03.13.07
The Windbreak
The sky was dirty and blue, littered with high clouds and a single contrail. I wandered throgh the formless maze of sage, my eyes turned down to the cracked clay. A warm, dry breeze wheezed through me. At length, I turned my eyes up to level, and scanned the horizon. In the distance, a dark hedgerow arose under the horizon. Upon noticing it, I began to wander toward it, occasionally lifting my line of sight to adjust my heading. Briefly, the distant silhouette of what seemed to be a girl appeared in my blindspot. With a blink, she was gone. I looked aound me for any other such silhouettes, turned back toward the hedgerow and continued onward.
As I approached the hedge, it transformed into a windbreak. I noticed that it was composed of trees, and I could just make out the light reflecting off structures under the trees. I sensed something and looked to my right. It was the junior mission hand, Paul. Our paths had merged, and we walked together toward the windbreak.
As Paul and I met the windbreak, we turned right on the first drive we encountered. We followed the drive until we met the scent of the Padre’s tobacco, which led us to the steps of a small, salmon-colored mobile home. We ascended the steps, and pulled the sliding glass door open.
There sat the Padre in an easy chair, puffing on his pipe, and listening to Vin Scully call the play-by-play on the radio. He grumbled. The Giants were a different team entirely. Last time we’d shipped out of California, they had Mays and McCovey was the MVP. When we landed in 1972, McCovey was banged up, barely hitting .200, and Mays was playing back in New York. Their batting leader was now Chris Speier, the shortstop, whose .269 batting average was just short of a career high, helping to earn him the one MVP point that he collected over his career (about 300 points are typically needed to win the annual award).
“I never taught him anything. He taught me. Willie is the greatest player I ever saw. No doubt in my mind.” — Leo Durocher
The Padre would tell us stories about the superhuman Mays, hearkening back over two decades. The “Say Hey kid” was a man who could do just about everything on the field, and do it as well as anybody. He defined the American game as far as the Padre was concerned, and now he was gone, and the Giants were a chambles. Maybe baseball was too.
The Padre switched off the radio. “Henry. Paul. Dinner is waiting. Come. Let’s go.” He switched off the radio, stood up, and turned to the door. He took my arm, and I led him down to the drive. As I guided him past obstacles, he led us to where dinner was waiting.
We turned into the lot of another small mobile home. We stepped up to the door, and walked in. An elderly woman sat in an easy chair, watching TV. The Padre turned and felt his way along the narrow passage. Paul and I followed.
A room waited at the back of the passage. There lay an old man in the bed, and the pilot standing by his side. The pilot told the old man the Padre had arrived, and the Padre addressed the old man. “Padre”, he called the old man. The old man gazed blindly at the ceiling. He didn’t look at any of us, or speak to any of us, but Padre and the Pilot continued to speak with him as though he had. Paul and I turned back up the passage and watched the TV from the kitchen space.
