feet tall, took Tinsley’s place at the megaphone, bending over to bring his mouth down to its level. He coughed and cleared his throat a few times. “It is my understanding,” he finally began, “that there was one relic in particular that Oliver Perriman most wanted to retrieve from the dust of history—but could never find. That object was a bat, a twenty-seven-foot baseball bat inscribed with the names of the 1869 Red Stockings.” There were some murmurs from the crowd at the notion of such an enormous bat. “It was fifty-two years ago yesterday, that my father, Josiah Bonner, presented that grand bat to Red Stockings president Aaron Champion on behalf of the Queen City Lumber Company. Unfortunately, my father is a bit under the weather today, so I’m pinch-hitting for him, as it were ...” He’d started to stand upright and his voice began to fade. Leaning closer to the megaphone again, he continued, “As I said, that original bat has never been found. But”—he gestured toward a group of people standing behind home plate—“it gives me great pleasure to present a new bat, inscribed with the name of Oliver Perriman, to his wife Katie.”
Team captain Jake Daubert led a short woman dressed in black toward the mound. She was wearing a veil, so I couldn’t tell much about her appearance other than that her figure was on the stout side, the kind that had been popular in the nineties.
As the crowd gave her a respectful ovation, a small flatbed truck came out of the left-field corner, pulling something shaped like a telegraph pole covered by a red cloth. The truck stopped between home plate and the pitcher’s mound, and Nathaniel Bonner went over to it. He grabbed a corner of the cloth and tried to whisk it off with a magician-like flourish, but it snagged, maybe on a splinter. Bonner tugged and yanked at the covering until it tore away to reveal a magnificent bat supported on blocks. The varnished wood shimmered in the sunlight, and painted in red along one side was Oliver Perriman.
Katie Perriman said a barely audible “Thank you” into the megaphone, then Lloyd Tinsley led her to the bat. She ran a hand over her husband’s name, almost caressing it. Then she reached under her veil and wiped her eyes, exposing a pale face framed by mousy brown hair.
Curt Stram, standing to my right, nudged me with his elbow. “You know,” he said, “she don’t look like much in the daylight, but at night, with the lights out, she don’t feel a day over eighteen.”
“Who?”
“Katie Perriman. I tell you, she’s a wild one all right. Get a couple glasses of wine in her and—”
I couldn’t believe he was talking about Ollie Perriman’s widow that way. After I recovered from the shock, I warned him, “You say anything like that again, and you’ll be tasting my cleats.”
“Sorry. Didn’t know you were a milk-and-water—”
This boy didn’t know when to shut up. I dug an elbow into his ribs, hard, and he finally closed his mouth.
Lloyd Tinsley took over at the megaphone again. He mentioned in closing that the “setback”—again avoiding the word “death”—would delay the opening of the exhibit somewhat, but that it would be worth the wait. And he added that the bat Bonner had just donated would be part of the display.
The truck circled around the infield. When it turned, I saw that on the other side of the bat, in larger print than Perriman’s name, was painted Queen City Lumber Company .
I didn’t like the way people were cashing in on the exhibit that Perriman had planned. It was supposed to be a tribute, a way to pass history along to another generation, not a commercial venture.
As the dignitaries left the field, and the bat was carted off, I was thinking about Perriman. His death was more than a “setback,” and his life had been more than the collection. There was a personal side to him that I knew little about.
In most homes these days, about the only wine you could hope for
Team captain Jake Daubert led a short woman dressed in black toward the mound. She was wearing a veil, so I couldn’t tell much about her appearance other than that her figure was on the stout side, the kind that had been popular in the nineties.
As the crowd gave her a respectful ovation, a small flatbed truck came out of the left-field corner, pulling something shaped like a telegraph pole covered by a red cloth. The truck stopped between home plate and the pitcher’s mound, and Nathaniel Bonner went over to it. He grabbed a corner of the cloth and tried to whisk it off with a magician-like flourish, but it snagged, maybe on a splinter. Bonner tugged and yanked at the covering until it tore away to reveal a magnificent bat supported on blocks. The varnished wood shimmered in the sunlight, and painted in red along one side was Oliver Perriman.
Katie Perriman said a barely audible “Thank you” into the megaphone, then Lloyd Tinsley led her to the bat. She ran a hand over her husband’s name, almost caressing it. Then she reached under her veil and wiped her eyes, exposing a pale face framed by mousy brown hair.
Curt Stram, standing to my right, nudged me with his elbow. “You know,” he said, “she don’t look like much in the daylight, but at night, with the lights out, she don’t feel a day over eighteen.”
“Who?”
“Katie Perriman. I tell you, she’s a wild one all right. Get a couple glasses of wine in her and—”
I couldn’t believe he was talking about Ollie Perriman’s widow that way. After I recovered from the shock, I warned him, “You say anything like that again, and you’ll be tasting my cleats.”
“Sorry. Didn’t know you were a milk-and-water—”
This boy didn’t know when to shut up. I dug an elbow into his ribs, hard, and he finally closed his mouth.
Lloyd Tinsley took over at the megaphone again. He mentioned in closing that the “setback”—again avoiding the word “death”—would delay the opening of the exhibit somewhat, but that it would be worth the wait. And he added that the bat Bonner had just donated would be part of the display.
The truck circled around the infield. When it turned, I saw that on the other side of the bat, in larger print than Perriman’s name, was painted Queen City Lumber Company .
I didn’t like the way people were cashing in on the exhibit that Perriman had planned. It was supposed to be a tribute, a way to pass history along to another generation, not a commercial venture.
As the dignitaries left the field, and the bat was carted off, I was thinking about Perriman. His death was more than a “setback,” and his life had been more than the collection. There was a personal side to him that I knew little about.
In most homes these days, about the only wine you could hope for
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