By Gregory Smith
“Why do you need the cane, Pop? You’re in the wheelchair. You’re not going to hit me with that cane, are you?”
“Of course not,” replied the old man. “You’ll see why I need the cane. Let’s go!”
Willie Monroe and his son Jake started searching the parking lot, heads down, peering on the ground. The lot was located next to a Boy’s and Girl’s Club in St. Louis, Missouri.
“Wait a minute, Pop, what’s over there, next to the red Buick?” asked the son.” Look, there it is! Do you see it?”
Once certain that was the location they were searching for, they set the brakes on Willie’s wheelchair. The old man proceeded to do some sort of ritual, swinging his cane in the air, with Jake well out of range. After several minutes of this odd behavior, the old man said he was ready to go. Jake wheeled him back to the car, where they loaded up and moved on.
The old man fell asleep in the front seat as they got on the turnpike, Chicago bound. A good time to call their neighbor, thought Jake.
“Hey, Luther, it’s Jake. Everything ok at home? How’s Cletus?”
“Cletus is fine. We just had ourselves some snacks,” Luther said.
“Luther, what did I tell you? No snacks. That dog is chunky enough. The vet said he’s got to lose some weight. Stick with the diet, as we agreed.”
“Ok, ok. I didn’t think pizza would hurt him none. How’s your father?” he asked, quickly changing the subject.
“He’s sleeping here in the car. We just left St. Louis, on the way to Chicago.”
“St. Louis? Why are you in St. Louis? You are watching the Cardinals play?”
“Luther, you know the route. We planned it out last spring. He wanted to visit the spot where home plate was located at old Sportsmen Park. That’s why we were in St. Louis today”
“So, let me get this straight: You’re not going to see a real baseball game in a real baseball park. You drove all the way to St. Louis to see where a stadium, which no longer exists, used to be? That’s some crazy shit,” Luther remarked. “The Alzheimer’s really got your old man something bad. Why do you let him do this to you? There’s no stadium there no more.”
“I know,” answered the son. “He calls this trip his ‘Farewell Tour’, whatever that means. Listen, Luther- you may think he’s crazy, but he is my father. He never asked anything of me before. And I know he’s only going to get worse, according to the doctors. So, that’s why I took a few weeks off work and we are on the road. If nothing else, it’s a bonding experience.”
“Damn if I would drive a thousand miles just to bond with my old man,” Luther said. “Say, what does he want to see where all the old stadiums were? Your Pop never played in the Major Leagues; he played in the old Negro Leagues.”
“I know that” Jake snapped. “But this is what the old man wants, and whatever the old man wants, he gets. “
“When are you coming home?”
“In about a week. I’m not sure how long this will take,” Jake replied. “We still have a bunch of cities to hit yet.”
Old White Sox Park, otherwise known as Comiskey Park, used to be in the parking lot of New Comiskey Park, in Chicago. That is where they quickly located home plate ( or what once was home plate). Once again, the old man went through his gyrations. He sat at the spot where White Sox and American League batters hit for eighty years. He remained in silence, somberly contemplating the moment, like a worshipper in prayer at a holy shrine, finally asking to leave, almost in tears from the experience. Jake didn’t get it, but his was not a reason to ask why, only to act as a taxi.
Away to the next city on the agenda- Minneapolis.
The site of the former Metropolitan Stadium in Bloomington, Minnesota was inside the Mall of America, the largest shopping mall in the country. Smack dab in the middle of the gigantic mall was an amusement area for children called “Nickelodeon Universe”. It was there, among dozens and dozens of kids, that they located home plate.
While Willie went through his now-familiar reverent homage, Jake fondly remembered Metropolitan Stadium as the home of the NFL’s Vikings. ‘The Purple People Eaters’, as their front four was passionately known, did their dirty work every Sunday on the frozen turf of Minnesota, guys like Alan Page and Carl Eller, terrorizing NFL backfields.
Jake loved football more than baseball. He had soured on baseball after learning of the racism his father and other blacks endured while playing the game before it was integrated. Jake and baseball bitterly did not mix; how dare they treat his father and other black players that way, he thought.
Meanwhile, the old man was lost in his own little world, singing the virtues of the Twins Hall of Famers Rod Carew and Tony Oliva.
“Magicians with the bat,” Willie remarked. “Hard to strike out. Always put the ball in play. Damned great hitters.”
A ten-year-old boy stood nearby with his mother, listening in bewilderment until, to Jake’s embarrassment, Willie’s language became a little too salty for her liking.
