the ball wide right.”

“How do I fix it?”

“First thing, you relax. Don’t tense up that left arm. Concentrate on the swing, not hitting the ball. Make the bat do all the work. I want you to take this next pitch and swing lightly, aiming the hit for the pitcher’s mound.”

The fastball came in and Byron swung again. The ball popped on the sweet spot and bounced towards the pitcher’s protective netting.

“That was easy,” said Byron.

“Well, it was easier, but you’ve still got a long, long way to go.”

The next day, the Phillies would play again and the four of us were there to watch. Again, Byron went hitless in four at-bats. This time, though, he grounded out twice, fouled out once, and hit a long fly ball that made it all the way to the warning track before being caught by the right fielder.

We all met Byron in the parking lot after the game.

“Hey son,” said Mr. Johnson, “let’s go out and have dinner at the place of your choice.”

Byron took his father up on the offer and we all ended up at a local steakhouse on the outskirts of the city.

“Consider this a congratulatory dinner,” said Mr. Johnson.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Do you know how many boys dream of being professional baseball players?”

“I don’t know.”

“All of them.”

“I’m not a pro.”

“You are,” said Mr. Johnson, “and some day, you’ll be in the major leagues. I know it, your mother knows it. Chick knows it, and even Cot Deal knows it. Why else do you think he’s spending all this time with you?”

Before Byron could answer, Mr. Johnson finished his thought.

“It’s because the Phillies know, sooner or later, they’ll need you in the majors.”

“I’m still not getting any hits. Coach Deal says I spent too much time behind the plate and not enough time at the plate.”

Mr. Johnson nodded, “maybe that was my fault.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Byron, “I never would’ve been here without you.”

“I still should’ve paid more attention to your batting. I could’ve had your sister help you with batting practice as much as we worked on catching.”

Byron shrugged, “It’s easier to second guess the past than it is to fix the future.”

“Son, the older you get, the more you sound like Chick.”

“And what’s so wrong about that?” said Chick.

“Well, that’s a long, long list,” replied Mrs. Johnson, “Where to begin?”

Everyone had a good laugh as we said our good-byes and went our separate ways, but before I went back to Byron’s apartment, Mr. Johnson pulled me aside.

“You know, Jake, I’ve considered you a part of my family for a long, long time, and if you want, Mrs. Johnson and I will get you a return ticket to Cincinnati.”

“I’ve already got a ticket.”

“I mean a plane ticket.”

“Nah, I’m fine.”

“I know how unbearable those bus trips can be. Just come home with me and Mrs. Johnson, our treat.”

“Alright.”

The return trip from Oklahoma City was just under two hours. That was much quicker (not to mention much cozier) than the bus trip there. Also, there were no smelly co-passengers to deal with, only the Johnsons. Still, the constant presence of Mrs. Johnson beside me was a sore reminder of Erica’s absence, especially since I sat across the aisle from Mr. and Mrs. Johnson on the small 20-seat prop-jet.

“It feels a little hollow, though,” said Mrs. Johnson.

“What feels hollow?”

“Not having Erica here. She would’ve loved Oklahoma City,” she said.

“Yeah, I think so.”

A soft silence rose as we both settled into our seat backs. Sounds hardly perceptible before suddenly became prominent cymbal crashes: the drink cart rumbling down the middle aisle and the inquisitive and soothing voice of the flight attendant asking the few of us what we wanted to drink as she handed off an inadequate handful of snacks to us followed by a small plastic cup and napkin. Then came the gurgling of some carbonated beverage and her foot pressing down on the brake and inching to the back of the plane, three passengers at a time.

As I sat there, I knew Erica would’ve loved Oklahoma City. Erica’s sense of adventure was as meager as a trip to a Crabapple Festival on a Saturday afternoon or sitting in the bleachers for a high school homecoming, wrapped tightly in a field blanket. Not having her there left a large hollow spot in the pit of my stomach. It was irreplaceable.

While I returned to college work at the University of Cincinnati, Byron continued working out the kinks in his batting with Cot Deal.

