Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Editor's Note Review of Coventry Review of Virginity Or Death! Review of Imperial Reckoning Poetry Politico By Beth L. Block Peonies By Natasha S. Garnett A Foreigner in the Street By Tony Zurlo Sand Hill Cranes and Other Eccentricities By Jaqueline Powers On Sleepless Nights By Joy Harold Helsing I Don't Want To Be Hughes By Joe Koch Fiction Baseball Games and One-Eared Cats By Pete Laffin Beige By Dawn Merrow Geezer Cage By Scott W. Alten Sandlot By J. Conrad Guest Dinosaurs and Barbie Dolls By Michelle McMahon Burlesque Show By Stanley P. Anderson About the Contributors © 2006, River Walk Journal and respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. Do not use or reproduce without permission. River Walk Journal, Inc. Board of Directors Chairman - Elizabeth Ross Vice Chairman - Joseph Koch Secretary/Treasurer - Geri Stock-Ross Editorial Director - Patti Kurtz, DA Literacy Director - Vacant Policy Director - PA State Rep. Jess Stairs Advisory Board Chairman - Patti Kurtz, DA Asst. Chairman - Dan Lachenman, PhD Samuel Hazo Christopher Leland Edwin Yoder Joseph Bathanti Journal Staff Publisher - Elizabeth Ross Editor-In-Chief - Joseph Koch Sen. Fiction Editor - Patti Kurtz Sen. Poetry Editor - Neeldhara Misra Sen. Creative Nonfiction Editor - Brenda Coxe Contributing Editor - Robert Dittman Blog Contributing Editor - Maggie Koster Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/subs.html. Questions about promotions, subscribers' services, and advertising should be sent to publisher@riverwalkjournal.org. River Walk Journal, Inc. is a non-profit corporation run entirely by volunteers. For information about volunteer opportunities and internships, visit VolunteerMatch. |
Baseball Games and One-Eared Cats By Pete Laffin Grandpa walked into the living room in a bright white shirt and pleated, brown slacks pulled up to the middle of his belly. On the way to his recliner in the corner, next to the window, he looked my way, gave half a grin, and said hello. As he sat, his face resumed the stoic, confident gaze it always had, the look of a man who fought the Nazis, raised seven children, and took personal responsibility for smothering every fire in the District of Arlington, where he was fire chief for over forty years. My grandpa almost never smiled completely, but, when he did, it was incredible. It was as if the immortal soul of the Earth had given its approval and showed its joy. The couch in the living room was fuzzy and depleted. The meat of the cushions had been pushed to the margins, leaving the middles rough and springy, the result of a lifetime of Sunday visits. There was something different in the air that day. I wasn’t gagging on cigarette smoke or on its misty remains that oozed in from the walls. Grandpa’s pack of Marlboro’s and ashtray were both missing. It always troubled me that a man who spent his adult life encircled by clouds of deadly smoke would choose cigarettes as his method of relaxation. But, today Grandpa wasn’t smoking or laboring to breathe. He was finishing long sentences with ease, without taking lengthy pauses to swallow down clumps of phlegm. “Why don’t you put the ballgame on, Pete,” he said. “I know you’re dying to see what’s happening.” As always, I happily obeyed Grandpa and turned on the TV. It was the fourth game of the World Series between the Yankees and the Diamondbacks. Hideki Matsui was batting. The side door opened and slammed shut. Grandpa had another visitor making his way to the living room, clanking the heels of his dress shoes along the wooden floors. “I told you, Peter! Wade Boggs made it to the Hall of Fame, but not that no good Mattingly!” It was my great-uncle Joe. I hadn’t seen him in over a year and the first thing he could do was hit me with a Yankees-Red Sox zinger. There was never a family function I didn’t look forward to thanks to good-ole’ Joe. Whenever the rest of the conversations at the party dulled down, you could always find Joe and me in some corner carrying on, arguing baseball statistics memorized specifically to defend our favorite ball clubs from each other’s attacks. Joe never fought fair, though. Anytime I’d have him backed in a corner, unable to counter my major league analysis, he would play the deaf card and complain about his hearing aid. “Heh? I can’t hear ya, Peter,” he’d say, flailing his arms around. “It’s this damn thing in my ear. Never works.” But, no matter how much he rooted for the Red Sox, or how passionately he rooted against the Yankees, he would always end up rooting for me the most. Uncle Joe came to every game of mine he could, from Little League right up through high school. “Who the hell is this guy, Matsushi? You don’t see any Matsushi’s on the Red Sox. The Red Sox got Americans, not these yellow-skinned Chinese son’s-a-bitches!” “He’s Japanese, Uncle Joe.” “Will you two pipe down? I can’t hear the goddamn ballgame!” Uncle Joe and I cut the banter immediately, sat back in the couch, and smirked at each other like scolded children. When Matsui swung at a curveball in the dirt for strike three, Grandpa smacked his hands together in disgust. Uncle Joe gave him a few seconds to cool off before filling the room with a deep, deliberate chuckle, accentuated by a triumphant right jab into the open air. I watched these two old men in their natural states, razzing each other up and messing around like a couple of kids, and in a single moment my fondness for both of them inundated my thoughts and I began to cry uncontrollably. Strangely, neither was jarred by my outburst. It was as if they knew it was coming all along. Joe wrapped his arm around me and patted my shoulder. Grandpa came out of his chair and walked over to me in an upright posture, without the crouch I was accustomed to seeing, and with tenderness I could have never imagined coming from him, he knelt down in front of me and held my hand. “It’s alright, Peter,” he whispered. “There, now.” “I miss you both so much.” “We miss you too, buddy,” said Uncle Joe. “Everything is OK,” Grandpa said. “Everything’s OK.” They kept at it, but I was implacable. Uncle Joe took the remote and shut the game off. I continued to scream and cry. Somehow, in the background of my wailing, I heard a weak jingling of bells. I quieted down and listened as the bells grew louder and soon accompanied the pattering of little feet coming toward the living room. In scampered Vinny, Grandpa’s one-eared cat. He came to me and nuzzled his face into my shin. I bent down and gave him a scratch. Grandpa ripped off a long string that was hanging off the fuzzy couch and dangled it above his head. Vinny immediately rolled onto his back and started smacking at it with his paws. “Now, watch this,” said Grandpa. He lifted the string up a bit, dangling it just out of Vinny’s reach. The cat shot right up on all fours and made a jump for it. Grandpa yanked it away just in time and Vinny, so entranced by the string, landed awkwardly on his side and scrambled to compose himself for another jump. Uncle Joe let out a booming laugh that eventually infected Grandpa and me. Suddenly, we were all laughing our heads off. I woke up laughing. I can’t remember that ever happening before. I stayed in bed for a few minutes staring at the ceiling, I got up, went over to my closet, and dug out a shoebox from the back. I found the one of Uncle Joe, Grandpa, and myself sitting together on the fuzzy, old couch. Uncle Joe was gripping me tight around the shoulder. Grandpa sat nearby, his proud smile gleaming. |