One day I came upon Jackson playing football in the street with his uncle and older sister. He was about twelve years old, wearing an extra-large Minnesota Vikings jersey that hung to his knees. He was nearing that gangly age, not a child anymore but not quite grown up yet, either. I was impressed with his speed. His uncle was faster, of course, but Jack was beginning to show his stuff. On a whim I joined them.
“Hey, Jackson,” I called. “You know how to run pass patterns?”
He nodded, flipping the ball to me when I held my hands up for it.
“Think you can beat your uncle?”
Dropping his eyes to his feet, he meekly shook his head.
“I bet you can,” I said. Turning to look at his tall, rangy uncle, I called, “How about it? One play. I’ll be quarterback, you cover Jack.”
“You’re on,” he answered, grinning. “Bring it on, Little Jack!”
I set the football in the middle of the street and laid my mail satchel near the curb. When I pulled Jackson back into a huddle, his sister followed. “What do I do?” she asked.
“You’re the hiker,” I said. She wrinkled her nose so I quickly added, “It’s a really important job. If the hike is no good, I won’t be able to pass it to your brother, and we only get one chance.”
That seemed to mollify her. She nodded at me, and then aimed a grimace of determination at her brother. “You better catch the ball, Jackson.”
I held my hand out in front of them in the time-honored tradition of diagramming a pass play on the palm of my hand. “You know what a buttonhook is?” I asked him.
He shook his head. His eyes were glued to my hand. I could see his excitement as his tongue flicked over his lips while he rocked from foot to foot. “How about a fly pattern?”
Another shake of the head. Again the darting tongue and pacing in place.
“Okay, then this is how it works. Your sister hikes the ball
to me. You run as fast as you can for five steps. Count them as you go. On the fifth step turn around and yell for me to throw the ball.”
I drew all this with an index finger on my palm. The children watched my finger move, as if hypnotized by the sequence of wriggles and waggles.
“I’ll fake a pass to you,” I continued, “then you take off down the street as fast as you can run.” My finger drew a straight line off the end of my fingertips. “Just run, Jackson, for all you’re worth. The next time you look back, I’ll be launching a long bomb to you. Got it? It’s called a buttonhook and fly. It’ll work, Jackson, if you sell the fake.”
He nodded, but when we broke huddle he started out the wrong way down the street. He turned around when his sister called him. Holding the ball and laughing, she said, “Where are you going?”
A drop of doubt entered my thoughts then, but I decided he was just concentrating too hard on the route he had to run.
“Come on, little boy,” his uncle taunted. Jackson ignored the remark and took his place next to his sister. I had a notion he was doing some growing up right there in the middle of the street. The other children lined up at the curb to watch the play, while the older women sat forward on their porch chairs, leaning on the railing to see what the mailman was up to. Jackson snuck a peek at the house to be sure they were watching.
“Hike!” I called, and the ball sailed high over my head.
I backtracked enough to grab it, but by the time I looked up, Jackson’s sister was already yelling, “Throw the ball!” As I stepped forward into my fake pass, Jackson shouted, “Throw it!” His uncle charged forward to block the pass. On his final lunge he bellowed at his nephew to intimidate him, but by then it was too late. Jackson turned on his heel and flew down the street. My bomb floated high and deep, spiraling between the branches of overhanging boulevard trees. The uncle gave chase and quickly closed the gap. I held my breath while Jackson ran all out. When he caught the ball and safely tucked it away, a chorus of cheers erupted from the front yard. His mother and grandmother jumped off the porch, high-fiving each other while screaming like we’d just won the Super Bowl.
Jackson tried to act nonchalant about it, but it was impossible for him to keep the huge grin off his face. Trotting back to us, he modestly looked down at the street or off to the side, secretly stealing a glance at his mother. The joy on his face made the sixty seconds I had spent in the street well worth the time. After that, whenever I encountered the family in the front yard, Jackson and I exchanged conspiratorial nods and grins.
AS THE YEARS PASSED I watched Jackson grow into a handsome young man, through the awkward voice-changing and acne years. He was small for his age, but very fast, and it was hard to miss the glint of self-awareness and intelligence in his pitch-black eyes.
His uncle came and went a few more times before finally moving out for good. I had a few short conversations with Jackson over the years, mostly to ask him about school, and to encourage him to work hard at it. I don’t believe my urgings were necessary, however, as his mother and grandmother kept a pretty tight rein on the kids.
He played baseball for the high school team. I asked him about it one time when I came upon him in his baseball uniform playing catch with his sister. “We’re not very good,” was his comment on the team.
“Oh, come on, I bet you’re better than that.”
“No, really, we always lose.”
His sister interjected, “His stupid coach won’t let him play.”
“Shut up,” Jackson ordered.
“Well, it’s true,” she persisted. “And it’s not fair. You lose every game anyway, what difference does it make? He should let you play.”
