VietNow National Magazine

The Centerfielder

That Willie Mays glove was old, almost black from dirt. Raggedy and torn, with a few missing laces. But it worked. And when Richie wore that glove, it seemed to be almost magic.

Short fiction by VietNow Editor, Christian Nelson

The day my high school team won the big game turned out to be the same day Richie was killed in Vietnam.

In fact, someone figured out later that Richie's platoon had probably been walking into that Viet Cong ambush at just about exactly the same instant that the ball I hit had been rolling all the way to the wall, for a lead-off triple. A few minutes later, their pitcher uncorked a wild pitch, and I slid home to score under a cloud of dust. It was the last game of the season, the ninth inning, the only run scored by either team, and it won the game for us. Richie would have been
so proud.

Richie was my big brother, and he was who taught me how to play baseball. That was mostly what we did when we were kids. Every afternoon, way into the twilight and beyond. Even after it was too dark to really see the ball, we'd just keep playing and playing. Most of the time it was just Richie and me. Playing our little imaginary two-player baseball games in the pasture up on the hilltop.

And after the games, when it had finally gotten too dark to see anything at all, and the nighthawks were swooping in and out around our faces, we'd lay down in the grass, and look out over the fields, and watch the Montana night sky from our place there on the hill. And Richie would talk about how much he wished he could play baseball like Willie Mays, and how some day he was going to get a tryout and play with the Giants, and how he would take me with him to live in the city. And I believed it would all happen.

Up on that hilltop, in the middle of Montana, it seemed like anything was possible. Especially when I looked at the stars, and looked down at the dark earth, and closed my eyes, and just listened to Richie talk.

One of the things I remember most about the way Richie played baseball was the glove he always wore. It was a Willie Mays "autographed" special. It was old, almost black from dirt. Raggedy and torn, with a few missing laces. But it worked. And when Richie wore that glove, it seemed to be almost magic.

And the funny thing about it was that when Richie wore it, he had to wear it backwards. Willie Mays was right-handed, but Richie was left-handed. So it was funny to always see Richie wearing that old glove backwards, and still always making the big catches and the perfectly aimed throws. And I was one of the few people who knew about that.

Because Richie glided through center field so smooth, and made the catches look so easy, that no one would have ever noticed or guessed that his glove was on backwards.

But I knew it. It was sort of a secret we had. Me and Richie. I think Richie would have been a great centerfielder no matter what, but when he was wearing that Willie Mays glove, no ball could get past him. It was almost like magic. I loved Richie, and I loved that glove.

I still remember the day when Richie left for the Army. We all got up really early, and I didn't know what to say to Richie, so I went up to the hilltop while the sun was just starting to come up, and just stood there waiting. Waiting for Richie to come up and say goodbye. Waiting for Richie to leave for the Army.

You really could see for miles up there on that hilltop. In fact, the year before, I had been standing up there one morning, watching a dark green car driving up the long, dusty road, heading for Eldon Lewellen's house, to tell his mom that he wouldn't be coming back home ever again. The car turned out to be an Army staff car, and I could see it coming that morning for miles, and I knew what it was and what it meant.

I knew about Vietnam, and even though I didn't understand it, or even know where it was, I knew that people were going there and not coming back.

So I was standing there the morning Richie was leaving for the Army, and then he came up there to say goodbye. We didn't really say much. I was in high school by then, and Richie was three years older. Things hadn't changed that much between us, but I think he just didn't know what to say. But when he finally turned and walked down the hill to Dad's car, waiting to take him to the Greyhound bus stop down by the road, I noticed his glove was there in the grass in front of me. Richie had given me his glove. The Willie Mays "autographed" special.

From then on, I wore that glove every day. In my practice games alone on the hill, and in the real games on the George Washington High School field. I didn't have the same prob­lems with it that Richie did. I'm right-handed, so I could wear it the right way with no problem. But I never could catch with it the way Richie did. That was OK though. Just having the glove, and knowing what it meant was enough for me.

The whole year Richie was gone I tried to not worry about him too much. When news reports came on the radio, I tried to not listen, and when people talked about the war, I just didn't pay much attention. I didn't want to think about it any more than I had to. The one big thing I did do was wear that glove. I had gotten the idea that if I just wore that glove in every game, along with the same hat I always wore, that Richie would be all right. That he'd make it back OK. I also checked the picture every day. The picture he'd sent home from basic training.

We kept that picture on the telephone stand, in the living room, and every day I'd check it first thing when I got home from school. If it was still in exactly the right place, I knew Richie was OK.

One of the things that bothered me the most was when people who didn't know any better talked bad about Richie and other guys who were over there in Vietnam. I didn't really know what the war was about, but I knew that if Richie was over there, he must be doing what he thought was right. That was good enough for me.

And just to prove it, I decided to get my hair cut short, just like Richie's hair was in that picture. Of course, in those days, long hair was in, and short hair was out. But I didn't care. It was just another way of showing that I cared about Richie, and another way I could help to make sure he made it back home.

The celebration after the big game went by in a blur, because I was mostly thinking about Richie. He was due to come back home in a few days. Just a few more days and everything was going to be OK. Forever.

The day he was due back, I went up on the hill to wait for him. I knew he'd be coming back on the Greyhound, and it would stop down there on the road, not far from the end of our long gravel driveway. And from the hilltop I'd be able to see the bus coming from miles away, and I'd be able to see him get off the bus. I had the ball, the bat, and the Willie Mays glove with me.

I waited all that morning. The sun got higher and higher in the sky, and eventually headed toward afternoon. Then I spotted a dust trail miles and miles down the road. Closer and closer it came, and before long I could see that it wasn't a bus. It got closer and closer, and finally I could see what it was. Not a bus, but a car. A green Army staff car. Probably the same one I saw last year heading for Lewellen's house.

No doubt about it. The car was trailing a big cloud of dust as it got closer and closer and started to slow down. The car wasn't going to go straight, and go to someone else's house. It was coming around the bend, and heading straight for our driveway. Heading straight for our house. In just a minute or so it would be in front of our house, where Mom was probably making supper or something. And I knew I didn't need to be there when the car pulled up and those men got out.

I wanted the bus. The big Greyhound. The bus with Richie riding in it, happy to be home. I didn't want this Army staff car with the two stern-faced men riding in it. I wanted Richie. But I knew right then that Richie wasn't coming back. Ever.

I wasn't sure what to do, so I just started walking. Down the hill, not toward the house, but toward the spring where Richie and I used to go swimming on hot days like this one. And as I turned around for one last look at the Army staff car, I whirled around and threw that Willie Mays "autographed" glove far up into the air, as hard as I could throw it. The glove spun and spun, and seemed to go higher and higher toward the sun, rising ever higher, as it got farther and farther away from where I was watching it, until I finally just couldn't see it anymore.

And I just kept walking down the hill, thinking about Richie, the big game, and the Willie Mays glove.

It's been over 40 years now, and I've thought about Richie every day of my life. I've never picked up a baseball since that day, I never went looking for that glove, and it was another 20 years before I ever got my hair cut again.

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