Chapter LV: The Flame
Chapter Fifty-Five: The Flame
A sandy wind blew from Pirate's Cove over Ogden's Point, bringing scents of seaweed, fog and sand castle memories into Bone Harbor. The WHEB broadcast tower reached into the night sky adding an additional red star to Orion's great belt. The Golden Arches reflected off the extreme end of Sagamore creek, serving the carbohydrate addicts. Sparse traffic on Route 1 moved north and south past the Dunkin Donuts and Yokens and the Bread Box sub shop. Through the trees and over the landscape of Bone Harbor, New Hampshire the smoke of the final Youthfire drifted west. The smoke moved slowly through the hushed lanes of granite gravestones in the South Street cemetery, down Richard's avenue past The Wynter's old house, past the corner of Lincoln avenue by the worn wooden steps of the Little Store, up Highland Avenue and over the empty sand base paths on Leary field and the Central Little League field and Wynn's water fountain, past the Junior High School's red brick walls, through busy Market Square and Prescott Park to the banks of the Chickanoosuc River where the smoke could be drawn west with the wind or east with the knowing current. Around the smoldering ashes of the last Youthfire stood the gathered tribe awaiting my final act.
I felt the soft fabric of my Sox cap with my fingers. Many years, summer rains and winter gales, had worn the cotton smooth. Only two tabs were left on the adjustable plastic band. The B was so worn it was just a smudge of red. Faded latex paint was still visible on the bill, a testament to Kurt's failed painting company that didn't clear a dime during its one summer in existence.
I placed the hat in the flames and watched it ignite and burn hotter than wood. A breeze from the river caught the ash and scattered it through the misty images of the remaining Timewraiths. The team photo had already been used as a starter for the kindling and had been reduced to ash along with a 1989 Fenway Park bleacher ticket stub that I had saved because it was the game Rose and I had gone to together.
Earlier, on my way through my house, I had purged the remaining artifacts from beneath my bed. I found a wrinkled Fenway program from 1987, a scorecard I kept during one game late in 1985, a Patriots postcard, a wrinkled piece of paper with “'90” written on it in magic marker. Of course, my Dire Straits Brothers in Arms Album wasn't going anywhere, but I did part with a Fenway Frank hot dog napkin I'd saved because Dewey hit a double off the wall as I ate the hot dog. I put these in my Red Sox pillowcase and on my way down the steps found a small package that was shaped like a cigarette box. There was no return address so I assumed it was a pack of baseball cards I had ordered to complete my 1982 Red Sox team set, the set Mack had defiled with his thieving hands. I put it in my pocket along with a note from my father to call Lacy. The message from Lacy was worth more to me than all the 0-2 pitches in the world. On the way out the door I had called the Health clinic in Willowville. Good news: I'm not terminally ill!
The cigarette shaped package almost ended up in the fire the fire before I recognized it and tucked it into my pocket. There was no sense in destroying good baseball cards. I could just donate them to an orphanage or something. Next, I pulled the video tape of Game Six from my coat. The tape still dangled in the wind and even before I could act, it ignited in a snake of flame. I dropped it hastily and had to kick it into the coals. My sock, Darcy's sock belonged in the fire, but not all stories end neatly. I had to accept that the sock had returned to the soil and was with these other treasures in spirit alone.
The dust of these artifacts was carried through the forest to the old Capture The Flag battlefields near the hobo's forlorn encampment. The sound of running feet, cries of surprise and attack from 1980, had not vanished forever as I had feared, but had only weakened as they must. I didn't need the hat to remember the passage back through the woods, past my plywood shack which the hobo had pillaged for materials. I didn't need the game six tape to remember Dave Henderson's home run to lead off the tenth inning and the way it smacked the Newsday sign and silenced Shea Stadium. And I didn't need the tape to remember how Spike Owen had touched Hendu's helmet at home plate. Hendu and Owen had come from Seattle together and they knew their moment had arrived. Win or lose, the hit was clutch. They were winners. I didn't need the tape to remember Boggs's double and Barrett's two out RBI single. And with two outs in the bottom of the tenth inning, I could not forget the look of boyish anticipation and intense concentration on everyone's face, Dewey's, Oil Can Boyd's, Buckner's, Rice's, and even my own as Schiraldi threw pitches to Gary Carter, Kevin Mitchell and then Ray Knight. These pitches gripped every face in the stadium, from the bat boy to the pretzel girl to Marty Barrett and Daryl Strawberry. These pitches were nothing less than the world.
