"A Visit With Fred"

“What kind of bullshit is this, anyway!?” the voice shouts through my cell ear-piece. “What the hell you want to talk with me for!?”
My friend, Joe, warned me about this guy. When he heard I was creating a project about elders, Joe suggested a few people I could speak with. His former landlord, Mr. Fred Kasica, was number one on his list.
I’m nervous, this the first time I’m speaking with Freddie. But I was briefed about his “way,” so his little post-shouting chuckles clue me in a bit and relax me…somewhat.
“Well, you can come over here. But, I’m tellin’ ya…What’s your name again!?”
“I’m not sure I wanna tell you now,” I joke with him.
“I’m just tellin’ ya that if this is a crock of shit, I’m going to boot you in the ass and have the door hit your ass again on the way out. 7:00 too early for ya?” he asks.
“What’s wrong with 6:30?”
“Oh, so you’re a wise guy, are ya?” he chuckles.
We settle on a 6:45 Saturday morning start time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Easthampton neighborhood where Fred lives is stark and dreary. Many of the buildings were constructed in the early 1900’s to house and serve the region’s mill workers. Today, the area looks particularly drab; many of the houses are painted a pale green. Joe calls it “hopeless green.”

“What the hell was that?!” The front door opens and a warm yellow light leaks out into the chilly gray morning. I see a small man with a round face and a head topped with lots of thick white hair. He’s about 5’5”, on the thin side, and sports a red, black and white plaid shirt, a pair blue jeans and work boots. “You call that a knock, Harry?” Freddie flashes a toothless grin and extends his hand to me. His handshake is warm and strong. “By the way, d’you just call me before?” he asks as he pulls me into his home.
I explain that I tried him earlier to see if he wanted coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts, but that no one answered. “I thought I had the wrong number,” I tell him.
“I was in the bathroom for cryin’ out loud. Whadduya guys have cameras or something? It’s funny how people always call me when I go in there,” he laughs. “I think maybe I should just start taking the phone in the toilet with me,” he slaps his thigh, chuckling at his own joke. I’m glad I decided to throw in an extra video tape.

Freddie leads me into a clean and organized, light wood-paneled kitchen. A full Wonder Bread sits on the counter next to the Toastmaster. A dark, wood-paneled den with a large television is off to the side; newspapers and magazines are piled neatly on a brown cloth couch. “It’s not much, but I like it. Been here for, whew, 38 years now. Hard to believe, you know?” He tells me he lives alone on one side of the two apartment house which he owns. His wife, Mary, died 11 years ago and he says he’s not thinking about replacing her.
After setting up, I plant myself on a tall stool in front of a little breakfast counter. Fred sits across from me, two feet of Formica between us, and watches as I fold a paper on my pad and click on the camera over my left shoulder – he taps a pencil nervously. I look at his eyes though his large frame glasses. They’re clear and curious, alternating between staring at me, then at the red camera light.

“So this guy says to me,” Fred breaks the silence, ‘Why don’t you make the bread and I’ll go over and sell it.’ He said, ‘Make as many loaves as you can.’ He said, ‘I’ll sell ‘em all!’ And I ask the guy, ‘How many of ‘em you think I can make? You know what my bread-making machine is?’ After a pause, Fred quietly holds up his hands and flashes a big grin, waiting for me to answer his question. I shrug.
“My hands, Harry!”

Joe told me about the famous “FredBread,” which, apparently, is the best bread known to mankind. For the next ten minutes Fred tells me how he makes his special bread with lots of eggs and sugar. “It’s pretty good warm with a pat of that fresh butter meltin’ on top. Ooo-wee.” He pauses, smiles and leans forward, whispering. “You know, Harry. If you’re good, I might just offer you a slice,” he laughs. I hope he does.