“I’m swearing at the damn pitcher not the kid!” Willie explained.
Exactly what would have been 520-feet left center of home plate stood a stadium chair, painted red, signifying the longest home run ever hit at the old Met, a titanic blast by the great Harmon Killebrew. This truly was a sacred spot in the history of baseball.
Jake allowed Willie all the time he needed to reflect, to gesture, yes, even to pray, before they left the mall behind. Of course, he had to touch that Killebrew home run chair.
“God, I LOVE Baseball!” Willie sighed.
“Pop, weren’t you ever bitter about the way you and the other black players were treated back then?” Jake asked as they approached their car. “Sure, son,” Willie replied. “We couldn’t figure out why. Just because our skin was dark that doesn’t change what kind of people we were on the inside. That didn’t change our heart or our love for the game. Most of us were damn good ball players. I played with and against Aaron, Banks, Robinson, even Willie Mays. That was in the Negro Leagues. Why did it have to stop there?”
Crosley Field in Cincinnati was home to the Reds for fifty-eight years. It was particularly known for its “Terrace” in left field. The “Terrace” was an unusual slope near the outfield wall, built instead of a warning track. Every old park had a quirk like the “Terrace.” Jake and Willie found Crosley Field’s home plate in an alley between two buildings. There was no fancy plaque to designate the area like other historic home plates. It was simply a white home plate, painted on the asphalt, with a simple sign nearby.
Willie had a rather unusual reaction when he was wheeled alongside the marker.
“I see it! I see the terrace and the scoreboard!” he yelled, his voice echoing along the alley. “I see everything right in front of my eyes! Frank Robinson, the great one, hit right here. I can feel it! Vada Pinson! Oh, what a hitter he was! Pete Rose, you devil you! This is where you got many of your hits, slapping the ball here and there, line drives everywhere! Oh, I can see it all before me.”
Jake began to worry about his father’s increasing delusions. He had checked with the doctors before embarking on this trip. In fact, they thought it might do Willie some good, maybe spark a memory or two. “Fantasy Validation” is what the doctor called it.
Who knows why Willie asked to do this “Farewell Tour”? Maybe it was his way of saying goodbye to the game he loved so much for so long?
Forbes Field in Pittsburgh was next on the list. Willie described the park’s beauty in the car as they entered the city of Pittsburgh: Ivy-covered outfield walls, much like Wrigley Field in Chicago; a large hand-operated scoreboard in left-center field, with a gigantic clock attached to the top. Iconic, stately, classic. This was the place where the great Bill Mazeroski, the tobacco-chewing second baseman of the Pirates, launched a ninth-inning blast to beat the Yankees in Game Seven of the 1960 World Series; it’s where the legendary Roberto Clemente patrolled right field, making his signature basket catches and showing-off his rocket right arm; and where the Hall of Famer Willie Stargell, also nicknamed “Pops”, began his career, hitting moonshot home runs over center and right field.
They pulled up to Posvar Hall at the University of Pittsburgh very early one sun-splashed September morning. It didn’t take long to find a home plate in the lobby. The relic was encased in glass, embedded in the floor. Oddly, Willie didn’t have the same excitement as he approached this home plate.
“What in blue-blazes is wrong here?” Willie erupted.” Something’s wrong, son! Something is wrong indeed! This is not the place!”
“It’s right here, Pop,” Jake said.” See it! The authentic home plate of Forbes Field. This is the spot.”
“No, it is not,” the old man insisted. “I don’t see no light tower. No grandstand around us. No scoreboard in left.”
“Neither do I,” said Jake.
A security guard was watching this scene play out several feet away and began to stroll over to the pair.
“Pop, I don’t know what to tell you,” Jake said, exasperated. Each time Jake took off the wheelchair brakes to leave, Willie would slam them back on.
“Can I help you gentlemen,” the guard politely asked.
“My father thinks this isn’t the Forbes Field home plate when it clearly says right there that it is,” Jake said.
“I never said anything about that not being home plate,” the old man countered. “I said this is not the right spot where it was located.”
“He’s right,” the guard affirmed.
Jake looked surprised.” Then why is home plate here?”
“Because the real location is in a nearby Ladies Room.,” the guard answered. “Fifth stall.”
“Is there any possible way to see the exact location?” asked Jake. “It’s kind of important to my father.”
“Not unless he intends to change his gender,” said the guard.
