Alfred and the Surplus Buns
By Lou Blodgett
- 192 reads
I do loves me my baseball. I myself haven’t played it much. In my youth, there weren’t many people who took me under their wing regarding sports. I did, however, try out for Little League. Which turned out, for me, to be equal to trying to join the Math Club just after grasping long division.
Little League tryout did not go well. I took my glove and walked a mile to the designated park, the journey taking me across busy old 30th street, which I had mastered a year before. I remember little of the tryout itself, and for that, I should not be blamed. It’s surprising that I remember it at all.
I do remember the part where the coach put us in defensive positions on the diamond, and the field, and that I was at shortstop. I should not have been put at shortstop. But, what did the coach know. I had a glove! The coach began lightly popping flies to the outfield, and, I suppose, the outfielders caught them. He then began hitting ‘grounders’ softly to the infield, where I was. At shortstop. Where most grounders go that the defense cares about.
It wasn’t a pebble that a grounder hit, as it came toward me. That part I remember. For the record, it was a rock, not large, but not just a pebble that the ball hit, taking a ‘bad hop’, as they say. And, at that point, the radio announcers say that with a bad hop, the runner got to first. Or, on television, you see an infielder swatting at it with their glove, stopping it, but not getting the throw off. I did neither. I stopped the bad hop with my forehead and was not concerned about trying to get the ball to first. Actually, what transpired would have been recorded as an ‘error’.
Coaches and bystanders rushing out toward prone me, there on the diamond. I believe I was too stunned for tears. A week later I received a postcard saying that no team had picked me for Little League. But, enough about me. This story is about my Cousin Alfred.
My Cousin Alfred is not your typical Cousin Alfred. He did not overcome a slow start in school, and the obligatory scrapes and scandals of teenhood, to go on to specialization in retail or technology or what have you, and a spunky wife, two kids, vacation photos, playground photos, ‘he wore this on a dare, or, he did this because he lost a bet’ photos, photos of him waiting in a department store looking like he had a Milk Bone balanced on his nose being told to ‘wait for it…’ photos.
No.
My Cousin Alfred is defined by what he will not do. Visiting my Cousin Alfred is mostly: Joining him in conversation on the couch, with him saying “Naw,” in a deep, charming growl.
My Cousin Alfred gets by, and for that, good for him. He has gotten by by refusing to do things, in his slot in corrugated manufacture. I’m not sure what Alfred does does there, but he does not pick up trash. There. He will not work with hot glue. He is signed off on forklift, but seldom uses it in his job. He does not work in the areas in that corrugated factory which are cold in the winter or hot in the summer. He will not use the vending machines in the break room there, since they ‘rip you off’. He packs bologna sandwiches, and apple crumble in a Tupperware container. My Cousin Alfred has worked in that particular factory for twenty years, and his position there seems to be high, and relatively well paid. There. He’s known as ‘Fred the Fluke’.
Alfred gained this sobriquet through his live-in-girlfriend and common-law wife, Peg. Then, he made the mistake of telling people at work what his new nickname was. He heard the nickname twenty times that first day, fifteen the next, and, since he didn’t react much in any way to it, just every once in awhile after that. Of course, some thought that he was ‘Fred the Flute’, and that he had played in the high school band, but that was to be expected. I still haven’t gotten around to asking Peg if she’s referring to the fish or the phenomenon.
Which leads us to Peg. During my visits to the house, she reacts like a mother cat, swerving and swishing about, then kind of batting me around a bit, like I was a wayward kitten, all the while working to the result of my being comfortable, warm, and well-fed. She wears her hair in a shag, and it has some amber highlights. Don’t ask me if she dyes. She prefers tie-dyed or printed t-shirts. Her favorite is the one that says: ‘Attention K-Mart Shoppers’. Peg is rather skinny, but that’s not something which is noticed right away, since she is also shortish. She wears faded flare-leg jeans held up with a wide belt that has eyes the size of the outtake conduit of the Hoover Dam. Well, perhaps not that big. I’m a little careful around Peg, since she seems to have the power to name me after a herring or flounder. She embraces her humble upbringing, since it lowers expectations and she is able to answer the complacency of others with witty surprises when needed.
