On a park bench in the cooling fall of autumn an elderly man sits concerned in Central Park with his eyes glued to his exposed midriff and visible chest hair. His bottom lip hangs like Bubba Gump, but little do the passing civilians know that this was not only a genetic trait he inherited from his father, Eugene, but also as a result of years and years of dipping on chewing tobacco. Way back when this man used to play some baseball in his heyday and later on in his career he used to manage some of the great minor league teams down the east coast. He had many a nickname, a different one on every team. During the start of his journey in the league as a steely second baseman they called him “Trumpet” because they wondered if his lips could ever fit tightly enough to be able to play one. In the summer of his career his club called him “Dandy” cause before and after every game he was dressed to the nines; three piece suits with shiny new penny loafers that never seemed to lose their luster. It might have helped that his name was Sandy, too. In the final couple of years, when the injuries that seemed to creep up on all the greats had their way with him, they called him “Stubs” because the wear and tear of almost twenty years playing professionally had reduced his legs to atrophic stumps; he was barely mobile and it hurt to run, let alone slide. Sandy retired as one of the best hitters of all time and earned the respect of all of his teammates and every fan that was lucky enough to see him play.
Unfortunately, his home life didn’t mirror the incredible things he was able to accomplish on the field. His life was riddled in sadness. When he was just 14 years old he lost both of his parents to a horrific car accident. At the time it had occurred, Sandy was at a friends house practicing his swing. When he was notified of the news it didn’t seem to make sense. It still never made sense and for fear of further trauma he elected not to go to the mortuary to say his goodbyes. The closed casket funeral, despite being full with family friends, colleagues, and neighbors didn’t add the closure that Sandy hoped to receive. There was something about not being there with them or seeing what had happened that led him to believe that nothing really had happened, or if it did, it would never sink in. He went to live with grandparents in a far away suburb, but they were getting old, so he often feared at some point he would lose them, too. When he was 27, in the middle of his prime, when he was putting up some of the biggest numbers the game had ever seen, he met a lady by the name of Nancy, who everyone called “Pants,” and they married after only a couple months of dating. Their marriage was relatively private, with only about twenty invitees in total, including Sandy’s grandparents who, at that point, were in their mid 90’s. Sandy was so happy that they were alive and healthy to see him wed. A year later, his grandparents passed away together in their sleep and in turn left Sandy with no remaining family members of his own. To make matters worse, Nancy had left him pregnant with their baby, without a note or a word. He woke up one Saturday morning to find that the drawers were cleared, the closets were half empty, and the brand new toys he had bought for his soon to be child were gone. He walked around the house, assessed the situation, found an empty seat in the living room and sat down in it. His feet were cold on the wooden floor. His deep breaths in and out came and went without so much as a peep. He was just alone with his stares in his shrunken undershirt that showed the hint of a fattening stomach and his hairy legs that may or may not have looked a little smaller.
Ten years later after retiring, a strapping, strutting young man was now a limping old-timer and unlike his predecessors he would not take a break from the game that he loved; he went right on to managing. The attention of playing in a big city never really mattered to Sandy and neither did the pressure that came with the higher expectation to win, but he was never shy to say that he liked the quiet of the smaller cities that fostered the majority of the minor league ball clubs. To him, the balance of helping a team full of players that would one day play under the bright lights and the calm of ending every night by himself—alone in his tiny home, provided the tranquility of the peace he always loved. He started way off in the northeast corner of the country and after finding success in each town, winning minor league championships and sending many of his players to the pros, he would move his way on down. Despite keeping to himself, the towns welcomed him with open arms. The coffee shops where he became a regular, the quiet little diners that knew the only thing he would ever ordered, and the citizens of the parks that he used to sit at for hours in the day during the offseason. To a stranger you might think he was grumpy all the time and to the rare person in those towns that might not have known who he was, he or she might flinch in disgust when he would spit some of the chewing tobacco into the brass bottle he always carried. It didn’t matter, though. It only took a second for his quiet and deceptively charming personality to endear you to him.
The game of baseball had always been Sandy’s sanctuary. The spirit inside the game that lived inside of him never waned and in some ways he always took that for granted, but after years and years of success and watching his young players grow into future all stars and watching up and coming teams that he raised becoming powerhouses, his desire to manage and be around the game he loved began to fade. All these young boys around him that he had nurtured and raised that were blossoming into grown men started to awaken a deep longing that he had to know the son or daughter he had never known and that had grown up without him. It was the candle in him that ignited the day his wife told him the news and despite everything that had happened since then, all of the wind storms inside him that blew and blew, the candle continued to glimmer. One season, after an underwhelming performance in the playoffs, he left quietly into the night after packing his things, and returned to the city that he was raised in by his parents, the city that he played for the majority of his career, and the city that he wished to settle down in. The day after he arrived he went to go see the doctor that used to work on him in his last years as a player. It had been so long since he had been in for a check-up. He didn’t see any reason to believe that he wasn’t healthy. There was the wear and tear from the game, but that was natural. After going in for a routine physical, the doctor—a long time friend, told Sandy that he would like to go a step further and reschedule a visit to do some additional tests. He returned the next day, took the tests, and later in the week when he saw his friend again, the doctor told him some disheartening news: He had cancer in the mouth. There was no change of expression on Sandy’s face. A grumble or two. He asked, “How long?” The doctor replied, “It’s hard to say. A year maybe? Maybe less. And it could always be more.” “That it?” Sandy said, and then left the office without saying another word.
On a park bench in the cooling fall of autumn, Sandy settled in and sat at his favorite place in Central Park. He used to love to watch the people go by, the bikers zooming around the bend, the runners chasing another mile, and the families—generations young and old, walking around happily in bliss. Sandy looked up to the sky to see an endless blue that felt as rich and boundless as the career he played. He nestled into his seat to get comfortable, to give his legs a rest, and to take the deep, long, relaxing breaths he cherished. After breathing himself into a deep trance, his eyes latched on to his exposed midriff that showed in the open space made by the constantly shrinking undershirt. A man and a woman sat down on the bench next to him talking baseball. Sandy’s ears perked up a little.
“They say the team’s going to retire his number as well,” the lady started. “It feels rather fitting after everything he did for the organization”
“I’m going to have to try and make it. I remember watching him long ago and absolutely marveling at the things he could do. Those homeruns? The plays in center field?” the man followed. “The Times has written a special on him every day this week. I read the other day he grew up not knowing his real father. Apparently the mother left and never told him.”
“Imagine that,” the lady said. “How awful. You wonder if the father ever wanted to find his son, if he’s still alive, anyway.”
After the normal late afternoon chit-chat the man and woman took off for a reservation dinner.
Meanwhile, Sandy’s eyes welled up with soft, wet tears. And there they went, streaming down his face one by one, catching his lip, and then falling peacefully to the ground. The candle inside flickered for a moment. Flickered and flickered by a harsh internal wind until the flame grew bigger and bigger and bigger…