~
The first thing I hear when I turn on the
old motel room’s boxy television
sounds like an ocean’s roar: the huge crowd at
a World Series game on their feet, cheering.
Bottom of the ninth. The Dodgers trail the
Athletics 4 to 3. Two outs. Dodgers
have a man on first. The excitement is
for Kirk Gibson, their star, who’s coming from
the dugout to pinch hit. The announcer
says no one thought Gibson could play because
of a severely strained hamstring in one
leg and a bad knee in the other. He
hobbles to the plate like a wounded duck.
Pitching for Oakland, Dennis Eckersley.
Tall, slender, like some snake, he undulates,
and uncoils to throw two strikes past Gibson,
whose every movement appears to hurt.
Then Gibson somehow hits a couple of
foul balls, sandwiched between Eckersley’s three
balls outside the strike zone. Count is three and
two. Next pitch. Gibson reaches over the
plate and casually swipes at the ball.
It soars over the right field fence. Gibson
limps around the bases, pumping his fist
to the deafening roar of the crowd while
announcers hail his gritty performance.
~
I hear my daughter’s quiet voice behind
me. I thought she was asleep. I turn to
see her lying on the bed: her sunken
eyes, scarlet bandanna, matching socks. Face
white with pain. Thin fingers clench. Voice soft yet
determined as she talks to my wife: “I
know this cancer might—probably will—kill
me, but hopefully not for years. I need
to make the most of the time I’ve got left.”
~
I look back at the TV as tiny
men jump up and down like sand fleas, patting
one another on the back. Talking heads
babble about courage. The crowd roars. I
am drowning in a tsunami of rage.
~ ~