The days of batting practice piled up in front of Byron as he broke old habits and cemented new habits. Within only a few weeks, he doubled his batting average from .180 to over .375. That wasn’t stellar among AAA batters, but it was a long way from where he’d been in Reading and it secured his spot behind home plate n Oklahoma City.

It was just after midnight as I sat alone in the University of Cincinnati Mathematics Computer Lab. It was small and cramped and the Lab Assistant was nose-deep in studies. Meanwhile, I sat and stared at my old green-screened computer monitor. I was obsessed with the constant low hum of fluorescent lights overhead. It reminded me of the tentacles protruding from Erica’s arms and chest when she was just fourteen. That machine hummed quietly, working overtime to keep the little girl alive.

.

30 - July 11, 1977

Fitzie, Lee, and me: we sat one-two-three on the dugout bench waiting for practice to begin. The weather was hot and sticky. In fact, it was so hot and sticky it felt like we were in the Deep South. The only thing setting it apart was the frequent gusts of wind. Dust blew up from the ground and got into our eyes, almost as if to spite our being there. All in all, it was a crappy day. Still, it was a perfect day for baseball.

Fitzie bent forward and peered past Lee. He looked me over, sideways, up, and down with a knowing look on his face.

“You know the difference between a game of kissy-face and pussy-footing around right?”

I shook my head.

“If you don’t know, I ain’t gonna tell you.”

“Maybe Coach Klein will tell you in Health Class,” added Lee.

“Shut up, you guys.”

They continued poking fun at me while we sat in the dugout, waiting for Coach Klein. Byron was leaning against the dugout wall with his arms crossed and his gaze fixed down upon me. He just stood there, quietly taking it all in. He looked just like his father used to when he coached us in the Babe Ruth League at Tall Oaks.

What both Fitzie and Lee were referring to (and Byron was simmering about) was the night before, when Coach Klein caught me fooling around with Byron’s little sister.

While the boys’ traveling team practiced on one diamond, the girls’ softball team practiced on the other. During the week following the Fourth of July, Erica and I managed to carve out more and more time to be together. It started with a late Friday, where we met up at the Swim Club and shared the blanket that separated the guys and me from her and the girls.

“How was practice?” she asked.

“You know, same ole same ole.”

“Yeah,” she nodded, “kind of boring.”

“Not boring, just practice, you know.”

“You want to go to the Game Room or play basketball?”

I shook my head, “I’m fine.”

“I feel like I’m boring you.”

“No, no, not at all.”

It was funny, because our conversations never got anywhere up to that point. We were still fumbling around with our words. All of our teenage angst only made it worse.

“The Fourth was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it was good.”

We sat again, our conversation was a collection of silences waiting to be interrupted with some sort of sound – any sound, really.

“You want a soda?”

“I’m not really thirsty.”

“Are you hungry?”

She shook her head and we sat in silence. It was okay, though. We filled the awkwardness by moving closer to one another physically. One or the other would get up and do something with our group of friends. Then, we’d return to the blanket and sit closer to each other than the time before. This continued until 10 o’clock, when the last announcement came across the P.A. system.

“Attention Swim Club members and their guests, we’re glad you could join us for a fun-filled day of swimming and other activities at Mt. Adams’ premier swimming area.. It is now 10 P.M. and the pool is closed. We invite you to return tomorrow when we will be open at 7 o’clock sharp. Until then, take care and happy trails to you.”

Everyone filtered out through the front gates while our group of friends waited just outside near the bike racks. After approximately ten minutes, we were ushered back inside by Fitzie and his friends.

We returned to our same area near the diving area and sat with our friends. When someone set up the volleyball net in the shallow area of the pool, we all jumped in. The boys played against the girls for awhile. Then the game fizzled as people lost interest one-by-one. Finally, both Erica and I decided to jump out, too.

“Want to go play basketball?” she asked.

I shrugged.

“Come on, I bet I can beat you in a game of one-on-one.”

“Ha! I seriously doubt that.”

We grabbed a basketball from the front desk and ran over to the court. We had the whole area all to ourselves.