“I knew Honus Wagner,” Willie said, “If that helps any.”
“Sorry,” the guard answered. “This is the best we can do, old-timer.”
“Well, you got a gun- I can’t argue with you,” the old man said, laughing. “Let’s go, son.”
On their way to Yankee Stadium, they stopped for breakfast. While Pop dipped his scrambled eggs into a patch of ketchup on his plate, he shared his opinion on various baseball-related topics. He could talk about baseball for hours. This morning, he went on a rant about the “new” baseball stadiums:
“They’re alright,” he started, like he was lecturing a class on Baseball 101. “Everything old is new again. In the seventies, they started replacing the old places with those new, cookie-cutter, multi-purpose shit boxes. Ugly as sin. They finally started realizing that they were shit boxes, so in the nineties they started making them look old again. Places like Camden Yards. Why didn’t they keep them old in the first place? Now, every stadium must have a corporate name. Like ‘Citizens Bank Park’. If that was the case, back in the day, there wouldn’t be no ‘Crosley Field’ or ‘Forbes Field’. It would be the name of some jackass corporation. They are taking all the charm out of baseball. It’s all about money, damn it…”
“Pop, how come you’re not bitter about the way Baseball treated you back in the day?” Jake said.
“I wish it was different, son,” Willie began. “I wish I could go back and do it all over again. Maybe, if I could go back, I would tell players like Jackie Robinson, Judy Johnson, and others not to give up hope. Our sacrifice, our suffering, what we endured would not be in vain. If only they knew.
“Baseball is a great game, son. The game will always be there. No matter the color of a man’s skin, no matter his religion, no matter where he is from- it doesn’t change the fact that Baseball is a GREAT game. In the end, Baseball will survive.”
When they reached the new Yankee Stadium, they found that the grounds to old Yankee Stadium- The House That Ruth Built- was now a public park called Heritage Field. The original home plate area was now somewhere around second base in the new Yankee Stadium.
“Well, I can’t let you in, just to hang around second base,” the stadium guard said. “Buy a ticket to this afternoon’s game. After the game they are doing ‘Seniors Stroll the Bases’. You can get all your pictures then.”
That’s exactly what they did. The Yanks beat Boston, 3-2, then fans were invited down on the field. Rows and rows of older fans lined up to take their turn to stroll the bases, the line reaching outside and around the stadium.
The stroll- with Pop in his wheelchair- was enjoyable, even for Jake. Not often do you get the chance to be on a big- league field. When they reached their destination, second base, Willie yelled to stop. He wanted to stand ON second base, as the traffic behind them grew more congested.
“Pop, what are you doing? We must keep moving!” Jake implored. “This is a stroll, not a camp-out!”
“This is it, son,” Willie exclaimed, standing from his chair. “This is where the Bambino stood, hitting baseballs out of sight. Lou Gehrig, The Iron Horse. What an RBI machine! Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio stood on this very spot! I feel it- I feel the vibes! I can see the mound. Why, it’s old Bob Feller himself! Rapid Robert! His fastball would whiz by so fast you could hear it hum. You’re going down today, Bob! I’m going to knock that fastball clear over the monuments in straight center field. Lay one in there, Bobby- boy!”
On and on he went, swinging his cane like a baseball bat, calling the pitches: “That’s a strike- I’ll give you that one. Come on, Bob! You can throw harder than that! Why, you throw like a little girl! Throw one right in my wheelhouse!”
“Sorry, folks!” said an embarrassed Jake, helping fans go around his father.
Willie swung his cane one last time in a mighty upper-cut motion. “He got me, damn it, he got me.” With that, the old man plopped down in his chair, slumping forward in disgust. Then he burst into tears, his head in his hands. Jake stood frozen, surprised and heartbroken by his father’s sudden outburst of emotion.
“I belong here! Get away from me! I belong here, son! They said we couldn’t play. They didn’t let us. They didn’t let us…” he wept.
“What’s the hold-up here?” an older, irritated woman asked. “Keep moving, pal!”
“Excuse us, ma’am,” Jake replied. “My father is a little emotional right now, seeing Yankee Stadium and all. He used to play in the old Yankee Stadium when he was in the Negro Leagues. I hope you can understand?” The woman nodded and her expression softened.
Jake put his arm around his father’s shoulder. “Come on, Pop, let’s finish our stroll,” he said.
With that, they slowly rolled to third base, then to home plate, the old man looking so sad as they exited the field.
