The Long Walk

     The young first baseman knocked hesitatingly on the door of his manager's office.  By the soft, almost reluctant sound of the rapping, the old manager figured that the young man had a pretty good idea why he was being called into the office.  It was the long walk.  The trek whispered about among the players.  The dreaded summons that would lead to the news that the team no longer wanted you.

First base is a power hitter's position.  The kid had put up solid high school stats.  He'd been an All-Star in Little League, Babe Ruth and Legion ball, and had shown enough promise in junior college to earn the consideration of being drafted in the 36th round.  He signed the contract eagerly, certain that he could prove himself worthy of being promoted to full season ball, up the minor league ladder and eventually to the majors.

     The young kid collided with reality pretty quickly.  He hit for about .250 in short season ball, which didn't set the world on fire, but the scouts in the organization figured that the kid hit for enough power and showed enough potential to be promoted to Low A ball.  When the kid struggled in April,
 the kid blamed the brutal Midwestern cold, a cold that once the sun goes down, dominates the game  like a pitcher with a nasty breaking ball and pinpoint control.  There are nights in April when by the late innings, you can count the fans that have stayed to shiver through the entire game.  They were the diehard fans.  He often wondered if they had kids playing on one of the teams.  Even though he loved the game, that would be the only reason he'd be staying in the stands on nights that brutal.   God, the kid would cuss about the cold.  The manager had to get on him a few times about it.  Nothing against profanity in general, but the kid's grousing was starting to bring down the rest of the team.  It wasn't like his teammates didn't have to deal with the cold as well.  The manager felt especially bad for the Latino players.  They weren't used to that kind of weather; some of them had never even seen snow before.  Most of them were just so grateful to be here though that they didn't bitch about it.  Baseball was their one big chance to make a better life for themselves, to escape the lands run by drug cartels or governments supported by them, to escape the poverty and the hopelessness of an existence where what little hope offered was proffered by Mother Church and the hope of a better life beyond this vale of tears and wage slavery.  When the kid was still struggling into the middle of May, the manager knew that their talent evaluator would be taking a hard look at him when he came to watch the team.

"Come on in, Zeke," the manager said kindly.  He took a deep breath.  This was the worst part of the job.  He'd gotten it down to a formula.  No bullshit.  No beating around the bush.  Just give the ballplayer his death sentence as succinctly and honestly as possible. 

"You wwwanted to see me, Chuck?" he said, stammering slightly.  Yeah, the kid was nervous.  He was batting .182 and the weather had warmed up.  It was the second week of May.  Last night he'd gone up against the pitcher from the Snappers that everyone was so high on, the second round pick who'd signed with the Brewers for over two million bucks.  He'd struck him out three times.  Nothing to be ashamed of, of course.  The pitcher had talent, and an aggressive attitude to go with it.  Still, he had never even made contact with the ball.  Zeke had taken his batting woes to the field with him along with his glove.  He had let a pick-off throw get past him because he hadn't caught the sign, and he got a late start on a foul pop near the visitor's dug-out that he probably should have gotten to had he been alert rather than dwelling about his dismal performance at the plate.  It didn't help that Eddie Tampico was here.  Eddie was the roving hitting instructor for the organization, a man who is paid to travel to all the teams in the organization, from AAA down to rookie ball, to work with and assess the talent at each level.   Eddie looked at him last night after the kid's third unsuccessful at bat.  Mentally adding his miscues on the field to his ineffectual performance at the plate, he looked at Chuck and tersely whispered

"Chuck, that kid's never gonna make it."

At that instant Chuck, as the ballplayer's manager, was assigned the task of being Zeke's advocate.   If he disagreed with Eddie's assessment, he would have taken up his cause, talked about the potential that he saw in the young man, cited some mitigating circumstances, or begged for a little more time to see if he could turn things around.  He didn't say anything.  After a few moments he just nodded, and said "Yeah. I know.    I'll talk to him tomorrow." 

"Do so."  Tampico grunted. "I've got a kid in Arizona, the first baseman from Drake that we drafted in the 12th round last year.   He looks like he's ready to send up to take his place.  I'll have him on a plane tomorrow."

Tomorrow was now. 

