Lost & Found

As a child I had two things holding special meaning for me; my bike and my baseball mitt. My fire engine red bike was inspired by Cadillacs of the early jet age. The top tube had a long streamlined tank with a light in the front that never worked. There was a rack on the back where I would put my Warner Brothers cartoon lunchbox as I rode to school. About once a month it would fly off, breaking the thermos. I never thought to check it when it happened. At school I would put it on the shelf above the coats, slowly soaking them and the floor beneath through the morning hours, until lunch, whereupon the annoyed janitor would be summoned. My mother would dutifully buy yet another glass thermos insert. It never occurred to me to somehow better secure it for the ride to school. It seemed unnecessary, as I possessed the unshakable belief it would never happen again. To this day I maintain unbridled, and at times, completely unwarranted optimism. My bike arrived from Sears one Christmas, after interminable longing, having discovered it in their magic catalog. It weighed as much as a Harley. I don't remember it's name which was scrawled in cursive along the tank. It was something like Spitfire, or Stratoflyer. My brother would know, he is the historian of our childhood. 

Inspired by my father who had been a talented curveball pitcher, I watched the Yankees every Saturday in black and white, certain that one day I would pitch for them. Having no major league sports teams, they were always televised in Seattle. As I grew older I realized two things: their color was navy blue, not black, and I would not be joining them. I had abandoned the idea of being a cowboy, when I decided I would pitch for the Yankees. Some time after Little League, I traded in the dream of becoming Whitey Ford for becoming Eric Clapton. So it goes. 

I had a left handed Ryne Duren glove hanging from my handlebars during baseball season. Strange, since he was a righty. He kicked around the American League, eventually becoming a Yankee reliever. He was known for having a blazing fastball and wearing coke bottle thick glasses. He would come out of the bullpen, immediately throwing hard and wild. A warm up toss often went 10 feet over the catcher. Once he threw a pitch, hitting Ralph Kiner. Hitting batters was part of the game in those days, however Ralph was in the on-deck circle at the time. Understandably, batters had a difficult time getting comfortable at the plate when he was on the mound. Casey Stengel, the irrepressible Yankee manager summed it up (as only he could), "I would not admire hitting against Ryne Duren, because if he ever hit you in the head you might be in the past tense." Ryne eventually drank his way out of baseball. Being on a team with Billy Martin, Micky Mantle and Whitey Ford, must have made this a challenge.

I rode my bike miles from our house, through an era when that was OK. It transported me across my Huck Finn childhood. But childhood, like the hour hand on a clock, though not appearing to move, was moving constantly, relentlessly. Spin & Marty, walking to the lake to fish, building forts in the woods, catching frogs with David McCarthy, sleeping with friends in the yard; it all slowly gave way to the Beatles, girls, Vietnam, cannabis and college. I traded in that bike and baseball glove for a Chevelle and a Gibson Les Paul. I could never go back, even if I had wanted to and it was somehow possible. That world disappeared.

Knowing me better than I know myself, a couple years ago, Kari gave me a bike. Lately, I've been thinking about getting a baseball mitt.