Here's something a little different, a bit of fiction:
It was early December in Washington, and
the two striving young men stood in line at the Starbucks situated in Gucci
Gulch, also known as K Street NW. They
were associates at Mumford Landesburgh Schmock, this year’s hip law firm,
according to The List. Published each
New Year’s Day in the Style section of The
Washington Post, The List identified for Inside the Beltway denizens what
or who was In and what or who was Out.
Lobbying success on The Hill led to the firm’s coveted designation.
Boyd Rutherford, originally from Verona,
New Jersey, arrived in Washington three years earlier with a sparkly new law
degree from Harvard. His classmate,
Harrison Franks, grew up in nearby Potomac, Maryland where his grandparents
were neighbors of the Shrivers, Sargent and Eunice, and regulars at their
raucous summer pool parties and barbecues. (Kennedys knew how to party!)
Both men scanned newspapers as they waited
to order their usuals: Cinnamon Dolce
Latte for Boyd, and Blonde Caramel Cloud Macchiato for Harrison.
As the line slowly shuffled forward, Boyd,
still looking at the paper, tapped his knuckle on Harrison’s shoulder. “Harry,
did you see this? The Yankees signed
Judge for nine years. Three hundred
sixty.”
Distractedly still looking at his own Post, Harrison replied, “Huh? Three hundred sixty? What?”
“Dollars…over nine years. Judge gets forty mill a year from the Yanks.”
Not really paying attention, Harrison
said, “Judge? Circuit? District? What?”
Boyd looked up and laughed. “No, no.
The New York Yankees. Aaron
Judge. Hit 62 homers this year. Set a new record.”
Harrison gave Boyd a blank look, then
sniffed, “Oh. Baseball. Such a
pedestrian fascination; men wearing oddly-designed clothes and funny shoes,
chasing and throwing and striking at a ball, organized into groups with
cartoonish-sounding names. What an
inglorious endeavor.”
Finally, these next-generation Washington
insiders ordered and received their “coffee.”
Finding a small table in the crowded shop,
they sat down.
Boyd said, “Come on. Don’t be such a snob. The Yanks were – are - my team! Why, they have more World Series wins than
any other team. Such a historic
franchise: Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio,
Mickey Mantle…”
Irritated, Harrison snapped, “You know I
don’t listen to or watch sports games, let alone keep up with who’s on which
team or how many this or that they do, or what their employer pays them.”
Boyd chuckled as he replied, “Well, you
might be surprised by how enjoyable it is.
Maybe it would help you relax a little bit. It really isn’t such a terrible thing.”
“OK, OK.
The next thing you will want is for me to start a collection of those
little pictures of athletes…what do you call them? Chewing gum photos?”
Shaking his head, Boyd said, “Bubblegum
cards, Harry, and no you don’t have to collect them. But developing an appreciation for something
fun and exciting like baseball wouldn’t be so antithetical to your breeding.”
Harrison glanced at Boyd for a second to
see if there was reason to take offense.
Deciding there may have been, he intoned, “With so many good books to be
read, countless conundrums inherent in the human condition to be explored and
untangled, and artistic expressions pregnant with illumination and uplift, it
is disheartening that masses of people prefer to watch grown men engage in a
fruitless struggle of brute physicality with others seeking to make
‘runs.’ Indeed, I never considered ‘run’
to be a noun, but rather a verb. The
nonsensical aspect of this astounds me.”
Seeking to lighten the mood a bit, Boyd
smiled and replied, “See, you know something about the game.”
As Harrison scoffed, an older man at the
next table spoke up. He was wearing worn
work boots, faded blue jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, and a slightly tattered
bomber jacket. His hands gripped a small
cup of black coffee. “Couldn’t help
hearing you young fellers. I don’t know
much ‘bout baseball on the pro level, but when I was comin’ up, we all, me, my
buddies, spent a lotta days playin’ ball.”
Harrison nodded slightly as he frowned and
said, “Well, that’s nice. I’m sure you
had a lot of…”
“Yeah,” the old man continued, his mind’s
eye taking him back to his youth. “We
sometimes had to pool our coins so’s we could buy a ball at the hardware
store. Some of us didn’t even have no
mitts. We played bare-handed!” He looked at the two men with their slicked
hair and shiny wingtips.
Boyd smiled and said, “Did you ever play
on a team? Little League, at school, or
anything?”
“Naw.
Things wasn’t very, what you call, organized, where I come from.”
“Well, did you ever get to see a real
game? Maybe minor leaguers or even the
majors?”
“Weren’t no teams nearby, as I recall, but
I remember one time, way back, at a July Fourth picnic, some of us, we got up a
game, boys and their dads or cousins or uncles…whoever wanted to play.”
Harrison looked at his watch and glanced
at Boyd, who ignored him and gazed at the old man.
“There was this young kid – named Bubba or
Junior or Sonny, I forget now. He weren’t playin' in the game, but instead was
in a cow pasture next to the ball field we laid out, chuckin’ pebbles at some
ol’ mangy feral cat when someone hit the ball and yelled, “Watch out!” Well,
this boy saw that baseball flyin’ straight at his daddy’s cow. He started a-runnin’ and grabbed a bucket
that was layin’ there. At the last
second, that boy practically did the splits as his feet skidded and smeared in
the muck, but he reached out with that rusty ol’ pail and caught the baseball,
saving his daddy’s cow from a splittin’ headache. That cow just kept a-chewing
and looked away like it was nothin’.
Folks ‘round there talked about that for a long time. Called it the catch of the year. Yes sir, that’s what they said!” The old man slapped his leg and let out a
gleeful snort.
Harrison looked solemnly at Boyd. “I think we should head back to the office.”
Boyd eyed the storyteller. “Yeah! The Catch of the Year!” Turning to Harrison, he said, “I just love
stories like that!”
The old man kept grinning as the two young
lawyers stood up, put on their calf-length wool overcoats, adjusted their
scarves to just the right look, headed toward the door, then stepped outside
into the chilly, heavy Washington air. A
Metrobus exhaled and squealed as it slowed to a stop at the red light. Bus fumes mingled with cigarette smoke. Hustling pedestrians scattered to engage in
their nationally important tasks.
As Boyd and Harrison strode purposefully past the plate glass window in front of the Starbucks, Boyd looked in and made eye contact once more with the old man.