"I'm not going to sugar-coat this, Zeke," he said as the young man entered the room.  "I love baseball, and I love the fact that I'm still involved in the game, but there are times when I feel like I'm ripping out a chunk of my soul to stay in it.  This is one of those times.  He signed, then tapped a pen for a moment or two to give the young man a few moments to prepare for what he had to know what was coming next.

The young ballplayer hung his head.  How was he going to go back home and face his friends, his parents, all the people who were so proud of him when he was drafted?  Yeah, he knew what was coming.  He wanted to rage, he wanted to cry, he wanted to get down on his knees and grovel and beg for a few more days to turn things around.  He had been around the game long enough though to know that these were emotional responses.  The way children would act.  He wanted to go out like a man.  No blindfold.  Face the bullet as the executioner fired the gun.  He raised his head, looked at his manager, but said nothing.

The organization has decided to let you go, Zeke, the manager said, getting  up from his desk chair to move to put a hand on the young man's shoulder in an attempt to temper the brutality of what he'd said with a gesture of kindness.  It was a gesture that wasn't phony or forced; he genuinely felt for the young man.  He could see tears welling up in his eyes, but then Zeke gulped hard, took a deep breath, and said,  "I understand, Skip, but what am I gonna tell my father?  He had such high hopes for me.  He's always been so proud of me."

Chuck stepped back and waited for the young man to get control of his emotions, then gave him the same advice that he'd had to give so many other young ballplayers .  "Make him proud of you for something else.  Go to school; get a good job.  Live an honest life and find someone worthy to love."  He sighed, then continued..."Your dad ought to be proud that you were offered an opportunity to play professionally.  Few young men are.  And you know the unforgiving math as well as I do.  Of every ten kids drafted, only two make it to the majors.  You've got nothing to be ashamed of, son."

"Tell that to my dad," the disconsolate young man muttered softly, the bitterness evident in his voice.

"I've been there too," the manager said.  "You probably know that I never made the majors either.  I topped out at triple A.  'Good field, no hit' was the label they hung on me.  I had to go home and face my folks too.  It wasn't easy, and it won't be for you either.  But you know what?" he asked, but then continued before the young first baseman had a chance to answer him.  "I went home and discovered that my folks still loved me and were there for me.  I got a teaching degree.  Did some coaching, and got back into the game as an instructor rather than a player.  What else are you good at, son?"

"I have always been a good mechanic.  I enjoy working on and restoring old cars.  Maybe I can find a way to make a living doing that."

"You know, the organization offered to pay for your college education.  It's a generous aspect of the contract that you signed."

"I don't know if I'm college material," the young man said doubtfully. 

"Whatever you decide.  it's there.  Think about it.  Talk it over with your folks." 

Zeke sat there for a few moments, then raised his head and looked at his manager with a look of weary resolve.  He gulped a couple times, attempting to get control of his voice before he spoke, then signed and said, "I suppose I'd better go clean out my locker."

"Yeah," the old manager sighed, feeling the kid's pain and wishing that he could lift the burden from him.  "Take your duffel bag to your apartment and call your folks from there.  It will give you some quiet time.  Everyone needs a little time to compose themselves at this time.  Time to come to grips with it.  Believe me, son," he said sympathetically.  "We've all been there.  it's just a question of when.  Even the great ones sometimes have to be told that they aren't that great anymore,....and...some of us never were."

He reached out and shook the young ballplayers hand, then moved toward him and hugged him.  It wasn't much, bit he knew how much it had meant to have had his manager do the same thing the day his dream of playing in the majors was wrested from him.  He could see tears forming in the young man's eyes, so he pulled away, giving him a pat on the back as he did so. 

"You'd better get moving Zeke.  It might be better for you to be gone by the time the rest of the team is done with practice.  It's tough on everyone when they lose a teammate."

Except for the guy that takes my place," Zeke mumbled bitterly as he turned to leave, then slammed the door as he did.

His manager understood where his emotions were at and said nothing.  It was just one of the stages of grief that  he'd have to go through before he came to grips with the fact that his life would have to take a new direction.  He wouldn't take it personally.  He couldn't.  It was just part of being a manager.  Let the kid go.  Let the kid blame him if it made him feel better. 

