Paint Black

by Bolado, Baltazar

  The Painter

  I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.

  —Michelangelo

  What am I in the eyes of most people—a nonentity, an eccentric, or an unpleasant person—somebody who has no position in society and will never have; in short, the lowest of the low. All right, then—even if that were absolutely true, then I should one day like to show by my work what such an eccentric, such a nobody, has in his heart. That is my ambition, based less on resentment than on love in spite of everything, based more on a feeling of serenity than on passion.

  —Vincent Van Gogh (letter to Theo, July 1882)

  “You’re Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel. Home plate is where you paint your masterpiece.”

  Throughout his formative years, Ryan Haddox heard his Uncle Mitch instruct him in the art of pitching. When he turned seven, his uncle gave him a Saint Jude pendant necklace. He wore it all the time, even on the mound.

  Caressing his Saint Jude pendant necklace—the only thing he had from his father—Ryan gripped the baseball and pitched respectful to the game of baseball. A heavy persuasion often left him emotionally crippled. Baseball somehow restored him and provided a connection to his parents.

  The Haddox men were ballplayers. The long line traced back to Ryan’s great-grandfather, Lionel Haddox, who played briefly for the old Cincinnati Red Stockings.

  While Ryan’s grandfather or his father had not achieved the greatest of heights in their baseball careers, their bloodline passed on the tradition of the ballplayer to him.

  This became the glue between Mitch and Ryan Haddox.

  Through hot days of summer and cold nights in winter, the bond between father and son grew.

  “It is not enough to pitch,” Uncle Mitch schooled him, “you must create. Without creativity, you are simply a thrower, undisciplined and without skill. By using your mind and spirit, you cultivate many dimensions artistically.”

  The Haddox men were well rounded and believed life constituted more than just baseball. Playing in the major leagues was not the game’s ultimate prize. In the game’s purity, the rewards of the untainted ballplayer existed.

  To those bearing the Haddox name, baseball would always be America’s pastime.

  “Major League Baseball is good,” Uncle Mitch instructed Ryan. Shaking his head, he concluded, “But the game is much more. In the same way that art is higher than the artist or the artistic expression, so playing the game of baseball is more than the actual profession of the game.”

  Ryan couldn’t consciously accept such a fate. Since the time of his earliest youth, he’d dreamt of being a big league baseball player. He couldn’t give up on his aspirations. “I want to play in the major leagues, Uncle Mitch,” he maintained.

  “I know you do, Son,” his uncle said, softly.

  “Please say yes,” the boy begged. “Please say I can dream of playing in the majors.”

  The pleading voice always did the trick. Before long, his uncle gave in to his pleadings. “Of course, Son,” Mitch Haddox relented. “If you desire to pitch in the majors, then you must make it happen.”

  Through the long winter months, father and son talked baseball. Spring’s warmth awoke his dreams. In the summer, the reality of the game and the cruelty of fate transcended his words and visions. Fall compelled him to discover the completeness of his future.

  “Why did great-grandpa stop playing baseball?” Setting down the old playing card of his great-grandfather, Ryan waited attentively.

  Mitch Haddox smiled warmly. Tapping his heart, he replied, “He loved something more.”

  “Something?”

  “Someone.”

  Ryan stared down at the old, worn baseball card.

  “He loved your great-grandma. When your grandfather was born, great-grandpa decided his prospects were better as a carpenter. He threw semipro ball on weekends.”

  Ryan marveled at the humility of his great-grandfather. Right then, he determined nothing or no one would take the place of pitching in the major leagues.

  Outside the lines of the baseball field, Ryan came to learn the truth of becoming a man and the courage of the life of the artist.

  He remembered hearing his mother say, “The great Italian painters of the renaissance used egg tempera.”

  In his heart, he heard her clearly. Altogether, the image of her inspiration emerged whenever he desperately needed to justify his commitment to the game. Across his memories, repeatedly the sound of her inspiration left brush strokes—jagged and irregular—on his life.

