The Boy Who Knew Too Much

by Cathy Byrd

  And at the expressed wish of this woman to whom the words “batter up!” were symbolic of her greatest enthusiasm, many of her friends have donated money to Little League instead of sending flowers to her funeral.

  As Ken kept pulling out news clippings and photographs, Coach Kipp and I were like kids in a candy shop. Even Christian was intrigued enough by our conversation to look away from his iPad while Ken Hawkins was speaking about Mom Gehrig.

  Also among the articles was a photo of Mom Gehrig and Ken’s father, Ellsworth Hawkins, at a ceremony to rename the league Lou Gehrig Little League in 1952. Another news clipping stated that Mom Gehrig had willed $500 to the league upon her death. The article said Mrs. Gehrig had served on the board of directors since the inception of the league and “never missed a ball game.” My favorite article of all was a story about little Kenny Hawkins stepping to the plate with the bases loaded during the final inning of the District Championship All-Star game in 1951. The article described Kenny taking two strikes and then smashing a long, high home run over the fence to win the game. Ken Hawkins shared his memory of Mom Gehrig sitting in the stands that day and cheering his team to victory.

  Like Reverend Ken, Ken Hawkins also had the unique experience of being Mom Gehrig’s guest at New York Yankees games when he was a child.

  “Mrs. Gehrig was probably the most famous mom in Major League Baseball,” said Ken.

  He told us how the Yankees players were so excited to see her at the ballpark before the game that they hopped the fence behind their dugout to shower her with hugs. Mr. Hawkins said Mom Gehrig was “Mom” to everyone who knew her and even those who didn’t. He also recalled never being hungry when Mom Gehrig was around.

  “She always brought a big picnic basket filled with sandwiches and other goodies she had prepared herself,” he said with a smile.

  When the time came for us to go our separate ways, Ken Hawkins gifted me with a folder filled with the articles, a copy of Lou Gehrig’s 1933 contract with the New York Yankees, and a photo of Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig that Mom Gehrig had personally signed to him. The three of us reflected on the irony of Mom Gehrig’s legacy to Little League, given that she initially wanted her son to give up baseball to attend college and become an engineer. Ken told us that Mom Gehrig had donated a plaque made of Vermont granite in honor of Milford Little League being renamed for Lou Gehrig on June 29, 1952, two years prior to her death. He said the dedication was a celebrated affair and attended by the commissioner of Major League Baseball, Ford Frick, and by the founder of Little League Baseball, Carl E. Stotz.

  When the time came to say good-bye, I gave Ken a hug and said, “I bet you were Mom Gehrig’s favorite.” I was surprised by the words that came out of my mouth, but I somehow knew it to be true. Ken’s boyish grin made me feel as if I was Mom Gehrig for a moment—speaking to a dear friend who was much younger than me. Driving back to our hotel that night, I wondered if Ken Hawkins could be the other young boy I had described in my final past-life regression.

  Our suitcase finally showed up at our hotel one day before our scheduled departure back to Los Angeles and, as luck would have it, Christian’s wiggly tooth chose the same day to fall out. He had been asking me all week if the tooth fairy would be able to find him to bring him a shark tooth in Connecticut, and thankfully she was. That afternoon I reached into the pocket of the down jacket that had been keeping me warm for the past week and was ecstatic to find a paycheck stub with a phone number written on it. When I dialed the number, the friendly voice on the other end of the line informed me that she was the sister of the woman whose name was on the paycheck stub. When I told her that I would like to mail the jacket back to her sister and thank her for the kind gesture, she confirmed that the address on the paycheck was the correct mailing address. After a stop at the post office to mail the jacket with a thank-you note, my mission felt complete.