Chuck returned to his desk, took out a form and filled it out to fax to the parent club.  Basically telling them that he verbally had informed Zeke Bukowski of his release.  The club would be sending Zeke more paperwork, including information about educational benefits coming to him, care of his parent' home address.

He then dug out some lodging information and some forms for the kid from Drake to sign once he arrived.  He was just getting out of his chair and heading out to the field to see how the practice was
going, when he heard a knock at his door.

"Come in," he said gruffly.

Zeke opened the door, looked at his former manager, and forcing a wan smile, said, "I just wanted to thank you for the time you spent working with me.   You are a good skipper.  I have no right to be mad at you, and I'm sorry I slammed the door on you when you were just doing what you had to do."

His voice was quavering by the time he reached the end of what he had to say, so he backed away, shutting the door softly.  All the old manager had time to say was a quick  "thanks,"  and "good luck son,'' the latter probably never heard by the disappointed former ballplayer, as the door shut before he had finished uttering it.

It showed some class for the kid to come back and say goodbye.  He'd already moved past anger.  He was doing well.  He would make it.  Somewhere.  Doing something.  Hopefully he would identify and target other dreams to pursue.

After some minutes he could hear the noise of voices now in the locker room.  The coaches must have given the team a break from practice.  They'd hit the Gatorade, the john, and some would take their cell phones out and call their families, their girlfriends, or their agent.  Sunflower seeds would litter the floor by the time the next practice began.  Life as usual in a minor league locker room.  He wondered how long it would take any of them to notice that Zeke was gone.

The Grim Reaper Bares his Soul to a Bartender

     The cold that swept into the rural roadside bar that cold winter's night when the door opened was immediately followed by a panicked hush that blanketed the room like a two foot snowfall.  The grey cloaked figure's face was indistinguishable, covered as it was with a hood, but the sickle that he brought in with him identified him immediately to even the most drink-befuddled patron.  The Grim Reaper had come calling.

     "For whom?" was the silent question that knelled in the minds of everyone as they rose from their chairs or barstools and began to slink out as unobtrusively as possible, hoping that they wouldn't hear the word "halt" uttered in a sepulchral voice and turn to see a boney finger pointed at them before oblivion swept their sins and souls away.  Only ornery Edna, the old barfly who occupied a corner barstool longer than most patrons could remember, had the gin-fueled courage to confront the visitor.  Slamming the rest of her drink down as she rose to leave. she picked up her pack of unfiltered Camels, glared at the cloaked figure and snarled "Fuck you, Mr. Death," before she turned and trailed the other departing customers out into the Wisconsin cold.

     The Reaper took a seat at the bar and muttered "cantankerous old bitch, isn't she?' to no one in particular.  The bartender, a young guy who hadn't thought much about death up to this point in his life looked around.  He was the only mortal left in the bar.  His mind was racing through the implications of this situation and he didn't see much good in any of them.

      He finally summoned up enough courage to say in what he hoped wasn't a voice that was quavering with fear,  "You're not here for me, I hope?"

      "Not yet," responded a voice from beneath the hood.  It was a flat funeral voice; a voice that tolled like a funeral bell, a voice that conjured up images of pallbearers, grief and graveyards.

     "Just get me something to drink.  What's that old bar whore's poison?"

     "Gin and sour," the bartender responded.

     "Obviously with an emphasis on the sour," the cloaked figure observed.  Then he shrugged,  a bit disappointed that his wry attempt at wit didn't elicit a smile from the bartender.  "I'll pass.  Just give me a Jack Daniels on the Rocks.  I've never tried one, but I hear that it's a popular drink among the bar crowd."

     While the bartender was getting him the drink, the Reaper gazed about the bar.  His eyes lit upon a poster taped on the paneled wall above the jukebox.  He scowled as he read it.

       "What's this 'Relay for Life' about?" he asked.

     "I dunno," the bartender shrugged.  A race to earn funds to help cure cancer, or maybe heart disease.  Something like that I suppose.  To be honest, I haven't bothered to read the damn thing."

     "This is the kind of thing that I'm up against all the time," the Reaper complained, deciding to vent a bit.  "I'm always painted as the Bad Guy.  Why the devil don't they ever hold a 'Relay for Death?'  I perform a necessary and useful function, but I never seem to get any respect for it."