  Even though her hand appeared steady, Dorothy Haddox did not possess the precision of a master painter. Despite her shortcomings, she worked long, hard sessions to overcome her deficiencies. Through her artistic affliction, she demonstrated happy temperament; out of her inner turmoil, she confronted her creative inadequacies absent of compunction.

  “It’s much like drawing, and forces the artist to use imaginative techniques to create proper shading,” finished Dorothy Haddox.

  “Why Mamma?” Ryan asked, absorbed by her energy. His aunt by marriage, she personified the image of motherhood to him.

  “Because the paint dries quickly. You can’t put one color down, or transition light to dark, without proper speed and special method. Do you understand?”

  Many years before, Mitch Haddox built a couple of alcoves where she could paint. One sat off her garden workstation, the other occupied a section of the dining room where before she’d often spent many a pensive moment considering the sunset.

  Dorothy used both frequently, not showing preference to one over the other.

  Mostly in her dining room bay, while he sat at the table doing his homework or eating a snack, Ryan watched her work.

  Carefully caressing the canvas, she moved pencil over the clean paper while delineating her ideas. At other pensive times, she tickled the canvas with her oil or egg tempera.

  Mesmerized—transfixed—Ryan came to learn her reasoning and comprehend the logic of her inventive actions. He marveled, completely aware of the singular purpose required by her spirit to dedicate the time and effort to preserve a long lost art.

  “You wish to help me?”

  “Yes, Mamma.”

  “You can help me by grinding down the egg and the rest of the recipe’s ingredients.”

  By light of day, Ryan gave himself to grinding the elements and materials to create the polished blend Dorothy Haddox wanted on her canvas. Carefully, he volunteered his labors to her allegiance toward perfection.

  Before Dorothy’s painting exertions, Uncle Mitch needed to fabricate the specialized wood panels using a centuries old technique. The laborious and painstaking process calculated to prevent warping of the wood or bending when the paint went on the gesso.

  First, he constructed a solid wood piece of seasoned poplar the size of the panel needed. Then, he carefully planed and sanded the wood. Finally, he joined the multiple pieces to obtain the desired size and shape.

  Next, he coated the wood using a mixture of animal-skin glues and resin before covering it with linen.

  Once the size had dried, he applied layer upon layer of gesso to the wood panels. He sanded down each layer, before applying another. Upon completion, a smooth hard surface, not unlike ivory, resulted.

  In the making of the gesso, alike other creative methods and practices, Dorothy Haddox preferred the “old way.”

  “Never forget Ryan: The mixing and applying of the gesso is an art form all its own,” she regularly reminded him. “I’ve applied up to fifteen thin layers.”

  Sheltered in her alcoves, Dorothy took the image of a true artist.

  While she sold her paintings, she did not labor to sell her work.

  Year upon year, she agonized to develop her craft. Each brush stroke leading her to the next level of her skillfulness and creativity.

  The image of the true artist left a powerful impact on Ryan. Every time he stepped on the mound, he summoned the image of
his aunt. By her example, patiently, methodically, he honed in on the true expression of his artistry.

  “On the mound you’re an artist crafting your masterpiece,” Uncle Mitch called out, steadily, consistently, drumming the message of the artist into his nephew’s head.

  The baseball, white and circular, passed through time and space, a message delivered from the hand of a prophet standing upon a rise of dirt and clay.

  “The pitcher is a seeker of perfection,” continued Mitch Haddox. “An artist must paint using the precise strokes of a master in the hopes of achieving a tour de force. Through proper mechanics and constant preparation, the pitcher hopes to achieve the ultimate in artistic expression—flawlessness.”

  Since youth, the uncle instructed the nephew. “Use finger pressure, arm movement, and change of speeds to take control of the plate. Disrupt the hitter’s timing. Don’t allow him to get comfortable at the plate. One-half of home plate belongs to you. The other half belongs to the hitter. Never let the hitter know which half. Only in your artistic expression can you overcome bad ball placement. Keeping the hitter of balance through changes of speed, and proper pitch selection, can allow the artist-pitcher to dominate the plate.”

