He carried his Little League team with his bat and feet.
His parents and those of his ‘mates vocalized their
admiration (from most, and a bit of mortal jealousy that
he was not their son – – – an admission that filled them
with guilt and shame, but what could they do?). He
later helped fill the stands as star of his high school
team. He, like Yogi and Ichiro, knew when to stop the
schoolbook part of life and devote himself to his
destiny in the sport that he loved, and so he was
selected among the first in the draft and was sent
directly to Triple A, a fantasy ticket aimed at the Majors
at an obscene young age awaiting him and gathering
very little dust in his dirt-prone uniform pocket.
“Five tools,” they whispered . . . and he heard. He just
absorbed the Triple A cheers from loads of fans who
might never attend a Major League game but could
recognize the future when confronted by it. He sprinted
like Mercury, could throw thunderbolts like Zeus, had
the might of Hercules . . . he was Mantle and Mays
combined. And the cheers seemed to get louder
with every at-bat, every fielding gem, every high-
light play. The field-grass hardly grew another inch before
he was called up to take his place in The Show. And
so began an All-Star career that blanketed him with
his home crowd’s constant adoration. He tipped his
cap after every home run and rbi. He smiled and
nodded appreciation game after game in the
stadium he called his home away from home . . .
and all the while, in the midst of the years of glory
and joy, he failed to notice that Geras was coming
for him, as He does for all, in every station of life.
Our star knew of Denny Moyer and Satchel Page but
his make-up never knew of his becoming lesser than
he’d been. But they are all quite human, these temporary
gods that the fans help create – – – and there is a time for
each when the cheers are more acts of kindness
and gratitude for years past than for the dwindling present.
He no longer heard the cheers. He could not earn them
with his aging, imperfect body and diminished skills. He
recognized the kindness but, in the end, he quietly
announced the day of his retirement, and the start of the
five-year countdown to his certain Hall of Fame induction.
Flick Webb had recollected past-time cheers emanating
from the stands of candy bars whom he transitioned
into figments of adoring fans at the gas station where
his life had brought him after his great high school
basketball career. Our hero had gone so much further in
his baseball days, but it was the same. When the sounds
of adoration, the enthusiastic cheering runs its course,
there is not much left but memory and memories. Still,
those love-sounds from all those fans – – – from the start
to the inescapable conclusion of his days and evenings in
the spotlight – – – would never be forgotten. He missed them
now but carried all those memories of joyous heaps of true
support and adulation together with the wisdom that
blissfully accompanies his current stage of Life. He smiles;
in their current incarnation, the cheers that he recalls will
never dissipate. He’s earned that much.