KELSO'S SWING, CHAPTER 3
BY DELL FRANKLIN
Kelso’s parents lived ten miles inland from the beach in a quiet modest middleclass neighborhood. Kelso’s father, who’d won a batting championship while playing in the big leagues, but lost the prime years of his career during WWII and ended up in the Pacific Coast League in the early 1950s, had, upon his retirement, started a business supplying shoemakers throughout the Los Angeles basin. During his latter playing days he was considered a “professor of baseball” and prime managing prospect who was offered that job on a minor league team with the promise of moving up to the major league team a year later. But he turned it down.
Lou Kelso wanted nothing to do with baseball after he retired. He was weary of going from team to team. He had played for teams in West Virginia, Kentucky, Little Rock, Beaumont, San Diego, Los Angeles, Cuba, Mexico and Chicago. He felt scouts, coaches and managers were so much disposable flotsam and jetsam to ruthless owners. He wanted to make his own money, be his own boss. He wanted his destiny and legacy determined by himself and not some assless lackey of a front office stooge screwing him over a contract.
He had succeeded. He had out-hustled and outsmarted his competition, his professional athletic background and business instincts and reputation as a former batting champion allowing him to steal business from those already entrenched, and unaware of Lou Kelso’s desire to win at any cost.
He grew up in one of the toughest Chicago neighborhoods dominated by Germans and Poles as the only Jew, a Russian Jew with an ancestry of powerful streamlined stock and volcanic temper. He fought every day with a ferocious vengeance. He became an amateur boxing champion with power in both hands and natural footwork who could have turned pro but instead opted for a football scholarship as a running back to the University of Illinois, where he clashed with the football coach and beat an especially sadistic All League lineman into unrecognizable submission and ended up so excelling in baseball that the White Sox signed him for $100 a month.
Now he was 62 years old, worn out from the business he’d built up in an area that was once a thriving hub but now a dilapidated ghetto. He wanted to retire, sell his business, play golf, and travel with his wife, May. Their 3 bedroom home had a pool he’d had built ten years back, but which he’d been in only a handful of times. Throughout the household were gadgets of the latest vintage. On mantles and walls in the living room were framed photos of him and May and Kelso and daughter Fay and her husband and children. In the den were photos of Lou and teammates throughout a 17 year career, a few golfing trophies—other trophies were stacked in the garage—and his silver bat perched atop a glass case behind his large-screen TV, on which he preferred watching the Rams and Lakers and cared not a hoot about the Dodgers and Angels.
Kelso sat beside him in a state-of-the-art recliner that was the twin of the one Lou sat in. Kelso had rode over on his bike, climbing one steep hill, was in such fine physical condition he could ride 100 miles if need be. May prepared dinner in the kitchen. She and Lou were troubled that Kelso at 35 still refused to have a car or telephone and had recently been dispatched by his long time girl friend, Stella Terry, a stewardess who had become like family, and to whom they wished Kelso would marry and give them grandchildren.
Lou, whose very physical and facial mien formed a persona that—without exaggeration—terrified most mortals, turned to his son as the aroma of Yankee Pot Roast—Kelso’s favorite—wafted into the den.
“So what’s going on between you and Stella? Any chance you get back together again?”
Kelso pulled on his beer. “Nah, we’re finished.”
“Christ, you’ll have a helluva time finding a gal as nice as her. You were together what? Three years?”
“Four years.”
Lou sipped his Martini. “What the hell did you do to piss her off?”
“Nothing. It was a slow burn.” He squirmed. “Things built up. She doesn’t hate me or anything. She just won’t speak to me.”
Lou clicked the ball game off with his channel selector to the news. “So, you gonna be a good-time Charlie all your life? End up with no wife, no family, nothing to fall back on? That’s no life.
“Things are different these days, dad. Not everybody gets married and has kids and lives happily ever after.”
“All your old friends have, except Marstrulavich.” He shook his head at the thought of Marstrulavich. “And we all know he’s a special case.” He sighed. “Don’t you ever think about having a son? A son you can coach, so you can carry on our name?”
“I don’t think about it.”
“That just doesn’t sound normal to me.”
“It all depends on your perspective. None of the people I know want kids.”