There were no overhead lights for the basketball court, only the mercury-tinted security lights near the Game Room and the bright overhead lights that surrounded the Diving Area. Unfortunately, a pair of giant oak trees stood between the pool and the courts. This left the court covered in shadows.

We played for a bit, but the low light made it too hard to enjoy playing basketball. Instead, we sat at the bench parked at the end of the kiddie pool.

Erica sat right next to me, her leg pressed against mine. He skin was cold and clammy, covered in goose bumps. Her teeth chattered as I wrapped my beach towel around the two of us.

“I can’t believe I’m still cold,” she said.

“Me neither.”

She pressed her lips against mine and locked herself to me. Her big brown eyes were fixed on mine as we stared at each other. It was a strange little kiss that lasted and lasted until we heard Barb’s voice from the Game Room. We immediately separated and did not say another thing to each other for the remainder of the night.

The next morning, I was over at Byron’s bright and early. I rotated turns at the Jugs machine with Erica, while Byron crouched behind home plate the entire time.

“Why don’t you run the machine?” said Erica.

“I don’t have to, you or Jake can do it.”

“You’re hogging it.”

“Dad got the Jugs machine for me, just like when he first practiced catching with me when you weren’t even interested in baseball.”

“It’s selfish,” said Erica.

She fed the last of the tennis balls into the hopper and returned to the porch. I followed her to the picnic bench.

“Jake, why don’t you work the Jugs machine for a bit?”

I shrugged.

“I think I’m going to the roller rink this afternoon before practice,” said Erica, “Does anyone want to go with me?”

When she said ‘anyone’, she only meant me. She did it mostly to dig at her older brother’s nerves. It left me in middle ground, having to choose between one sibling and the other.

“Jake? Do you like roller skating?”

I glanced over at her.

“Well, do you?”

“Yeah, yeah, I like it.”

“Then maybe you and I should go together this afternoon. What do you say?”

“Okay.”

“Then it’s a date.”

I went home for lunch and returned a little while later. When I rang the doorbell and Byron answered, he didn’t even get halfway to the door before calling out to his sister.

“Erica! Get the door.”

She ran up and greeted me with a bear hug. I must admit, I was a little embarrassed.

“Your face is beet red,” she said, “you ready to go?”

I nodded.

“Then let’s get out of here.”

She turned towards the interior of the hosue and gave a parting shot.

“Mom, Jake and I are going to Skatetown and afterwards I have practice. I won’t be back until later!”

“Okay, dear, be safe!”

Skatetown was empty for most of the afternoon, so we practically had the whole rink to ourselves. It was even funnier when the DJ put on a little Wild Cherry with “Play that Fujnky Music” and announced over the microphone in his low, husky voice, “Now it’s ‘All Skate Backwards’.”

We switched directions, skating counter-clockwise for the next song. It seemed sort of stupid, since there were just four of us on the floor. While Erica skated footloose and fancy free, I struggled to keep a steady pace.

It was me and Erica and an old couple who also performed in the roller disco competitions all the time. His name was Roy, but I don’t recall hers. Roy watched me skate and came up to help.

“Consider each skate like a blade. You want to push off on one and slide on the other, sort of like a herringbone pattern.”

I followed his advice. My skating stroke improved slowly, but surely.

“Don’t talk to him,” said Erica, “nobody here really likes him. He’s a bit of a showoff.”

“He’s nice enough to me.”

“That’s because he wants to act important.”

“Okay,” I said. I really didn’t get why she was so bothered by Roy, but I left it alone, ignoring him fro the remainder of the afternoon.

We biked up to the high school diamonds when it was time for practice. When that ended, we carried on where we left off, spending all our time together.

 That night we began sneaking onto school buses for some alone time. We’d also taken more risks, peeling clothes off of one another and getting more and more intimate. At some point, it would have to fall apart.

On our last night sneaking around together, we snuck onto one of the busses just as we always had. This time, however, we’d gotten too comfortable in our new spot and took fewer precautions. We quit scouting out the area. We quit picking the bus farthest from prying eyes. We also quit closing the bus doors so nobody could tell we were there.

