Ghostie on First

The kids are in the backyard trying to pull off a game meant for eighteen players with only two. From where Mason Wilshire stands at his kitchen window, he can see his son, Aaron, and the neighbor boy skidding across the lawn, switching positions from pitcher to batter and back again. They wear slick brown tracks between the bases where the ground is still soggy from last night’s rain. Aaron, the younger one, is standing where an imaginary pitcher’s mound would be, doubled over, spitting onto the grass. He glances from the batter to an invisible baserunner standing on a bright blue frisbee meant to represent first base. His eyes swivel back and forth.

“Come on!” the batter says. “There’s nobody there. Let’s go! He’s not even real!” He slams his bat on the ground, smashing a large, moon-shaped divot into the mud.

The batter, Henry Bowen, is two years older and four inches taller than Aaron. He’s round and thick with big red cheeks and a vulgar habit of blowing snot-rockets onto the ground after every at-bat. A couple of people, including his dad, call him Hank for short. The coincidence, one boy named Hank and the other Aaron, is not lost on Mason or the other parents; though the history behind both monikers, like the families themselves, could not be more different. Henry was named after his great grandfather, a man of mythic proportions who reportedly zapped dozens of German soldiers in World War II, killed a seven-foot black bear in Wausaukee, and later lost a hand at a sawmill over in Mondovi. The severed appendage is rumored to be somewhere in the grandmother’s attic, floating inside a murky jar of formaldehyde. The head of the black bear, with its mangy fur and splintered teeth, still hangs in Henry’s living room above the fireplace. The rustic tale is not an exceptional one for the residents of Columbus, Wisconsin, the place where the Wilshires and the Bowens, and most others in town, have lived their entire lives.

Conversely, Aaron’s name came straight from Hammering Hank himself. Growing up seventy-five miles west of Milwaukee County Stadium, Mason’s dad took him to at least one ballgame every year. Though he was born five years after Hank Aaron’s final season in 1976, it didn’t stop his father from recounting long stories of his legend during the ninety-minute drive down I-94. Hank Aaron was about the only subject Mason ever remembered his dad being passionate about, and because of that singular devotion, he took on a Godlike presence in their house. When his dad died, the only thing he left Mason was a signed baseball card from 1974. Mason’s wife, Kimberly, was supportive of the name and its history, more for the role that Aaron had played in the struggle for civil rights than for his homerun blasts, but she was also grateful for the joy it brought her husband, a man who never asked for too much.

***

“I’m looking him back,” Aaron says. “You gotta give him a look. He’s gotta know I’m not playing.”

“He who?” Henry laughs. “Nobody’s there, ya big retard!”

Christ, Mason thinks, the kid could be a jackass. Though it angers him to hear such offensive language, he trusts Aaron won’t let Henry drag him down. His son’s no bully. Still, their clumsy mocking has a certain music to it. As far as Mason is concerned, there isn’t much better than the chatter of young boys outside on a summer morning. Standing there with his coffee, he’s nostalgic for his own childhood, one which looked and sounded quite similar. He bet his own father had experienced similar thoughts. His father may well have stood at the same window. He’d have been posted right here with his coffee and a Camel filter. Not so much had changed in the last thirty years, even if it did sometimes feel that way. Some things were timeless, like baseball and youth, and it was those enduring reminders that Mason found himself clinging to more often lately when everybody seemed so bent on obscuring such simple truths.

***

Kimberly was from Milwaukee. Mason met her there in 2004 while both were attending Marquette University. Even though it wasn’t that far away, for most people in Columbus, Milwaukee was foreign territory. With its downtown boutiques and cosmopolitan restaurants, it may as well have been Paris or New York City. For most folks in Central Wisconsin, the urbanites of Cream City, with their flamboyant dress and fancy beers were a bunch of pansies. Kimberly thought all of that was horse shit. She’d spent time abroad in places like Rome and London. But she was also not the type of woman to flaunt her worldliness. It was important for her to fit in. She knew very well that she had been afforded certain luxuries in life that others hadn’t. She’d taken enough courses in subjects like poverty and isolation, and considered it worthwhile to adopt a modest lifestyle, which was one of the things that Mason loved about her. At Marquette, she majored in sociology and minored in something called “Gender and Sexuality Studies.” Mason, an aspiring electrical engineer, had never even heard of such a pursuit. His whole life he’d been good with things like power tools and automotive repair.