  On our way to the airport, we squeezed in a visit to the Gehrig home at 9 Meadow Lane in New Rochelle, New York. The first thing I noticed when we drove up to the home we had toured the previous summer was a For Sale sign in the snow-covered yard. Our knock on the front door was greeted by big hugs from Jimmy and Marisol, who invited us in and shared the news that they were about to sign off on an offer to short sale their home. I was concerned when I looked up the prices of comparable homes in the neighborhood that had recently sold and found that Jimmy and Marisol were potentially selling their home at half of the current market value. I knew that Jimmy was on disability and unable to work because of an injury, so I offered to assist them with applying for a loan modification to help them keep their home. I hoped their own real estate agent would understand that it was not in the best interests of her clients or the bank holding the large mortgage to sell the home at $300,000 below the market value—especially this beautiful home that Lou Gehrig was so proud of.

  “I saw this house in September 1927,” Lou said to a reporter. “I fell in love with it right then. It was my kind of house. Look at those trees, real big ones, real forest trees. They’re bigger even than the ones you see in Central Park. It’s got eight or nine rooms, three floors, and a basement. I tell you it’s just what I’ve always wanted.”

  Our time in Connecticut further strengthened the bond I felt with Mom Gehrig, as if she’d become my own family. Mom Gehrig, I knew, was a true hero in the face of adversity. During my regressions, I had felt the deep sense of loss she had experienced after the death of her son. I now also felt the love she had for the baseball boys up until the last day of her life and the joy she had discovered through her advocacy for youth baseball. I knew in my heart that Mom Gehrig loved being at every Little League game as much as the boys loved having her there. My otherworldly encounter with this woman, who had passed away 13 years prior to my own birth, cemented my belief in the eternity of the soul and proved to me that love can surpass one lifetime.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  108 STITCHES

  “We shall not cease from exploration

  And the end of all our exploring

  Will be to arrive where we started

  And know the place for the first time.”

  T. S. ELIOT, “LITTLE GIDDING”

  Our return to sunny Southern California was a welcome relief from the subzero temperatures of the East Coast. After being delayed one extra day by a tempestuous winter storm, Christian and I made it back home the night before what had become my favorite day of the year, Little League Opening Day. Ever since the very first Little League game in 1939, a trip to the ballpark has been something akin to a religious experience for young kids playing a grown-up’s game. Today was no different. Now six years old, Christian was about to embark on his fourth season of participating in this rite of passage. For parents and children alike, the new Little League season’s fresh start stirs hopeful anticipation of what lies ahead. This spring Christian would be donning a black jersey emblazoned with big, orange letters that spelled the word Giants across his chest—somewhat of a sin for a loyal Dodgers fan, but he wore it with pride knowing that his teammates would be doing the same.

  Getting a family of four dressed and out the door before eight o’clock on a Saturday morning is never an easy task, but the fact that I had gained three hours when we arrived back in town the night before was working in my favor. While Christian sat in his regular shoe-tying spot on the bottom step of our staircase, I double knotted his cleats and read him a text that Coach Kipp had sent earlier that morning.

  “Please tell Christian to have a great day and remember to play fair, play hard, never quit, and always have fun.”

  I hoped Kipp’s encouraging words would ease Christian’s apprehensions of playing in the Kid Pitch Division with players who were up to three years older than him.

  During our short drive to the baseball fields, Christian told us that he wasn’t nervous at all about pitching to third-graders; but he was petrified of being hit by a ball thrown by the opposing pitchers who would be much older and st
ronger than him. Michael, Charlotte, Christian, and I enjoyed a pre-ceremony pancake breakfast put on by the local Rotary Club, and then we made our way to the professional photographer’s booth, where we met up with Christian’s team for a group photo.

  After breakfast we walked over to the main field where hundreds of Little League players between the ages of 4 and 13 were assembling in preparation for the opening ceremony. Christian and I sat with his Giants team while Charlotte and Michael looked on from the stands. The buzz of the crowd’s excited chatter was silenced when the league president stepped up to the microphone at home plate to address the crowd. Following his lead, the boys removed their hats and placed them over their hearts as the national anthem played over the makeshift sound system. When the anthem was over, the league president introduced National Baseball Hall of Fame manager Tommy Lasorda.

