me. “What was Howard like?”
“Howard Gold?”
“Well yes, obviously Jimmy.”
“Well, you heard the broadcast.”
“What’s he look like? Is he tall? I’ve always thought he’d sort of look like John Wayne”
“You’ve never seen a picture of him? Never seen a picture of him on the internet?”
“I’ve never been on the internet.”
“Well, he’s tall, broad shoulders, his hair is white. He has a pretty good tan.”
“Does he have a moustache?’
“I don’t think he had one today.”
“Is he a cool cat? He’s pretty smooth I’m guessing.”
“Well, I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask that question. You know, based on today.”
“He seems like such a gentleman.”
“Really. Did you listen to the broadcast?”
“You’re upset. You think he made fun of you.”
“We had a pretty intense talk after the game.”
“Did he have a firm handshake? I’m guessing he did.”
The whole conversation was starting to irritate me. I’d been berated mercilessly by Howard Gold, and now a short man whose face was eighty percent lens, was fawning over the idiot and I had no escape; I had to sleep in the guy’s house. “I’m going to bed. Good night.”
I turned and walked down the stairs to my room. He didn’t say anything, and when I finally turned and looked back at him, he seemed lost in his thoughts, a small smile on his face.
The second game was a night game, and didn’t go much better than the first one. I said a few things early in the game, and got little or no reaction from Howard, and so said nothing during the middle innings, which caused more humiliation. “We got you down here from Seattle Jimmy, you might as well try and add some value.” This was actually said on the air by Howard. Again, he fired some expletive laced bullets at me after the game, and again Lucy promised that things would get better.
Walking from the stadium back to Horace’s house that night, I did actually think about not showing up again. Thought about going back to Seattle, and pretending the whole Staynor experience hadn’t happened. Thought about putting an immediate end to the stress, and the hassle, and the embarrassment which was becoming my broadcasting career. Instead I went to a burger joint in downtown Staynor that I had passed by several times on my way to and from the stadium, and ate a decadent amount of fried food. It was stress driven eating, to be certain.
By the time I got to Horace’s, I was spent mentally, emotionally, and obviously physically, given my recent indulgence. I again tried to sneak in the side door, and again the large glasses were staring up at me as I opened it.
He said nothing as I removed my shoes.
“Hello Horace.”
“Hello.”
I placed my shoes neatly on the mud mat, and glanced at him. He smiled approval.
“I’ve made us some tea. Come up to the kitchen.”
“Oh, I couldn’t eat or drink anything else. I grabbed something to eat in town. Thanks though Horace.”
“Well, at least come and sit with me while I have a cup of tea.”
“Sure,” I said, my body craving a comfortable bed and the stress free domain of a deep sleep.
We sat. Horace sipped his tea and made small talk about the weather in Staynor and the likelihood of the summer being as humid as the last two. I began to sweat profusely, which probably had a biological link to the fried food. He finally brought up the game and broadcast.
“So, the game was an interesting one.”
“Yeah, a close one. Good ball game.”
“You didn’t say much today.”
“Not really up to me.”
“Well, what do you mean by that?”
I was really sweating now, and really didn’t want to talk about the game. “They decided to just let Howard do most of it today,” I said with little energy.
“Who decided?”
“Howard, I Guess.”
He took a sip of his tea, and glanced up at me, and then looked back down at his cup. He said nothing for a moment.
“It is what it is,” I said finally, just trying to break the silence.
“Well, you know a lot about baseball Jimmy. At least I assume you do. They wouldn’t have given you the job if you didn’t, so you should just say something that is relevant to the game.”
“I don’t think Howard wants me to be doing this with him. He makes me nervous. It’s just tough.”
“I’m sure he wants you there. I’m sure he’s just trying to bring you along slowly.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“I think I’ll make us dinner tomorrow night. Will you eat dinner with me after the game if I make something?”
“It’ll be pretty late.”
“Just have something small before the game and you’ll be fine. I’ll do the same.”
“Alright, sure,” I said, just wanting the conversation to end so I could go to bed.
