Let’s All Get Up
Let’s All Get Up
By Carey Bowman
Carey Bowman, the author of the essay below, died at the age of 28, on Thanksgiving Day, 2016. He was my youngest son.
An aspiring writer, he never lived to see any of his short stories published. But he did live long enough to see his Chicago Cubs, for whom he had rooted since the age of six, win the World Series. He loved baseball passionately, followed its statistics fanatically, and spent most of the summers of his youth on dusty ball diamonds around Virginia. He sent me this essay before he showed it to his professor, asking for my opinion. As you’ll understand after reading it, it made my heart full. Every word of it is true, except this: He said my Little League batting average was .250. It wasn’t; it was .205. He was a very generous son.
— Rex Bowman
There are little moments that kids remember, moments that seem insignificant to their parents. When we would go hiking, I could never make it to the top, being heavyset and all. Over time, though, I strengthened up, and instead of asking my dad to carry me to the top (an act that, I think, limited the number of hikes we went on), I made it all the way to the crest—I conquered that mountain by myself, without my dad. Our hikes were more enjoyable after that.
I was nine years old when I played in a tournament in Staunton, Virginia. It was the Stuart’s Draft All-Stars against the Northeast Augusta All-Stars.
We hated them. They hated us.
It was a morning game. I was playing third base and made a routine play in the first inning. But no play in Little League is routine—there is inconceivably enormous room for error on a groundball to the shortstop. We heard deafening cheers from the stands with every out. I never heard my dad yell, but I always thought I could discern his clap. He cupped his hands when he clapped, making it louder and more baritone than anyone else’s. As we ran back to our dugout to get ready for our at-bat (I jogged), I looked up at my dad and I saw that smile. I don’t know if Brooks Robinson’s dad was proud of every routine grounder his son fielded, but, if he was anything like my dad, he would clap louder than anyone else on every slow roller down the third base line.
I never knew what my dad did in the bleachers during my games. I never asked him. I assumed that he watched me, his second son with the sweetest swing he’d ever seen. He never scowled at me or gave me pointers while I was practicing or when I was on the field. He just smiled. He always had a smile for me, like I had done something funny. I have a son now, so I know that look a little better. I smile now when I see my son pick up a Cheerio and put it in his mouth. It amazes me. I can only imagine seeing my son on a baseball field in shoes that he tied, taking sweet swings with a friend, pounding a glove he oiled.
Thinking about all those things—a son who could play baseball, oil gloves, and conquer mountains—that’s probably what made him smile.
I batted fifth in the order, behind the coach’s son. The pitcher was throwing bullets that day. The mound was only 45 feet away from home plate, so 50 mph looked like 90 mph. We went one-two-three in the first inning.
Northeast Augusta threatened in the second, putting runners on first and second with one out, but we got out of it. I didn’t get any action.
Inside the on-deck circle, instead of watching the pitcher warm up, I looked at that short porch in right field. 160 feet? 170? Couldn’t be more than 180 feet. The coach’s son struck out. It was me, the pitcher throwing BBs, and 180 feet. I heard my dad clap. I did my pre-swing rituals, pretending to be Nomar Garciaparra. The pitcher got the sign, threw a laser chest high. I swung and missed. I settled in. Another laser, this time knee-high. Called strike. My dad said I had the best eye of anyone he’d ever known. It was a ball. I was down 0-2. I heard my dad’s hands echo in a clap. Then nothing. He was waiting. The pitcher decided to throw that flat curve reserved for blowouts and tomfoolery. I stayed back and put a good swing on it, and even though I didn’t get the head of the bat on it, the ball shot off and soared upward. I took off for first and watched the right fielder back up to the fence. That ball traveled 182 feet—tops. The bleachers erupted as the ball cleared the fence, barely. A home run. Instead of sprinting to second and sliding my awkward slide, the slide that left bruises on my thigh every time, I got to trot. My teammates mobbed me at home, smacked my helmet and slapped my heavyset ass.
I didn’t look up to see my dad or his smile. The rest of the game was a blur. We won the game. As we walked off the field, I was yapping with my best friend Josh—my dad was holding my bat bag. My dad is 5’9”, but he looked 7 feet tall that day. He may have been happier than I was. He always told us that he was a defensive Little Leaguer, said he made the all-star team on his glove alone—his .250 average was proof. But that day, he saw his son hit his first homer. Better than a first step, better than a first word, this was a home run. It was the first home run in our family—not even my brother, who was two years older, managed to put one over the fence.
After our post-game meeting with the coach, we started for the parking lot. I heard my dad call after me. He asked me if I wanted him to carry me on his shoulders to the car. He said he wouldn’t mind. Said he would love to carry me like a champion to the top of the mountain—to his Chevy Cavalier. His shoulder wasn’t hurting and he could handle the weight, it’d be no problem. He wrung his hands and wrinkled his forehead, lifting his eyebrows, as he asked me one more time to please let him carry me to the car. I told him no, I would walk with Josh and the coach’s son, but thanks. Then I turned away. I didn’t get to see the look on my dad’s face. I’m not sure if he was hurt. I didn’t think about it until years later. I wish I let him carry me on his shoulders.
I should have shared that moment with him. I don’t talk to Josh anymore and I can’t even remember the coach’s son’s name. But I remember the sound of my dad’s hands clapping together. I remember him offering to carry me, heavyset as I was, two hundred yards to the parking lot. Later, my dad once saw me cry and beg to leave a baseball tournament because my coach had me riding the bench. He saw me quit baseball for good to start smoking, drinking, and doing things that teenagers do. He saw me make a mess of my life and drop out of college. I don’t feel ashamed of those things. Maybe I should. But I don’t. The only thing that shames me—and I tell him this—is not letting him carry me to the car.
I’ll pay penance for it, I’m sure. I’m old enough to know the way the world works. My son will hit a home run and leave me carrying his glove and bag. And there I’ll be, watching him walk away as I lug his gear across a gravel parking lot, proud and alone.
About the Illustrator
Tanya Ramsey has been laboring as a professional graphic designer and illustrator for the better part of two decades. Born in Northern Minnesota, Tanya spent most of her life in her home state save for a brief, eight-year stint, in Anchorage, Alaska. Asked why she chose to move back home, she shuddered and replied, merely, “there were bears.” Inspired by classic art movements such as Surrealism and Expressionism Tanya is also drawn to more recent artists such as HR Giger, Brian Froud, and Butch Hartman (creator of The Fairly OddParents). For more, you can follow her on Twitter @Drag_TJR or visit her website: www.joycreating.com