Well, that's it. Most everything is true. Alright, I made up a few names and put some words in people's mouths and I'm not that big a fan of Wham!, but everything else is completely 99.9% fiction. Or is it non-fiction? I always get those two confused. Anyway, I sort of let things get out of control at the end of the story. I'm in a hurry to call Lacy back. I haven't actually convinced her to, you know, watch Xanadu with me, but I've got a feeling about us. When she hears about my four-part plan the neon is gonna fly! I thought I'd have time to tell you more about Ecuador and California and Alaska, but it looks like I've run out of room; the coals are dying. You'll just have to meet Nancy and Moonrise and Stu Walleye another time. They're good folks, worth meeting. The hitchhiking trip across the country is also good for a laugh. Remind me to tell you about the Vietnam Vet I met in Denver. Listen, I'll meet you down at Gillies one of these nights if they haven't closed it. Or else we can walk over to Moes and get a sub to bring to Prescott Park. I can show you Squid's house and the Pierce Island Memorial Bridge. Bring your glove so we can throw a few at Leary Field.
All the other interpretations of my song, I leave to the students of time. I'm just a bootblack after all. But one conclusion I must impose on you:
Like all humble sports, Baseball demands few tributes. The Hall of Fame, official scorecards, record books, bronze trophies, autographed cards and coveted memorabilia tucked in childish corners are all coveted, worthwhile inventions, and have their reserved box seat in our nine-inning lives; but when the stadium lights are dimmed, the mound is covered in protective plastic, and the last bench is emptied, Baseball asks for only one thing: to be remembered.
A sandy wind blew from Pirate's Cove over Ogden's Point, bringing scents of seaweed, fog and sand castle memories into Bone Harbor. The WHEB broadcast tower reached into the night sky adding an additional red star to Orion's great belt. The Golden Arches reflected off the extreme end of Sagamore creek, serving the carbohydrate addicts. Sparse traffic on Route 1 moved north and south past the Dunkin Donuts and Yokens and the Bread Box sub shop. Through the trees and over the landscape of Bone Harbor, New Hampshire the smoke of the final Youthfire drifted west. The smoke moved slowly through the hushed lanes of granite gravestones in the South Street cemetery, down Richard's avenue past The Wynter's old house, past the corner of Lincoln avenue by the worn wooden steps of the Little Store, up Highland Avenue and over the empty sand base paths on Leary field and the Central Little League field and Wynn's water fountain, past the Junior High School's red brick walls, through busy Market Square and Prescott Park to the banks of the Chickanoosuc River where the smoke could be drawn west with the wind or east with the knowing current. Around the smoldering ashes of the last Youthfire stood the gathered tribe awaiting my final act.
I felt the soft fabric of my Sox cap with my fingers. Many years, summer rains and winter gales, had worn the cotton smooth. Only two tabs were left on the adjustable plastic band. The B was so worn it was just a smudge of red. Faded latex paint was still visible on the bill, a testament to Kurt's failed painting company that didn't clear a dime during its one summer in existence.
I placed the hat in the flames and watched it ignite and burn hotter than wood. A breeze from the river caught the ash and scattered it through the misty images of the remaining Timewraiths. The team photo had already been used as a starter for the kindling and had been reduced to ash along with a 1989 Fenway Park bleacher ticket stub that I had saved because it was the game Rose and I had gone to together.