“High and inside. Feller knew I could never hit high cheese. Good scouting. I got to tip my hat to him,” Willie mumbled in the car.
Meanwhile Jake got on his phone.
“Luther? It’s Jake. We just left Yankee Stadium in the Bronx. We’ll be home in a couple of days. I want you to do me a favor…”
Howard University Hospital in Washington, D.C. was their next destination. The university bought the Griffith Stadium property in 1964 and demolished the then dilapidated steel and concrete structure. A beautiful hospital now stood on the site. The only memory of the once-proud stadium was the home plate located somewhere in a hospital hallway.
“Go down the main hallway, around the corner from the elevators, next to the bathroom, and that’s where you will find it,” said a hospital employee.
There it was, a simple monument to the past: a white home plate and a batter’s box painted on the gray tiled hospital floor. A large black and white photo of the exact location hung on the wall in front of them.
“Hard to believe what was here,” the old man reminisced. “This was all open. Trees beyond the outfield fence, the bright green grass of the infield. This is where Walter ‘Big Train” Johnson smoked fastballs by the over-matched hitters. This is the spot where the great Mickey Mantle blasted the longest home run ever hit- 565-feet to right field, over the roof and completely out of the damn stadium. Josh Gibson was the only other player to do that, hit a ball out of this park.”
“I thought you told me that blacks weren’t allowed to play in major league stadiums until Jackie Robinson,” Jake asked.
“That’s right,” Willie replied. “But the legendary Homestead Greys, they played many of their home games here on Sundays. We used to take the train down to D.C. to watch them play. They played for three seasons here, when the Senators were out of town. The folks used to come and see the Grays play because that was good baseball back then. The Senators were a bad, bad team. You ever hear the saying ‘Washington- first in war, first in peace, last in the American League?’ That’s how it was.
“Think about it, son: They let the Greys, a black team, play ball here, yet the boys would go to get food after the game and were denied service. It’s hard to believe now. Someone who may have watched them play that afternoon and cheered for the Greys, that same person might own a restaurant and not allow them to eat dinner there. All because of the color of their skin.”
“I am really sorry, Pop,” the son apologized.
“Sorry for what, son?”
“I am sorry that you and other black athletes had to endure that kind of racism,” Jake said, shaking his head. “It’s ironic that Howard University, one of the oldest black universities, would put a hospital here- a place of healing.”
“The black fans had to sit in the right field pavilion over there when the white Senators played. That’s where we were told to sit. But we were happy. We were all happy just to be at a baseball game.”
The pair took a few silent moments to ponder what had happened and what life was like now. Some things were better left in the past.
“Things sure have changed,” Pop remarked, gazing at the wall. A wall that signified the end of an era.
Jake and his father pulled into the train station bright and early the next morning.
“Why are we at a train station, son?”
“It’s a little surprise. “We’re going to take the train back to Philadelphia,” Jake informed. “Just like the old days.”
‘We traveled by bus most of the time,” Willie said.
“Now you tell me. We are not taking the bus. I already bought the train tickets.”
“What about the car?” Willie asked.
Just then someone rapped on the passenger front window, “Hey, Mister Monroe! Roll down your window! It’s me, Luther!”
Sure enough, there stood Luther, their neighbor, with a toothy grin.
“I know it’s you, dummy!” said the old man. “What are you doing here?”
“Pop, I asked Luther to take the train down to Washington to meet us. He’s going to drive the car back to Philly while we ride the train back,” interjected the son.
All the way from Washington to Philadelphia, Willie told his son stories about life playing baseball in the Negro Leagues. He had never confided about his baseball life so much as he did on that train ride. Maybe because Jake was interested like never before to listen. It was almost as though Willie had a need to relate these stories before they were forever lost in time.
“Buck Leonard,” Willie said, “was one of my best friends back in the day, even though he played for the Grays. He was known as the ‘Black Lou Gehrig’ because he played first base and hit behind the ‘Black Babe Ruth’, none other than Josh Gibson, another friend of mine. We all got along. And we all loved Baseball. We had to- there was no money in it. We played for love of the game, son. All we wanted was a shot to play in the Major Leagues. Sadly, most of us never had that chance.”