***

Aaron puts the ball in his glove and removes it from his hand. He wedges it under his elbow and waits. “You know,” he says, “You shouldn’t criticize a person until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes.”

“Huh?” Henry says. “Why?”

“Well, that way,” Aaron says, “when you criticize them, you’re too far away for them to hear, plus you’ll have their shoes.” Aaron inspects Henry’s reaction for any sign of amusement. When nothing comes, Aaron hangs his head and sighs. “Never mind.”

“Your point?” Henry says. He plunks the bat down hard on the grass, puts his hands on his waist. “We playing baseball or telling jokes?”

“It’s a joke. You don’t get it.”

“It isn’t funny.”

“Nah, you don’t know riddles. It’s okay.”

Henry straightens up, breaking his stance. “Don’t pull that crap. You’re not better than me.”

“Okay, calm down. I have another one. You’ll like this one. It’s funny,” Aaron says. “Trust me.” He swipes his hand across his forehead, sweeping the long bangs from his eyes.

“It better be,” Henry says. His crewcut is straight from a military handbook, perhaps another ode to his gutsy great grandfather.

***

One of the reasons Kimberly agreed to settle down in Columbus was Mason’s willingness to appreciate her sensitive, bleeding heart. After growing up in a household with a hardened father who viewed her boundless charity as some kind of deficiency, it was a relief to have a man in her life who looked upon her tenderness with admiration. He welcomed her thoughtfulness; considered himself lucky to have enticed such a sophisticated woman through such meager means.

Despite their contrasting backgrounds, they had a mutual respect for each other’s interests. On weekends, Mason spent the bulk of his time under the hood of his Chevy or tinkering with a faulty thermostat, while Kimberly sat in the sunroom and read books like Invisible Child or The Broken Ladder about all the injustices plaguing society. As it turned out, Kimberly had a real fascination for things like shoptalk and home repair, which helped her blend nicely into Columbus’s rural fabric. Mason’s newfound appreciation for things like feminism and socialism made him something of a Martian in his own hometown. He’d accepted his awakening as a gift from his scholarly wife, and hoped he’d find his own boorish way to repay her in time.

***

“All right,” Aaron continues. “Here it comes. You sure you’re ready?”

“Knock it off,” Henry says.

“Okay, here we go. What is a car’s favorite type of story?” Aaron asks, already laughing.

Henry hangs his head. He blows a burst of air at the ground. Aaron answers before he can respond.

“An autobiography!” Aaron says. “Get it?”

“Man,” Henry says, still looking at his feet. He kicks the grass with his shoe, tearing it from the roots. “You know I don’t like to read.”

“Don’t like it, or can’t do it?” Aaron asks.

Henry looks up. There’s a weariness in his eyes, a genuine aching. He clucks his tongue, shakes his head.