About an hour after we snuck onto the bus, Coach Klein emerged from his office at the end of a long day. He cut through the parking lot on the way to his car when he overheard noises coming from our bus.

He carefully circled around behind the bus and peered through the emergency door. He plainly saw two half-clothed teenagers in the back seat, making out. When he knocked on the window, it took us by complete surprise.

Shirts and pants flew around as we rushed to get dressed. Meanwhile, Coach Klein walked to the front of the bus and climbed to the top step.

“Hello?” he called out.

We froze in place, crouched between the seats. A hot, white beam shot from his flashlight and lit the back half of the bus. Coach Klein waited until our heads popped over the edge of the green leather seat back. Then, his voice filled the bus just as the light did. Surprisingly, it was calm and clear.

“Is that you, Jake?”

I nodded.

“And is that Erica Johnson?”

“Yessir.”

“Alright, when you two finish getting dressed, come on outside.”

Coach Klein stepped off the bus and waited for us. We spoke in hushed tones as we got dressed.

“What do you think he’ll do?”

“I don’t have a clue.”

“Do you think we’re in trouble?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s your coach. What do you think he’ll do?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll be quiet.”

We slowly walked toward the front of the bus. Our heads hung low as we faced Coach Klein. Neither of us made eye contact with him as he spoke.

“I’d ask you what you were doing, but that’s pretty obvious. The bigger question is why did you think it was okay to do it here?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Well,” he sighed, “I don’t know either. You’ve put me in a tough situation, kids; especially you, Jake. Even though it’s summer, I’m still your coach and I’m responsible for you from the moment you arrive on school grounds until you leave at night.”

“Are we in trouble?” asked Erica.

“You two get on home and let me think about that. I’ll talk to both of you tomorrow.”

The next day, I was anxious to receive that call. When it never came, I headed to practice. I sat on the bench between Lee and Fitzie, waiting to find out what would happen to me.

“Jake!” called out Coach Klein.

Coach Klein motioned me behind the row of bleachers, just out of range of the rest of the team, although I was still in full view of everyone.

“I talked to Principal Hoffman and he’s called both your parents.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“Well, yes and no. Since school’s out, there’s nothing we can really do other than ban you from the team and I’m not doing that. So, I just called your parents.”

“Oh.”

Honestly, I would’ve preferred to get in trouble with the school. I wasn’t so worried about my parents as I was worried about Erica’s father.

“If you want, you can go home right now.”

“I think I should. It’s better to get it over with anyway.”

“Don’t worry, I know your dad, you’ll be fine.”

“I’m not worried about my dad.”

Coach Klein patted me on the back. My head was spinning with all the things that could possibly happen the next time I saw Erica or her father.

I imagined Mr. Johnson would…well, I really didn’t know what to imagine. Whether he was angry or happy, there was still a certain veneer to his outlook and attitude. Back then, I saw him as this emotionless and uncaring authority figure.

“Hello,” I announced to my house as I dropped my baseball gear on the living room couch. Nobody was home. However, there was a note on the kitchen table.

“Jake – stay here until we get home – Dad.”

I fixed myself a sandwich and cherry punch and headed to the back porch. As I glanced across Mrs. Larinov’s back yard, she was there, tending to her flowerpots. Erica was sitting on the picnic bench in her backyard reading a book. Both women were oblivious to my presence, so I cleared my throat to get their attention. Mrs. Larinov looked up first.

“Why hello, Jacob! How are you doing this afternoon?”

“I’m okay, I guess.”

“Just okay? It’s a perfect Summer day. You should be having fun.”

“I know, but there are things going on…”

“Don’t worry, it’ll all work out in the end. It always does.”

Mrs. Larinov returned to her garden as I returned to the porch and sat down. Erica and I locked eyes momentarily. Mrs. Larinov glanced up and smiled. Then, she just returned to her work. It wasn’t long until I heard my father’s car pull up in our driveway. I went inside to receive my punishment.

“Jake, I don’t know what to say. Don’t you care for her?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then why did you disrespect her like that?”

