An Old Timers Day Game to Remember

“Our next Cougar needs no introduction. He’s a five-time batting champion, a two-time American League MVP, who holds a lifetime batting average of .322. A member of baseball’s Hall of Fame. Let’s give a rousing welcome to number 29, center fielder, Kurt Clayton!”

The stadium had drawn its usual big crowd of nearly 30,000 fans for old timers’ day. It wasn’t a capacity crowd, but the promotion did well every year just the same. This year the Cougars were honoring the Cougars 2001 team, celebrating their last World Championship twenty-five years ago. Kurt Clayton trotted onto the field from the dugout and stood with the players who’d been announced before him. His former teammate and good friend, Art Mallory, was standing next to him. They shook hands gingerly because Kurt knew that Art’s hands were arthritic.

Art was nine years older than Kurt, who had just turned 55 a week ago. They had been teammates for eight years. It was a beautiful, sunny day, but at nearly 90 degrees, playing would be a challenge for the older players. “You gonna play in the game, Artie?”

“They want me to Kurt. I’ll give it a try.” Art Mallory had been a first baseman during his eighteen-year career. A left-handed hitting slugger, he didn’t hit much for average but in his heyday he hit some of the longest homeruns Kurt had ever seen. Fans loved him. He gladly signed autographs and while he was playing, he would attend any banquet he was invited to, even during the off season. He had taken Kurt under his wing when the kid was a rookie, doing his best to keep him out of trouble.   

“How about you?” Art asked. He gestured toward the crowd. “I’ll bet 90% of these folks came here today to see you hit a double off the left field wall.”

Kurt laughed. “Wouldn’t that be something? Then you hit one over the right field wall and they all go home happy.”

“And drunk,” Art added. The announcer had introduced the last old timer. It was time to head to the dugout and get ready to play a few innings. Mostly the game was played for laughs. A few of the guys took it seriously, their competitive instincts surfacing the moment they put on their uniforms.

The New York Cougars took the field. They were playing retired ball players from the Baltimore Blues and the Chicago Stars. Standing in center field, waiting for Jason Clyde, the Cougars’ all-time winningest pitcher, to throw the first pitch, Kurt made the same promise to himself he made every year. This would be his last old timer’s game.

He hated these games. He looked down toward first base at Art. Once a powerfully built man, he had grown paunchy. But for him, old timers’ games were a delight, just the opposite of the way Kurt saw them. All these years later, Art still loved hearing the crowd cheer. As much as his hands hurt, and as much as his back ached, he took batting practice at the stadium thirty minutes a day for three days before the game. “If I could just hit one more over that wall, I’d call it a day,” he would tell his wife.

Marla had married Art at home plate in Huntsville, Alabama when Art was just starting his career. A student of the game, Marla, was as sure as she could be that Art was unlikely to hit a ball out of the infield. Watching him take batting practice the day before the game didn’t change her mind.  

It was different for Kurt. He still had dreams about his days as a superstar player. Some nights he’d wake up sweating over an imaginary called strike three at a key point in the game. Unlike Art, he’d kept himself in shape, and he had retained his good looks.

But he rarely attended games. It killed him to watch young active players go through their warmups with fluid motions, and pain free movements. These kids could get around on a 95 mile per hour fastball, something he used to be able to do with ease. Now, he hated to admit it, but he could barely see the damn ball at that speed.

While The National Anthem and the Marine Corps Color Guard held the crowd’s attention, Kurt searched the crowd, looking vainly for his third wife and their nine-year-old son. They were estranged thanks to Kurt’s philandering. Even as a retired superstar, a Hall of Famer, he never had trouble finding company. This time, though, he knew he had blown it. Michelle was a classy woman. She was a marine biologist as accomplished and well known in her field as he was in baseball. After they married, they settled in Scottsdale, Arizona, near Tempe, where Art and Marla lived.   

Although he was in good financial shape, bad investments and divorce settlements had taken their toll.  He couldn’t afford to spend as freely as he once did. His bad behavior had finally caught up with him. Major corporations worried that eventually he might do something that reflected poorly on their brand. While fans still remembered and revered him for his all-out, do anything style of play, he couldn’t count on lavish endorsement deals anymore.

Art and Marla stood by his side through every misadventure. Art treated Kurt like a little brother. When Michelle left him, following a brief highly public affair Kurt had with a woman thirty years his junior, Marla and Art sat him down and helped him devise a plan would preserve his money if not his reputation.   

The Honor Guard was quickly leaving the field. It was time to play ball. It occurred to Kurt that just six months ago, Michelle had promised to come to the game with him along with their son, Taylor. Scheduling problems had somehow prevented Michelle from making the trip in years past.        

In the clubhouse, while they were dressing for the game, Art had asked for an update. “You and Michelle talk?’

“No. She won’t take my calls.”

Art nodded. “That might not be all bad.”

“Seriously? What part of that could be good, Artie?”

