Here is a little story about America's game... Baseball.


Perfection

“Folks, this has been an amazing day, let me tell you. Yessiree, an amazing day. Zane Adams has to throw only six more strikes, that’s right, only six more strikes to cap off the most amazing pitching performance this radio announcer has ever been witness to. I know I keep using the word amazing, but that is what it is, simply amazing! Zane Adams is only six; count them, six strikes away from a perfect game. Not just a perfect game, mind you, but an absolute perfect game. Not only has no one gotten on base, not only has nobody walked, not only has nobody gotten a whiff of a piece of wood on the ball, but Zane hasn’t even thrown a ball. That’s right, not one errant throw. Well, I take that back, there was that one pitch that seemed a little outside, but it was close enough for the batter, Doug Warburton, to take a half-hearted swing at it for a third strike. Nine pitches an inning for the last eight and a third innings! Seventy-five straight strikes. Folks, this game is setting all sorts of records, let me tell you. Not to take anything away from the opposing pitcher, Jimbo Hammacker, but today doesn’t seem to be in the cards for him. Nosiree, Jimbo has pitched what would normally be considered an excellent game, a three hitter with only one run against him, but nobody, nobody in the world could imagine this kind of game from the likes of Zane Adams, not in a million years. In all my years, and I’ve seen more than my share, games that is, not years, I have never seen…”

It started out rather simply. My team, the Portland Penguins, the newest team in the American League, named me as the starting pitcher for the third game of the year. I‘m not what you would call the “star” of the rotation, more like one of the middlemen, the ones who face the “no-stars” on the other team. This has been my role for several years now.

“Another strike, this one a called strike on the inside corner. There’s no question about that one. It was a waist high fastball with a little “hello mama” on it! Zane appears to be still in full command out there, folks, with that spheroid hitting right where he wants it. I know I have seen pitchers throw more pitches by the third inning than Zane has thrown all day today. It’s like he has the batters mesmerized, the umpires, too.”

I felt fine before the game, you know, but nothing special. I didn’t go up to the coach and say “I can feel it in my bones that this is going to be special day.” Nope, none of that. There wasn’t some sick kid in a hospital telling me to “Strike ‘em all out”, either. There weren’t any premonitions about what was going to happen. I just wanted to pitch my best, like every other time I went to the mound.

“Strike two! Wade Emerson sat there with his bat on his shoulder. Not that I blame him, that curve came from nowhere, starting way outside and breaking right across the plate like a fly after leftovers. Only four more strikes and we can close the books on the most awesome spectacle I have ever witnessed. People, if you could only see through the radio what I am seeing now.”

I knew after the first inning that things were different. I was in a groove. I could feel it. By the third inning the guys in the dugout were becoming subdued, no horsing around, nobody leaving to get a drink of water. They avoided me, in fear that they would be the one to break the spell, jinx me. I don’t know, I don’t think anything could have stopped what happened out there.

“I’m having heart palpitations on top of my heart palpitations, here, folks! Wade Emerson gave it a mighty big swing, but it was if the ball had radar or something. He missed by a mile. Strike three, yer out! Coming up is what just might be the last man to face Mr. Adams tonight, the D.H., Gary Dillman. Everybody knows that the D.H. stands for Designated Hitter, but tonight it may as well be D.W. which stands for Designated Whiffer.”

By the time I came out for the seventh inning, even the most obnoxious fans had quieted down. Everybody realized what was going on, from Marty, my catcher, to the guy third from the top row in right field. Maybe even the Penguin mascot.

“This game is going down in history. Speaking of history, I will bet you are wondering about the history of this amazing pitcher, Zane Adams. Well, to be honest with you, there isn’t much history there. He came into the league six years ago with the Nashville Nuggets. He did not have an astounding year, only sixty-nine strikeouts and a five and eight record, just an “Average Joe” type of pitcher. Even last year was nothing spectacular. Nothing like what we are seeing here.”

Everything was working for me. My fastball was sharp, my splitter was crisp, my changeup kept them guessing, and my overhand curve froze them in their tracks. Only in my dreams could a game like this take place, only in my dreams.

