Читать книгу The Last Summer - Chan Howell - Страница 5

Gray Beards

The gray in my beard made its first appearance this past year. It obnoxiously challenges me until the razor’s blade gives me a false sense of victory. My wife always objects to my decision to try to look younger. She says she likes the older me, but I tease her because she did not like the younger version. The gray in my beard doesn’t remind me that I am growing old as much as it reminds me of a gray-bearded baseball coach. He was much older than I originally believed. I will turn thirty-eight years old on September 7. Time is starting to catch up to me. I feel the aches of a father, and I yearn for the ailments and heartbreaks of my youth.

Time, unfortunately, has no sympathy, and it refuses to slow down. The moments that I wish would have lasted longer are the first memories the villain of youth attempts to steal. It is relentless. Some memories, thankfully, will be the last to lose their grip as I tell some of those stories daily. I fear the day their grasp loosens and they let go, leaving me with no tall tales to recount.

I have only felt special a few times in my life. The first time was the summer of 1994. That summer seems like it happened yesterday, and I pray it will be one of the last of my memories to fade.

Twenty-five years ago, before puberty and girls were an obsession, my friends and I experienced the longest summer of our lives. We did not spend our time chasing girls, swimming at the lake, or playing video games. We gambled our summer vacations away for the chance at baseball immortality. Our time was spent on clockless baseball fields. Time stood still for us that summer, and for some the clock has remained broken. I was not the main attraction, and I never would be. I felt insignificant when I was twelve, but that summer, everything seemed to change, although I was not even the main character of my own story.

My midlife crisis unexpectedly called me. I was asked to get thirteen boys that are now men together one more time. The summer we were twelve was nothing short of magical. It all started on a baseball field across from a lake at a dead-end road. We stared down countless foes on our way to transforming into something more than just your average twelve-year-olds. The summer of 1994 was the first time I read my name in the newspaper, knowingly lied, and began to notice a girl. My mission was to get my old teammates together to turn back the clock and to chronicle our epic summer on baseball diamonds across the South.

Many of my former teammates were still living near Swansville, and they would not be difficult to find. I had lost touch with many of them despite the fact they lived nearby. My new circle of friends were the fathers of the kids I now coach. I am the old man to the much younger fathers. I embrace it. Many of these guys have heard how the summer of 1994 unfolded more than once. It is the rerun of my life. I never tire of reliving that summer. My teammates that moved away would be easier to track down than those that are still around. The big water and the brown water flowed the same direction, but it created a massive divide, and Swansville has been split for a long time. I assume I was chosen to round up everyone since I really never left. My wife jokingly calls me the mayor of the Brown Water.

The 1994 MLB strike was on its way, and our national pastime was about to come to a screeching halt. Baseball fans in America needed a team to follow, and due to some luck, magic, and a new arrival, we would be on the marquee for most of the summer. We went from the local paper to the national news almost overnight. It was the first time in my life I was a dinner-table topic instead of my sister. My parents relayed our baseball exploits, and everyone in town began to learn our names. Our team picture is still hanging in the entrance of the town bank and the post office.

Baseball was in our town’s blood. The decade prior, our local high school team had a five-year stretch of deep playoff runs. Most of our parents remembered the baseball glory days of the 1980s; thus, when we showed promise, the bandwagon filled quickly. We became local celebrities by the middle of the summer. We reluctantly rode the wave of fame until it finally broke when the school bell rang the following August.

Our journey through all-star baseball tournaments became the spark that ignited friendships beyond the baseball diamond. Baseball was the easy part of our ever-changing lives. We could always set foot on the diamond and all our future conflicts magically disappeared. Baseball was the foundation of our friendships even though it created enemies. I barely remember the last time we all shared a baseball field, and it will be scary revisiting old wounds. My task of reuniting everyone would be difficult, and memory lane would not be easy to navigate. I will have to find old enemies, old allies, old heroes, and especially, old friends.