by Peggy Rowe
“I don’t understand it. I’ve made that cake a hundred times,” she said, shaking her head sadly.
I blinked back tears and put on my cheerful face. “Did you forget it’s Sunday? I’ll straighten up while you get ready for chapel.”
As soon as she left the room, I removed the fuse for the stove and hid it high atop a kitchen cabinet. I opened some windows and, as I gathered up the newspapers, Mom stuck her head around the corner.
“At least I didn’t set off the sprinklers like the woman across the hall. She flooded her apartment, and all the furniture had to be moved into the hallway!”
As I took the nearly new wheelchair from the closet, she said, “I wish I could have offered those nice young firemen a piece of my hot milk pound cake.”
There was a relaxed sense of calm as I pushed Mom through the long corridors. It was probably the slowest trip she’d made to the chapel since getting her Rascal motorized scooter a year ago. I wanted to say, “Now isn’t this civilized, seeing your neighbors’ smiling faces instead of their backs as they scramble for the exits?” I thought better of it.
When we arrived at the chapel, I slipped the church offering into Mom’s hand, remembering all the nickels and quarters she had slipped into mine so many years ago.
“I’m surprised church isn’t over,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “I thought we’d never get here.”
Mom was back—at least for now. We could talk about her scooter later.
A Whole New Ballgame: The Most Exciting Day of Mom’s Life
By the time a person reaches ninety, the most exciting days of her life are in the past—or so one would expect. When it came to sitting back and watching the world go by, though, my mother, as they say, didn’t get the memo.
The ebb and flow of baseball in our lives was like the stream that ran through the fields, overflowing the banks during the Orioles’ glory days when they won the American League pennant and slowing to a trickle during those losing seasons Mom described as “rebuilding years,” when our hopes hung on promising young prospects in the farm system. The years the Orioles won the World Series, we were swept along in the flood of my mother’s mania.
Mom relished the compliments on her new Orioles t-shirt at Oak Crest Village’s 2003 Maryland Day celebration. Afterwards, I brought her home with me for an overnight visit.
“I have to change first,” she said, as we headed back to her apartment. “It won’t take but a minute. I’m all packed.”
“Just wear the Orioles shirt,” I said. “It looks good.”
“No,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Orange isn’t really my color.”
Following dinner, we tuned in to the Orioles game, the first series of the new season.
“We’re playing the Cleveland Indians tonight,” she said. “A fresh start. I’m sure we’ll do better than last season.” Watching a game with Mom was still fun, even if we didn’t share her passion.
“I’m going to run to the lavatory now so I won’t miss anything,” she said. And that’s when it happened. A thud, a cry, and Mom lying on the hall floor in pain.
“I think I’ve broken my hip,” she said, while John dialed 911. “Help me over to the sofa so I can watch the game while we wait for the ambulance.”
“What? No way, Mom, you’ll be in too much pain if we move you.”
“I don’t care. I want to see the game,” she insisted.
And so, in spite of the pain, my mother watched the game until she was carried to the ambulance on a stretcher.
At the hospital, doctors installed a pacemaker and scheduled the risky surgery for her broken hip. On a TV at the foot of her bed, the first pitch of an afternoon game had just been thrown when they came for her.
“I want to hear all about the game afterwards—if I’m still around,” she said as I kissed her forehead. “We’re tied for third.”
Seconds later, my mother rode to surgery on a noisy gurney with one concern—the Orioles’ American League standing.
Hours later an ICU nurse removed a breathing tube and Mom’s eyes slowly opened. She squeezed my hand and, to the accompaniment of blinking and beeping high-tech machines, I leaned close, struggling to hear. I expected questions about the surgery. Was it successful? How long until I can walk? When can I go home?
I should have known better.
“Well, I’m still alive,” she whispered in a faint, raspy voice. “Did the Orioles win?”
Rehab was painfully slow with the quiet, withdrawn patient bearing little resemblance to the mother I knew. I had never seen her ill. Although when I was sick as a child, with scarlet fever and later pneumonia, Mom had stayed at my side, reminiscing about her own childhood illnesses.
“I was twelve the first time I almost died,” she had told me. Of course, I had heard this story a few times, but I didn’t mind. “I had appendicitis, and Dr. Cockrell carried me down to the docks and aboard the Piankatank steamboat. It was dark and scary with eerie foghorns, but he sat with me all night until we got to the hospital in Baltimore. Mama couldn’t come because she’d just had my baby sister.” Her finish was filled with drama.
“They told me at the hospital, ‘Thelma, your appendix burst, and you are lucky to be alive!’ ”
To a sick child, Mom’s stories had been comforting. Not just because she knew how to tell a story, but because they always had a happy ending.
“The second time I almost died, I drank water from a contaminated well and got typhoid fever,” she said. “I was delirious with a high fever. Mama cried every day and put my burial outfit in the bottom dresser drawer. And then, one day I sat straight up in bed and asked for some Coca-Cola. And Mama said, ‘Praise the Lord!’ ”
I was determined to be there for my mother the way she had always been there for me. I wanted her to know that this story, too, would have a happy ending.
