I folded the Bug’s top down and dropped my bat bag onto the back seat. I climbed in, turned the ignition switch, looked at the miniature leather baseball glove hanging from the rear-view mirror and smiled. That had been one helluva game. I put the little car in gear and drove away, enjoying the wind on my face and the beautiful sky of a perfect afternoon. Then it crossed my mind what Beera said as we parted. Up until now, I was sure about hanging ‘em up. Now I wasn’t. Now I was confused and torn. I thought about it the rest of the drive home.
I turned into our driveway and Mary Jane’s dad was sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs on the front porch. I pulled into the garage, grabbed my bat bag off the back seat and walked to the porch. “Hey, Dad,” I said. “’Allo, mate! How’d the match go?”
“Great. We won. Is Mary Jane home?”
“No, she and Mum went shopping.”
“You didn’t want to go?”
“You must be joking. I volunteered to stay home with the dogs.”
“Smart man,” I laughed. “Bring you a pint after I shower?”
“Aye,” he smiled.
I dropped my bat bag inside the front door, walked back to the bedroom and into my walk-in closet. I peeled off my uniform and looked at the red number seven with blue and white piping on the back of my gray shirt. I had worn number seven since I was a kid, mainly because it was my hero Mickey Mantle’s number but also, being somewhat superstitious, for good luck. I put my uniform in the hamper, showered, put on a pair of khaki shorts, a white golf shirt and my Dockers and then went downstairs to our basement pub. Mary Jane had finished half of our basement and set it up as an English pub. It had a bar along the back wall, a dart board on the wall in the corner under the stairs, a table with a chess board, a working antique telephone, a television in the right-hand corner above the bar, a three-foot by six-foot pool table, an antique pinball machine and, to keep it traditional, no music system. Reaching into the little fridge under the bar, I pulled out two chilled pint glasses and two cans of Boddington’s ale. I opened the cans, poured them into the glasses and watched the foamy heads dissipate into a rich, golden brew. I took the pints upstairs to the porch, handed one to Dad and sat down in the other Adirondack chair. “Aye,” said Dad. “Cheers.” “Cheers,” I replied and we both took a drink. The cool, creamy ale tasted delicious and gave me a warm, happy feeling going down. “Dad, can I ask you something?” I said. “How did you know when to quit playing cricket?”
“When I got too bloody old to be able to play at all. Why?”
“I’ve been thinking about quitting playing ball.”
“Mind if I ask why?”
“Well, first of all Beera tore his Achilles tendon and that scared me.”
“Aye, Mary Jane told me about that. Beera’s a fine chap.”
“But there’s more to it than that,” I said. “I’ve been playing seriously for ten years now. I’ve loved it and enjoyed it, but now I’m starting to feel guilty about it.”
“About what?”
“About spending a good portion of every Saturday playing softball. It’s not like I’m getting paid to go the ballpark.” .
“How does Mary Jane feel about you playing?”
“She says as long as I enjoy it, she’s fine with it. I’ve never believed in quitting, but I guess my priorities are changing.”
“You won today, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How did you play?”
I took a sip and said, “Okay, I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging, but it was probably the best game I’ve ever played. I threw a guy out at first base, tagged two guys out at home, got four hits, scored two runs and drove in the winning run.” Dad looked at me and said, “If I were you, I’d never play again.” I took another drink of the Boddington’s and looked at him. “You know why?” he said. “Because you will always remember your last game. I can’t remember the last time I played bloody cricket, but years from now you’ll think back and you will always remember the game you played today.”It hit me like a ton of bricks. We sat in silence and finished our pints. “Another round?” I asked him. “Aye,” he smiled.
I woke early the next morning. I lay in bed for sometime, thinking about what Dad had said on the porch. I knew he was absolutely right. The more I thought about it the deeper my resolve became. I had played my last game, and I would always remember it. We went to Mass as a family and stopped at the Waffle House afterwards for lunch. Mum and Dad loved the Waffle House. They were, without a doubt, the bacon and egg eating-est people I had ever seen in my life. I think they could have eaten it three times a day, seven days a week.
When we got home, Dad changed clothes and walked down to the lake to fish. I told him I would join him later. I changed clothes and went to the door leading downstairs to the pub. I stopped at my bat bag inside the front door, unzipped it and took out my cleats. I walked downstairs and put them on the bar. I walked behind the bar, took a tumbler from the cabinet and opened the bottle of Crown Royal that sat with the others on the shelf. I poured two fingers into the tumbler, walked around the bar and sat on one of the barstools with my shoes in front of me. Sipping the smooth Canadian whisky slowly, I looked at the lifetime of memorabilia on the wall and shelves, the trophies, souvenir balls, team photographs, caps and my first baseball glove from Little League. Finishing the Crown, I walked behind the bar, poured two fingers more in the tumbler, then walked around and sat back down on the stool. I took a drink and then tied the laces of the cleats together. I stood up, walked around behind the bar and looked at a towel hook that was on the edge of the shelf behind the bar. I looked at the cleats and back at the hook. “You will always remember your last game,” was ringing in my head. I looked at the cleats again, looked at the hook, drank down the whisky and hung the cleats on the hook.