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9 June 2013

Saturday Catchby Zachary Kyle Elmblad

Steve sat on the bleachers, poking at peanut shells with his foot. He was never much of

a baseball fan, or any other sport for that matter. He had played three or four years of baseball

as a kid, between his year of soccer and his year of football. He recalled spending most of his

time on the field wandering around trying to stay out of everyones way, participating only

enough to escape the watchful eye of his coaches on the sidelines.

It was a crisp Autumn afternoon in the Midwest, but the smells of stale popcorn and

spilled soda still lingered in the dry air. Fallen leaves from the stand of Maple at the edge of

right field had spread themselves across the diamond. They rustled aimlessly with the light

gusts of wind, inviting him to imagine an invisible team of young boys yelling and laughing as

they passed away their lazy Saturday afternoon.

He had grown up in this neighborhood, walked its streets and smelled the fresh cut

grass on Saturday morning. This park at the end of the road had always been the after school

gathering place of the neighborhood kids. The girls played hopscotch and volleyball, running

from any boy who had worked up the courage to go say hello. The boys played baseball from

the moment the snow melted in March to the last sunset before it came back again in

November. The jungle gym sand box was the neutral ground, where the kids teamed up to play

tag - boys on the monkey bar side, girls on the swingset side. No one had ever actually decided

those sides, they had just inherited the knowledge from the older kids, as the older kids had

inherited the knowledge from those older than them. Several years ago, the city had removedthe aging jungle gym and replaced it with some plastic monstrosity that no child could ever fall

off of to break their arm. Steve wondered how the teams chose sides now, or if kids even

bothered to play in parks anymore.

He recalled, for a fleeting moment, playing catch in the backyard of his childhood home

with his father on those same lazy Saturday afternoons after raking leaves and piling them on

the side of the road - Look alive, son, here comes the heat! He remembered pick-up games

with his brothers and other boys from the neighborhood. He had stolen third base, once, while

his friend Tommy bent down to tie his shoe. His only experience of sporting glory. As he slid

over the gravel, the left knee of his brand new Levis wore away to skin. He limped home after

finishing the game to be scolded by his mother, hosed off with the backyard hose, and brought

to J.C. Penny to get another pair of for school on Monday.

He remembered a much simpler time. A time when his hair grew out of the top of his

head, and not out of his nose. He remembered those baseball games and wondered why he

seemed to enjoy them more now as the memories of an old man, rather than the idle time of a

young person with his entire life ahead of him. He remembered those other boys in the

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neighborhood, wondering what they had become. They must be scattered to the four corners of

the Earth by now. Had Ryan become the firefighter he had always said he would? Was Dane

still the coach of that basketball team down in Florida? What had become of Sam after his

parents moved to Phoenix? What about that Reynolds boy, the one with the lazy eye, he was

always the smartest of the group. Was he somewhere in Silicon Valley, writing code or riding a

Segway to his office? What about the Sheriffs boy, Michael, the one who got that girl pregnantthe summer of Freshman year? Had anyone spoken to Tommy after he graduated and joined

the Army? He had always been good friends with Tommy, but they hadnt spoken since High

School. Steve wondered where all that time had gone, where he stood in the minds of those

boys now turned adults. He wondered if any of them had come here and thought of those same

days.

He remembered the face of his father, before his thick black beard had turned gray,

wishing for one more chance to toss the ball back and forth in their backyard up the road. He

thought of the young faces of his brothers, now all grown old with children of their own to teach

how to play ball.

He looked down again at the peanut shells on the seat in front of him, wondering if they

might make it to spring. If he were to come back in March, would they still be there? Would

there be boys playing baseball in the park instead of the wind rustling the leaves? No, he

thought. Everything changes, just like the seasons. Hed been told that time and time again in

his life. Nothing ever stays the same. Just when you think you can count on something to be

there, it isnt.

Steve got up to leave once more, but sat down in the grass on the way back to the street

where his car was parked. He wanted to sit just another few minutes before he went back on

with his life. He reclined, comfortable in the grass, and watched clouds roll by overhead. Hemissed his family. He hadnt spoken to any of his brothers for quite a long time. They had all

scattered around the country, too. Mom and Dad moved down South for better weather. Jude

and Duane went out to California, and Zane up to Toronto. Steve was the only one that had

stayed, taking a job in town and buying a small house not far from his childhood home. They

tried to get together whenever they could, but the greeting cards every Christmas werent the

same as family game night or a Saturday afternoon at the park.

Everyone was on their own path now, and those paths had wandered farther and farther

away from each other. So far away that much of the light of their individual lives had faded into

a twinkling speck on the horizon, barely visible in the eyes of the other. The town had suffered

over the last decade, most of the families had moved out of the area and crime had begun to

show its ugly face. Some folks still stayed, though, trying to keep the neighborhood like it was

when they were kids. They wanted their children to live life the way they did, and they

stubbornly ignored the changes all around.

He got up again to leave, hearing a shy voice behind him shout, Hey mister, do you

have a minute? He saw a boy of about ten running up to him with a dirty baseball. He looked

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like one of the boys from Steves past, which made him happy to know that boys still played

baseball in the park. Wanna play? My mom says its OK, nobody plays ball in the park any

more! he said, short of breath from running across the street. Steve looked up to see the boys

mother standing on a porch in the distance and waved. She smiled before walking back into the

house. There was no car in the driveway, just an oil stain and a half-chewed dog bone. He

thought now that there might still be a bit of hope for his old neighborhood.

My dad and I used to play catch here every weekend, said the boy as he tossed the

ball to Steve, we used to play catch all the time. Steve smiled and said I used to play catch

with my old man every Saturday, sometimes in this park and sometimes in our back yard.

Wheres your dad now? Is he at work? Steve tossed the ball back to the boy, who caught it

and looked down at the ground. Hes in heaven. My mom says he died so that other people

could be free like us. He was in the Army. His tank got hit by one of those I-Dee-EEs or

whatever they call them. I miss him a whole lot. So does my mom.

Steve choked on his words. He had never had to deal with a pain like that in his life, let

alone as a child. Hed had his share of ups and downs, but this boy would never have a chance

to play catch with his old man again. Steve may not have spoken to his father in a while, but he

was only a phone call away. What was your fathers name? he asked the boy. Tommy, he

said. Steve couldnt believe what he was hearing. I knew him very well. We used to play ball

down here when we were your age. Whats your name? he asked the boy.

Steve, whats yours? he said, tossing the ball. Steve caught it and looked at it in his

hands. On it was written with a marker: For my boy with love from Iraq. Ill see you soon!

Steve held back his tears as he pitched the ball back to little Steve, my names Steve, too. Its

nice to meet you.

They stood in the field playing ball until the sun went down, and continued to meet there

every Saturday after that. Steve never moved out of that neighborhood, and he never found

things to stay the same, but he went to that park every Saturday for the rest of his life to play

catch with little Steve. Even after little Steve grew up and they both had children of their own,

they still met at that same park every Saturday afternoon. They urged their own children to do

the same, too, because every old man deserves a memory of Saturday catch, and every boy

deserves an old man to play catch with on a Saturday.