      "Well, nobody wants to die you know," the bartender said with a shrug.  "We're all going along our everyday business, going to work or spending time with our families, or maybe just out having a little fun, and then "Bam!"  You come along and throw a damp blanket on everything.  Look at the way that you emptied the goddamned bar tonight."

     "I saw that.  It really hurts to have to deal with that kind of rejection on a daily basis.  Put yourself in my place for awhile."

     "If I could I'd pay a call on my ex-wife," the bartender said bitterly.

     "No.  Let's not go there," growled the funeral knell voice from under the hood.  "Where I want to go is to try to make you understand what a useful function I serve.  You hunt deer don't you?"

     "Sure I do.  Here in Wisconsin damn near everyone does."

     "I know.  And eat bratwurst, love their beer, and hate the Bears. Yeah, right.   The living are so irritatingly parochial.  Anyway,  where I'm going with this is that can you imagine how the deer population would get out of hand if you didn't have a hunting season?"

      "Sure I can," the bartender admitted.  "we'd be overrun with the damn things." 

     "Same thing with humans," the Reaper continues.  Overpopulation is enough of a problem as it is.  Can you imagine if I wasn't out there doing my job?  Even with all your stupid wars, dreadful eating habits and your general inability to take care of your bodies, I still have to step in and help to cull the herd.  Yeah, and I'm the bad guy because of it."

     The bartender watched him as he downed his drink, then shook his cloaked head slightly, as though savoring the effect of the alcohol.

      "This was pretty good stuff," the Reaper acknowledged, holding out his empty glass and shaking it just enough so that the ice cubes tinkled a bit.  "I can understand the hold it has on some of your weaker people.  Get me another one," he demanded.

      The bartender set one in front of him, bent down slightly and tried to get a glimpse of the face beneath the hood.  The Reaper reached for his scythe and rapped the handle hard on the floor.  The bartender jumped back.

     "Consider that a warning not to get too familiar with Death," the Reaper growled.  "Just do me the courtesy of listening to me for awhile longer.  I don't get to talk to much of anyone.  Mostly I just sit and watch that infernal box that you call a television when I do get a few moments to spare from my work."   He took a sip of his second drink and then continued to speak.

     "Imagine having a mind trapped in a body that's no longer functional.  Strapped in a chair in some warehouse nursing home run on the cheap.  Think those people aren't grateful to see me coming?  Or how about the poor souls whose minds have given out; who are living out their final years in uncomprehending dementia.  For me to call upon them is both a mercy to them and their families.  I bring down the dictators that have become bloated and corrupt by feeding off their subjects' labor and blood, and I bring eternal rest to their slaves,  like those who labored on the Great Pyramid or even now in your factory sweat shops. Whether I call on the exploiter or the exploited, I bring closure to their lives with equal equanimity.  I bring continuity and order to the disorder of your mad world just by bringing an end to a journey that too often has been laden with more disappointment than reward."

     The bartender listened, as he always did when a customer felt like spilling his guts, but part of him was standing aloof, analyzing the absurdity of the situation.  Here was "The Reaper," sitting in his bar, prattling on like some vacationing valley girl, yet the voice was sepulchral and flat, sending a chill down one's spine as cold as the frost on a tombstone on a November evening.  It was like listening to someone who had learned the lingo by watching television but had paid no attention to the inflection of the language.

     "Just once," the cloaked figure continued, I'd like to feel that I'm appreciated.  That people don't view me with loathing and dread. or curse me like old Edna did when I came in tonight.  Just once I'd like to feel that I'm appreciated.  I wish people weren't so damned scared of me."  The Voice of Death trailed off a bit, as if disheartened, or despairing of ever having the hope he'd just wished for granted.  He gripped his drink tightly, then lowered his head toward it as though to forlornly gaze at the ice cubes floating in the amber liquid.

     The bartender may not have grown up during the 60's, but he'd early as a young man jettisoned the banality of country music ("cowboy crap," or "manure music" he called it) or the insipidness of the current musical genre to find listening pleasure instead in the classic rock of the 60s and 70s.  He'd chosen the music in the CD player in his little tavern to cater too his own tastes, figuring since he'd be spending most of his life there, he might as well be able to listen to the music he enjoyed.  He grinned to himself as he suddenly thought of a way to ingratiate himself to the Reaper by making his wish come true.

