Comment To Comment

As a writer, I do take some liberties.  However, most of my writings are very true.  I can't explain every story, I wish I could interject FACT or FICTION, but that would muddle up the writing.  Take it for what it's worth.  These are my recollections from some dusty places, but really, some of this stuff I could never make up.  For example.  My first visit to The Rocks.  I, in no way, made up the acoustic guitar strapped onto the VW.  I wish I could have.  And actually, that whole scenario was very true.  Some of the scenes (of other stories) are made up, but based on facts.  The mystique of my writing, any writing, leaves it up to the reader to decide.  My Off-The-Wall story is factual.  I wish Oatman, Pete S. and Gary S. could weigh in and verify the details.  Some of my memories are so vivid, they could have actually happened yesterday.  I try not to bore my much appreciated readers, so I pump up the volume a bit.  I love any feedback and I would love to be set straight on events, dates, people, etc.  I am not impervious to missing some details, no matter how hard I try.  I will not overtly deceive or lie just to get a story down.  We writers do have some kind of code of unwritten ethics.  Just don't ask me what they are.  Once again, keep the comments coming.  That's what I look forward to after I post.

Off - The - Wall

'What do ya wanna do?'  'I dunno.'
Sitting on Gary S.'s front steps, looking across a healthy lawn, vivacious evergreens, bugs, bugs everywhere flirting with golden rays of sunshine, embracing their smallness.  I could've sat there, on the bottom step, concrete, for a lifetime.  Sometimes in summer it felt that long.  Trying to pace oneself at age 13 doesn't come easy.  By the first month of this three-month summer vacation, you had pretty much done everything you had in mind.  A little camping, biking around and through and beyond the town, fishing, hanging around Dupont Lake (and beach), hitching rides to McCarthy State Park ( and beach), picking crab apples (stealing?), picking rhubarb (stealing?), trying to avoid going on vacation with the parents (not at all successful), more biking, hanging at our local park, Saturdays at the Hibbing International Speedway, maybe, just maybe talking to Patty P., checking out the new Marvel Comics at Rexall, eating, always eating, more biking, trying like hell to stay out of trouble.  And there was always baseball.

'America's Pastime.'  Some dolt made that up for no good reason.  Unless he got paid for it.  To me, baseball meant getting a number of buddies together, figure out who had a ball or two, who had the bats and then find a place to play.  In our small town, there were only a few primo places to do this.  If you didn't get up early enough, no field.  And if you did find a field, maybe Mike J. had to go home.  And he had to take his brother with him.  Now we don't have enough to play.  Ah, who needs baseball anyway?  All those rules.  Too restrictive.  What would've happened if you bent the rules a bit?  Like mixing paints together to create an unknown color.  If you wanted to be a little creative.  Like painting your Mummy model not just grey but a completely different color.  I mean, grey?  Boring.  How about candy apple red or canary yellow?  I didn't have the ball to try it but what if?  Being creative meant you had to bend the rules.  Think outside the house.  And sitting on that concrete wasn't giving me any creative juices.  Just a sore, numb butt.  Ya, I was a numb-ass.  Summer days can do that to ya if you weren't careful.  These sultry days could numb your brain (numb-skull) or even numb your balls (numb-nuts).  This day, I would have none of that.  'Wanna go get some ice cream?'  'Ya, sure.'

We jumped on our bikes.  Mine was a gold-flecked Schwinn Stingray, banana seat, slick rear tire and raised handlebars.  Neat-o.  Gary S. had a brand new, red, Schwinn Corvette.  He always had the Super Neat-o things.  Damn you, Gary.  Right across the street was the town's largest structure, The Memorial Building.  This housed our hockey rink and several sheets of ice for curling.  This was also the home for the circus when in town.  If it was now, we would have smelt the animals from where we sat.  As we approached the backside of the arena, where the elephants would be washed and scrubbed, there was a scene shift.  Something magical.  Something odd.  We slowed down.  There were two guys, probably 17 or 18 years old.  One had a softball and bat.  He was standing on the sidewalk and faced the building.  The other one had a baseball glove and was in a fielding position, crouched down, ready.  His back was to the building and looking intently at the guy with the bat and ball.  From the batter to the wall was about 40' and the fielder was 10' from the wall. The fielder was standing on close-cut grass with patches of dirt.  The batter tossed the softball in the air and smacked it.  The ball screamed over the fielder's head and hit the wall with a thud.  But before the ball hit the ground, the glove had it nestled in its webbing.
'One out.'
'Good catch, man.'

