Paint Black

by Bolado, Baltazar

  “Baaa,’” called out the umpire.

  To fall behind on the count a deadly predicament. He needed to regain advantage and bring the count even on the next pitch to avoid a worse scenario.

  “Streee!’” the home plate umpire bellowed.

  Haddox’s change up sunk into the outside part of the plate, just under the wood of Quinones’s bat.

  Ryan tugged at his lapel and wiped away the sweat across his forehead. Because the change up didn’t require the tremendous arm speed of his power pitches, Haddox’s arm discomfort eased, slightly. Pain still touched his arm because the pitch required him to apply inside out pressure on the ball at the release point. More pain shot through his shoulder, the pitch forcing him to twist his arm and body awkwardly.

  Hitting seventh in the lineup, Quinones’s job consisted of getting on base. Thus far, hitless on two at bats, the book on him highly regarded his ability to hit off speed pitches, especially the curve.

  Taking a risk, Ryan purposely placed a slow curve ball well within the strike zone. Fleetingly, the ball flashed through Quinones’s wheelhouse, before viciously sinking down into the dirt.

  Despite his best effort, Quinones wasn’t able to catch up to the balls violent downward trajectory. His swing and a miss released a loud groan of despair from the home crowd.

  Getting the second strike, Ryan smiled in his heart.

  Block the pain. All I need is three more outs.

  Across the dimension of his cognizance, a thought pulverized his mind. You’re a hard luck pitcher. Something will go wrong. It always does.

  On the brink of his greatest victory and achieving his lifelong quest, Ryan’s mind returned to yesterday…

  Its temple is the mound

  “Play ball!”

  Mitch Haddox once loved baseball. In the days of his youth, he loved to hear the umpire bellow those words.

  Then, his love for the game waned.

  One bright Oklahoma summer day, unexpectedly, he decided to stop by the baseball field to take in the local high school baseball game.

  “You wanna watch the baseball game Bud?” Haddox smiled at his four-year-old son.

  “Game,” said the boy. “Baseball game.”

  The liveliness of the four-year-old kept Mitch on his toes. “Do you like the game, my little man?”

  “I love baseball game!”

  The declaration caught Mitch off guard. He’d never taken Ryan to a ballgame before and yet his pronouncement came out clear and unequivocal.

  Beaming in answer to his son’s exuberance, Mitch Haddox looked out onto the field and watched the Brownsville Monarchs take the field.

  An old man sat behind them in the bleachers.

  “Haven’t seen you here before?” the old man called out. “You new to the area?”

  Giving a polite smile, Haddox shook his head. “No, we’re from around here.”

  Mitch Haddox hadn’t taken in a baseball game in three years. It surprised him how few feelings stirred in his belly as the game’s sounds filled his ears.

  Innings later, Mitch and Ryan Haddox sat in near silence, watching the game in absence of spirit or motive. Only the surrounding noises, or the boy’s movements and frequent laughter, heard.

  In the fifth inning, the Monarchs came off the field to take their at bats. Leaning forward the old man proclaimed, “Baseball’s still America’s pastime. It’ll always be America’s game. That’s why when you kiss a girl it’s called getting to first base, not getting a first down.”

  The scorn in the old man’s voice left Haddox unsure how to respond. He considered not answering but viewed such an act rude. Turning, he smiled at the man, before returning his attention to the field.

  Unruffled, the old man failed to subdue the fervor in his methodical dissertation. “America’s still the greatest country on earth and baseball is the greatest game on earth. Where one exists, the other also.”

  Mitch Haddox nodded slowly. He wasn’t sure why he nodded. Churning out the last of his chewing gum, he spit it out. All the while, he remained silent.

  Then, a thought entered his mind. The game never changed. Chewing tobacco held far less prominence, replaced by seeds and gum, but the field still smelled the same. Clean, freshly cut green grass disbursed the outfield. Neatly spread dirt covered the border of the diamond and the raised mound.

  The game remained the game, despite the details changing around it.

