We just flew into New York. Five-game losing streak and the manager’s under fire. Facing the Mets tomorrow. Sometimes teams spend all the money and everyone gets hurt. Had a day off so I went out to Hoboken. My Uncle Stu lives there. Hoboken’s a funny little place. Stu used to say it was named after a Hobo named Ken, back in the early days of New York. Some guy who wandered over the river. Hobo Ken. Stu’s scraped out a living as a political cartoonist and cartoon editor. But he’s just a weird old fella who never married and lives with two black cats named Pynchon (Pinch for short) and Poe. Uncle Stu is my dad’s cousin. He’s really Cousin Stu, but we always called him Uncle, I guess because he’s older.
When I first started making a name for myself, back in high school, Uncle Stu came down from Hoboken to watch me in a Tennessee state tournament game. He spent the whole game sketching. Had no idea that we were winning the game or that I had a no-hitter going into the 7th inning. I remember looking out at the bleachers where my mom and dad were going berserk in the top row, and there was Stu, crouched over his sketch pad in the corner.
Stu told me some say the first recorded baseball game was played in Hoboken in June, 1846. At a place called Elysian Fields. A guy named Alexander Cartwright had decided on the rules. It wasn’t Doubleday, who everyone credits. It was Cartwright with some local New York baseball club. He played stick games with a bunch of firefighters after his Wall Street clerking job. He got these firefighters organized and formed a new club, calling them the “New York Knickerbocker Baseball Club.”
Imagine that? They were deciding on how many outs in an inning. What if they’d chosen two outs instead of three? Talk about pace of play. Only 18 outs instead of 27? People would be heading for the exits after 90 minutes. There’d be a lot fewer pitchers in the majors, that’s for sure. Maybe Tommy John would still be thought of as the name of an old pitcher, rather than a ligament replacement surgery.
I took a car out to see old Stu. Two years since I’d seen him. In my last phone call with my dad, he said Stu had just undergone a knee operation, and was recuperating with the cats. I called Stu, who told me not to send money, but I sent it anyway to help with the medical bills. When I arrived and called him, there was no answer. He lives in an old brownstone, on the third floor, no elevator. Probably miserable after a knee operation. I wondered if he’d been outside much recently. I called again. Still nothing. It was a nice morning, so I strolled over to a coffee shop and got a bagel and coffee.
I sat in the morning sun, took out the journal and my pen while I waited for Stu to wake up and remember I was visiting him today. The thoughts that floated in were mostly worries. Would I survive the whole season? Two months in, and my ERA was over four. I was doing alright with runners on, entering those tight situations didn’t bother me. On the other hand, I wasn’t opening an inning well. No outs, nobody on, I was concentrating on throwing strikes, and I’d given up a few solo homers recently. My cut-fastball stopped cutting. Not sure why. On film, it looked like my release point was off. As a reliever, you can’t give up homers and expect to stay useful. To any pitcher, It’s easy to say “throw strikes.” When those strikes get crushed into the upper deck, it makes walking the next guy a bit more logical.
Then my thoughts eased. I scanned a sailboat out on the Hudson. A canoe with a couple taking turns rowing. Nobody seemed in a rush out there on the water. Finally, Uncle Stu called. He apologized for the delay. He’d overslept and told me to come on up. I asked him if he wanted a bagel and a coffee. He told me he’d brew the coffee, but he’d love a couple bagels.
When I got back to the apartment, he buzzed me in. As I made my way up the stairs, an attractive young woman with a big brown Rottweiler made their way down the narrow stairs. I waited for them to pass. I wondered about Stu on these stairs. Must’ve taken him 20 minutes with the knee.
Stu always gives me huge hugs, even though I’m about eight inches taller than him. He squeezes me like I’m a grapefruit. A few minutes later, we were eating bagels and sipping an earthy dark roast he’d just brewed.
“So how’s the knee, Uncle Stu? Healing up?” I asked.
“They said I could drive about five or six weeks after the surgery, but it’s been a month and I’m way behind the timeline they gave me. I’m supposed to do physical therapy three days a week, but I couldn’t get down those damn steps with a walker, so the therapist had to come up here. The first one was allergic to cats, so that didn’t work out.”
Recounting the ordeal, Stu smacked his head in dramatic exasperation.
“It’s been driving me batty. Can’t go up and down these stairs. Gotta order everything. I’m sure I stink. Do I stink?” Stu asked.
“No, you’re fine,” I lied to Stu, who desperately needed a shower.
“Anyway, they got another therapist to come up here. She told me the exercises and stuff. Finally, my knee started bending more. I’m supposed to walk half a mile every day with this new cane,” Stu pointed over to the door, where a bright metal cane with a rubber handle was leaning.
“And are you?” I asked.
“Am I what?” Stu replied, confused.
“Walking. Half a mile? You got that nice waterfront path out there.”
“I’m walking around the block. Some days. I don’t know how long it is. Maybe a third of a mile? Sometimes I do two loops around,” Stu explained.
“Well, you gotta do it if you want to recover. I know it sucks, but I know a few things about recovery,” I said, pointing to my elbow and then my shoulder.
“So how’s the season going anyway?” Stu asked.
“Situational lefties that give up homers don’t get to stay in the bigs,” I said.
“Well it’s been a pretty good run, hasn’t it?” Stu asked.
“It has. Yes, indeed,” I admitted, taking a second to appreciate my good fortune.