Dear Kay:
I’ve wanted to tell you ever since that summer afternoon when we were twelve years old. I knew even then what I had done to you, although I didn’t know how to make it right. Even worse, I’m not sure that I even cared.
What would it have cost me that day, to give you a smile or simply touch your hand? What would it have cost me to give you the words that you wanted to hear, the words that you had earned? Nothing. It would have cost me nothing. And I know that it would have meant the world to you.
That was a great field we played on, wasn’t it? Right beside the elementary school in Clay City. They even had those covered wooden bleachers where our parents and family could watch in somewhat relative comfort; they reminded me of the old big-league parks, like Cincinnati’s Crosley Field. Remember how the dust swirled on our infield? Sometimes I covered my face with my glove, although to be honest I really did that just to smell the worn leather. I would breathe so deeply in those moments, as if to keep part of the game with me forever.
I was a Dodger then; you were with the Reds. I was a decent pitcher that year, decent enough to come in one day with three on and no outs and strike out the side. What kid wouldn’t remember a year like that? I always told people that I went 5-2 that year, although it was really 5-3. That extra loss, I believed, meant the difference between good and something approaching excellence. And I have never been that close to excellence before or since.
It certainly wasn’t heat that I was throwing that year, but I knew how to work the plate and I knew how to throw strikes. And I grooved you one that day, that time you stepped into the box with one down and runners on second and third. I grooved you one, daring you to hit it, and you stepped into it and drove that ball into the gap in right center. I still remember how you smiled after going into second standing up, those two runs now on the board. I remember it so well: you were looking into those bleachers as you smiled. And I am sure there were faces smiling back at you.
I don’t even remember who won that day, although something tells me that this was the one game I wanted to erase from my record. Odd, isn’t it, how it’s really true that there comes a time when wins and losses no longer matter? Those setbacks and losses which crushed our hearts were usually forgotten by the time we walked across the road for an ice cream and drove home with our folks. We left it all on the field, all our emotions and effort and dreams of a moment in the sun. We left part of our childhood there, each time we walked off the field.
Kay, do you remember the last time you walked off that field? I’ve tried so hard to remember my last time, but the memory just isn’t there. We walked off that field, though, and walked into life. We walked away from the dust and the smell of worn leather and the promise of our parents’ smiles. We walked away from the balance of wooden bats in our hands and that sharp sound that would make people rise from the seats to follow the flight of the ball. We walked away from home, and we walked away from each other. We walked into life.
I’ve told my sons about you, Kay. I’ve told them about you so many times now, hoping that the lesson you helped me learn that day might somehow go forth and do something good in this world. I’ve told them what you said to me as our teams shook hands after the game, something sweet and sincere along the lines of “I really hit that one hard, didn’t I?” As I said before, it would have cost me nothing. All you wanted was one brief moment of acknowledgment, or maybe just a smile and a pat on the brim of your cap. I wish I had done that, Kay. I’ve spent so many years now just wishing that I could have let you enjoy that one moment to the fullest, because those moments are so precious and few. I should have been a man that day, but I walked past you without so much as a single word. Not even so much as a “good game.” I walked past you, through you, without saying anything at all. I walked past you, Kay, still a child.
Our old ball field, of course, is paved over now. They’ve expanded the school, and now as I drive by I have trouble remembering exactly where our field was. But I still do it from habit, as if there’s still something I haven’t yet grasped. I drive by and I look over in that general direction, trying to remember something from that part of our childhood. I would give anything if I could remember more; I would give anything if our field was still there.
I hope you still have that memory, Kay. I hope you’ve had a good life with family and children and stories that will remain long after we’re gone. Because I can feel it now, Kay. I can feel the end of our story, still distant and ephemeral but advancing further towards us with each passing day. I’ve never realized how true it really is: we’re living on borrowed time.
I don’t know what else to say. There’s just your smile and the reluctance of a child to admit that you crushed his best pitch. And you crushed that ball, Kay. I stepped toward the plate and threw so hard that my inner arm was sore for days afterward. And you still lined it past me so quickly that for a moment there I couldn’t believe what had just happened. But it did happen, and you earned every second of it. You didn’t just earn it, Kay; you deserved it. And I should have been man enough to let you know.