***

It was a book that nearly drove them out of Columbus. Last summer, Aaron’s school board voted to ban one of Kimberly’s favorite childhood books, A Wrinkle in Time. Members of the board referenced passages about anti-Christian doctrine, and attacked chapters where one of the characters sought salvation in the search for science and wisdom rather than religious redemption. This led some Columbus citizens to label the character a witch, and ultimately, it became the same insult flung at Kimberly after her plea to overturn the ruling. There followed several attempts by some of the most radical residents to badger them out of town. They popped one of Kim’s tires and tossed litter on their lawn. At first, Mason took a passive approach. He considered moving someplace where people weren’t so mindless and hostile. But in the end, he couldn’t accept the prospect of losing his childhood home. Something about having to consider moving away from the place that had been his refuge triggered a belligerent side that he hadn’t accessed in years. When it turned out it might be someone they knew, he almost lost control. There was evidence that one of the garbage hurlers was Caroline Bowen, Henry’s mom. The suspicion started because Caroline was the only person they knew who had attended the board meeting where Kimberly objected to the banning. Also, some of the refuse included conspicuous items. There were Banquet frozen dinners and bags of Funyuns, items the Bowen family were known to consume. Silently, Mason began contemplating a showdown with Frank. He was twenty pounds heavier with Mastiff strength, but there was a fire burning in his gut that made him feel invincible. He wanted to “fuck him up.” Someone else’s voice was inside his head. It kept him awake at night. Fuck him up…

About the time Mason decided to confront the Bowens, Frank moved first. He dropped by and invited them to a barbecue. Mason remembered detecting a sideways apology in the proposal. There was back slapping and words like “pal” mixed in. There was also an aside about his regret at having to navigate an unruly woman in “the throes of menopause.” He made a little show of saying it, jabbing Mason’s shoulder, trying to transmit a veiled concession across the void. As crude as the gesture was, Mason accepted it. It wouldn’t help to press the issue. Mason wasn’t his pal, but the Wilshires were outnumbered 1,000 to one, and it was wise to bury the hatchet. It was a good thing too, because another reason Kimberly agreed to move to Columbus was so Aaron could have space to run and play games like baseball in a backyard.

***

Aaron, heeding Henry’s sorrow, softens. He moves closer to Henry, trying to lay a hand on his shoulder. He backs off when Henry bristles. “Okay, I’ll cool it,” Aaron says.

Henry hoists his bat and takes another colossal swat at the soil. “Come oooooon,” he whines.

“Wait,” Aaron says. “I need to redeem myself. One more.”

Mason stiffens with concern. Henry’s worked up quite a lather. It would be smart for Aaron to relent. One more joke might push Henry over the edge. But it’s important to Mason that he doesn’t intervene. He wants to sharpen Aaron’s instincts. He should be able to infer his approach without Mason spelling it out. If he steps in now, Aaron won’t learn to navigate discomfort alone.

Henry doesn’t respond with words. Instead, he extends one foot toward the plate, digs his toes into the mush, and spits.

“So,” Aaron begins. “This one’s a thinker.”

“Goooood,” Henry groans. He scoops his hand under his shorts and adjusts the position of his crotch, the way some boys do to act manly. He pivots his other foot into position and grinds it there.

“My girlfriend and I,” Aaron says, “laugh all the time about how competitive we are. But I laugh much harder.”

Mason can’t help but chuckle. Total cheese but decent timing. He’s never heard Aaron tell jokes like this before. Kimberly must have brought home a book from the library. Henry drops his bat and throws back his head. Mason braces for impact.

“You don’t have a girlfriend,” Henry says. He points his bat at Arron, thrusting it toward him like a spear. “Cuz you’re a faggot.”

The word hangs in the air. Mason feels the same rage he felt when the Bowens threatened to run them off. He wants to sprint outside, grab the little prick by his collar and shake him. He wants to scare him.

Aaron is still for a moment. He curls his lip under his teeth and bites down. He shakes and then nods his head.

Henry brings the bat to his chest. He grips it wide at both ends and lunges from side to side. “Now, let’s go,” he says. “Enough.”

Aaron stops nodding. There is a sort of meditation to his movements. He takes the ball in his right hand and slaps it into his glove, gazing down into it.

Mason finishes his coffee. The anger is still there, but it’s cooling. He hopes that Aaron can shake it off and pull himself together. One of the things Mason thinks is especially crucial to teach Aaron is resiliency. In life, just like in baseball, shit happens.

By the time he finishes rinsing his mug and returning to the window, Aaron has taken the mound again. The ghostie routine is back. Mason feels a gush of pride at how fast Aaron recovers. Henry is furious. He tromps around, snorting like an irate bull.