“You might as well call me a pony, folks, because I’m a little hoarse from all this screaming. Zane Adams put the first one across the plate right at the knees-- a scorching fastball with lightning on it. Dillman just watched it go by, if he even saw it. The ump saw it, though. Strike one. Seventy-nine straight strikes, only two more to go, only two more. Here’s the next pitch...”

When Dillman hit that pitch in the ninth, I had two sensations. The first one was almost a sense of relief, a relief that this was all over; it wouldn’t be the “Perfect Game”. I could fade into obscurity as the pitcher that “almost” did it. Then, as the ball started going foul, I wasn’t sure if I was rooting for…foul ball and another chance for a strike; fly out and the fame was over, still a perfect game but not “The” perfect game; or maybe we all quit and go home. The other sensation was a very sharp pain radiating from my shoulder to my wrist.

“He called time out, he called time out! How can he do this to me? Oh, the humanity! Zane Adams has one strike to go, only one, and this game is over, this game is History. The coach, Murph “The Smurf” Walker, slowly proceeds to the mound. I wonder what is going through his mind. I would Pay to be a gnat on that mound right now. Gary Dillman is the only batter to get any wood at all on the ball, and that was a little pop foul for his second strike. That bloop foul was just out of the reach of the third baseman, Ricky Price. And then Zane Adams, trying to give me a heart attack here, calls for a time out to talk to his coach. All ya got to do, Zane, is to throw one more strike!”

Murph had a puzzled look on his face when I called for him. You could tell that the last thing he wanted to do was break my rhythm, to interrupt the flow of the game. What he didn’t notice was that I waved him over with my left arm.

“The conference at the mound looks serious, folks. Murph “The Smurf” doesn’t look too happy, not that he ever does. Let me recap this game for you, in case you’ve just tuned in to the most amazing pitching exposition I have ever seen. You have missed the game of the century. Forget that, the game of All Time. Zane Adams is one strike away from the most perfect game ever. Eighty pitches, every one of them a strike! One more strike, one more pitch between the knees and the letters, one more pitch over that plate right down there and it is all over but the shouting. Gary Dillman has to have nerves of steel to wait as patiently as he is right now. There goes the ump to break up the little coffee klatch.”

Murph stood there a minute, looking at me, not sure what to say. “Enjoying yourself out here, kid?”
“Murph, I can’t lift my arm. Something snapped on that last pitch”
“Well, kid, you’re already in the record book. Eighty straight strikes. You can go into the dugout with your head held high. You pitched the best game I have ever seen, ever will see. But if it were me, I’d throw it underarm, I’d throw it left handed, I’d push it over the plate with my nose, anything to get one more strike. Here comes the ump, I’ll leave it up to you.”

“Well, Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, I don’t know what they said out there on that mound, but I do know this: Walker is going back to the dugout, the ump is back behind the plate, and Zane Adams, a name that will go down in history with the likes of Ford, Dean, Ryan, Larson and Johnson, is ready to throw what will hopefully be the last strike. What a ballgame we are having here! You could cut the tension with a knife. Yessiree, I’ll never see another ballgame like this as long as I live. The crowd is standing up but not a peep can be heard. It’s as quiet as a church on Tuesday. Even the peanut man is standing up and waiting for this pitch.”

I threw that last pitch with all I had. Pain shot through my shoulder with an intense flash of heat. The ball went up in the air over twenty feet, arced towards home and bounced four feet from the front of the plate. Why Dillman swung at that pitch, I’ll probably never know. Maybe he swung automatically, hypnotized by the loft of the ball; maybe he didn’t want to go down in history as the man who ruined the “Perfect Game”; maybe he wanted to be a part of something special, someone to be talked about for years to come. I don’t know his reason, but someday I’ll ask him. Maybe…when I can pitch again.