Earlier, on my way through my house, I had purged the remaining artifacts from beneath my bed. I found a wrinkled Fenway program from 1987, a scorecard I kept during one game late in 1985, a Patriots postcard, a wrinkled piece of paper with “'90” written on it in magic marker. Of course, my Dire Straits Brothers in Arms Album wasn't going anywhere, but I did part with a Fenway Frank hot dog napkin I'd saved because Dewey hit a double off the wall as I ate the hot dog. I put these in my Red Sox pillowcase and on my way down the steps found a small package that was shaped like a cigarette box. There was no return address so I assumed it was a pack of baseball cards I had ordered to complete my 1982 Red Sox team set, the set Mack had defiled with his thieving hands. I put it in my pocket along with a note from my father to call Lacy. The message from Lacy was worth more to me than all the 0-2 pitches in the world. On the way out the door I had called the Health clinic in Willowville. Good news: I'm not terminally ill!
The cigarette shaped package almost ended up in the fire the fire before I recognized it and tucked it into my pocket. There was no sense in destroying good baseball cards. I could just donate them to an orphanage or something. Next, I pulled the video tape of Game Six from my coat. The tape still dangled in the wind and even before I could act, it ignited in a snake of flame. I dropped it hastily and had to kick it into the coals. My sock, Darcy's sock belonged in the fire, but not all stories end neatly. I had to accept that the sock had returned to the soil and was with these other treasures in spirit alone.
The dust of these artifacts was carried through the forest to the old Capture The Flag battlefields near the hobo's forlorn encampment. The sound of running feet, cries of surprise and attack from 1980, had not vanished forever as I had feared, but had only weakened as they must. I didn't need the hat to remember the passage back through the woods, past my plywood shack which the hobo had pillaged for materials. I didn't need the game six tape to remember Dave Henderson's home run to lead off the tenth inning and the way it smacked the Newsday sign and silenced Shea Stadium. And I didn't need the tape to remember how Spike Owen had touched Hendu's helmet at home plate. Hendu and Owen had come from Seattle together and they knew their moment had arrived. Win or lose, the hit was clutch. They were winners. I didn't need the tape to remember Boggs's double and Barrett's two out RBI single. And with two outs in the bottom of the tenth inning, I could not forget the look of boyish anticipation and intense concentration on everyone's face, Dewey's, Oil Can Boyd's, Buckner's, Rice's, and even my own as Schiraldi threw pitches to Gary Carter, Kevin Mitchell and then Ray Knight. These pitches gripped every face in the stadium, from the bat boy to the pretzel girl to Marty Barrett and Daryl Strawberry. These pitches were nothing less than the world.
Well, that's it. Most everything is true. Alright, I made up a few names and put some words in people's mouths and I'm not that big a fan of Wham!, but everything else is completely 99.9% fiction. Or is it non-fiction? I always get those two confused. Anyway, I sort of let things get out of control at the end of the story. I'm in a hurry to call Lacy back. I haven't actually convinced her to, you know, watch Xanadu with me, but I've got a feeling about us. When she hears about my four-part plan the neon is gonna fly! I thought I'd have time to tell you more about Ecuador and California and Alaska, but it looks like I've run out of room; the coals are dying. You'll just have to meet Nancy and Moonrise and Stu Walleye another time. They're good folks, worth meeting. The hitchhiking trip across the country is also good for a laugh. Remind me to tell you about the Vietnam Vet I met in Denver. Listen, I'll meet you down at Gillies one of these nights if they haven't closed it. Or else we can walk over to Moes and get a sub to bring to Prescott Park. I can show you Squid's house and the Pierce Island Memorial Bridge. Bring your glove so we can throw a few at Leary Field.
All the other interpretations of my song, I leave to the students of time. I'm just a bootblack after all. But one conclusion I must impose on you:
Like all humble sports, Baseball demands few tributes. The Hall of Fame, official scorecards, record books, bronze trophies, autographed cards and coveted memorabilia tucked in childish corners are all coveted, worthwhile inventions, and have their reserved box seat in our nine-inning lives; but when the stadium lights are dimmed, the mound is covered in protective plastic, and the last bench is emptied, Baseball asks for only one thing: to be remembered.
posted by Oggy Bleacher | 11:13 PM
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