  Applause and cheers filled the air as Tommy walked to the microphone to address the crowd. Even the kids who didn’t recognize him sensed that this was a special moment from the looks of awe on the faces of their parents and coaches.

  “I believe that God put every one of us on earth to help others,” Tommy said. “Baseball is a game of helping others, of coming together; you can’t win it alone. Baseball is a community game; you need nine people helping one another. You can be the best pitcher in all of baseball, but somebody has to get you a run to win the game. I love the idea of a sacrifice bunt—giving yourself up for the good of the whole. You find your own good in the good of the whole. You find your own individual fulfillment in the success of the community.”

  Tommy was serious, and looked into the kids’ faces when he said:

  “You hold the future of our country in your hands. While you’re out there on the field with your teammates playing this beautiful game, you’re learning skills that will serve you for the rest of your life. You’re learning how to follow directions, how to get along with other people, and how to play by the rules.”

  Tommy wrapped up his touching speech by saying, “Respect your parents, especially your mothers, who make everything possible.”

  Christian glanced at me with a smile and I gave his shoulders a squeeze. Meanwhile, Tommy brought that point home:

  “The two things you owe your parents are love and respect,” he told them, and then asked them all loudly:

  “What do you owe your parents?”

  When the response wasn’t loud enough, Tommy said, “I can’t hear you. What do you owe your parents?”

  The crowd roared in unison, “LOVE AND RESPECT!”

  Satisfied with the response, Tommy handed the microphone back to the Little League president, who recited the Little League pledge.

  “I trust in God. I love my country and will respect its laws. I will play fair and strive to win, but win or lose, I will always do my best.”

  Before it was over, another voice bellowed out from the loudspeakers—a voice that had become as familiar to our family as that of a close friend.

  “I have been walking on ball fields for sixteen years . . .” said the voice of Lou Gehrig in a crackling recording from his retirement speech at Yankee Stadium that memorable day in 1939.

  Christian looked at me with eyes as big as saucers as soon as we heard Lou’s voice.

  “. . . and I’ve never received anything but kindness and encouragement from you fans. When you have a father and a mother who work all their lives so you can have an education and build your body—it’s a blessing. For the past two weeks, you have been reading about a bad break I got. Today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the Earth. And I might have been given a bad break, but I’ve got an awful lot to live for.”

  Could this really be happening? Christian reflected my thoughts when he said, “I can’t believe it!” He scooted over to sit on my lap and I wrapped my arms tightly around him. The significance of the moment was not lost on either of us.

  As the crowd dispersed, we walked to the field where Christian’s first game of the season was about to begin. Tommy Lasorda joined us in the stands where we sat with family and friends, including my mom, her boyfriend Dennis, and Aunt Cinthia. Christian’s team would be facing my least favorite coach—the one whose son had mowed Christian down during a game, resulting in a neck injury. As that coach walked toward first base, we made eye contact. I smiled at him and waved—feeling inspired by Tommy’s heart-touching speech. The coach surprised me by cracking a smile in return. With that simple gesture, my grudge toward the man disappeared.

  Christian stepped onto the mound, and as he hurled the first pitch, my heart overflowed with gratitude. It was obvious that everything I had been searching for was right in front of me. I realized that there is no greater pleasure than sharing the highs and lows of the passing seasons with our family and friends. The battle fought and the lessons learned are far more significant than the victory, and a new season’s fresh start is always right around the corner, whether it be in sports or in life.

  Perhaps it is no accident that a baseball has 108 stitches and a prayer necklace has 108 beads. Baseball does not discriminate, and we do not have to believe in the same God to be on the same team. It is a game of courage, strength, and character that can bring grown men to cry. As easy as it appears, it is heartbreakingly difficult. Anyone who has ever stood behind the plate knows there are no guarantees that your preparation, hard work, and perseverance will be rewarded, but without them you will surely strike out. Baseball is a game that embraces failure, an arena where striking out two-thirds of the time is considered success. Former Yankees manager Joe Torre frequently reminded his players of his own experiences with failure. He told them about the season when his batting average dropped by 90 points, just one year after earning the batting title, and how he once batted into four double plays in a single game. To fail is human, but making the choice to get back up again after failing is superhuman.