  In the days of his youth, even to manhood, Ryan ate, slept, and breathed the art of pitching.

  Recognizing Ryan’s seriousness to the craft, Mitch dedicated himself to his nephew’s growth and progress.

  “You’re a painter on the mound.”

  Ryan stopped and stood on the mound looking at his uncle. “What do you mean?”

  “To truly have mastery over the canvas, the painter must have the vision of his painting in his heart and mind. Hence, you must visualize your mastery of home plate. The baseball is your paintbrush. Use its movement to shade home plate’s corners.”

  Hour after hour, day after day, on the mound, under the Oklahoma sun, brought him closer to the perfection of an artist.

  “Think like a painter and through discipline, you’ll reach perfection. Paint black—the black lines of home plate—and you’ll be unhittable.”

  Time past…

  Whiskey.

  Haddox still remembered the strong smell of bourbon and cigars in Manager Ramsey’s office the most.

  The strange meeting took place in late spring immediately upon his arrival to the ballpark. As the rest of the team headed out to the field, Haddox entered the manager’s office and sat in front of Ramsey’s desk.

  “I called you in here because I wanted us to talk before Dalton Young joins us,” said Lockhart Panther coach Clarence “Sonny” Ramsey, setting down his Cohiba Esplendido.

  “Dalton… Young?” Haddox questioned.

  Dalton Young was the Panthers’ first round draft pick. A twenty-one year old towering flamethrower, the parent ball club had immediately placed him in AAA.

  Young fit the profile of a big league pitcher: young, strong, tall and lanky. To add to his 100 mile an hour fastball, his length made the ball appear to jump at the batter even quicker than its speed.

  Young’s inclination to want to throw the ball by the hitter got in the way of his pitching development.

  He’s a thrower, not a pitcher.

  Susceptible to flamethrowers, the flood of big league arms filled every major league team’s roster.

  Hearing about the draft pick selection, instant apprehension caused him to contemplate his future. Other selections had troubled him before, but not like the Dalton pick.

  “Honey?” Stephanie called out to Haddox in the darkness of a late winter night.

  “Yeah, Baby,” he answered, drowsily.

  “You’ve been quiet all week.”

  “Just thinking.”

  “About baseball?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re worried they’ve given up on you?” When Haddox didn’t respond, she rolled over. The bed creaked as she snuggled next to him. “You think by drafting Dalton Young, they’re telling you it’s over. Don’t you?”

  Haddox caressed her shoulder. “Stephanie, they made me a lot of promises. Made us a lot of promises.” After a long pause, he finished. “I believed them.”

  Immediately, the changes became evident to him during spring camp. Before the Young draft, he’d believed this would be his year.

  Instead, the pitching coaches spent an inordinate amount of time working on Young’s pitching mechanics, leaving Ryan to fight for the leftovers of their attention. It angered him, but he kept his frustrations under wraps, saying nothing or even implying his irritation.

  It wasn’t resentment he felt. Young needed coaching attention to progress and cultivate his skills.

  He compared his rank to Young’s.

  I’ve put in my time. He’s the rookie. They shouldn’t dedicate more time to his development than to mine.

  It’s not right.

  Sitting in Ramsey’s office, the manager’s deliberateness indicated the seriousness of the meeting. He’d been moved up to AAA two seasons ago and Ramsey—the third manager in Haddox’s minor league career—had been the manager of the Lockhart Panthers the whole time. Young’s presence gave him concern because he’d never been involved in a managerial meeting that included another player before. The whole thing made him nervous.

  Ramsey took a long drawn breath. “I asked Dalton to join us. Ryan, Harold and I’ve spent the past few weeks discussing both of you.”

  At the mention of Harold Hounsfield, Haddox’s body tensed over. Hounsfield occupied the office of general manager for the parent club Frankfort Panthers.

  “What’s this about, Sonny?” questioned Haddox, shifting in his seat. “Why are you talking to Hounsfield about us?”

  “We didn’t think we’d have the opportunity to take such a promising pitcher in the first round. It happened fast. Either we moved or we’d’ve lost our chance at ’im.”