“Great.”
I got up to go down to my room.
When I awoke on Saturday morning, I felt horrible. I felt physically ill, sort of like I’d eaten a load of fried stuff the previous night. But my mood brightened, and my energy level returned once I looked outside. It was raining. Rain delays. My chance to shine. I dressed, and jogged to the stadium.
There was indeed a rain delay; in the top of the third inning. I hadn’t said much to that point, but after a local news update our feed was live again and we had time to kill.
“Jimmy, anything interesting today that you can share with our listeners,” Howard said, his indifference not hidden.
“Actually Howard, when I was first approached about this job, one of the first things that sprung to my mind was that one of the biggest challenges would probably be rain delays. With that in mind, I did put together a couple of pages of baseball jokes that I . . .”
He turned my microphone off. I sat in silence for the rest of the game until we went off the air, at which time I sat and endured a foul mouthed, bigoted attack on my ancestry. I was more than a little shaken up, and even Lucy didn’t bother throwing any hope my way. I was breathing hard, and having trouble getting it under control, and actually started to think about my legal rights, but then the disappointment of it all just overtook me, and I got up and left.
It had stopped raining and so I decided to forgo a bus or cab and walk back to Horace’s place. It was a beautiful evening, warm and subdued, the rain forgotten by all. The main strip in Staynor was a postcard for any small town on a Saturday evening; there were families out for a stroll, couples grabbing an ice cream cone, and shop owners closing up while lingering and dealing with the last sales of the day. The game, and the horror of my interaction with Howard faded to the back of my mind as the warm air and small town good vibe soothed me. Half way through the middle of town, I remembered that Horace was making dinner for me, and scrambled to find a shop that might have cakes or pies that I could bring to him as a small thank you. After begging a middle aged woman, who may have been Russian or Eastern European anyway, to let me give her cash for a small chocolate cheese cake, despite the fact that she had closed her register, I picked up my pace and walked quickly to Horace’s.
He was sitting out on the small veranda in front of his house wearing a white hat with a huge brim, a white sweater, shorts, socks, and running shoes. He looked like he was ready for a game of tennis. As I got closer, I realized that he was freshly shaved. I guessed that he had spent the better part of an hour getting ready to simply sit on his veranda. He probably didn’t get out much and was probably holding on to the memory of big Saturday nights out with his wife. I felt a little sad, seeing him sitting there in his whites by himself.
“You look like a million bucks,” I said from the sidewalk.
He smiled, and I smiled back.
“Dinner’s ready.”
“Sorry I’m so late, there were about a million ra
in delays during the game,” I said and approached him.
“I know Jimmy, I was listening.”
I followed him in the front door, down the front hallway and into the kitchen. On the floor, beside the refrigerator, was a huge bag of rice the size of a four year old child. I sat as he made his way to the stove, and quickly averted my gaze from the rice as he turned and spoke.
“It’ll just be a minute. Pour yourself a glass of wine Jimmy.”
There were two glasses on the table, and a bottle of Merlot. It had a twist off cap, and I poured two glasses. As I sat, and sipped the wine, I envisioned him carrying the bag of rice in his shopping cart which I’d seen by the side door, and marvelled at his effort. My cynical mind wondered if we’d be watching Bruce Lee movies during dinner, but I pushed that thought out of my head amid a little guilt, and marvelled again at his effort.
He approached the table and put two plates amongst the place settings. Beef and broccoli poured over beds of white rice. I was starving. It smelt odd.
“Smells great. Oh, here, I got a cheese cake.”
He took the cake and put it in the refrigerator, and thanked me. He sat.
“Here’s to the Bullfrogs,” he said and raised his wine glass. I clinked it, and continued to analyze the smell coming off the plates.
“I must admit that I’m very hungry.”
“I hope you like it. I call it Horace’s Broccoli and Beef,” he said with no hint that he was joking.
“Really, that’s interesting.”
“It’s just a name that I made up. I usually have it with spaghetti noodles, but I thought that you might like it with rice.”
I contemplated letting him know that I didn’t eat rice at every
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