The corner of Twenty-first Street and Lehigh Avenue was quiet on a chilly, fall Tuesday night. It used to be a bustling block when Shibe Park- later known as Connie Mack Stadium- was there. It was once home to the Philadelphia Athletics and the Philadelphia Phillies. When it opened on April 12, 1909, it was the first concrete and steel baseball stadium. The A’s beat the Red Sox. 8-1 that day. The Phillies squeaked by the Montreal Expos, 2-1, in October of 1970 to close the old ballpark down on its last day. In between, there were championships- all won by the A’s- and lots of losing seasons- mostly by the Phils. There were also All-Star games, concerts, and even high school and professional football games graced Shibe Park in its heyday.
“Hey, I remember you bringing me here when I was a boy,” Jake said.” I remember the thrill I felt when I first saw the light towers as we approached the stadium. We would pay a quarter to neighborhood kids to ‘watch’ our car so the hoodlums in the area wouldn’t steal the tires. So much I remember about this place: It smelled like a ballpark. It looked like a ballpark. Everything about it, from the vendors yelling to the aroma of hot dogs, peanuts and cigars. It was real baseball.”
Jake was surprised by how nostalgic he had become. Maybe he was learning something from his father. Maybe he understood Willie a little better now after this “Farewell Tour.” Maybe he didn’t need to hate the game of baseball just because of the racism of the past. If Pop could find forgiveness in his heart, maybe he could too.
Shibe Park – or the ground where it once majestically stood- was now an evangelical church. How appropriate to build a house of worship on such a revered spot.
“What are we doing now?” Luther asked from the back seat.
“We are going to find home plate,” informed Jake.
Instead, they found a Pennsylvania state historical marker, which read:
SHIBE PARK/ CONNIE MACK STADIUM
Early Major League baseball park opened here in 1909. Renamed, 1953. Home to Athletics, 1909-1954; Phillies, 1938-1970. Site of three Negro League World Series; five A’s World Series victories. Among first to host night games. Razed, 1976.
They wandered around the lot, looking for the exact spot where the home plate had once been. It was getting dark and a breeze kicked up, spinning dried, crumpled leaves across the lot. The overhead streetlights fought to switch on, at last shining a faint glow on the vicinity.
“It’s right here,” Willie whispered. “Stop right here, son. This is the place. This is where the batter’s box used to be. I can feel the vibes.”
Luther started laughing before Jake told him to be quiet. The old man knew what he was doing.
“Pop, are you sure? There’s no plaque here.”
“Damned the plaque,” Willie insisted. “It was right here, son. Wait…look!”
Willie gasped, craning his neck to scan the entire parking lot. He was practically jumping out of his wheelchair with excitement.
“Don’t you see it?” Willie said, amazement in his voice. “It’s all around us, shining bright. The lights! The grandstand is taking shape as I speak. Look! There’s the left field roof! Jimmie Foxx used to smash baseballs clear over that roof and onto the street back there. I bet if we went back there right now, we would find a few tarnished baseballs rolling around the gutters. Look over there at the pitcher’s mound! Why, that’s none other than Satchel Paige warming up! Well, that doesn’t surprise me none. I have witnessed Satchel pitch both legs of a doubleheader more than a few times.
“The legendary Kansas City Monarchs! That’s right, we played them quite a few times at Shibe Park. They were the best. June 21st, 1943- we beat those Monarchs for the first time. I still remember getting dressed in the A’s locker room that day. Can you imagine that? Using the same stall as Foxx or Al Simmons?”
“I need to stand up, damn it,” growled Willie. The old man was shaking as he struggled getting to his feet. Jake gave him a steady hand while Luther looked on, dumbfounded.
“That’s right, Satchel, throw me one, right over the heart of the plate. You’re not striking me out this time!”
Willie swung his cane in the air for strike one. “You got me that time. But I’m ready for you now. Let’s go!”
“What the hell is going on here?” Luther exclaimed.
Jake didn’t bother to answer, for as soon as he helped his father to his feet, he could see everything play out in front of him: the parrot-green baseball diamond, glowing and glistening under the powerful lights; the grandstands all around him, buzzing with activity, packed with fans, most wearing hats; the smell of stale beer and onions in the warm air. It even felt like summertime again. Everything- just like when he was a boy, like the first time Willie brought him here.
Magically, Willie Monroe was now wearing an off- white jersey emblazoned with the red lettered words “Phila. Stars” on the front. He swung a real ash baseball bat instead of a cane. The players, the umpires, the fans, the batboy- they all looked real, not ghost-like or like a hologram. Everything was real- from the sweat on Willie’s weathered face to the sound of the radio announcer describing the on-going game to the clicking of the distant teletype machine, sending the score all around the league.