As we sip some freshly brewed coffee, I blend in my questions and ask Fred to talk with me about his proudest accomplishments.
“What do you mean, proud of?” Fred looks at me. “I’m proud of the way I lived. Everything. There’s not anything that I’m proud of the most. I just figure I take things as they go, as they roll along and, to me, I just appreciate even gettin’ to live 'til 77, you know? I mean, for all the things I did…the way I lived. Whoa!” he laughs hard and slaps one hand on the counter while using the other to slide his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “The sunnovabitchin’ things I did when I was younger. Christ, I could float a battleship back then. I drank with boat hands. Got into a lot of trouble, I’m tellin’ ya.”
“Were you in the Navy? The Marines?” I ask.
Fred tilts his head and stops moving – an unusual state for him.
“The Navy!! Of course, the Navy!” he snaps back.
“I mean, you just said something about drinking with boat hands, and I…”
Fred stares at me then leans forward, almost tipping his stool.
“With both hands, Harry!! What the fuck are you talkin’ about!?”
I need to quickly soak in Fred’s unique dialect if the next hour is to come close to making any sense.
“You had to get the elbows up,” Fred demonstrates by raising his arms. “You didn’t get calluses on one elbow only, you got ‘em on both. You had to keep lifting both hands up. Oh my, I got into a lot of mischief back then,” he smiles. “Still, I did a lot of things I’m proud of doing though, everything that I did, you know. Like I was really an outdoorsman. I used to fish. I still like to hunt. Back in them Depression days or, you know, back in the 30’s and 40’s and all that, I used to trap. I did everything. I mean, well…to me I take things as they come. I love to do things. I love to be outside.
“What did you do for work?” I ask.
“Well, all kinds of things,” he leans back and sips some coffee. “I was a machine operator, most of the time. But, I loved to paint houses or anything like that. I did a lot. I’m a jack-of-all-trades, but not a master of any of ‘em. I did a little bit of electrical work, a little bit of plumbing. I did everything. Like even when I was a lot younger there, of course, I did a lot of things for my mother, like even putting tiles down on the floor, or any of that.
Fred spills a bit of coffee on the counter and wipes it quickly with a paper towel as he continues.
“When I used to paint houses, you know these old panes that they used to have em’ here like that, in the windows? Well, I used to put the ladder right in the middle. And I’d paint with one hand, finish that side. And then I’d use my other hand, paint this side,” he explains as he turns his body. “Never had to move the ladder – not one time, Harry. You know, a lot of guys can paint, but can paint with only one hand. And I could paint with either hand.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

“Freddie, I’m going ask you to imagine something for a second.” I pause and smile. “Some of these questions… You’re going to give me that boot in the ass, I think.”
“Well, maybe. You never know, you never know,” he laughs hard.

"I Shoulda' Had It!"

“Ice is good immediately after it happens, right?”
I plopped a handful of cubes into the red plastic ice bag, two pieces falling to the floor.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” my brother advised on the phone. “But, then you’re…now I’m not sure about this, so you’d better check. I think you’re supposed to move to heat. Or is it the other way around?” I listened to my brother’s laugh.
I held onto the corner of the refrigerator as I tried to bend down to wipe the melting ice puddle. As I lowered my body, a sharp, hot pain shot down my leg. I stopped. That was my limit for the night. “The puddle will dry on it’s own,” I decided as I hobbled back to the couch, bag in hand, phone balanced between my chin, shoulder and lower ear.

“Shit, this hurts, Stu,” I moaned. I re-positioned my semi-reclined body on the couch and slid the red ice bag under my right leg. “And it’s never happened to two hamstrings in the same game.” I nudged the white ice bag under my left thigh. “God. I wonder if this is really worth it?”
“So how’d you do before you got hurt?” he asked, guiding the conversation away from my question.
“Well…hitting, I was fine. Two for three – both nice shots to left. You would’ve been proud. But fielding?” I chuckled, “Let’s just say it could’ve been better; I’ll leave it at that. Of course that’s only because my body was falling apart piece by piece, one inning at a time. Add to that, the rain, the puddles. I didn’t think there’d even be a game today.”
Stu laughed as he listened to my excuses. “Come on now, H. Think about it. This was your first game in…what’s it been? Five years?”

“Seven! Well…seven and a half, actually. The last time was that Winadu reunion game. I felt great that day.
I lifted my right leg and adjusted the bag so the cold hit the target spot.
“But today was different, I can’t explain it. I mean, I didn’t know any of my team-mates so I was really nervous. If my debut throw flew ten feet over the first baseman’s head… Sure, they’d all be polite, because that’s how you’re supposed to treat “the new guy.” But, who’d we be kidding? They would’ve been upset if the rookie turned out to be some kind of bum.
I adjusted my weight again as my left leg started to throb.
God, Stu, my mouth was so dry. I couldn’t believe how nervous I was.
“I know. That always happens to you…”

