Allen
It wasn’t easy, being me. No, I wasn’t green or disfigured, or even slow on the uptake. I was, however, somewhat unlucky. A fate which has been my dogged and steadfast companion to this day. It was this tendency that somehow prevented me from perpetrating the more calamitous blunders in my life, as I had grown so habituated to tragedy that I could almost see it coming.
I won’t torment you with the details of my inauspicious initiation to the bleak world that was my wretched providence. Suffice it to say that the foundation that was being laid would have been enough to make angels weep. Being as I saw this as nothing out of the ordinary, I took it all in stride, and accepted my lot as the norm.
My childhood was littered with unfortunate accidents, mishaps and too many broken bones to mention. I went through a cornucopia of medical dilemmas, which left my doctor in a state of puzzlement. I even contracted a disease which was thought impossible for a person of my race to acquire.
There was only one person, who incidentally was a member of my immediate family that seemed afflicted with this tendency towards misfortune. This person was my younger brother, Allen. It is his story that I’m about to relate. I cannot delve into his feelings about his grasp of the events that occurred in his life. If I thought myself unlucky, then there’s no word strong enough to describe his plight.
Allen started out his life with an energy that was boundless and full of an unquenchable thirst for more. He never crawled as a baby; he went from sitting up to running. And running, and running. He was constantly bumping into things and bruising his forehead, shins, elbows and knees. He was a walking bruise, but nevertheless seemed intent on keeping up his hectic pace.
Despite his predisposition towards injury, there seemed to be nothing that intimidated him or any goal that was deemed unachievable. He faced life with an attitude that was immeasurable in energy and with an ill concealed glee.
As an adult Allen would be tall, but as a child he was always the runt of his group of buddies. Being fair skinned he was prone to freckles, which labeled him “chocolate chips” or “chips” as the affectionate moniker eventually developed into. Though plagued by misfortune, he always had time for those who seemed in need of a helping hand.
Our parents were consistently confronted with any number of wandering waifs and strays that he amassed during the course of his forays. His petition for their nourishment was always met with gratification, for my parents were passionate in their conviction that no child should suffer hunger, albeit a temporary state of affairs. It seemed our pantry was forever bulging at the seams in the event that an itinerant sufferer of hunger should have the need to be fed. He was hero to the unfed masses.
Strangely, though possessing two left feet, his greatest passion turned out to be baseball. I think this obsession was partly my father’s doing, as the sport was initially his great love. It seemed natural enough that Allen would follow in his footsteps. Baseball was a recreational hobby for my father, but for Allen it would become his very life’s meaning. It was on the diamond that my brother’s goofy klutziness disappeared and was replaced by an agile athleticism that we could scarce believe. It seemed as though he were born with the ability to play ball. And his devotion to the game was legendary to all that knew him as a ballplayer.
His first time at bat is a story in and of itself, in its hilarity. I should mention that he started little league a couple years early, and his first year was spent on the bench and being a bat boy (to his absolute frustration). When the coach told him that he would be allowed to play in the next game, his excitement could barely be contained for all of the week before game day.
The game started out typically with many an error and interludes to tie laces and wipe runny noses. The opposing team was taking a beating, as their pitcher couldn’t seem to find his zone, and was replaced by another. This fellow seemed to all in attendance to be a little large for little league, but no one ventured a complaint. He was even worse than the previous kid, as he repeatedly beamed the batters.
We’d gotten to the fifth inning or so, when Allen was at last called up to bat. This young man, who had hardly slept a wink the week before the game. Who could only talk about finally being allowed to play. Who had promised that he would “send the ball to the moon” at his first at bat. This same young man suddenly was glued to the bench in the dug-out. My little brother suddenly developed a bad case of the “don’t wanna play no mores”. The tears flowed down his freckled countenance as he expounded on the reasons he shouldn’t be forced to play. He reminded the coach of his lack of stature. He questioned the coach’s sound judgment in calling him up to play in spite of his youth and lack of experience.
His apprehension was unmistakable; he was not getting up in front of that pitcher. It was only after my father’s intervention that he finally relented and proceeded with obvious reluctance to the batter’s box. Fortunately, he avoided being beamed and was able to gain first base from a base hit, and thus was launched his career as a baseball player. From that moment on, it became clear that Allen’s only purpose was the game. All other events in life were considered unwelcome superfluous distractions, and took a backseat to his obsession with baseball.
To be continued…