Jackson ignored her. I was stuck for something to say. My thoughts were torn between the warmth of his sister’s loyalty, and the cold shadow of an injustice that I could only guess at. Was he on the bench because of his size? Was it a racial thing? It certainly couldn’t be poor academics, not with the way his mother rode herd on him.
“Do you make it to all the practices?” I asked.
Jackson nodded, but again it was his sister who replied. “Oh, yeah, he goes to practice. I should know, too, because I go to all of them with him.”
“That’s only because Jeremy is there,” Jackson said, rolling his eyes at his sister.
“Shut up!” she yelled, throwing the ball at him.
“Practices are important,” I said in my best adult fashion. The notion of being a mentor came back to me. “That’s where you learn. Even if you’re not playing, practice hard. Use the time to develop your own skills. Especially in batting practice. Learn all you can. If you work hard at it, the coach is bound
to notice you. The playing time will come if you keep working at it.”
The baseball fields where Jackson’s team practiced and played their home games that summer were near the neighborhood. Sometimes in the evening, when I was out riding my bicycle, I swung by to see if the team was out there. When they practiced, I stopped for a few minutes to watch, but when they played games, I usually hung around for a couple innings. It brought back memories of when our own children were young and my wife and I lugged lawn chairs around to all the ballparks in South Minneapolis to watch their games.
I never saw Jackson in a game. Instead, he would put on a catcher’s mitt and warm up the pitcher, or keep the infielders loose by playing catch with them on the sidelines. He was the only player on the team that didn’t get playing time—at least, for the several innings that I witnessed, he never played.
The impressive thing about it, however, was that his whole family came out for every game. I even saw his uncle there one night. They took up most of a row in the short stand of bleachers. The younger children ran around playing in the park with friends while the older ones cheered on the team. I found their devotion to be amazing considering that what Jackson had told me was true: the team never won a game.
The outcome usually wasn’t even close.
When the players came in from the field to sit on the bench, Jackson often walked up and down the line high-fiving each kid. Even though he never played, he showed more team spirit than anyone else. I noticed his mother and grandmother laughing and cheering enthusiastically for the team’s few good plays. Was I the only one having a problem with this?
Late in the season Jackson met me in his yard. “Are you coming to my game tonight? It’s the last one of the season.”
It’s nearly impossible to say no to a kid who extends an invitation like that. Especially when it’s a child I’ve watched grow up, one who is usually very quiet and unassuming. “Of course I’ll be there,” I replied. “Are you playing tonight?”
“I don’t know,” he said softly, looking at the toe of his shoe. “Coach doesn’t announce the line-up until game time.”
I looked up at the sunny, clear sky. It was hard to tell if he was lying about the line-up out of a false sense of optimism, or simply protecting his coach to avoid controversy. In either case, it would be a nice evening for a bike ride. “I’ll be there,” I promised.
The first two innings were completed by the time I arrived. The team was already several runs down, and Jackson sat on the bench. I locked up my bike and joined his family in the bleachers. For three more innings I watched the team fall further behind. Jackson continued his spirited efforts on the bench, however, cheering and encouraging his losing teammates. It was the last game of the season, with no doubt as to the outcome. Come on coach, I ranted silently. Get everyone in the game!
As much as I disapprove of meddling adults at sporting events, I had finally seen enough. If I truly wanted to be a mentor, then my actions would have to speak louder than my words. In the sixth inning, when Jackson’s team took the field, I quietly walked down to take a seat on the bench near the coach. Jackson was rounding up bats from the previous half-inning, lining them up by weight behind the backstop. The coach gave me a short once-over, then called out some adjustments to his outfielders.
I got right to the point. “How come you don’t play Jackson?”
When he groaned, I thought it was directed at me, but he may have been reacting to another pitch lined into the outfield by an opposing batter. When things quieted down again, he said, “Everybody gets playing time.” He didn’t bother to look at me.
“For all the innings I’ve seen this summer, the kid hasn’t taken one ground ball. Not even one at bat.” I said this while watching Jackson behind the backstop shouting encouragement to his pitcher, but when the coach looked at me, I turned to meet his gaze.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Jackson’s mailman.”
He snickered. “The mailman.” Scanning the field again, he added, “Now I’ve heard everything. Like I said, Mr. Mailman, everyone gets playing time.”
“Just saying it doesn’t make it so,” I retorted, standing up in front of him to block his view. “Here’s another thing, Mr. Coach,” I added with sarcasm. “I’ve watched him play ball and work out all summer. He’s never missed a practice or a game. Hell, his whole family never misses a game. I’ve been coming down here after work to watch him play, and I have to say, your line-up choices really disappoint me.”
The real disappointment I felt was in myself. A confrontation with the coach hadn’t been on my agenda. As I walked away, I nodded at Jackson and he smiled, happy to see me there. Returning to the bleachers, I decided to wait out the remainder of the game. Maybe I would dream up some words of wisdom for Jackson when it was all over.
When the half-inning was completed, his sister pointed, shouting, “Look, Mom, Jackson’s putting on a batting helmet!”