Art shrugged his shoulders causing him to wince. His back problems had flared up recently. “It means she’s still mad at you. If she was done with you she would have taken your call and referred you to her lawyer.” He tapped Kurt’s shoulder. “There’s still a chance if you play it right.”

Kurt placed his fingers in his old baseball glove. The mitt felt stiff. “Have I ever played it right? Anyway, I sent her game tickets, full VIP pass. I don’t think she’s here today.”

“Probably not.” Art paused, trying to decide what he should say next. He relied on a Yogi Berra-ism. “You know the old saying, right? It ain’t over till it’s over.”

Jason Clyde did his job. He grooved some pitches that would at least give the opposition a shot at a hit. Watching some of these guys try to run to first base made Kurt cringe. He wondered, of course, how he looked to the men in their prime. Were they snickering behind his back? Men who would take the field soon enough and remind the old timers just how much the game had passed them by. The thought depressed Kurt.

When it was the Cougars turn at bat, a 73-year-old former third baseman for the team managed to hit a foul popup that the catcher, unsteady though he was on his legs, caught for the first out. Next up was a right fielder who had only retired three years ago. He lined the first pitch into center field for a single. Naturally, guys on the Cougars bench hooted and hollered. “You retired too soon! The Cougars could use your bat now!”

It was Kurt’s turn to bat. As he walked up to the plate, he took one last look behind the Cougars dugout, hoping Michele had surprised him. There was no sign of her or Taylor. The last time he swung a bat was a year ago at last year’s old timer’s game. He always felt good standing at the plate. “Where would you like the ball, high or low,?” The catcher asked him. Everyone in the park knew the fans were waiting for Kurt Clayton to get a hit. The pitcher would be happy to oblige if he could.

“Just above the waist would be great,” Kurt said. Sure enough, the catcher gave his pitcher a target and the right hander threw a perfect pitch. Kurt swung. His hands felt the bat make excellent contact with the ball, a feeling good hitters never forget. He got all of it. The left fielder barely moved. He turned to watch the ball hit the left field wall, just the way Art said it would. Playing his part perfectly, the fielder took his time scooping up the ball and hesitated to throw it to the second baseman to give Kurt plenty of time to reach second without having to slide.

Art Mallory ambled up to the plate. He gestured to the catcher that he wanted a pitch letter high. “Well, old man, I’ll see what I can do.” The first two pitches were in the dirt. The catcher made a show of going out to the mound to talk things over with his pitcher. Both men tried to hide their laughter behind their gloves. Art was going to have to make do with what the corpulent 66-year-old pitcher could deliver.

“Does he think he can do it?” Art asked when the catcher returned.

“I think we’re about to find out.” The next pitch was too high. In fact, the catcher had to jump up to keep the ball from going all the way to the backstop. His knees were already singing a sad song.

Art tapped his bat on the plate. He decided to swing at the next pitch wherever it was. He didn’t want to walk. The pitcher tossed the ball more like he was playing catch in the back yard with his grandson.

Art followed the ball closely and took a mighty swing. He felt a very unwelcome twinge in his back. The kind of twinge that likely meant he would be wearing a back brace for months. But he also felt his bat connect with the ball. And he knew. Now the question was could he manage to run around the bases with his back screaming obscenities at him? The ball cleared the right field wall and was caught in the sixth row by a teenaged girl.

The crowd roared. Players in both dugouts, sensing that this might be Art’s last hurrah, stepped onto the field and applauded along with the fans. The fans were standing and hugging each other in celebration.

Kurt was standing at Homeplate with a wide grin on his face. When Art finally reached Homeplate, Kurt extended his hand and said, “Now we can retire from these stupid games.”

When the game was over, the old timers showered and changed into their street clothes. Some of them stayed to watch the regular game, but it was a very hot day. Kurt and Art decided to head to the stadium’s restaurant where a room had been reserved for the retired players and family to have a buffet dinner after the game.

Marla joined them. Always prepared in advance, she handed Art his back brace. “Restroom, pronto, dear. I don’t want to hear you crying about your aching back on the plane ride to Phoenix.” She gave her husband a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll stay with Kurt and keep an eye on him. There are too many young ladies walking around to expect him to behave himself.”

“I’m done with that just,” Kurt said, a grim look on his face. Marla patted his shoulder, and smiled, trying to demonstrate confidence and support.  

While they waited, Marla and Kurt made small talk, both of them still excited about Art’s home run. Ten minutes later Art walked back to where they were standing, a huge grin on his face. “Kurt, come with me, my friend. There’s a couple of old friends I’d like you to meet.”

The two men walked the fifty feet to the bar. “Are your friend named Mr. Beam and Mr. Daniels?” Kurt asked.

“Nope. He reached out and gently turned Kurt’s body around. “This is Michelle Clayton and her son Taylor.  Thanks to flight delays they missed our game.”

Kurt lifted his son into his arms and hugged him tightly. He looked at Michelle. He kissed her. Her eyes gave him permission. “Daddy, we missed your game!” Taylor said.

Kurt felt a surge of excitement better than any he ever felt on the field. “We’ll come back, son. I think I’ll play again next year.’