  The picture became clearer. His blood ran cold. “This is business, Skip,” Haddox blurted out.

  “Business,” the manager said, under his breath. Gulping in more oxygen, he replied, “Harold Hounsfield and I’ve been talking about how best to handle the situation before us. We didn’t think Dalton would be available to us. When he was, we had a dilemma on our hands.” The manager’s bearing remained steady. “You’re the dilemma, Ryan.”

  “You’re releasing me?”

  By his expression, the directness of the question caught the manager off guard. “No.” Shaking his head, Ramsey said, “No, we must evaluate how best to fill our major league roster on September 1st. We believe our idea is most fair to all involved.”

  Breaking into their conversation, a knock on the door gave Haddox a chance to try to collect himself.

  “Come on in, Dalton,” called out Ramsey.

  Tall and imposing, Dalton Young’s presence commanded attention. Looking from Ramsey to Haddox, the young pitcher asked, “I finished my sprints, Skipper. You wanted to see me?”

  Glancing at Haddox, Ramsey answered, “Yes, Dalton. Have a seat. I wanted to speak to you and Ryan, together.”

  Still perspiring after his run, Dalton sat down next to Haddox.

  “Dalton, Harold Hounsfield and I must determine the 40 man roster the Panther’s will field on the September 1st deadline. We project we’ll have only one spot reserved… yet… we like both of you.”

  Haddox’s relief in learning he wasn’t being released quickly turned into frustration and anger. Despite his veteran status and the promises made to him, the Panthers placed the same stock on a rookie.

  “To resolve the tight spot we’re in, Harold offered up an interesting application.” Ramsey stopped to look at a calendar on the wall. “It’s late April. Starting May 1st, we wanted to coordinate both of your pitching rotations.”

  Returning his attention to the men sitting in front of his desk, Ramsey surveyed their faces, his scrutiny lingering over Haddox’s befuddled expression longer before resuming. “We want to maintain control of each outing. To make sure everything’s equal. I don’t wan
t there to be a question about the results.”

  Haddox’s befuddlement changed to anger. Nothing about the manager’s words made any sense to him. He dwelled on his career, his future. He deliberated about his family’s wellbeing.

  “We want to set up a Southern Side-by-Side.”

  Haddox bolted up in his chair.

  “In order to make sure we allow you both the chance to participate in the decision making, we want to put you side-by-side in a competition based on ERA, innings pitched, strike outs and walks. Most important: wins and losses. Come September 1st, we chart up the totals and the winner is sent up to the parent club.”

  Haddox gave a side-glance to the rookie. He noticed Dalton Young also seemed lost by Ramsey’s scheme. “Clarence,” his voice sounded weak and frail, “what’s this about?”

  Ramsey sat still and didn’t answer.

  “Sonny,” Haddox’s voice barely disturbed the fabric of the air in the stale office. “Can I have a word with you in private?”

  Dalton Young slowly raised his hand. “It’s okay, Skipper. If we’re done here, I can leave.”

  Ramsey lowered his head and took in a heavy breath. “Yeah, I suppose we’re done here, Dalton. You go ahead and get in your between starts training. Don’t forget to run sprints today. Keep the legs strong, you know. We’ll talk about this more later.”

  “Sure Skip.” Young replied. Turning slightly to the dejected Haddox, he said, “I’ll see you out there Ryan.”

  Haddox nodded his head faintly, without looking up.

  After the rookie pitcher had left, Haddox zeroed in on the manager. His uniform clinging to his chest and back due to a cold sweat, Haddox spoke in a lamented tone—a resonance the consistency of a doomed man. “Sonny… This is wrong. It ain’t right. I have a family. I’ve put in my time and paid my dues, Sonny.”

  Holding up his hand, the manager tried to calm the hurt and angry pitcher. “Now please hold on, Ryan. Let’s review this carefully.”

  “Review this, Sonny?” Haddox shook his head. “After 6 years, it seems you and the GM have reviewed it already.”