“Here’s the pitch, it’s a high looping…a lob…I don’t know what to call it. It bounces in front of the plate for a ball…no, Dillman swung! Dillman swung at the pitch, it’s a strike, it’s a strike! Strike three! Wait, the ball hit the ground, it’s still alive. Dillman is running to first. Marty Beelman picks up the ball, steps in from of home plate, and throws him out at first. Dillman is out, strike three, the ballgame is over, the ballgame is over! The Perfect Game, the Absolute Perfect Game is over! Oh, I just wet my pants.”

The Patchwork Quilt



The woman who opened the door to go out on that frosty morning was a bitter, unpleasant person. If you were to ask a neighbor about her, the kindest words you would hear would most likely be “lonely” or “angry” with maybe a “disagreeable” put in for effect. For the most part, they would be accurate.
As she moved to step out the door she noticed something on the stoop. It looked to be a bundle of cloth, multicolored rags.
“Who would leave their garbage on my stoop?“ she muttered, “Whoever it was can just come and clean it up. Imagine the nerve, people leaving their junk all over the place.”
As her eyes focused, she saw that the bundle was not rags, not by any means. It appeared to be a quilt. When she bent over to pick it up, she found that it indeed was a quilt, and a quilt of some quality. The differing fabrics that comprised the quilt were of various textures and colors. It seemed that no two pieces were the same, yet the overall effect was pleasing to her eyes.
“For heaven’s sake,” she exclaimed as she carried it inside, her trip forgotten, “what a beautiful quilt. Who would leave such a thing at my door?”
She shrugged out of her overcoat, placed it in its usual place by the door. Her wrinkled face had a look of confusion and consternation on it. It was not that she didn’t like the quilt, but people were not in the habit of giving her anything, except a hard time. As she looked again at the quilt, she thought of who could have possible left it for her.
“Not even a card,” she said. “Well, maybe that’s for the best. I wouldn’t want to be beholden to anyone.”
In all of her years, she could only remember a few times when she was not alone. Even her mother had given her to an orphanage, left to fend for herself. For well over seventy years, her life had been one of loneliness and hollow emotions. Love had forsaken her, joy abandoned her, so anger and disagreeableness became her companions of choice.


As the woman sat in the comfort of her overstuffed chair, she clutched the quilt to her frail body. Warmth spread over her, as though the quilt was creating its own heat. That was when she “heard” the voice.
“Nice quilt, isn’t it?” she heard.
The woman looked around, startled. She knew that she had heard a voice, but there was no one there.
“Who’s there?” she asked. “What are you doing in my house? Get out. NOW!”
When there was no reply, she started to wonder if she had, in fact, heard anything. After a few nervous glances about the room, she settled back into her chair. The quilt, once again resting upon her body, spread soothing warmth over her.
As she began to nod off the voice said, “Come now, Edda, you shouldn’t raise your voice to a friend.”
Eyes wide open, she shouted, “Who are you? I know someone is there. How come I can’t see you? And… how did you know my name. Come out, I say.”
“But I am right here. I am the spirit of the quilt. Your quilt.”
“Stuff and nonsense, Mr. Voice. Quit playing games. I’m in no mood to be playing games with someone who won’t show themselves. Come out, you coward. Spirit of the quilt, indeed.”
“But Edda,” the voice started.
“There you go again, who told you my name. I told you to come out, now I’m telling you to get out. And don’t come back.”
“Edda, I know your name like I know your life. I am the spirit of the quilt, and the quilt is your life.”
Edda peered around the chair and under the table, looking for the voice and whoever was making it. She could see nothing that was any different in the room, except for the quilt. With resignation, she decided to humor the voice.
“So, you say you’re the spirit of this quilt, and the quilt is my life? How can a quilt be a life? Huh? Answer me that, Mr. Smartypants Voice.” She glanced around, hoping to see if anyone was there.
“The quilt represents your life. The pieces are actually pieces of your life. If you were to touch any particular piece, you would see the joys and love from that time in your life.”
“Ha! Caught you there. I have no love in my life, no love at all. My whole life has been nothing but bitterness and sorrow and pain.”
The voice whispered, barely loud enough to hear, “You are so wrong, so wrong. There has been love in your life, love abounding, but you were so caught up in your hurt you couldn’t feel it.”
“No one loved me,” she cried, “Not even my mother. She left me in an orphanage and went away, leaving me all alone. And I am still alone, even now. There has been no love in my life. Get that through your head, if you have one.”
“Edda, do you want to know the true story of your mother? Would you like to see what really happened?”
“I know the truth. My mother left me just like my father left us both. Left alone, all alone.”
The voice of the quilt spoke softly. “Edda, touch that blue square. The one made of gingham.”
“This one? Why, it looks familiar. Yes, it looks like fabric from a dress I once wore. It looks like… it is! It’s the dress I wore when my mother took me to the orphanage.” As she touched the square, her fingers began to warm, the heat spreading up and all over her body. She closed her eyes, and then she could see, see into the past.