  I never imagined that becoming a mother would send me to the heights of wonder and propel me into the abyss of my own limitations as a parent and as a human being. I’ve learned that living a spiritual life isn’t necessarily about sitting on a yoga mat, or in church, or in a temple. Those things are nice and they can help us find balance, but it’s about much more than that. It is about reaching deep within ourselves to find the courage to forgive and act with compassion and kindness, even in those moments when we find ourselves sitting across from someone who has activated those dark places within us that make us want to cause them pain. Living a spiritual life is about being on a Little League baseball field, watching someone intentionally hurt our child, and responding to the situation with love rather than anger. I’m not saying that we should put a child in danger, or roll over and let other people use us as a doormat, but by honoring ourselves and others, in good times and bad, is how we can truly make a difference and let our own light shine while helping others to shine a little brighter too. It was never really about baseball after all. It was about a game called life.

  EPILOGUE

  A WINK FROM THE UNIVERSE

  “A life is not important, except in the

  impact it has on other lives.”

  JACKIE ROBINSON

  Two years have passed since that Little League opening day in 2015. It seemed like an appropriate place to end our story because it marked the beginning of a new chapter of our lives—one where Christian’s spontaneous recollections of his life as Lou Gehrig were becoming a distant memory. It was as if the Angel Lailah finally showed up and ushered him into a new life unencumbered by memories of the past by pressing on his upper lip and whispering, “shhh.”

  In the spring of 2015, Christian and I had a meeting with a movie producer at Sony Pictures, who had heard about our story from a mutual friend. After quizzing Christian about Lou Gehrig, the producer asked, “Is Lou Gehrig still alive today?” Everyone in the room, including me, was surprised when Christian confidently replied, “Yes.” The producer carried on a playful exchange with Christian while the rest of us silentl
y observed.

  “Where is he?”

  “Here.”

  “Where here? Like in this room here?”

  Christian nodded, slipped his right hand down the neckline of his shirt to place his hand on his bare chest, and said, “In my heart.”

  These three words perfectly sum up how our lives have been touched by Lou and Christina Gehrig to this day. Christian still keeps the photo of Lou and Mom Gehrig on the bookshelf beside his bed and Charlotte still teases him about Babe Ruth. Lou and Christina Gehrig have become honorary members of our family and our affection for them is much like the feelings we have for our loved ones who have passed away. The connection will always be there, even though their physical presence is missed.

  In the summer of 2015, I returned to Cooperstown, New York, with Charlotte and Christian for two weeks at Cooperstown Baseball Camp with the Cepedas. My nagging urge to scour the Gehrig family documents had disappeared along with Christian’s past-life memories. Our story was complete and our only trip to the National Baseball Hall of Fame Library during that trip was to attend Tommy Lasorda’s book signing, followed by lunch with our favorite Hall of Famer. Tommy had become a fixture at Christian’s All-Star games that summer and his dugout pep talks delighted the parents and kids alike.

  As we were exiting the National Baseball Hall of Fame, Uncle Tommy stopped in front of three life-size bronze statues in the lobby. On the wall next to the statues was a placard that read, “Character and Courage.” Tommy read the names of the three men aloud to Charlotte and Christian, “Lou Gehrig, Roberto Clemente, and Jackie Robinson.” He said, “You see these three men? Their statues are the first thing you see when you walk into the Hall of Fame. You know why?” After a pause, Tommy said, “Because in addition to being three of the greatest ballplayers of all time, these men demonstrated courage and character—on and off the field. Character means treating people the way you’d like to be treated. That means showing respect for all people, having the courage to stand up for what’s right and speak out against what’s wrong.” Tommy’s speech that day further deepened our respect and admiration for Lou Gehrig and Tommy.