  “Baseball’s baseball,” the old man emphasized, his conviction spanning across many past seasons of summer. The strength of his passion dismissed his frail voice. “It’s a great game. Drugs or cheaters can’t kill it. Neither can gambling.”

  A Monarch hit the ball to left-center. The hard liner shooting the gap in the outfield, scoring a run.

  After the play, a group of Monarch ballplayers whooped it up on the field in front of the plain bleachers where the old man sat, a few rows behind Mitch Haddox and Ryan.

  The hometown fans cheered loudly, the familiar sounds of the game lifting into the air. It could’ve been a game played in baseball’s infancy a hundred years ago. The sounds remained constant, dwelling in the channels between boyhood and manhood.

  His attention on the field, the man went on. “A player put’s on a baseball glove and he becomes a fielder on a field of nine. He stands at home plate and swings for the whole team.” A long sigh escaped the man. “Baseball courses through the arteries of the United States, returning the country to its innocence. Time stands still in the hearts of those who play the game, not allowing the country’s heart to grow old.”

  A few minutes passed before Haddox realized the old man had stopped talking.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you and your boy.” The old man leaned back reticently.

  Mitch Haddox attempted to recover. “Nope. Your words just got me to thinking.”

  Satisfied, the old man once again returned to his precise adoration of the game. He appeared to see something faraway. “Back in the day… I played against Dizzy Dean. Dean was a mean one. A coldblooded wolf; a rattlesnake,” he said under his breath.

  Respectfully, Mitch Haddox once again nodded.

  “Those were the days when men were indestructible; and women loved men of iron. If need be, a pitcher threw both ends of a doubleheader. Men did what had to be done.”

  Haddox knew the legends having read the stories. He’d always esteemed the ballplayers of old. Especially their toughness.

  “I remember a fella in the day. We called ‘em Rawhide. Ol’ Rawhide, he’d chafe the ball to such a blister the spin would cut the air like a blade. No one got better ball movement than ol’ Rawhide.”

  The old man’s description painted a vivid picture in Haddox’s mind.

  “Well, one day Rawhide got the notion I’d gotten too close to his side of home plate. ‘I own the plate,’ I’d heard Rawhide say a time or two. Well, anyway, I didn’t impress when he tried to scoot me away with a sharp hook. I just figured he was in a bad mood. I stood my ground and continued to crowd the plate, according to Rawhide’s opinion. On the next pitch, the miscreant fired a fastball directly at my head.”

  The old man leaned forward again.

  Haddox smelled the bourbon on his breath.

  “The old cuss tried to hurt me… bad. Even kill me.” The old man recounted the event without malice. “I didn’t charge the mound. I didn’t throw a hissy fit. We didn’t do that in those days.” He pounded his chest firmly. “I took it like a man. I got up, dusted myself off, stepped into the batter’s box… and hit a line drive up the middle on the next pitch.” Lowering his voice, a strength emanated from the man. “No nonsense, no fuss. In my day we played the game, we didn’t cry about things.”

  Reaching into his shirt pocket, the old man brought out a worn, folded picture. It displayed a baseball team. “That’s me,” he said, pointing to a tall, muscularly built young man in the back row. “I was a strapping fellow in those days. I could break a bat with my bare ha
nds. I could run like the wind and throw on a line from far off in the outfield.”

  “You were an outfielder?”

  “Yep,” the old man said proudly. “They called me Napoleon, after the famous confederate 12-pound cannon in the Civil War. I could fire a one bounce strike to any base, including home plate.”

  Mitch Haddox stared at the old worn picture. Listening to the old man talk, Haddox determined the old man still loved the game he’d played in his youth.

  “I got old,” the old man said softly. “I couldn’t play anymore.” His lower lip trembled. “My bones got too brittle to hold me. It got worse, until one day I couldn’t bend my arm at the elbow.”

  Deftly, indiscernibly, the old man wiped away moisture before it collected in his eyes. “I’d still play if my muscles listened to me… If my heart worked like it did in those days… I’d still play… I loved the game…”

  Returning the old photo, Haddox held out his hand. “Name’s Haddox. Mitch Haddox.” Looking down, he pointed, “My boy’s name is Ryan.”