“What?” Aaron says. “I gotta keep him honest.”

“He’s not real,” Henry says. “He’s a ghost. Screw off!”

Mason smiles, noticing how similar Aaron’s motions mirror his favorite major league pitcher’s, Corbin Burnes. He must have practiced for weeks. He has the head nod down and the corkscrew hips. He curves the brim of his cap, tugs it down low to hide his eyes from the baserunner.

“Baseball’s a game of patience,” Aaron says.

“Ugh,” Henry groans. “The ghostie is going to die of boredom if you don’t pitch.”

“He’s not stealing on me. Not today, muchacho,” Aaron snickers. He’s a good three years from a voice change, and his laugh is high and squeaky. Henry grumbles something under his breath. Somehow Henry had defied the laws of biology, passing through the gates of puberty around age nine. The other day Mason swore he was growing a mustache.

***

Mason taught Aaron the concept of “ghosties” in kindergarten. So many things Mason taught him were based on the similarities between real life and the lessons offered by baseball. A ghostie is a pretend baserunner left stranded by a real batter. In this case, Henry stroked a ball past Aaron up the middle, but Aaron’s speed allowed him to snatch the ball and hold Henry to a single. This meant Henry was left standing on first base with no outs. Because Henry and Aaron were playing an unorthodox game of 1-on-1, Henry needed to come back and bat again. A ghost runner took Henry’s place on first base. Now, if Henry hits another single, the ghostie will advance one base. If he hits a double, the ghostie moves to third, and if he slugs one of his towering homeruns, the ghostie scores.

***

Mason hopes he’s taught Aaron to worry about the right things in life. Henry’s dad, Frank, worries about nuclear war and government takeover. Last summer he built a storage bunker in their cellar. He filled it with endless bottles of water, cans of beans, beef jerky, and a giant generator. He also stockpiled more than food and water. Locked away in a crawl space that Frank said he only showed Mason and a few other hunting buddies, were several firearms. Mason knew very little about gun models, so he couldn’t say what all of them were, but he did see at least three rifle-style weapons, and maybe four handguns. Frank referred to one of them as a “Beretta.” Then there was the one he called “baby.” He kept it in a velvet sack and handled it the way its name insisted. He told Mason to come closer and then, kneeling on the concrete floor, slid it from the pouch one slow inch at a time. It was black and sleek with a small handle at one end, a phallic looking chamber in the middle, and a long-finned barrel at the other. It seemed odd how spindly it was, considering the destruction he knew it could cause. He understood enough to know it was some kind of machine gun, or maybe they called it an automatic gun now. Whatever the terminology, the way Frank held it aloft, displaying it above his bowed head… Mason couldn’t fathom any situation dire enough to necessitate a weapon of that magnitude. He wasn’t sure if that was a failure or a triumph of his mind, but there was a growing part of him that was desperate to know.

***

Aaron uncoils his stance. He spreads his feet so his entire body snaps erect. He narrows his eyes, takes a deep breath, and spins the ball in his palm. He looks straight at Henry, who has also tightened his posture. His elbows flex and his biceps pulse. He has the muscular arms of his father, Frank, the fire fighter. Kimberly once commented that if she was ever trapped inside a burning building, she’d want Frank to be the one to save her. With his MAGA yard signs and his monster-sized pickup, Frank wasn’t the type of guy she’d invite over for dinner or ask to babysit, but he had the kind of self-possessed masculinity you’d want around during an emergency. Even though it hurt Mason’s ego to hear such claims, he couldn’t disagree.

“Here it comes,” Aaron says.

“Finally,” Henry says. He moves his jowls around like there’s a wad of chewing tobacco inside. It dawns on Mason that Henry bears a resemblance to another of his boyhood heroes, John Kruk. He realizes he’s been trying to place the likeness for months.

