How someone could write about a man he never met or spoke with, bewildered Rhoady. It wasn’t fair, what with his friend gone now unable to refute the lies and set the record right. The old timer struggled some to pull himself up from his chair. His bones creaked almost as much as the old wooden porch slats. He scraped his way to the screen door and called to his grandson, “James! Come out here now, please.”
James, a handsome young man with arms and legs as thin as chopsticks bounded onto the porch still laughing at an amusing family story being told in the kitchen, “You need something, Grandpa?”
“You know everythin’ you read ain’t true, don’tcha son? That there book you gave me is one big lie. Did you know that?”
James sat on the top step of the porch and tucked his knees under his chin, “It got great reviews and I thought you’d like it since you were such a big fan of his.”
“I wasn’t just a fan. I was his friend,” sighed Rhoady.
The old man returned to his chair and shook his head slowly, “You know James, right up ’til his last days he could walk into a room and make the hair on the arms of grown men stand straight up. He wasn’t a showboater, just looked at the folks and touched two fingers to the side of his forehead, the way he did when he played, kinda a ‘hi, there’ salute. He told me one of the greatest moments of his playing days was when President Franklin Delano Roosevelt gave him a ‘hi there’ salute as he rode around the field with his teammates after winnin’ the championship. Told me that his self and told me lots of other things, true things.”
Rhoady laughed and slapped both his knees, “Did you know that he practiced writin’ his name every day?”
He told me, “Chief, that’s what he used to call me, ‘Chief’. Chief, he’d say, when I give an autograph I want them to know who signed their ball when they get home. He had fine penmanship, James, yes he did and that’s the truth.”
“I used to love the summers, James, when all the snowbirds left and I had him to myself for days on end. I made sure my handyman chores at the country club kept me busy in the Men’s Grille. That’s where he liked to spend his afternoons and early evenings. Lord, how he loved his sweets, ‘specially those chocolate covered raisins I used to bring for him. One day while he was eatin’ his raisins I asked him plain out, “Boss, That’s what I used to call him, Boss. Boss, I says, who’s the best pitcher you ever went up against?”
James, he looked me dead in the eye and said, “Satch”. That’s the truth.”
He played against Satch in an exhibition game in Santa Barbara. “ You know, son, back then they didn’t let the coloreds and whites mix it up on the ball field.”
He told me, “When Satch pitched all you heard was Satch laughin’ and the stitches on the ball leather loosenin’ up.”
Satch was always laughin’, that’s what he told me. Seems for Satch, playin’ ball was more fun than work. When I asked my friend why Jackie and not Satch was the first to be called up for a major league team he gave me a little smile and sounded sorry when he said, “Satch liked a good time and played harder at night.”
“James did you know that my friend smoked cigarettes from the time he was nine ’til he was forty-five? He took a break for a year and smoked cigars. Between innings of a game the skipper let him, Gehrig and Lefty Lazairy go into the tunnel for a smoke. Told me he could smoke five in row if the innin’ went long enough. Quit when he was forty-five, Just put ‘em down and quit and that’s the truth.
“You know, James, he was one fussy eater, but he sure loved your Grandma’s cookin’. Go into the kitchen and ask her how she used to get up at five in the mornin’ to steam a whole head of cabbage for him and pack it up good and tight for me to carry on the bus. He loved steamed cabbage, soaked it with white vinegar and smacked his lips after every mouthful. Sardines were his favorite, though, sardines on toast with a slice of tomato. His Daddy made his livin’ fishin’ so it makes good sense that sardines were his favorite. Do you like sardines, son?”
“Never tried them, Grandpa,” smiled James.
“Well now, if and when you do, make sure you try the boneless sardines and squeeze some fresh lemon juice on ‘em. Kills the fishy taste.”
“He loved children, James, and that’s the truth. Only had one son. He came from a big family and wanted the same for his self, but that was one blessin’ he missed out on. Know what he did most mornin’s ? Never guess in a hundred years. He used to go over to the hospital and hold the little babies that were born way too soon. He held those weak little children for hours hummin’ to them and strokin’ their little hands.”
“Grandpa, how long were you two friends?”
“Well, let me see now. I worked at the club for forty-five years and he was an honorary member for thirty-five years, so I guess thirty-five years. I bet you didn’t know the man could sing. Yessiree! The man could sing. Loved singin’ ‘Hello Dolly’ at the top of his lungs when no one was around. Knew every word and stayed on key, yes sir, that’s the truth. Told me that when he was a boy he liked to sit by the bay and sing ‘Blue Moon’ . Knew all the words to that one, too. Perry Como and Nat “King” Cole were his favorite singers. Sometimes the two of us would sing ‘Mona Lisa’. Just the two of us, singin’ ‘Mona Lisa’ and sharin’ chocolate covered raisins. I miss my friend James, that’s the truth.”
“Were you his best friend, Grandpa?’
“No son, I was just a friend, a good friend, I like to think. Some folks that didn’t know him called him “aloof” but, he was just cautious. Told me people wanted to be his friend for who he used to be, not for who he was.
He told me, “Chief, I am not the organ grinder’s monkey,” when the host of a dinner he was invited to had an autograph table set up in advance. He was one bushelful of furious the next day, I tell you. That’s why Panama Joe, a fella from his ball playing days stayed his best friend for more than sixty years. Never asked him for nothin’.”
“Did he ever talk about ‘her’ ? James wanted to know.
“Well, I never brought her up, no siree . Whenever he did speak of her, he always called her “my wife”. There were always writers houndin’ him to let them write his life story. He told me, “Never! They just want me to talk about my wife and I just want them to leave her alone.”
“Lemme tell you ‘bout a time not too long before he died. It was a rainy February evenin’. Gets dark early in February, you know. The wind was blowin’, makin’ whistlin’ noises through the gaps in the windows. Just the two of us in the Men’s Grille. He was watchin’ the news on the big screen television and I was fixin’ the water pump on the coffee machine when on comes a commercial from The United States Post Office sellin’ stamps with her picture on them. There she was, hangin’ out some window in New York City wearin’ a fluffy white bathrobe, smilin’. She looked beautiful, her pale white skin, her white-blonde hair. He sat there and stared at the television. I saw the tears fallin’ onto his red nylon windbreaker. I snatched a napkin from one to the tables in the dinin’ room and placed it on the arm of the sofa he was sittin’ on. “
He looked at me and said, “They just won’t leave her alone.”
James whispered, “That’s so sad, Grandpa.”
Rhoady went on, “All the years I knew him I never saw him in the company of a woman. Never heard any tales ‘bout him gallivantin’ around either. Takes a lot of courage to live with a broken heart, but he did for more than thirty years. He was a brave man, James. I want you to remember that, James, he was brave and he was loyal, and that’s the truth.”
“Grandpa, we best go inside, supper is almost ready.”
James held the screen door open for his Grandfather.
Rhoady blinked his eyes hoping his tears wouldn’t fall, “That cabbage I smell cookin’?”
Coreen Falco
© 2015 Coreen Falco
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