I reached over to grab a bottle of Advil sitting on a pillow and squinted to read the directions. The pain started to mount a big come back.
“Why do they even bother writing these directions on the bottle this way? It’s like reading microfiche but without the machine.”
“Oh my God!” Stuart laughed. “Your legs, your eyes… It’s all crashing on you, huh?”
“You can joke all you want but, you know, a few years ago my friend Mike Doran was telling me how things start to slowly break down in your 40’s. “The good news,” he said, “is that things plateau after the initial deterioration and then you’re all right for a few years.”
“Well, that’s certainly good to hear. Maybe you should give Mike a call to see what’s gonna happen next?”
I ignored my brother’s jab and continued my game replay.
“You should have seen it, Stu. It was the third inning and not one ball had been hit to me – not even a popup. I wanted… I needed something to scatter the butterflies and reactivate my saliva flow. Thank God for butterscotch lifesavers is all I can say. And the rain… I scraped the thick mud from my cleats to help my footing, using my finger or a nearby stick. I would have preferred a nice sunny day for my…”
“So when did you…”
“The fourth inning. A guy pulled a shot down the line to my right side. I was so on it, Stu, I’m telling you. It’s the kind of play you know I love. Instinctively, I turned and pulled my glove across the front of my body to backhand it and…bamm…that’s when I felt it. The hot twinge shot up through my right thigh as I planted my cleat hard into the mud and dropped down and forward to start my dive. You know, come to think of it, I’m not so sure it was actually so much a dive as it was a good solid fall,” I reflected. “But, anyway...”
Stuart laughed as he listened.
“…the mud splattered on my face and burned in my eyes as I watched the ball pass within inches of my mitt…and then into left field. Shit! I hate thinking about it now.”
“It sounds like it was a tough play, with the rain and all that…”
“It was tough but…after it happened I stood up, wiped the mud and pebbles from my legs and cleaned my glove a bit. I turned to ask my shortstop, Alex, how close I was to making the play. He flashed a wide grin, shook his head and asked me if I wanted to know the truth. I threw my hands up in the air and laughed with him as he clapped his hands, tapped my shoulder and added a nice “Next time, Harry,” while turning to set up for the next batter.
“He sounds like a good guy, huh?”
“Yeah, a great guy. A very polite guy,” I added.

I lifted my left leg to re-position the ice and clicked the remote to see if the 11:00 Bravo “West Wing” had started, although I wasn’t really paying much attention to the TV.
“You know, Stu. That’s a play I would have made years ago. Easy. I used to drool for chances to snag shots like that, while doing my very best Brooks Robinson or Ron Santo imitations. I’d take that cross-over step to the right and dive toward the ball, body parallel to the ground and glove locked onto the small white target. I’d snag the ball in the webbing, quickly shoot up to my feet and then turn to snap off a bee-bee across the diamond, the ball popping loudly into the first baseman’s glove, the runner out by two steps. Spectators would raise hands to open mouths. Bang, Bang, Bang. Team-mate fist-bumps and “Nice play, Harry’s” would follow.
My head dropped softly onto the couch top as I fantasized about how I had wished I’d made that play earlier that day. Stuart was quiet.
“I shoulda had it, Stu. I’m telling you. And yet ... I just couldn’t seem to get there quick enough.”
Stuart burst out laughing and I laughed hard with him.
“Who the hell am I kidding? I didn’t have a chance.” I laughed even harder. “It’s like my instincts – all those years of Little League, Babe Ruth, and Legion training put together – crashed head-on with my body’s limits. It was kind of confusing.”
“Man, you are being way too hard on yourself, you know that, right?. I mean, think about it, H....”
It was finally time for the phone call’s real purpose: the sermon that would rescue me from my self-pity attack.
“I mean, come on. You’re forty-six and you’re still out there doing something you love. You’re in the fresh air, chatting it up, swinging the bat, meeting new people, thinking the game.... You’re out there on the soft green grass…
“It’s dirt…”
“You’re on…the dirt?” he laughed. You mean, there’s no grass?”
“It’s dirt.
“OK, then. So, you’re on the dirt…and you’re doing something you love. You’re playing ball for crying out loud. I mean, come on! Isn’t it great?”
The phone call’s mission complete, it was time to say goodnight.

But I carried my brothers last question with me into bed – both ice bags still in place, Advil kicking in, my thoughts drifting.
“Situations! How many times do I have to say it? It’s all about situations,” Mr. Schultz used to drum into us, practice after practice after practice. “OK, men on first and third, one out.” And then, without warning, he’d hit the ball to someone…anyone on the field. There weren’t any real runners – it was all about hypothetical tests; one right after the other. Each kid had to know what to do with the ball and when to do it as soon as it hit his mitt. Split second mental decisions. “Man on second, two outs” Bing. Ball hits mitt, what to do? If a kid bobbled the ball for even a millisecond, he needed a backup plan. And then an extra backup plan, in case the runner did something unpredictable. This mind training is the essence of baseball and a part of every Little Leaguer’s knowledge repertoire. I marvel at people who think the game of baseball is slow and boring. Whenever I hear a person express such a thought, I know that person never spent time on a ball field with their own Mr. Schultz.

“Isn’t it great?” Stu’s question was a good and simple one.
And even with two pulled hamstrings and a nice little raspberry, to boot, the answer was just as simple. There wasn’t a place on earth where I felt more comfortable and happy then to be bouncing on the top of my toes, sneaking in a few steps and then going into my crouch on every pitch, waiting for a smash to come to me at third. Another chance to, once again, be Brooks or Santo. It may or may not happen, but the anticipation and excitement of thinking I still have a shot at it…that’s enough for me these days. And each time I dig into the grass or dirt, somewhere inside me I’ll believe I can make that diving play. Well…at least most of the time, anyway.
The muscles will heal. A bit slower, perhaps, but they will heal. And the next time the ball heads my way, I’ll do my best to make the play the way Mr. Schultz taught me.
I just hope my hamstrings cooperate.