Jake’s mouth hung open in awe at the scene.
The catcher returned to his position after his brief meeting on the mound. “Play ball!” bellowed the black-clad ump, adjusting his enormous chest-protector.
Willie stepped into the batter’s box with a determined look on his face. He took a few practice swings from the right-hand side of the plate, his intense brown eyes burning a hole in the fearsome pitcher sixty feet six inches away. Satchel Paige, toeing the rubber, went into his unorthodox windmill wind-up. A blazing high fastball popped into the catcher’s mitt.
“Strike!” cried the umpire.
“Strike? If that ball was any higher, I’d need a stepladder to reach it,” Willie said to the ump. He spit a wad of tobacco juice on the grass before stepping back into the box.
“Come on, Pop!” Jake encouraged from the on-deck circle. “You can do it!”
“You’re throwing pure country heat, eh?” the old man mumbled. “No curveball? Just going to blow me away, Satchel? Is that what you are planning to do?”
“I don’t see nothing,” lamented Luther.” Y’all are crazy. Like it’s some kind of ‘Field of Dreams’ shit. I’m walking back to the car.”
“Pop was right,” Jake mumbled to himself, still stunned. “All this time, he was right.”
Ghostly Paige went into his funky, windmill-like wind-up again, this time looping a beautiful curveball over the plate. It had a perplexing twelve-to-six break, surprising Willie, who froze with the bat still on his shoulder.
“Strike Two!” yelled the ump. The crowd cheered, eager for the strike-out.
“Time-out!” Willie shouted. He walked back to the on-deck circle, kneeling next to his son, dusting his bat with an old resin bag.
“Son, you know how much I love Baseball. I belong here. I’ve decided to stay this time. Josh and the boys are offering me a contract to stay on and play ball. You have your own life. This is mine. This is where I belong. Do you understand, son? Baseball is in my blood.”.
“I understand, “Jake said. “This isn’t a dream. It’s REAL. I can’t keep you away from this. You’ve got to stay, Pop. But I’m going to miss you.”
“I’m going to miss you too, son,” Willie replied. “When you think of me, know that I’m doing what I love. Know that my spirit will always be alive if Baseball is alive.”
Willie and Jake warmly embraced.
“Let’s go, batter!” the umpire roared.
“Go get them, Pop!” Jake said.
Willie, with the gait of a much younger man, strode into the batter’s box once more.
“What now, Satchel? Going to show me ‘Uncle Charlie” again? Or do I see the heater? The moment has arrived!” he said.
Crack! Willie slashed his forty-ounce bat at another blistering fastball, this time crushing the old horsehide into the night.
“I’m pretty sure I got all of it,” he yelled as the crowd gasped as one.
When a one hundred mile-an-hour fastball meets a forty- ounce bat, something’s got to give. Willie dropped his bat and admired his shot. The baseball appeared like a fading white comet in the dark sky, vanishing over the roof of the left field grandstand. He stood there only for a moment. Afterall, he didn’t want to show-up his friend, Satchel, who was also watching the mammoth home run in wonderment.
” Satchel Paige, you’re still the best I ever hit against!” Willie shouted as he joyfully rounded the bases.
Jake jumped in the air, arms raised in triumph, cheering for his father. He felt like a kid again.
When Willie touched home plate the scene instantly dissolved into what it had been before: a windy, cold and barren church parking lot.
Jake slowly headed back to the car, pushing the empty wheelchair. Luther was already in the back seat, trying to get warm.
“Where’s your father?” Luther asked out the window. “Where did he go?”
“I imagine right about now Pop is sitting in the dugout, talking baseball with his teammates,” Jake surmised.
He folded the wheelchair, lifting it into the trunk. He heard a noise near his feet. He looked down and saw an old, weather-beaten, tarnished baseball slowly rolling toward him, only to be stopped by the left rear wheel of the vehicle. Jake picked up and ball and noticed a faded signature in blue ink. The ball was signed by his father.
A knowing smile crossed his face. Willie Monroe was playing baseball again.
Gregory Smith recently completed sixteen speculative, compelling tales which he calls “Crossing Abbey Road and Other Fateful Short Stories.” Quite a few of the stories have been accepted for publication in various magazines and websites including Floyd County Moonshine, Piker Press, hackwriters.com, Schlock Magazine, Knee Brace Magazine, Sunhous Magazine, Word Gathering Magazine, and Altered States.
Dominique 
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