“We’ll be working with Miss Thelma twice a day,” the physical therapist told me. “She needs all the encouragement we can give her.”
Mom’s only interest during those long spring days was baseball. Even then, her response was oddly subdued.
I longed to hear, “Just hit the damn ball!” one more time. And then came the devastating news.
“Mrs. Knobel has made no progress at all. If she doesn’t start making an effort, we’ll have to discontinue her physical therapy. She’ll spend the rest of her days in a bed or wheelchair.”
In desperation, I sat at my computer and wrote a letter to the Baltimore Orioles front office describing an elderly fan’s years of unwavering devotion. Every word was true.
“Even when the Orioles fell behind or played late night games on the West Coast, Thelma listened until the final out.”
I told them how she had insisted on watching the Orioles while in pain and waiting for the ambulance and how her primary concern following surgery was the outcome of the game.
“If only you could send a card signed by the players, it might give her the will to go on,” I said.
Two days later the call came—a cheerful, upbeat young woman. “Would Mrs. Knobel be able to attend an Orioles game at Camden Yards in July?”
I was speechless.
“If so, we would like for her to throw out the opening pitch. Do you think she’d be interested?”
Interested, indeed! When I found my voice, I explained my mother’s mobility issues.
“Oh, we’re willing to work around her schedule,” the young woman said. “Whenever she’s ready.”
That afternoon as I was leaving for Oak Crest, a baseball signed by Mike Flanagan, a Cy Young winner and Orioles GM, arrived in the mail. I found Mom in the cafeteria resting her head in her hand and pushing food around her plate like a child.
“Look what I have,” I said, placing the ball on the table. “It’s for you.”
She stared at it.
“Mom, the Orioles have invited you to throw out the opening pitch at a game in Camden Yards.”
She looked up at me, her eye
s vacant, and my spirits plummeted. I prayed that it wasn’t too late. If only she would sit up and ask for some Coca-Cola.
“Mom, did you hear me?” I said a little louder. “The Baltimore Orioles have invited you to Camden Yards to throw out the opening pitch in July! Be excited!”
She picked up the ball and turned it over and over in her hands. Suddenly, there was a sparkle in her eyes I hadn’t seen in the months since Dad died. Her eyebrows shot up.
“Well, I hope they don’t expect me to sing the national anthem!”
I laughed, although I wasn’t sure if she was making a joke or setting some ground rules.
When I wheeled her down the hall to PT that afternoon, she made an announcement.
“We have work to do! I have to be able to walk to the pitcher’s mound at Camden Yards in July!”
In July 2003, our family accompanied my ninety-year-old mother to Camden Yards. Orioles owner Peter Angelos surprised us with an offer to use his private box. In the dugout before the game, players and staff came to chat and sign autographs. Mom even discussed strategy with coaches Elrod Hendricks and Rick Dempsey, giving them some valuable advice for the pitching staff.
During a tour of the press box where we were introduced to the play-by-play announcers whose voices she had known so intimately. Mom was strangely mute, as if in the presence of greatness.
On the field, amidst the hustle and bustle of batting practice, came the moment that brought a broad smile to Mom’s face and confirmed to me that her new pacemaker was indeed working. Cy Young Award winner and Hall of Fame pitcher Jim Palmer walked up to my mother, knelt beside her wheelchair, and talked baseball with his biggest fan. Afterward, as he walked away, Mom remembered something and waved her hand through the air.
“Oh Jim! Jim!” she called. He turned around, walked back to my mother, and with a patient smile, knelt once more beside the wheelchair.
“Yes, Miss Thelma.”
I could have kissed him, quite literally!
“I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your article in The Baltimore Sun this morning. I agreed with all of it!”
“Thank you, Miss Thelma. It had to be said, and I meant every word.” And then, the great Jim Palmer shook my mother’s hand, ever so gently.
Minutes later, two ball girls assisted the Orioles’ most loyal supporter as she limped onto the field. To a standing ovation from tens of thousands, Mom stood on hallowed ground and delivered the underarm pitch she had been practicing in PT. It bounced to the pitcher who snagged it twenty-five feet away.
Moments later, with Mom once again seated in her wheelchair, our guide presented her with a shiny white plastic bag with an Orioles logo on the front.
“Here you go, Mrs. Knobel, a little souvenir of your visit to Camden Yards. And now we need to let these men play some baseball,” she said.
It wasn’t until the third inning that Mom remembered the bag and took it from the wheelchair pocket. It contained a book, the baseball she had thrown, and one other item.
“Oh, isn’t this nice,” she said, holding up the orange t-shirt with “Orioles” written across the front.
My gasp was heard rows away, as I remembered a similar shirt and Mom’s unforgettable performance in that busy aisle at Macy’s.
“Why don’t you just keep this, Peggy,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “I already have one. Besides, orange isn’t really my color.”
I accepted the shirt, a reminder of my mother’s unbridled passion for the Baltimore Orioles.
As a matter of fact, I still have it—and I expect I always will.