How a rumpled old galoot like Kruky could end up resembling a twelve-year-old like Henry, Mason wasn’t sure, but he knew it didn’t bode well for his future. The truth was Henry wasn’t the kind of kid Mason wanted to be Aaron’s friend, but he wasn’t about to do anything that would sabotage their bond. Kimberly agreed. They both believed in an organic type of parenting where you let your child steer their own course. Mason knew that oftentimes the more parents fight against certain risks, the more children pursue them. There was a sort of reverse magnetism, and the last thing Mason wanted to do was become one of those “helicopter parents” he’d heard so much about. The sins of the father were not always the sins of the son. It was important to give everyone a fair chance. A twelve-year-old couldn’t possibly do something unforgivable with such a short life.

***

Kimberly believes in things like naturalism and eco-spirituality. A few weeks ago, to bring awareness to the gravity of summer solstice, she dressed as Sunna, Goddess of the sun. She wore a golden dress, gold earrings and a golden crown with fake pearl buttons fastened along the band. For years she’d been talking about the power of the date, how the days surrounding the event affected people’s moods and sleeping patterns. To her the sacred balance of the earth and its constant evolution was the source of so much energy and consciousness, and yet so few people respected its monumental influence. It must be so strange, Mason thought, to walk around believing so intensely in something that so many others don’t even know exist.

***

Aaron rocks into form. Slowly, he brings his feet together. Then, starting with his left heel, he steps back and to the side, engaging his pitching motion. He swings his arms back high and angular over his head. His limbs and torso, in comparison to Henry’s, are anemic and brittle. He’s the Dennis “Oil Can” Boyd opposite Henry’s John Kruk…

That’s when Mason sees it. The hole. He hadn’t noticed just how furiously Henry had been slashing his bat against the ground. He’d done it long enough and fierce enough to open a sizable crater in the spongy dirt beside him. It was in the shape of a large cereal bowl, broad enough for the tip of a shoe to get caught inside and twist.

That there… That was something to be concerned about. Mason knew that for sure. This was a problem. He’d played sports all his life, long enough to see all kinds of gruesome injuries. He once saw Teddy Piles run headfirst into a goalpost and knock himself unconscious. John Maxwell, the center on the basketball team, dislocated his knee in the middle of a game. It looked so grotesque, like a tennis ball smushed inside a gym sock. Mason almost threw up. The ditch beside Henry was the type of hazard Mason and his friends used to joke about being a “Piston Popper.” But it wasn’t so funny anymore. Things weren’t supposed to be as funny when you became an adult with kids and…

Aaron releases a bullet toward home. It’s absurd, but in the amount of time it takes the pitch to reach Henry, Mason’s mind cycles through a hundred thoughts. Henry plants his back foot, and Mason thinks about all the parents who would have gone racing out to stop the accident before it happened; the ones who’d have hollered from the window, “Watch out!”

Henry raises his front foot, striding toward the onrushing ball, and Mason thinks about how he has always wanted to be the type of dad who let his son make his own mistakes, the kind who encouraged healthy amounts of failure so that he would learn what to do better the next time he encountered some danger, real or imagined. As the bat strikes the ball with a crack, Mason wonders if he would have handled the situation differently had Aaron been the one up to bat, if his son was the one putting himself in harm’s way for nothing more than bragging rights and a phantom figure on first base. The answer would say something about not just his parenting but his humanity. And as the ball sails far above Aaron’s head, and Henry plunges his foot into the hole and a snapping sound echoes out across the yard, Mason thinks about how none of it should make any difference at all. Yet somehow it did. How could it not? All the conflicts about governments and God and guns and genetics… It couldn’t help but cause catastrophe. Maybe that was the real tragedy of human nature. It shouldn’t be, but it was. And as Mason shuffles out the kitchen door and makes his way toward Henry, who is now lying in the wet slush between home and first, writhing in pain, he thinks about all the forces in the world, pure and evil, about how so many of them are hidden in plain sight. It’s all so mysterious and obvious at the same time because in the end, if you really think about it, everyone’s bones, and even their hearts, break in the same way.