I couldn’t believe it. Now he grabbed a bat, too, and stood in the on-deck circle taking practice swings. With no trace of teenage inhibition, he paused to grin and wave at us.
The other team had a new pitcher, a big kid who threw hard. He struck out the batter before Jackson on three pitches. I watched the coach sit back wearily and shake his head as Jackson stepped into the batter’s box. Digging his cleats in, rocking from foot to foot and licking his lips just as he’d done in our football huddle, I saw the signs of concentration on Jack’s face.
“Come on,” I whispered. “Take a pitch or two, get your timing down. This guy is really throwing heat.” His mother and sisters screamed and cheered, yelling loud enough for people to turn and look at us.
Jackson ignored my silent pleas and swung wild at the first pitch. He crushed the ball with a line shot that cleared the first baseman’s head before the kid could even react. The ball sliced off into the right-field corner. Jackson shot out of the batter’s box like a track star off the blocks, and our row in the bleachers lunged to our feet. “Run, Jackson, run!” his grandmother screamed in my ear.
He had a good view of the ball as he rounded first base. As fast as he was, it seemed like he accelerated on his way to second. Unfortunately, because he’d hit it so hard, the ball careened around the corner of the outfield very quickly. It ricocheted up to the right fielder before Jackson reached second base. I could see he had no intention of slowing down, even though the right fielder made a strong, accurate throw to the infield. Jackson cruised around second at top speed, ignoring the third-base coach’s sign to hold up. I found myself jumping in place on the bleachers like everyone else, the excitement carrying us away. “Stop, Jackson!” I yelled. “Hold up!”
His batting helmet had long since blown away. I could see his tongue sticking out in concentration as he flew toward third base. He was so incredibly fast; all his movements were smooth and fluid. He seemed completely at ease, as if this element of great speed was a natural part of him, like the color of his eyes, or the tone of his voice.
He launched himself toward third base, diving head first as the ball arrived from the outfield. The umpire ran onto the field to get a clear view of the play. As the dust settled the umpire’s arms flew out at his sides, and he yelled, “Safe!”
The bleachers erupted. The opposing coach got up to argue, but the umpire dramatically re-enacted his call. Flinging his arms straight out at his sides while directing his theatrics personally at the opposing coach, he sang out, “The runner is safe!”
We all laughed and cheered some more. When Jackson’s grandmother jumped up to high-five me, I had to catch her to prevent her from crashing through the bleachers. Jackson stood on third base, his modesty once again in charge as he brushed himself off. A teammate ran his batting helmet over to him. Putting it on, he snuck a quick peek up at the bleachers. Just like the old days in his front yard, the familiar nod and grin came my way. Then his eyes moved down the row to find his mother. The grin broke out into an unabashed smile, and he waved at us, his black eyes shining with pride and joy.
Animal Kingdom
Coming across a certified letter requiring a signature, I climbed the steps to the house and rang the doorbell. From a thick bundle of letters I extracted the form that needed signing while searching my pockets for a pen. A young couple lived here, new on my route.
When the door opened, I greeted the young lady of the house. I held up the letter and said, “Here’s a certified letter for you. It needs your signature. Looks like it’s from the mortgage company.”
She stepped outside. I smiled at her, admiring her friendly face, and then recoiled in horror. A huge albino python lay draped across her shoulders. It spanned from one outstretched hand, up her arm, through a wide loop around her neck, and down her other arm. It had to be eight feet long or more.
She laughed at my startled reaction. Introducing me to the snake, she stepped forward and asked, “Want to pet him?”
“No, thanks.” I backpedaled down a step or two. I noticed the head of the snake weaving farther off her arm, aiming closer to my face.
“He’s not poisonous or anything,” she
said. “He’s really friendly.”
From the lower step I handed the letter and pen up to her. The snake’s face was even with mine, and much too close.
“I love this hot weather,” she said. “When it’s warm like this, I let the snakes out to exercise in the yard.”
Snakes? As she spoke, the beady red eyes bobbed ever closer. Inching farther off her arm, the head performed a mesmerizing slow-motion dance. She handed the form back to me and asked, “Come on, are you sure you don’t want to pet him?”
I shook my head. “I’m really not too fond of snakes.”
Holding my breath, I looked the snake straight in the eyes, then reached out and snatched the form out of her hand. Back down on the sidewalk, I finally managed to breathe again. Not a day goes by without my searching that yard for runaway snakes.
BECAUSE I SPEND SO many hours outside every day, I get to see the whole gamut of wildlife that Mother Nature has to offer in the city. I’ve spotted pheasants, raccoons, and even a skunk. For a while, a yearling doe resided in the backyards of a block on my route. I enjoyed watching the homeowners adopt and protect that deer. When their small gardens matured, they live-trapped squirrels and rabbits and hauled them away, but they let the young deer eat all she wanted. Neighbors sat outside on lawn chairs, exchanging gossip while taking pictures of the deer as she grazed her way through their yards. With the coming of fall and the mating season, the doe suddenly disappeared. We all missed her, agreeing that her presence had made for an interesting summer.
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