Ahhhh, good ol’ Mr. and Mrs. Spore, Bible beaters, espousing the sorrows of Job and King David. They never took to baseball, never talked much either and no one knew where they came from or where they got all their money, but they bought the house across the street from Gould’s Cemetery and would sit on the front porch every dusk to dole out change to beggars and watch the sun set. Their youngest son Benoit joined them, refusing to socialize with kids his own age. Mr. Spore set up a lawn chair for him, but then somewhere around his 16th birthday, he pointed towards Audie Langdon Park, beside the cemetery, and Benoit knew what he was hinting at. He dropped his head and dragged his feet there, to the park, sad and scared, where other kids, on the verge of leaving their teens hung out, to watch washed up top prospects, most of them drafted by big league teams with dreams of making it to the majors, but it didn’t work out for one reason or another so they came together, shipwrecked, to play and there were hard slides, brush backs, more of an old time atmosphere, no patting the opposition on the butt and joking with fielders when on base.
They went all out too, chalking fair/foul lines, cutting the grass, hiring an umpire, but like their careers, the perfection didn’t last long. The first batter dug his back foot in the dirt, messing up the chalked batter’s box like a dog marking its territory and ditto for the pitcher on the mound. Many of the players hailed from the Dominican Republic and when their baseball careers didn’t amount to much, they feared the backlash from those back home who lived vicariously through them so they hung around America and with broken English, took odd jobs – construction work, dishwashing, prep cook, garbage men. Others earned degrees from the local university, perfected their English and went the academic route becoming translators or professors.
One of the pitcher’s, Javier Iglesias, a southpaw, didn’t grow up in poverty. He came from a middle class family in San Pedro de Macorís and spoke nearly perfect English. He got drafted by the Chicago Cubs in 2004, 23rd round, sent to the Northwest League, Class A short season, in Boise, Idaho, to play for the Hawks. He gladly shared his stat line with the boys.
“I recorded 37 k’s in 23 innings” he boasted and then in a hushed whisper, he added, “with a 7.50 ERA.”
Benoit knew about Idaho, knew Harmon Killebrew was born there, in Payette, a mere 59 miles from Boise and he knew that Killebrew hit 573 home runs and more importantly, had “Brew” in his name and Benoit took this as an omen, a good one, to visit Bostock’s bar and grill, a place of initiation where older men believed it their mission to introduce teenagers into the “kingdom of drink,” to learn how to stand your ground, to debate about politics, discuss history and music and discover one’s favorite beer and booze and discover other’s favorites too, so when bar time arrived, you could buy a drink for a stranger and one for the bartender too!
Javier took a liking to Benoit, on account of him asking all kinds of questions, from the steak joints in Boise to the playing fields in the Dominican to baseball history and when the conversation came around to George Bell, also from San Pedro de Macorís, and his 265 career homeruns, Benoit, already stooped in numbers and statistics enjoyed a revelation, that if you add up Bell’s bombs, 2+6+5, it equalled 13 and though many shied away from the doomsday number of bad luck, Benoit welcomed it as a reminder, a promise that bad luck would be followed by good luck and then bad luck and then good luck, a see-saw of slumps and streaks all baseball players must endure, from Drysdale’s shutouts to Blass’s loss of control.
Javier was the only player not embittered by his own failure. He believed in passing on the torch to young baseball players, determined to see talent sprout, unlike first baseman Thatch Foray, a midwestern kid with a blazing 100 mph fastball who failed in the locker room banter, too self conscious and paranoid, conditions he never overcame, blacklisted from the professional game. He, like Javier, eyed the boys, but Thatch did it out of spite because he never had a father and his older brother never bought him beer or taught him how to de-seed a bag of weed. He looked long and hard at Benoit, never moving a muscle, a stare down like prize fighters in the center of the ring, the judge explaining the rules, the boxer’s eyes glued on each other, but not Benoit. He didn’t look. He became quiet, felt awkward, and didn’t know where to put his hands.
“You weirdo,” Thatch yelled at Benoit. “You flake.”
That word “flake” inspired Benoit. For a change he didn’t turn the other Jesus cheek, no water off his back. He charged after Thatch and when he got close enough, he ducked down and wrapped his arms around Thatch’s legs, a picture perfect tackle as Thatch fell back and hit the ground hard. No one interfered. Instead, a circle formed around them, an impromptu boxing ring.
Benoit pointed his finger at Javier and smiled, maybe for too long a time because it was Thatch’s turn. He came charging towards Benoit, tackled him and sent him backwards onto the ground, exactly as Benoit had done to him.”
“Eye for an eye,” laughed the scrappy second baseman from Reno.”
Benoit jumped to his feet. Punches were thrown, one landing on Benoit’s right eye followed by another in his gut. It was then that Javier stepped in and broke up the fight. And like any baseball brawl, the others followed, no one really interested in fighting, arms wrapped around the instigators “to hold them back,” peace prevailing and back to the game.
Benoit walked home with bruises and a bloody lip and his father, Mr. Spore, on the porch, as always around dusk, smiled at Benoit and without asking what happened, didn’t need to, for he knew in his gut that his son had entered the ring and now understood suffering.
That night, Mr. Spore bought his son a fielder’s glove and as is sometimes the case, synchronicity happened. The next day the boys were invited to play.
brewers baseball and things 