It was a room, a small space with a desk and two chairs, one in front and one in back of the desk. Her mother was sitting in one of the chairs, and she could see herself, standing next to her mother. A lady sat behind the desk, and she was talking.
“As you have seen, this facility is one of the best. We see to the needs of each child individually. They are brought up to be obedient, responsible, and correct in manners.”
“I’m sure you will do your best.” said her mother, “I just wish this wasn’t necessary. If only…”
“I know, if only your husband had survived the war. Things would have been different then.”
“And now, with me in this condition, well, the doctors give me a couple of months at best. The cancer is spreading throughout my body, even as we speak. You are my only hope that Edda will grow up proper.”
The lady at the desk asked, “Are you sure there is no one else? No sister, brothers, aunts, or grandparents that she could be with?”
“No, there’s no one left in either family. Not even… no, there’s no one at all.” The mother started to softly cry, small tears coursing down her cheeks. Edda patted her on the leg, trying to comfort her.
The lady found a box of tissue, and handed the mother one. “All of your paperwork is finished, and we are prepared to take your child at this time. The proceeds from your estate will see her through until she graduates from high school. Then she will be on her own. If there is any residual, Edda will have it available to her at that time.”
“Thank you. Could I stay with her a while? I don’t have to check in to the clinic until tomorrow.”
“Stay all day, if you like. We’ll even have dinner for the both of you in the dining room.”
“Oh, and one more thing?”
“Yes?”
“Will you make sure she knows her mother loved her, to the end?”
“Of course, Mrs. Leonard. Of course.”


Edda’s eyes slowly opened. There were tears running down her face. “She loved me? She didn’t leave me because she didn’t want me?”
“You saw the truth,” said the voice. “Your mother was dying, and didn’t have long to live. I think she only lasted another week, at most. It broke her heart to leave you.”
“And my father?” “Your father died in the war, fighting for his country. He only saw you once, when he came home on furlough. He cried for joy when he held you. He loved you, too.”
In a whisper she continued, “I was loved. I never knew. I was loved.” To the quilt she said, “Why didn’t they tell me? Why didn’t the orphanage tell me about my mother?”
“They did, but you were still so young, and the adjustments were very difficult. You just didn’t understand.”
She sat there, stunned with the revelation of what had transpired so many years ago. “But, what about the rest of my life? No one else cared for me, did they?”
The quilt was silent.
“Quilt? Are you there? Say something,” cried Edda.
The quilt whispered, “Do you really want to see the loves in your life? To see the loves that you ignored and chased away?”
“Yes, tell me I was loved. Show me, please.”
“Very well,” said the quilt, “Touch the light yellow square, yes, that one right there.”
“Why, it looks like, no, it can’t be. Quilt, there must be some mistake. This looks like the dress I wore, or was going to wear, to the prom.” She reached for the square, but stopped. “This is not right, that night was terrible. It has to be a mistake. No one showed love to me that night.”
“Touch the square and see if there I am in error.”
Edda reached out with her finger and gingerly stroked the yellow square. Again, warmth spread through her body, from her finger to her heart.