The ball was thrown back to the batter.  Another toss, another smack.  This time it was a grounder played cleanly by the fielder.
'Two gone.'
'Ah shit.  Almost had a hit.'
The ball, now slightly lopsided, was thrown back.  Gary S. looked at me.  I looked at him.  Puzzled looks we both had.  What are these guys playing?  This was the moment, this hot, muggy everyday.  This was that moment out of the mind.  Out of ordinary everyday in every way. 
Crack.  Grass and dirt spinning in damp air as the fielder lunges but misses the line drive.  Barely.  Smok.  The ball hits the wall and falls harmlessly to the ground. 
'Now that's a hit.  One on.  Two out.'
'Ya, ya.  C'mon.  Try that again.'

They were playing baseball but in such a strange and foreign manner, as if we were transported to an alternative world where this game was played by two people and a wall.  Absurd.  Preposterous.  Crazy.  We liked it.  By this time, Gary S. and myself had stopped biking and watched with mouths open so wide, a few mosquitos bit my tongue.  I didn't even notice.  We were witness to some new, original creation
Crack.  Smack.
'Three outs.  And I'm up.'

And that's when Off-The-Wall was born.  Our game.  Not those rum-dums with the softball.  As fast as we could pedal, we cruised over to Oatman's digs and on to Pete S.  Or the other way around.  I can't recall because we were both yelling and swerving with excitement that I think we levitated to every friend's house we knew.  We tried explaining it.  Just as I have tried.  Probably not very well.  They all needed to be there, at the wall.  Our new game was screaming for us.  Just us. 

Roughly five or six of us raced to the back of the Memorial Building.  The two guys were still playing.  'Hey, look.  We got some fans.'  They looked at us as we looked at them.  By now, the softball was a mess and it barely flew.  Maybe one or two more swings and the cover shredded.  'It's all yours, boys.'  And it was.  All ours.  We quickly asked them some of the rules or what exactly were they doing.  'It's baseball, guys.  Play it like baseball.'

Officially, yes it was baseball.  Imaginary.  Virtual.  Nobody ran the bases.  There were none.  No pitchers, no balls and strikes.  It was taken down to the essence of the game.  Batting.  Fielding.  Scoring.  Winning or losing.  We kept track of baserunners and scores in our heads.  Gasp, what a concept.  The wall was the key.  With certain foul lines identified, the batter could get a hit these ways : 1) the ball gets to the wall untouched   2) an error on the fielder   3) if the ball hit off the wall is not caught, then it's either a single, double triple or home run, designated by a certain height on the wall.  An out is made these ways : 1) the ball is caught in the air   2) the ball is fielded cleanly on the ground before it hits the wall   3) the ball is caught after it is hit off the wall.  There were a number of sweet touches we made to make it more interesting.  There was a cooling fan cage in the center of our "playing field", up near the top of the building, about 40' feet up.  Hit that on the fly - home run.  And count anybody on base.  Rimming the sloping roof was a one foot metal rim.  Grand slam.  And count anybody on base.  If you hit the ball over the sloping roof, automatic out.  And you had to fetch it.  No double plays, but an auto triple play - hitting a utility door on the fly.  And the most brilliant brainstorm we had was : no softball.  We used various rubber balls.  Tried 'em all.  One was too dead, no fun.  One was too bouncy, everybody could hit it off the wall and back into the opposite block.  We had to find the right kind of bounce, one that was catchable and hittable.  When we found that particular make, we bought every one we could.  We used our normal Louisville Sluggers.  We used our normal Wilson or Rawlings gloves.

And that was it.  Off-The-Wall.  Oh ya, another twist.  A minimum of two could play and a max of four.  Our field had somewhat small dimensions, probably 30' wide.  We also could play individual teams meaning, if three played, we all had our own score.  Typically, two against two was the number.  We played morning, afternoons and early evening.  Religiously.  For a solid two years or so, until we could rocket the ball off the wall into the house across the street.  We also honed our baseball skills for the real games.  Our reaction times to the batted ball were quicker and when a pitched ball came in, we could hit it where we aimed at.  Like a huge open wall.

That was our imagination and invention and creativity, unbound.  And we all had a say in the development of this unique game.  The last time I was there, I walked over to the backside of the Memorial Building Arena, with a boyish nervousness, wanting to see it as it once was.  To relive those moments of emotion, of exhilaration, of fun.  I was indeed let down.  An addition covered up the playing area and even the old sidewalk wasn't around anymore.  Surely, the air vent had to be there.  Nope.  I paused and looked around.  I didn't recognize much of it.  And I had to wonder.  Does this building remember me?  Or had I changed so much as to not even be noticed?  Once again, memories.  Keep those with you and you will never feel old.