“I didn’t think I…”

“No, you didn’t think. Although she’s a young girl, she’s also a lady and you have to treat her like one, no matter what.”

“I know.”

“No matter what. I think it would be a good idea if you apologize to Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, too.”

I nodded as my shoulders slumped; I was crest-fallen.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be right by your side.”

It was supposed to be encouraging, but I didn’t know if I wanted to face that many adults at that time. It only got worse as we approached their front door. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson were waiting for me. Mr. Johnson held the screen door open as he greeted me.

“Come in, Mr. Jolley”

Mr. Johnson, of course, was referring to me and not my father. However, my father’s guiding hand led me to the living room couch. He sat to one side while Mr. Johnson sat on the other. Meanwhile, Erica was seated on Mr. Johnson’s recliner while Mrs. Johnson stood behind her.

Mr. Johnson let go of a heavy sigh as he shook his head at me disapprovingly. Then, he took another deep breath.

“Jacob, you are a young man. You know this right?”

I nodded.

“Along with that title there come a lot of new responsibilities. Among them come the courting rituals of the young adult.”

I nodded, still not sure what he was getting at.

“Unfortunately, you’re still a child and my daughter is still a child, too. You should be saving your expressions of deeper love for when you’re married and not a moment sooner. Anything less than that means you’re disrespecting Erica which means you’re disrespecting her mother and me, too. Do you understand?”

“Yessir.”

Truly, I never felt like I disrespected Erica at all. We were curious and young. Neither of us owned a car, so there was only a limited number of places we could be alone. When we found the school busses, we’d hit the jackpot. Every day after school, we managed to sneak some alone time. In fact, it would’ve been lots worse had Coach Klein been a minute later.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson.”

“Don’t apologize to me, apologize to Erica.”

“I’m sorry.”

The living room fell silent as Erica simply nodded. After a few moments of additional silence, Mr. Johnson sent me and my father away.

Again, I wasn’t punished at all compared to Erica. My mother and father let my guilt be my guide. Erica was confined to her room and I wasn’t allowed to visit the Johnson house. I neither saw nor heard from her during the following week. When I did, the two of us were sitting in our respective backyards and that was only when Mr. Johnson wasn’t home.

Late one evening while I played Wiffle Ball in the backyard with Fitzie, Lee, and Byron, Mrs. Johnson came out back.

“Byron, come home quick.”

He dropped his bat and hurried over to his house while the rest of us followed along behind. Erica was laying on the living room floor, her hands clenched at her chest. Meanwhile, Mrs. Johnson hovered over her.

“Mom, is there anything I can do?”

“Just keep a lookout for the ambulance.”

Mr. Johnson’s car pulled into the drive and he rushed to Erica’s side, too, and he was only moments ahead of the ambulance. The paramedics came in and carried Erica away.

“Do you want me to go with her or you?”

“I’ll go,” said Mr. Johnson, “you take the boys.”

“Jake, you go tell your parents. Anyone else who wants to go has to call their parents first.

“Do you want me to take you?” asked my mom.

“Nah, Mrs. Johnson’s taking us.”

“Send my regards and I’ll come a little later with your father.”

I rushed back to the Johnson’s house and away we went. Erica was already in the Emergency Room by the time we arrived. We stopped in the waiting room while Erica was carted to the Cardiology unit. I paced back and forth through the waiting room. Then, I did laps around the first floor, moving from the gift shop to the information desk to the waiting area, cutting between the people sitting in chairs watching television while they passed the time.

“Jake, come here a moment,” called my mother.

“Yeah?”

“Just have a seat.”

“I’m too nervous.”

“I know, but you’re making me nervous, too. “

I sat down for a while, but was still full of nervous energy. I enlisted the help of Fitzie to help pass the time, but Byron and Lee joined, too. The four of us headed down to the cafeteria. It was just after midnight, so the steel doors that led to the serving area were shut tight. The only food available came from the wide array of food service machines. We grabbed frozen pizzas and nuked them in the brand new microwave ovens.

“Are these safe?” I asked, referring to the row of brand new microwaves situated near the vending machines. Up to that point, nobody owned personal microwaves. In fact, they were something of a mystery, just like a holistic approach to treating Sickle Cell.