Young Edda was standing at the top of the stairs near the door, her heart pounding with anticipation. Her bright yellow dress hung smartly from her lean body, the color allowing her face to glow. She kept looking out the window, waiting for Walter to show. Finally, someone had shown some interest in her. All through school, all those many years, she mostly sat alone, both in class and in the cafeteria. It was as if there was an aura about her that kept people away. Now, though, someone had broken through that atmosphere of loneliness. Walter had asked her to the prom. Mrs. Vegal, her foster mother, had helped her select the right dress for such an occasion. Now, standing by the window, she felt emotions that had been suppressed all these years. A trace of hope, of yearning, of … could it be… love? She thought about Walter, wondering what it was that drew her to him. His looks were acceptable; his eyes, if not dreamy, were at least clear and bright; and he had a strong chin, didn’t he? She knew, instinctively that, although Walter was still a boy, he would grow into a steady, strong, manly type of man.

“What is keeping him?” she muttered. She continued to peer out the window, hoping for a glimpse of him as he came out of his parent’s house. Walter lived down and across the street from the house she lived in with Mrs. Vegal, who took her in when the orphanage closed down. “He is almost a half hour late.”
Then she saw him, in his dark blue suit. He was, no, it couldn’t be. He was standing on the front porch of his parents house, holding another woman. How could he? She looked out the window, just to make sure. It was him, with his arms around another woman, ushering her into his parent’s car. This was uncalled for. How could he do such a thing. She had looked forward to this day for two months, and he was going to… at this point her eyes misted over. Her heart broke in two and her blood ran cold. Edda made a vow that no matter how much he tried, he could never, ever, make up for what he had done to her this night.

Edda slowly made her way upstairs, took off her dress, leaving it in a crumpled mess on the floor, and fell on the bed sobbing for love lost and hope gone away. Mrs. Vegal tried to comfort her, to no avail. The next day young Walter came knocking on the door, but Edda would have nothing to do with him. She shut him out of her life and would not even allow his name to be spoken in her presence. She didn’t let him speak to her, even though he tried. His letters would be tossed, unopened, his phone calls hung up on, and when he tried to approach her on the street or at school, she turned the other way and ran. She never spoke to him ever again.


Edda’s eyes flashed open with anger burning. “See, I told you there was no love there. Nothing at all. Quilt, you are a fraud.”
“Edda, what you did not see was Walter escorting his sister to the hospital, where she lost the child she was carrying. It was an emergency, and he was the only one who could respond at that time. His desire was to be with you, but he also had a responsibility to his sister and her needs. He tried to tell you so many times but you had shut him out. His love for you, and your rejection of him, broke him in his spirit, and he was never the happy fellow he was when you knew him. You broke his spirit, and his heart.”
“But he never, I didn’t hear, how could he… oh quilt, what have I done? Could I have been so callous that I never allowed him to explain himself? I took for granted that he had left me, jilted me, broke my heart, and I never allowed him to explain. It’s my fault, it’s all my fault.”
“Edda,” the quilt said, “you have been loved by many, many people, but you have rejected them all. No one could break through the wall of anger and fear you have built up around you.”
“But, what about Walter? Is it too late to see him, talk to him, make amends? Quilt? Can I do that?”
The quilt responded, “I’m sorry, Edda, but Walter passed three years ago. He went in his sleep, alone, as he spent all his years. You see, Edda, Walter never go over you. His desire was to be with you, and he never formed another attachment. He died with your name on his lips.”
“Quilt, what have I done?”
“You have lived your life as you saw fit, and ignored the love all around you.”
“You mean there’s more?” she asked?
“Yes, much more. Are you ready to see the love that was with you your entire life?”
“Yes, quilt, yes, I am ready. Show me, please?”


That night was spent with Edda touching pieces of the quilt, living and reliving parts of her life that represented the many loves that she had spurned and shut off. There were times of joy, times of repenting, times of refusal and acceptance. The quilt patiently described, explained, and demonstrated the things in her life that she didn’t know, or had refused to see.


When the morning sun kissed the window of her room, it glistened off of her face. Edda had breathed her last that night, clutching the quilt to her body, a smile for once on her face, knowing she had been loved.


The end.