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Tom is a member of River Writers, a local writers' group. He has included a couple of his favorite stories....
Dream Baseball
© 2002 by Tom Kablik
I’m Tommy Kaye,
pitching coach for the Triple A Phoenix Flyers. The hot coffee cup feels good
against my arthritic thumb, all I’m left with after my seven year career. I was a journeyman pitcher with two
years in the majors.
It’s opening day
and 39 degrees a half hour before gametime. The American flag is whipping
straight out at the fence in center field. The crowd is sparse except for the
regulars. In the box seats nearby
are two old lawyers. Spoke with them once-- a professor who always wears a turn
of the century baseball cap, and a white haired guy in solo practice, still in
the trenches. I envy them,
enjoying the game without all the work, like vacationers who never have to mow
the lawn or paint the cottage.
I lean against the
rusted pipe railing of the dugout, made fresh with this year’s coat of
rustoleum. At the other end of the bench, the manager is talking with his
catcher. The words are inaudible but I can hear the snap/pop of his bubble gum.
Pre-game drill is over; the rest of the team is in silent formation.
I glance over at
today’s starter, Willy Schmidt, a one-pitch wonder. I’ve spent the last five weeks
coaching him. It was like teaching
the alphabet to an illiterate.
What Schmidt
doesn’t know, but I do, is just how fickle fate is. My exit from the majors was
not triggered by a poor season. My departure came from a five player trade that
would have put the team over the player limit, so I had to go. Shortly after my return to the minors,
a strained groin muscle sidelined me. I knew it was over. But luck then smiled
on me as the Flyer’s pitching coach had a massive coronary. I made a move of sheer brass, offering
myself as his replacement, despite my complete lack of coaching
experience. And here I am, a coach
for twice as long as I was a player.
My mind flashes to my best moments on the mound,
dueling with a batter trying to own the plate: his body crunches into to the strike zone, his bat
oscillates in anticipation. My silent voice says, “Smoke him inside!” The ball steams from my hand, and sends
him reeling from the batter’s box, my unstoppable moment.
“Hey, Tommy!
Get Alive!!” Bo Howard
brings back the day. The veteran
third base coach had fewer shots at the big time than I; he was black when it
didn’t help.
“Thinkin’
‘bout the old times? I know
that one. You had it written all
over your face.” He laughs between
breaths, “ I read your face like a book. . . I can read, you know,” he
chuckles. “You know how it
goes. It’s ‘Who izz Bo Howard. . .Gemme
Bo Howard!. . .Gemme a Young Bo Howard….Who the hell izz Bo Howard!”
I slap him on the
back.
“You’re damn right, Bo!”
The PA system
blares, “ Oh, say
can you see. . . .”
The players are
lined up, caps over their hearts. Hypnotized eyes fix on the pulsating
flag.
A jolt of energy
flows through me as my body hears the words, “PLAY B A L L!”
My Toy Airplane
By Tom Kablik © 2006
“Airplane” is like the color “red”, signaling
danger or excitement, depending on the seer. Or it may just mean “motion”--ecstasy to a young roller
coaster fan, or pure dread to an adult. I remember my bedroom moving in a dizzy
circle, when lifting my head off the pillow was agony.
Let me share my morning in Cessna 113PF (Poppa
Fox). I take passengers only when
the air is smooth. . . like taking the bus. Today’s no bus ride.
The flight begins before reaching the airfield. I
watch the flags in front of buildings. Are they turning lazily or snapping
straight out? The smoke stack of
the power plant belches out a gray cloud. I watch its direction and how quickly
it moves. As I walk toward 113 Poppa Fox I observe if the wind is steady. A
firm wind is easy to handle, not so with surprise gusts.
Next is the machine itself: tires are checked
for damage by a prior renter. The fuel lines are checked for condensation water
from a near empty tank. I make a call for a “top off”. A radio check revealed
imperfect contact with the tower. The tips of the headsets are lightly cleaned
with an eraser solving the problem.
The engine starts with a roar. No more freezing
winter mornings. After a check-in with the tower, it’s a sweet taxi to the run
up area next to the runway. There, despite 20 years of flying, I use a written
check list. Everything from magnetos to gages checks out fine. The trim lever
looks OK (that determines how quickly you lift from the runway). Take-off is a thrill as I slowly push
the throttle to the firewall and gather speed down the runway. I make the plane
follow the center line. All at once I feel the plane lifting prematurely. I
push down on the yoke to compensate, keeping the plane on the ground until I
hit 55 knots. An earlier take off
will crash the plane because the proper wind flow (barometric pressure) over
and under the wing will not established--Bernoulli’s principle of physics.
What a day! The air is so clean the plane
climbs at twice the summertime rate. Soon I’m at 2000 feet. In a glance I see
the city below and Long Island Sound to my south. Takeoff challenges behind,
the flight becomes pure enjoyment. At 3,000 feet I feel connected with everyone
below because nothing escapes my endless gaze. Thousands of feet above me are
vapor trails from jet planes. I feel a kinship despite the distance.
Super visibility means mean thermal currents. I
have to steer suddenly to cope with them. A thermal hit and I jump off my seat,
a “seat popper”. When I was a student
pilot they were scary, now they’re fun. Also riding the thermals are birds a
few hundred feet below, flying past me sideways.
I fly over my house (a marking ritual of
sorts). Surprise--There’s an unknown white car in my driveway. Will have to check
that out later. Then on to the ocean, deep blue water, green at the edges. The surface fiefdoms of Old Saybrook,
Westbrook, Clinton, and Madison become a smooth unity. I spy a hidden trail to
a sand beach at Hammonaset. I want to share the secret with my wife some warm
Saturday when we drive there.
Time to head back. Over the mouth of the
Connecticut river at two thousand feet the air is so clear that all at once I
see New Haven to my left, New London to my right, and Hartford straight ahead.
I cannot believe my eyes! I can even see the thin smoky plume of the Hartford
power plant!
Fun trails off as I near the airport. I listen
to the updated weather information. No Wind? I’m getting pushed all over the
place!! Early on I learned not to believe any report
different from what I’m experiencing. I am happy that under 1000 feet the
bumpiness ends. I am cleared for a straight in landing. Totally concentrating on the landing, I
watch my airspeed, change the wing flaps as necessary. I stare at the runway numbers,
adjusting my speed and angle of descent to maintain a constant flight path.
Closer to the runway I cross the
river and dike. The plane bumps
hard, something I am used to. Add
just a touch of power to compensate, then ease off to my prior setting. I glide to the numbers at that same angle, keeping
the right airspeed. I am down to fifteen feet above the runway. I must be
careful to keep the plane going in a straight line, and compensate for any
right or left push by the wind. I
slowly sink to five feet off the runway.
This is a most critical point. I pull up the control gently to make the
last feet of sink as gradual as possible.
Too quick a drop and it’s a “banger”, a hard landing that could blow a tire or worse. If my touch
is perfect, the landing’s a “squeaker” as the tires kiss the tarmac. My landing
is a good one--not quite a squeaker, definitely not a banger.
My dry mouth closes. The tower tells me to turn
off the runway onto to the taxiway. One more time, after a thousand other
landings, I have dodged the winds and fates to fly another day.
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