It all started on a gorgeous summer day in Portland. For months the desire burned inside me to
spend more time with people, to get involved in others' lives, thus removing the
selfish focus on myself. So I found the
competitive diamond of the local T-ball league to my liking. The year was 1978, and at 22 years of age, I
still had no blessed idea what I wanted to do with my life. But I knew that working with these wild kids
was a start in the right direction. I
was pretty good at baseball when a kid, thus I felt confident I could help them
hone their skills. Coaching positions in
all the older leagues were easily filled, so I took what was available - five
and six-year-old maniacs who never listened and did only what was in their
mind. But I loved them all the same.
The sun was warm and the darkly forested West Hills
dramatically outlined the western horizon.
To the east, snow-capped Mt. Hood towered in the distance recalling fond
memories when T.J. and I spent countless weekends backpacking on her icy
slopes. I missed T.J. He moved to the flat and innocuous mid-west
to attend seminary. Yes, a fitting
profession for the best brother I could have ever asked for. Well, I guess I had two best brothers.
On this auspicious day, I was coaching third base, facing
the wide Columbia River, when Chucky approached the plate. Chucky, with his adorable ubiquitous grin,
checked me for signs, although he never paid any attention to my
instruction. As was his custom Chucky
enthusiastically jack-hammered home plate with his bat, which as usual, struck
fear in the hearts of his fearful opponents.
That is, until they saw him bat.
Chucky was different from other kids, but never admitted
it. To him all things were possible even
though he obviously suffered physically, being many years behind his peers in
both physical and mental development.
But Chucky never gave up! He was
a battler.
Chucky addressed the plate in his usual manner as he eyed me
for his obligatory signs. I rubbed my
chest, pulled at the brim of my cap, scratched my armpit and stuck my right
index finger in my ear. He responded
with his sweet trademark grin as I clapped my hands.
"Drive the ball up the center, Chucky," I
encouraged.
Chucky's teammates were yelling at him not to mess up again.
I tried to keep Chucky positive while the umpire teed up the
ball.
Chucky pounded the dirt with his bat, gritted his teeth,
then wound up like Babe Ruth and swatted the ball across the ground to the
shortstop. Chucky threw the bat behind
him, and since he wound up facing third base on the follow through of his
swing, headed straight for me.
"Other way, Chucky!" I screamed, my arms waving
wildly. "Run to first base!"
But I could see the determination in Chucky's red face and
he would settle for nothing less than making it to third base.
In the meantime, the shortstop scooped up the grounder and
darted across the infield toward first base stomping on the bag in a taunting
victory dance, like a trash-talking professional football player.
"Out!" yelled the umpire looking at Chucky with
his thumb jutted upward in the air.
Chucky looked at me, wondering what happened.
"Wow, Chucky, good running! Next time run to first base, remember."
I patted his shoulder reassuringly.
"Good job, Chucky.
Nice hit. You're really coming
along."
I followed Chucky as he trudged toward the dugout
dejected. His angry teammates glared at
him as he entered the gate. But he just
grinned back.
"Did you see me hit that ball?"
"You ran the wrong way!" shot a condescending
voice from within the mob.
Chucky plopped down on the bench while his teammates parted
as if the down-trodden boy had some catchy disease. It was like the parting of the Red Sea.
A large fir tree waved in the gentle afternoon breeze
reminding me of Mikey's nylon trees.
"Retard!" one boy declared as he stomped off.
I stopped dead in my tracks.
It was as if I had uttered that ugly word myself. A painful memory! Truth is, I had.
If you enjoyed reading Nylon Trees prologue the entire book can be purchased for $3.99 at the following online eBook distributors:
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Or purchased directly from my publisher at: www.smashwords.com
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