“Of course they’re safe, it’s a hospital.”

And, of course, with all of Byron’s forethought, he was right and that, as always, was Byron’s way.

The four of us remained in the cafeteria for another hour or so, wiling away the time; we knew that when we returned to the waiting room, we’d be returning to bad news.  

.The usual run of tests were thrown aside as doctors tended to Erica’s imminent needs: she was stroking out.

The left side of her face twitched uncontrollably. Her left hand cramped into an unusable hook. Her tongue rolled around inside her mouth, just out of reach of her chomping teeth.

The doctors put a bite guard in first. Then, they restrained her while they inserted a needle and intubated her. A dose of fluids and a fresh supply of blood eased her pains, but it did not stop the interactions between the heart-shaped blood cells and her arteries. Organs were starving and the only way they knew how to cope was to shut down, one-by-one.

The elevator bell rang and my father emerged from its opening doors.

“Byron, can I speak with you for a moment?”

Byron got up from his seat as we all fell silent. My father propped his left arm on Byron’s shoulder as they spoke. Mostly, my father talked and Byron just nodded. After a few tense moments, my father approached our cafeteria table.

“Erica’s in critical condition and the doctors are moving her into surgery. She’s going to be here all night, so I talked with Mr. Johnson. I’m going to take you kids home.”

We all followed my dad to the elevator and took it to the first floor. Byron spoke with his mother and we all said our good-byes before heading home. Byron went with us.

My father turned on the radio. The Reds game was on and we listened for a little while. Then, Byron spun the volume button to the left, snapping off the power. Nobody interrupted him. We just sat and listened to the traffic passing us by as we made the rounds through Mt. Adams before stopping at home.

“Oh, hello, dear, dear child,” said my mother as she greeted us at the front door. She took Byron under her wings and led him to the kitchen.

“I made a pot of chili and some cornbread, if you’d like.”

Byron just shook his head and returned to the living room. My father sat in his recliner, but didn’t even turn on the television. He just opened that morning’s Cincy Enquirer and began reading. Byron flicked off his shoes and spread himself out on the couch. I sat on the carpet at the far end, near his feet. When I heard him begin to snore, I just headed upstairs as mom draped a quilt over his body.

Instead of going to bed, I passed time the only way I could whenever too many thoughts swam through my head: I took a long, hot shower.

I stood there, leaning my hands against the tile walls and staring down at the drain.

The greasy old pizza churned in my stomach with a glass of orange juice, a cup of coffee, a cup of milk, and a handful of potato chips I’d stolen from Lee when we were sitting in the hospital cafeteria.

That odd cocktail of breakfast drinks, mixed with salty potato chips and microwave pizza, could’ve, maybe even would’ve stayed put had I not had so much spinning around my head at the same time.

The thought of Erica in the hospital was driving me nuts. The last time I saw her, she was absolutely fine. In fact, she was nearly perfect, sitting at the picnic table as she had done a hundred times before, perfectly calm, perfectly ordinary.

I’d been through it before, as had all of us. This time, though, it was different. Byron was different. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson were different, too. Not one of them cried. Not one. Mr. Johnson’s lower lip, though.

It did something it had never even hinted at doing before. As we watched Byron say goodbye to him, Mr. Johnson’s mouth opened just the slightest bit. Then, that lower lip went slack. It quivered like a bowl of cherry-flavored hospital Jell-O, unable to stop under its own power. Mr. Johnson put his right hand to his face and pressed it against that jaw, forcing it to stop. My father just shooed us towards the exit and advised us not to look back.

But I looked back.

A violent stew of anxiety and stomach acids collided. A clump of frozen pizza shot up through my esophagus and out through my mouth. It landed in a liquid heap at my feet and gathered at the bathtub drain. I stood there for a moment, hoping it would go down. That wasn’t going to happen at all.

I kneeled down, still naked, and scooped the vomit in my hand and flung it into the toilet. With a fast flush, all of that mess was washed away.

At least something was going right for once.

.