(Early revelers occupy the Amen Corner at Willow. All Photos Socotra).
There was an opportunity to meet the new in-laws Friday evening, and I wanted to do something special to mark the occasion. I contracted with Kate Jansen, baker extraordinaire, to do one of her famous cakes. That is how I came to be parked at the very busy Willow Bar at half-past five to collect it and load it into the Bluesmobile for the trip over to Rockland’s BBQ where the informal gathering would be held.
There were no familiar faces in the crowd beyond Big Jim, and New Chris, and Tinkerbelle and Jasper. Tracy O’Grady came out to work the crowd, and assess the prospects for business. I was sipping a Happy Hour White and killing time until the moment came to have the cake brought out from the walk-in reefer behind the bar.
The iPad was propped in front of me with a C.J. Box thriller on the display. I have been reading the Joe Pickett stories compulsively, maybe because the mayhem in the vastness of Wyoming seems so far away from the normal mendacity of the capital.
Although I tried to pay attention to the story line, there appeared to be a family gathering in progress, something to which I was attuned, since I was about to depart for one of my own. The mention of the Detroit Tigers caused me to prick up my ears and close the iPad just as the body of a Park Ranger at Yellowstone was discovered after hours in one of the scalding hot springs. The aroma described by Mr. Box mingled with the smell of the flat bread and fish and chips in front of the man next to me at the bar.
“You are not going to believe the Tiger we met on the way here. It was in Pennsylvania.”
I looked over at the man at the end of the bar who was holding up a baseball with a scrawled signature on it. Two women next to him puzzled over the identity for a moment and one brightened suddenly.
“It says 1968,” she said. “I bet it was Denny McClain.”
Huh, I thought. Denny the wonder pitcher, shopworn hero of my youth. Last pitcher to win more than thirty games in a single season. Cy Young Winner and MVP. Then bum and jailbird. The perfect hero for the Motor City.
“Hello, Vic” said a voice over my shoulder. It was Jon-no-H, the first friendly civilian face I had seen since arriving. We talked about whether his bow tie matched the faint blue stripe embedded in the window-pane pattern of his sport jacket. We avoided talking about the new unemployment numbers, the serial outrages of the TSA and anything vaguely reeking of politics. All the news- even the good news- was bad, and better avoided.
I glanced at my watch and realized it was getting on time to collect the cake and head across town. “Would you help me get the cake to the car?” I asked. “I have my stupid backback with me and don’t want to drop it.”
“Of course,” he responded.
I waved at Big Jim to get the check for the wine and the cake. “What did you have written on the top?” he asked. The cake appeared in a white box on the bar in front of us and I opened it up to show him.
“Time for celebratin’, I said. “It is a quote from the invite to their reception.” I opened the box and showed him. We oohed and ahhed over the rich chocolate lettering on the pristine white frosting for a moment and I was happy everything was spelled properly, even the one that was supposed to be spelled wrong, like the missing “g” from a politician’s diction. “Oh, that guy over there has a baseball signed by Denny McClain.”
Jon is from Buffalo originally, and he is a big baseball fan, even though his hometown only has the Bisons AAA franchise. “Didn’t he wind up in jail?” I nodded. The man at the end of the bar was walking our way and I turned to greet him.
“Scuze me,” I said. “Didn’t you say you ran into Denny McClain and get a signed baseball?”
“The name’s Mike,” he said. “And yes, he was there at the Harrisburg Senator’s minor league game. I guess he signs balls to get by these days. He fished in his pocket and brought it out for us to inspect.
“Wow. That is awesome,” Said Jon-without. “Lookit that. World Series, All Star Game, Cy Young and MVP. That was a hell of a year for Denny.”
“He will always be my favorite,” I said. “He did all that before they made relief pitchers a specialty profession and expected the starters to actually finish the game if they could. Sometimes on two days rest.”
Mike nodded happily. “A real experience meeting a legend,” he said. “Too bad.”
Jon-without smiled. “There is a lot of that going around these days,” he said.
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Mike. “But I got the ball. I used to have a signed picture of Mickey Lolich, too, but it was in the basement and it got flooded.”
“Imagine that,” I said. “For every door that opens….”
“A window leaks,” said Jon-without cryptically.
“Right you are, Sir,” said Mike, “And nice to meet Tigers fans.” Then he pocketed his ball, shook our hands, and moved briskly off toward the men’s room.
Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com