My Cousin Alfred will wear his work shirt at home on his days off. It has a patch on the chest that says: ‘Fred’. Otherwise, he prefers thick, quilted linen short sleeved shirts of a bright checked pattern, along with Bermuda shorts. He does not drive a Chevy truck with a small, faded Confederate flag decal on the back window, but he does work with those who do. He works in a factory that sits among corn and soybean fields which began operations thirty years ago to great fanfare, ‘Local Jobs’ and such, whittling down to fifteen part time and seven full time positions, two of them providing a living wage and filled in toto by people of mystery who hide most of the time. I think you get the idea. I just wanted to get all of that out of the way, though. Alfred’s attitude toward all political discussion is: “Naw”.
However, to continue the story about my Cousin Alfred, I have to bring things back to springtime activities.
Little League is hard! We moved to another, far-away city early in the summer that I failed in the tryouts, and I went to a local city-run also-ran league- the ‘Cosmopolitan League’. They had played three games so far, and after my first practice, the coach gave us an inspirational speech, then had us form a circle, put our hands together, and boomed:
“What’s the name of the game?”
And, I shouted: “Baseball!”
As all the other players shouted: “Hustle!”
No one told me beforehand! Baseball, within its own milieu, can also refer to itself as ‘Hustle’. It’s an inside thing. And let’s face it, my baseball phase was just a detour on the way to theatre nerddom for me.
But, that’s okay. Cosmopolitan League included volunteers at home and at first and third base who would coach and update all offensive players from either team, telling them what they should do next, which really worked for me. Once, I got on first base through a ‘hit batter’ walk, even though I hadn’t been hit. I jumped over a wild pitch, and said what I commonly said during near misses at the time, which was ‘ouch’. It worked for me. The umpire shouted: ‘Take Your Base!’, like they do, and I trotted to first, and to the volunteer who would tell me what to do next. And, I needed that. Our team made it a bit into the playoffs, with me at left field, which is where balls go a lot of the time that they leave the infield. I would get in front of a bounding ball, or actually catch it on the fly, getting someone out, then look quickly to see where the volunteer coaches were pointing. I had to throw it there. My coach, before games, in that friendly talk-time with other coaches, would have me run out to left field and send flys as high as they would go!
Then, after that session, I would bring the ball back to him as he told his fellow coach that I didn’t catch them all, but that I was willing to get under the most towering fly.
Ignorance is bliss. They weren’t grounders, and I hadn’t been hurt yet. I had found my niche, such as it was. But, I found other uses for baseballs. I just started juggling the old ones, and began my performing juggling career proper with a five minute piece titled: ‘Bush League Baseball’, which included putting three baseballs through their paces, while I babbled announcer-patter, along with an interlude with three small souvenir bats while wearing a catcher’s mask.
Both a costume and a safety feature.
Now. On the teevee news, they said recently that major league coaches who had been stealing signs in an improper manner were fired ‘so close to spring training’.
I don’t mind the phrase ‘Think Spring’ at this time of year. When the groundhog knows ‘Spring is just around the corner’, I think ‘Isn’t that nice’. But, to imply that we are anything close to spring at this time of year is cruel. I just imagine something incongruous, like a tulip shattering after being dipped in liquid nitrogen, or college students in shorts in December, congregating on the corner near a bar, pretending that their legs haven’t turned purple. This is the time of year where many people have brought their spring clothes out too early.
Some grill in mid-winter. My cousin Alfred does. Soon, there will be that odd day when the breeze is warmish, and one can smell lighter fluid in abundance, then sizzling meat on the grill. Along with all that will come the faint sound of baseball announcers, from radios in garages and sound-systems in cars in driveways. Concerning garnish, Fred has unusual taste. His favorite topping is kim-chee.
Fred’s Kim-Chee Hot Dogs
Heat one (1) hot dog.
Place it in the bottom of a bun.
Place one ounce of kim-chee on top of that.
Enjoy.
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