     He walked over to the CD player and put a buck in.  Then he punched the code GG 03 to make certain that the right song came up.  Then he punched it again, just in case the hooded figure would enjoy hearing it more than once.

     "Leave that discordant racket off," the figure demanded. 

     "No," the bartender replied.  The figure began to push himself up from the barstool, using his scythe for support.  The bartender quickly attempted to placate him.  "Please," he said.  "Sit down and bear with me a moment.  You've got to hear this."

     The hooded presence sat back down just as the opening guitar riffs of the Blue Oyster Cult classic began to resonate from the speakers.  The lyrics arrived soon after, like a cold draft following the opening of a door on a frigid winter's evening.

     "Now our times have come
     Here, but now they're gone
      Seasons don't fear the Reaper   
      Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain..."

     The mention of him in the first stanza grabbed the grim grey figure's attention.  He listened motionless at first, transfixed by the lyrics as he struggled to comprehend them all during the first play of the song.  The refrain of "Don't fear the Reaper" was easier to ascertain, and the way it was emphasized by its return over and over again in the song seemed to appeal to him.   As the bartender had expected and had prepared for, the figure of cloaked death nodded his approval and demanded that he play the song again.

    By the end of the second play, the Reaper was actually drumming his boney fingers on the bar as the song finished with it's final refrain of...

     "Come on baby
      (Don't fear the reaper)
     Baby take my hand
      (Don't fear the reaper)
     We'll be able to fly
     (Don't fear the reaper)
      Baby I'm your man...'

     The bartender watched his eerie visitor with some trepidation after the song played for the second time.  Finally the grey-cloaked figure arose.  In a voice that conjured images of moist dirt, rotting wood and worms, he slowly intoned a "thank you," and turned to leave the bar.  Before the figure exited the door, the bartender marshaled enough courage to shout a question that had been gnawing at him shortly after the arrival of his strange visitor, and had continued eating at his thoughts during the entire time that he was there.

     "How much time do I have, and what can I do to prolong it?" he shouted, his voice shrill with his desperate hope for an answer.

     The grim figure paused at the door, slowly turned, and growled,  "sell your damned motorcycle." 

     Without waiting for a response, he turned, opened the door, and slipped out into the cold and blowing snow, leaving nothing behind to signify that he'd ever been there but the winter's chill that he'd let in and his empty glass on the bar.  After some long minutes spent attempting to ascertain if the surreal visit that he had just experienced had been real or a dream, the bartender's glance lit upon the empty glass on the bar.

    "Mmm, the glass that Death has drank from," the bartender mused.  "Maybe I ought to try to sell it on EBay."  

     He thought about that option a few moments, imagining the money that it might bring in and what life-changing things he could do with it.  Then reality stepped in and shook him by the shoulders.

    "Fuck it," he muttered to himself.  "Who'd believe it anyway. They'd just dismiss it as a group hallucination or maybe some hoax of some kind."  He picked up the empty glass and hurled it at the "Relay for Life" poster.  The glass shattered.  Surprised and a bit shocked at what he'd just done he gazed with regret at the shimmering shards of glass as they glistened on the floor underneath the light of the Lienenkugel's beer sign and atop the CD player  They lay glistening like tears of grief or bitter disappointment.  He pondered them contemplatively for quite a long time. Death's visit had made him too aware of his own mortality.  He thought of the mess that he'd made of his marriage, the two kids from those years that he got to spend  far too little time with, and the ambitions of his youth that he'd abandoned as unattainable.  Self-pity welled over him as he thought of what little he'd done with his life in relation to the dreams that he'd had and how he'd envisioned that it would be.  Finally, like a swimmer who suddenly realizes that he's been caught by a treacherous undertow, he roused himself  from  his somber thoughts before they could drag him down and drown him in despair.  He strode purposefully to storage closet at the corner of the bar, took out a broom and dustpan, and walked over to begin to clean up the broken glass.

    Tomorrow he'd take a day off.  It had been almost two months since he'd seen his kids.  Yeah, it maybe was time to clean up the mess that he'd made of his life as well.  Before the Reaper comes calling again.