Epilogue
Thanks to the Orioles, Thelma Knobel was propelled to instant celebrity status at Oak Crest. Her picture hung in elevators and on bulletin boards, and her story was in Guideposts magazine as well as The Baltimore Sun.
In a TV interview, she summed up her July visit to Camden Yards in one sentence: “It was the most exciting day of my life!”
I have no doubt that she had spoken the truth.
My parents, Carl and Thelma, “Young love”
Our family: Thelma, Carl, Janet, and Peg
Back: My sister Janet, and a friend Front: Peggy and my best friend, Laverne
My mom, Thelma, 1940
Thelma and Carl
Thelma and Carl 1955
Carl and Thelma out on the town
Peggy after school, 1948 “Rotten to the core.”
Peggy, 1948
Peggy and Janet, Christmas 1941
My mother’s first surprise Christmas gift: a portrait of Janet and Peggy, 1950
The “old” Kenwood Church, built in 1927, was our second home, 1948
Peggy in a second-hand riding outfit, 1950
The current Kenwood Presbyterian Church was built in 1950, on the same property as the old church.
The Williams Family. Top: Aunt Elvira, Uncle Charles, Aunt Mary, and Thelma Bottom: Grandma Daisy, Aunt Betty, and Grandpop (Captain Charlie)
Carl riding a bike on Leslie Avenue
Uncle Charles and Grandma Daisy
[Back row, left to right and then front row, left to right] Aunt Mary, Uncle Charles, Aunt Cornelia, Aunt Elvira, Aunt Betty, Grandma Daisy, and Thelma
The Williams sisters later in life: Aunt Mary, Aunt Cornelia, Aunt Elvira, Aunt Betty, and Thelma
The Great Wicomico River Light by Aunt Betty (Orvetta Harvey)
Jet
Peggy on Jet
“Paradise”
Farmhouse and bank barn on Trumps Mill Road
Thelma and Shaker
Thelma on Shaker
Peggy in a homemade “ratcatcher” shirt with Topper
Coed Peggy and Missy, 1956
Carl and Thelma
Thelma
Thelma and Peggy, 1960
Peggy and John
John, 1953
Peggy, 1960
John and Peggy (wearing a homemade coat with a Hutzler’s label), 1969
Scott, Phil, and Mike, 1969
John and Phil driving Tammy, 1971
Mike, Peggy, Scott, and Phil
Peggy on Cindy
John and Peggy’s house, 1990s
Phil, Scott, and Mike
Phil and Harvey
Outdoorsman Scott
Thelma’s five grandsons: Gary and Steve Jones and Phil, Mike, and Scott Rowe
Scott, Marjie, Katie, and Jessica Rowe (with Jasper and Lucky)
Mike, John, Thelma, and Peggy
Stephen, Janet, and Gary Jones
The Jones family: Stephen, Janet, Morris, and Gary
The Rowe family: Peggy, Scott, Mike, Phil, and John
The Rowe family’s infamous Christmas portrait: Mike, John, Scott, Peggy, and Phil
Scoreboard at Camden Yards, 2003
Thelma’s major league pitching debut, 2003: Janet Jones, Gary Jones, Thelma, Scott Rowe, Peggy Rowe, Mike Rowe, Phil Rowe, and Katie Rowe
Thelma and Jim Palmer in the Orioles’ dugout, 2003
Thelma with her prized autographed baseball and Orioles hat, 2003
Baltimore Orioles’ mascot and Thelma at the big game, 2003
Thelma Knobel
Family Remembrances
“After I got married and set up housekeeping, Mother and Dad would visit. While I was busy in the kitchen or tending to the children, Mom was also busy—rearranging the furniture or redecorating my tabletops. She always knew what looked best. If I ever doubted her love for me, I only had to remember the tears streaming down her cheeks as she and Dad dropped me off at the freshman dorm that first day of college.
— Janet Knobel Jones, Daughter
“Nana’s house had a special odor—a combination of cleaning products and something baking in the oven. During baseball games, she had the TV on without sound and the radio blaring beside her. She was either clapping her hands or yelling at the ump for making a bad call. Getting my shirt tucked in, my hair brushed, or my hands washed was a small price to pay for cookies and entertainment.”
— Philip Daniel Rowe, Grandson
“I had the great fortune to grow up with loving grandparents who lived just a short walk across the yard. In a sense, I had two homes. To my childhood mind, the love of our grandparents transcended the mundane devotion of mere parental love. Mom and Dad would correct us, and ‘do what was best for us’ while Nana and Pop would give of themselves for the joy of a smile and a hug. That meant meatloaf and chores at one end of the yard, and cookies and TV at the other. No contest! From the vantage of middle age, I see that my grandparents were special in the way that all loving grandparents are special. A testament to the power of family—never missing an opportunity to share their love—our one true legacy.”
— Scott Carl Rowe, Grandson
“Visiting Nana and Poppie for extended summer vacations meant a trip to Memorial Stadium to see a ballgame. Sitting beside the Orioles’ biggest fan was exciting stuff for a little leaguer. It was always the highlight of my summer.”