Thanks to Mary Balogh – Simply Love; Molly Fisk-Please put on a mask to read this poem
Young, I lived in apartment a mere three blocks from Wrigley Field, home of the Chicago Cubs. You could hear the ring of the Hammond organ and choirs of fans singing “take me out to the ball game” with Jack Brickhouse and later Harry Carey, during the 7th inning stretch. In a tense game, if hit just right, you could hear the crack of the bat and the boisterous cheer that followed the arc of the home run into the seats of the bleacher bums in center field.
Old, in 2020 I live in a house that backs on to wetlands. Now in summer it is dry and brittle and a fire concern, but in the rainy season it can be filled with ponds and egrets, geese, ducks and an occasional pheasant squawking and quacking. At night frogs desultorily ring out in lusty search for mates. I long for the bat crack and cheer arc, but that’s on a good day, which this isn’t and will never be.
Young, I played sandlot ball with friends throughout the neighborhood. Our houses, within a block surrounded a double dirt filled ballpark, with two back fences and permanently established bases so we only needed to bring our own balls, bats and gloves, which everyone had in our upscale suburb of Chicago. We would play ball all day. When there were too few players, we would take turns at bat while everyone else played the field positions, rotating through them with everyone getting a turn at pitching or risking your life catching, with no mask or helmet, squatted behind the plate, hat turned backwards. We would come home filthy, covered in dust and grime scored from sweat rivulets with new elbow and knee skinnings marking a tense moment or two sliding home. We would be greeted by Mom telling us to drop our clothes on the floor in the entry and go immediately up for a bath, then bring down the bandages and painful red mercurochrome by way of marking our well-earned wounds and disinfecting us all at the same time.
Old, in 2020, I long to get dirty and play with that same sense of abandon, to yell and argue over safe or out while standing in each other’s face; waiting to see the tell tale smirk that hints they know they are bullshitting and they were out by a mile. I want to drop my dirty clothes in a pile to find them clean and folded on my dresser two days later and wander naked up for a hot bath and some play with PT boats and submarines in the fjords of bubbles that oddly smell like baby powder. But these days I could wear the same outfit for a week since it isn’t exposed to anything as it lazes about the house or wanders while I wonder what to do next, unless I spill some spaghetti sauce on it or drop buttered popcorn in my lap during a round of Rogers and Hammerstein musicals on Hulu. But that’s on a good day, which this isn’t and will never be.
Young, I could walk to the South Blvd. Beach with my token and towel and check in, spending the rest of the day soaking up sun, I would learn later in life was always bad for me, even though it made for an amazing tan. I would dash in and out of the cold Lake Michigan waters and dance across hot sand or underwater stones. In between, I would luxuriate on my tiny bath towel, compared to the blankets sported today, while ogling the cute girls in newly minted bikinis – a bathing suit craze held in high musical esteem of the yellow polka dot variety. A grand sight, enough to make it embarrassing to roll face up on occasion, until the heat of the day melted the heat of desire away.
Old, in 2020, I am too thick to be of much interest to anyone other than my wife, I hope, and the beach is a sandy bother, filling shoes and torching feet. Going there requires cars and carriers that should be schlepped by a Sherpa. The water while pleasant doesn’t have the wave or cold of The Lake and it needs lunch and drinks adding to the bulk of the day. Besides, the beaches are sparse or worse crowded and frightening to even contemplate. I’ve no pool in my yard and while I have the time I lack the fortitude to go and either sit alone with all my stuff or be crushed by fear of the presence of others and that is on a good day, which this is not and never will be.
Young, I could sing in the choir or act on a stage playing the Model of a Modern Major General or Macbeth. Performing Shakespeare in a theater of 3,000 or as small as 150. Riding a bus across the US with other actors finding new towns and new bars to hang out in after the show. Sharing rooms and dressing rooms – all tight spaces with shared air and cigarette smoke, but also camaraderie, passions and great good humor. These were friends of necessity confined and close without a thought of threat. If masks were worn, they were faces and affects put on to try and pose for the world, not keep it away but to draw it in. We sat in the back of the bus playing scrabble or cribbage, sharing cookies sent by wives, lovers or mothers and meant for share.
Old, in 2020, I have much access to wife and daughter cookies and shortbreads and pies and cakes and banana breads and zucchini breads because life is about baking and eating and gaining weight and not about sharing because everyone is afraid of what well prepared food might bring into the home. So we play alone with those we cocoon and gain weight, gain time, gain patience, gain hope, but that is on a good day, which this is not and never will be.
Young, I remember my mother’s eyes alight and sparkling after I sang a solo in the church choir or did a play. She sparkled effusively, though her words were often passive. My father’s presence unpresent for alcohol and shame. Instead, he was found driving around the church in his car unable to come inside. He drove me home weeping and sorrowful, but it did not change his behavior and would not until it took him away in death. But there were cupcakes and ice cream after and making a record for my family in a piercingly high soprano, which my mother never failed to bring out to embarrass me with any girl I tried to date.
Old, in 2020, I have broken the family cycle of alcoholism and have long outlived my father and mother. They are memories now always pertinent, always troubling. I know neither would have survived the onslaught of isolation and illness, breathing filthy air, cooked in the over-heat, much less the loss of sports that filled so much of their off time. No Cubs’ or Bears’ games to watch, no fans in the stands. In my house I cheer for the Raptors because my sister lives in Toronto, watching games with empty stands or US Open tennis matches empty of cheering, empty of sickness, empty – still. The world has lost its spectators unless you are riding in the Tour de France where they are too close, unmasked, cheering and spitting Covid without care with such enthusiasm. The narrators of the event tout it as a good day, which it is not and never will be.
Young-Old, the world blurs into stream of consciousness, memories and present tense intertwining in search of meaning or malevolence. Inside or out I breathe filtered air and think filtered thoughts trying to bring some sense of order to the questions of how I got here or how I will move forward. But, in those sweetest moments when I am inside you – beside you – entwined with you; it is then I am terribly aware I am alive, not just breathing, but really alive. And that is on a good day, which this is and always will be.