stories

the train was crowded yesterday, standing room only. but we were all going to the same place and we were all so excited. twins and kansas city, second in a three game series. the twins were in first place, half game ahead.

a hansome man in front of me was leaning on a grab pole and chatting with his grown up son when his phone rang. "hi dad, we're on our way to the game." his son smiled and asked how is grandpa after the call had ended. i wondered if my dad ever took my brothers to a game. i doubted it but made a note to ask johnny next time we speak.

sitting on kirby pucket plaza with a corn dog and some curds, i noticed a young couple on the opposite bench. he was gnoshing on some ribs and she sat quietly next to him. she wore a long simple dress, pastel striped searsucker. her hair was up and her bun was covered with a small filmy fabric, neatly pinned up close to her bundle of pretty brown hair. on the another bench, two small girls waited patiently for mom to come back, when she did, she was toting hotdogs and cheeseburgers in silver foil, nestled in a paper boat. one of the girls popped up and clapped when she discovered a bag of chips hiding in the pile of steamy baseball food.

the couple in front of us at the dome had 2 small boys, one a smiley infant, the other a red headed 4 year old named evan who liked to draw. he had a tiny spiral pad with a scary scull on the front, and he drew and drew on those pages inches high, with a black ink pen. after a while he drew on dad's hand, too. they had their hands full with the boys and the supply bag - formula, diapers, a zip lock bag filled with blue green and pink cheerios. it seemd like a lot to manage but they were a calm and happy family, a solid team.

the guy to our right took a call in the 5th inning from his girlfriend who was walking around drunk in munich. she was happy, he was worried.

but the most intriguing of all was the tall man with the twins jersey who sat one row in front of us, a season ticket holder who knew exactly where his seat was without even looking at the silver and black numbers on the backs of the blue seats. his hair was the thickest white with silver lowlights, and he wore horn rimmed glasses and snakeskin cowboy boots fthat peaked out from the hems of his long levis. he looked like gregory peck in his older days, and i couldn't stop staring at him.

his twins jersey had a "40th anniversay" patch on the right sleeve, and on the back was the word "omer" over the number 666. he wore a sterling cuff bracelet with turquoise on his left arm, and next to that was a rope bracelet - the kind that shrinks to fit after just enough showers, the kind the cool hippie kids wore in new england when i was growing up. on his right hand, more silver and turquoise, and on his right arm, a glorious and fascinating tatoo. it looked as if someone had spilled ink all over his arm, but i pictured a man in candlelight at a desk with a scotch and some art, and piles of paper and as he went to light a cigarrette a small pot of black paint tipped over and splashed his arm, and there it sat still, a splash of memory. a statement. body art.

i wanted to climb over the row and ask him about that tatoo - and about him. was he an artist? a writer? an activitist? he was someone. he was definitely someone, something. i wanted so badly to know, and when he left at the bottom of the 6th i regretted not making that move.

most people show up as we walk this earth, but some show up with something important to say and they say it without saying it. a number on a back, an ink stained arm, turquoise and silver.

fascinating.

twins lost, 4 - 2.