  Following a firm handshake and a friendly smile, the old man responded, “Nyle Clairemont’s the name.”

  His hands were large and rough. A deep scar jutted out at the left side ridge of his jaw. Yet, the man’s eyes disputed his apparent age.

  If he played against Dizzy Dean, he’s gotta be ninety, at least.

  The man’s eyes were lively. Belonging to a man half his age.

  “You played against Dizzy Dean?”

  “In forty-seven,” answered the man, “the last game he ever pitched. My rookie season.”

  Haddox recoiled. “He only tossed four innings that game.”

  A flash of respect struck Clairemont. “You know baseball,” the old man said.

  “Some,” replied Haddox.

  “I got one of the three hits he gave up.” Looking at 4-year-old Ryan, sitting next to Mitch Haddox, Nyle Clairemont paused, slightly. The little boy’s intensity brought a smile to the old man. “Cute little tyke.”

  Mitch smiled. He no longer considered the man a stranger. Inexplicably, Mitch warmed up to Nyle Clairemont’s somewhat rough exterior, perceiving a gentleness in the man’s heart.

  “He your only child?”

  Mitch didn’t feel the need to share more with the man. “Yeah,” he answered, proudly. “And a handful, he is.”

  A snicker escaped the old man. “I’m sure.” A blissful look came over him. “We should all be a handful at his age.”

  An hour later, the game ended—a Monarchs victory.

  The men exchanged personal information and pledged to keep in touch. Keeping their promise, it became their custom to sit in the stands of home Monarch games.

  Time passed and a friendship developed. Next, a bond formed. Such a strong connection, in fact, that a few years later, during one of Ryan’s tee-ball games, Mitch Haddox asked a most challenging question of Nyle Clairemont.

  “He needs to know.” A moment later, he added, “How should I tell him?”

  Nearly two years later he’d made Clairemont aware of the boy’s adoption.

  Shaking his head, the old man said, “It’s not easy to tell a child one of their parents is dead… and the other… isn’t well enough to care.” Carefully deliberating, he went on. “Tell him only when it won’t harm him emotionally and you believe he can handle it.” Clairemont lifted a cautionary finger. “You and Dorothy both need to tell him.”

  Mitch Haddox looked out across the baseball field at Ryan Haddox. The boy turned six in August.

  “Have you talked to the child therapist?”

  “Not yet,” answered Haddox. He released a breath slowly. “We were waiting.”

  “I can understand going slow on this,” Clairemont said. After a pause, he asked, “The question to answer is: ‘Is Ryan emotionally able to handle this?’”

  Another year past. At last, Mitch and Dorothy resolved it time to tell Ryan.

  Considering everything, Ryan took it well. A tribute to his upbringing, the boy did not feel threatened learning about his adoption.

  “Where’s my mom?” he questioned.

  “She’s… She’s not well right now,” answered Mitch Haddox, uncomfortably. “Since she couldn’t, your Aunt Dorothy and me… we decided to take care of you.”

  “Can I see her?”

  Mitch had expected this. The boy had every right to want to see his mother, considering he could no longer see his father.

  “Someday,” Mitch answered, not too quickly or too slowly. “Right now, we need to give your mom time to try and get better.”

  Losing her husband sent Patricia Haddox into severe depression. Rapidly her depression progressed and worse symptoms developed. Patricia’s mental stability deteriorated, compelling Mitch to take charge of Ryan while she sought treatment at the Refuge Mental Wellness Center.

  “We performed a PET scan and had an MRI performed,” said the psychiatrist, a fidgety man wearing outdated pants and a bright tie. “Your sister… in law?” the man cocked his head.

  “Yes,” Mitch confirmed.

  “Your sister in law’s suffering psychotic depression. Some other things are taking place. But, at the moment, we need to start there.”

  In the subsequent years, the battle to bring full recovery to Patricia took the shape of desperation. It fell far short of the goal.

  In the middle of the tragedy, Ryan Haddox lived with emotional anguish and confusion.

