The Homerun Hitter

“Tell us about the time you hit five home runs in one game again, Grandpa,” Charlie said.

“Charlie, stop,” his mother whispers. “Don’t do that to your grandfather.”

“Why not? He likes telling the story,” Charlie says. He sits in the side chair next to his grandfather.

Terry Daily, Charlie’s maternal grandfather, is sitting in his recliner, rocking. He’s waiting for his daughter to give him lunch. He’s hoping it’s leftover spaghetti from last night. His eyes are watery, a constant state these days. It makes him look sad, though he isn’t.    

He nods. “We were in New York at the old Polo Grounds, playing the Giants. Now remember, they had a short right field porch, not 260 feet from home plate. Their starting pitcher that day, what the hell was his name? Anyway, he throws me a fast ball and I hit it out for a three run homer. Then I did it to him again in the fourth inning with two men on again.” The old man smiles and taps his grandson’s forearm. “Ball landed in almost the same spot. After the game the guy who caught the first one, stops me on the street and tells me he almost caught both balls. Mr. Daily closes his eyes savoring the memory. “In the fifth I come to bat again. The Giants’ starter is gone. A lefty is on the mound. He throws me a curve ball and I hit it to the opposite field, same place where Bobby Thompson hit the shot heard ‘round the world the year before to beat the Dodgers and win the pennant.”

“Lunch will be ready in just a minute, Dad,” Fran says, exasperated with her son.  

“In the seventh inning, I bat again,” Mr. Daily continues. “We’re killing them that day. If I hit another one, I tie the record, four homers in a row.”

“And you did, right Grandpa?” Charlie is pretending to rub his face with his sweatshirt so the old man won’t see him laughing.

Mr. Daily, who’s pushing 89, says, “Yep, I sent the fourth one over the wall in right.”

Charlie’s mother, Fran is standing in the kitchen, furiously scrubbing a frying pan. Her father has been living with her and her husband now for almost five years, ever since her mother died. About six months ago, he started telling stories about playing major league baseball in the 1950s. While he was a true fan of the game, he spent his life otherwise. He owned a shoe store for 25 years and then he worked as a dispatcher for a trucking company for another fifteen years. He didn’t even play baseball in high school. Charlie could be cruel, but he was a young adult and beyond Fran’s control.

“Did you really hit another one that day, Grandpa? Now Charlie is struggling to contain himself. He’s heard the story enough to know that each time his grandfather describes his final homerun of the day, it changes. 

“The ninth inning, the manager and the catcher go out to the mound. Bases are loaded. We’re leading 15 to 2, so the game is really over.  The catcher comes back, his name was Westrum. He says to me, “Well, Terry, we’re gonna pitch to ya. Good luck.” Fran places the tray, with a bowl of spaghetti on it, in her father’s lap. She uses a dishtowel to cover his shirt. She gives her son a dirty look. Mr. Daily continues. “The pitcher works the count to three and two. Then he comes in with a fastball and I hit that sucker into the upper deck.”

“Nobody else ever hit five in one game grandpa. Do you still have the ball you hit? It’s worth a lot of money now.” Charlie is standing behind his grandfather now, grinning.

“Claire, where did you put that ball I gave you, the one Charlie’s asking about?”

Claire quietly sighs. “It’s in the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, don’t you remember Dad?”

“Oh, that’s right. Which ball did I give you then?”

“I don’t remember Dad.”

She’s crying now and Charlie sees this. He puts his hands in his pockets and looks at his shoes. Fran looks up at her son and quietly says, “Your grandfather hit a lot of homeruns in his lifetime. They weren’t on the baseball diamond, but they were homeruns. How do you think we paid for your college education?”

“He ran a shoe store. Did something with trucks. I get it. Why don’t you tell him he never played the game?”

“Would you like to tell him?”

Charlie looks over at his grandfather who was busy twirling his spaghetti. He’s comfortable. He turns on the television and finds a ballgame to watch. Mr. Daily points to the TV screen. “Charlie, see that guy pitching, Kershaw?”

Charlie walks up to the TV and looks. He turns to his grandfather and says, “Yeah, Clayton Kershaw.

“I hit one off of him too.” Charlie stares at his grandfather now. He’s asked him many times in the last six months about his five-homer game. He sees something now he never noticed before. Was it a fleeting gleam in the old man’s eyes? A trace of a grin?

“Grandpa, you really should be in the Hall of Fame.”