Hit It And Quit

Kids are the most instantly nostalgic people, but I don't remember any sentiment when Little League ended and I said goodbye to my friend and teammate, Kenny Davis. We probably said something about next season, but a year is a long time for a kid. We exchanged phone numbers and addresses even though neither of us had ever made a phone call, and our neighborhoods were far apart, and unknown by one another.

Our only plan for staying in touch was over James Brown.

We talked frequently about music, although our overlap of tastes was pretty lopsided, mine to his, which made sense, as he followed black acts. Who was he going to like, Paul Anka? Not even white people liked Paul Anka. Of white acts, I primarily liked the Beatles and Rolling Stones, but of course they were largely based on black music, so despite his pleasantries about my enthusiasms, Kenny stuck with the source, his people. We both liked the Supremes (Kenny pronounced their name accenting the first syllable), Marvin Gaye, the Temptations, the Four Tops, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, Little Stevie Wonder (as he was known then), and James Brown.

Kenny had told me that his father knew James Brown, or knew a guy who knew him - worked for him, or something. James Brown stayed near Kenny's house, over the border to Queens.

This was exciting to me, as I was planning a newspaper for my fourth-grade class in the fall, and I asked Kenny if I could get an interview with James Brown. He said he would ask his father.

He didn't fail. Our last day of Little League, he had the phone number of the friend. He wished me luck and told me to call him and tell him what happened.

I don't remember the gentleman's name. I remember he was friendly and polite, if a little surprised about an interview request from a 9-year old journalist. He told me it was certainly possible and he was sure Mr. Brown would love to do it, if his schedule allowed.

It might come as no surprise that Mr. Brown's schedule did not allow; not even for a return call. But I didn't mind. I thought I would catch up with him someday, maybe once a little more seasoned.

That was the first time I ever dialed a phone. I had to climb a high chair to do it. And then again, for my second-ever call, to Kenny, a few weeks later.

He was excited to hear from me, even though it turned out to be about a failure, or at least a setback. But, so what, we tried. He was still excited and expressive by call's end about that simple fact.

I had one funny thing to tell him. The man on the phone messed with me a little ("You're a reporter and a publisher," he asked; yes, I said, not minding the rib). "Tell me," he said, "when you come to interview Mr. Brown, do you have a tape recorder?" Tape recorder. I couldn't afford a battery.

I figured I would test him back. "No, I don't," I said. "Doesn't he?"

This brought a large laugh from the guy, and now from Kenny and me.

It was our last, though we didn't know that then. We expected maybe someday we would go together to James Brown's house and possibly get on the good foot. Instead, we hit it and quit. But we hit it.

Bubbles

Heeding my mother's teaching, and friend Kenny's sense of sense, I let politics fade, a mere bag of shells, and focused on Little League fun.

One baseball skill I never attained was blowing the chewing gum bubble, despite pounds of trial Bazooka. Kenny was adept and tried to teach me but to no avail.

One distinct time I wished I had the ability - but Kenny filled in for me - was after a particular catch.

Late in a close game, our opponents had two on and two out. We were in a slight jam.

The batter popped one foul of third, way over my head, long and high. I turned and chased it.

I knew it was hit so far I could only reach it by running full-speed, without looking back. I'd have to guess at, not check on, its path. I'd also have to guess at its point of descent.

I ran to the proper co-ordinates, I hoped, and stuck out my glove.

I saw the ball pass in front of me, and into my glove's webbing: a snow cone catch.

I turned and held it up, third out, to far-off moans and cheers.

I met Kenny, who'd been twenty feet behind me, and flipped the ball to him. We trotted in together. He blew a bubble and that was our only expression, non-verbal, verbal, or otherwise, all the way in.

Of course, I had to smile as my teammates met and pounded me and hollered, Whoa, ho shit, this and that. But I sat down in the dugout next to Kenny having said nothing.

Him neither, at least not to me, til he turned to me and said, "Had it all the way?"

"Sure," I said.

"Was your eyes open?"

"Didn't need to be," I said.

"Boy don't need no eyes," he said, leaning back on the bench. He snapped a bubble and looked up in the air. "But can't chew gum."

"You do what you do, and I do what I do," I said, and we looked at each other and tried not to laugh too soon. This was Nice going, this was Thank you, this was teammates, this was fun.