  Time passed and Nyle Clairemont became closer to the Haddox family. Naturally, he took more interest in the boy’s life. Because of his solitary existence—Nyle’s wife passing away years prior and his living in a nursing home—he displayed eagerness in these new developments.

  “My children don’t visit me much anymore,” Clairemont shared over a dinner comprised of fried chicken and corn on the cob. “When they do, it’s not for very long,” he explained. “I understand. They have their own lives and don’t have the time. I’m well taken care of at Tranquil Meadows. I don’t mind.”

  The pain remained visible in the old man’s face, betraying his words.

  “Well we love having you,” Dorothy smiled, graciously.

  Besides losing his father, Ryan didn’t have grandparents on the Haddox side, both dying a few years after losing their son. Only his grandparents on his mother’s side remained and, due to the mental issues of their daughter, rarely saw Ryan.

  Mitch couldn’t fathom the Haddox grandparents having the same reaction toward their grandson. However, he refused to judge Patricia’s parents, appreciating the parental concern they must’ve felt for their daughter.

  “Will you be my grandpa?” the boy asked solemnly.

  Having just turned seven, Ryan comprehended that Nyle Clairemont couldn’t be his biological grandfather. The sincerity in which he asked the question—almost pleading—emphasized to Mitch the boy’s deep scars.

  “If it’s okay with your parents, then yes, Boy, I’ll be your granddaddy.”

  Although Nyle Clairemont lived only a few years more, his strength and character influenced Ryan immensely. Through the bond, shared healing took place in both their psyches.

  Having the charm and personality compulsory to a grandfather—a wistful reflection and a wily sense of humor—the old man utilized an unpretentious wisdom to school the boy on everything from the nuances of baseball, to every other facet of life.

  Only in the last months of his life, his body ravaged by time and his mind deteriorated by the advances of dementia, did the old man fail to live up to his grandfather duties.

  An orchestra of smells and sounds announces the return of spring. A seed lands in the soil of the ballplayer’s heart, evoking a hunger only greatness can satisfy.

  Later in the season, the aromas and resonances give meaning to the heat of July. The hotness, grass, and dirt cultivating roots within the forces of the ballplayer, who throws, hits, and runs across the diamond.

  Fall’s crispness spreads corner to corner, the game harvest
ing its autumn crop. In a vision of glory, out of the pressure-filled pitches made on both sides of the plate, the seasonal classic witnesses clutch hits by batters who defeat the spin and speed of the ball.

  In the pursuit of a championship, there exist men who desire to be champions.

  To be the masters of America’s game.

  At the crack of the bat, the youngster’s heart gives birth to a faith that lives on long after boyhood departs, and only a man remains.

  Where a ballplayer plays, virtue overtakes him and the childhood spirt of a boy dares to breathe in the game’s eminence with the passion of an artist.

  In some respects, Nyle Clairemont restored Mitch Haddox’s affection for the game. He’d always been a mild mannered man. Now, the increased childlike urges Clairemont’s influence brought to the surface, invigorated outpourings he’d once possessed.

  Pulsating the life force of innocence, a boy runs across a field to catch a ball in a tattered, well-used glove. In the infield or the outfield, at the hot corner or center field—even behind the plate—there lives a boy who breathes life into a game played on a pasture of reveries.

  Recovering his boyhood spirit, Mitch Haddox recalled how he’d played for the love of the game. A pitcher using the exactitude of a sculptor, the care of the artificer, he’d moved the ball through the dust and the air, shaping and molding a border around home plate stronger than rock and infinitely shapeless like water. On the mound, through the stroke of the artist, his magnum opus existed in the invisible portrait framing home plate.

  Baseball enters the blood like a religion, its gospel on full display across the surface of a diamond sparkling underneath the summer sky. The hitters and the fielders dedicate their lives to its excellence, deacons ordained to live and play between the lines of the games’s convictions.

  The ballplayers are the disciples who partake of the goodness of the game in wistful reverence.

  The fans are the worshipers who come to the park to give devotion to the game.

  The baseball park becomes the sanctuary giving life to the religion.

  Moreover—at the center of the sanctuary—its temple is the mound.