“Well, it sounds like a dead-end to me. I’m gonna feel pretty bad if I die knowing my kid never amounted to what he wanted to be and hung out in bars all his life… a goddam boozer.” He gazed at Rick, concerned. “You happy, Rick?”
Kelso stared at the silver bat. He polished it once a week up until his senior year and loved to show it off to his team mates in Little League and American Legion and high school ball. “I’m doing what I wanna do. That’s all that matters.”
Lou finished off his Martini. “Christ, when I grew up, you didn’t have that choice. You did what you HAD to do to survive. I guess things are different these days. You don’t seem to give a damn about anything. You don’t seem to wanna sink your teeth into anything and take it by the horns and make something of it.”
Kelso finished off his beer and leered strangely at his dad. “You’d be surprised about what I’m sinking my teeth into, dad.”
“Dinner’s ready!” May called from the kitchen. Kelso was up and into the dining room before Lou could pursue the conversation.
Kelso’s parents lived ten miles inland from the beach in a quiet modest middleclass neighborhood. Kelso’s father, who’d won a batting championship while playing in the big leagues, but lost the prime years of his career during WWII and ended up in the Pacific Coast League in the early 1950s, had, upon his retirement, started a business supplying shoemakers throughout the Los Angeles basin. During his latter playing days he was considered a “professor of baseball” and prime managing prospect who was offered that job on a minor league team with the promise of moving up to the major league team a year later. But he turned it down.
Lou Kelso wanted nothing to do with baseball after he retired. He was weary of going from team to team. He had played for teams in West Virginia, Kentucky, Little Rock, Beaumont, San Diego, Los Angeles, Cuba, Mexico and Chicago. He felt scouts, coaches and managers were so much disposable flotsam and jetsam to ruthless owners. He wanted to make his own money, be his own boss. He wanted his destiny and legacy determined by himself and not some assless lackey of a front office stooge screwing him over a contract.
He had succeeded. He had out-hustled and outsmarted his competition, his professional athletic background and business instincts and reputation as a former batting champion allowing him to steal business from those already entrenched, and unaware of Lou Kelso’s desire to win at any cost.
He grew up in one of the toughest Chicago neighborhoods dominated by Germans and Poles as the only Jew, a Russian Jew with an ancestry of powerful streamlined stock and volcanic temper. He fought every day with a ferocious vengeance. He became an amateur boxing champion with power in both hands and natural footwork who could have turned pro but instead opted for a football scholarship as a running back to the University of Illinois, where he clashed with the football coach and beat an especially sadistic All League lineman into unrecognizable submission and ended up so excelling in baseball that the White Sox signed him for $100 a month.
Now he was 62 years old, worn out from the business he’d built up in an area that was once a thriving hub but now a dilapidated ghetto. He wanted to retire, sell his business, play golf, and travel with his wife, May. Their 3 bedroom home had a pool he’d had built ten years back, but which he’d been in only a handful of times. Throughout the household were gadgets of the latest vintage. On mantles and walls in the living room were framed photos of him and May and Kelso and daughter Fay and her husband and children. In the den were photos of Lou and teammates throughout a 17 year career, a few golfing trophies—other trophies were stacked in the garage—and his silver bat perched atop a glass case behind his large-screen TV, on which he preferred watching the Rams and Lakers and cared not a hoot about the Dodgers and Angels.
Kelso sat beside him in a state-of-the-art recliner that was the twin of the one Lou sat in. Kelso had rode over on his bike, climbing one steep hill, was in such fine physical condition he could ride 100 miles if need be. May prepared dinner in the kitchen. She and Lou were troubled that Kelso at 35 still refused to have a car or telephone and had recently been dispatched by his long time girl friend, Stella Terry, a stewardess who had become like family, and to whom they wished Kelso would marry and give them grandchildren.
Lou, whose very physical and facial mien formed a persona that—without exaggeration—terrified most mortals, turned to his son as the aroma of Yankee Pot Roast—Kelso’s favorite—wafted into the den.
“So what’s going on between you and Stella? Any chance you get back together again?”
Kelso pulled on his beer. “Nah, we’re finished.”
“Christ, you’ll have a helluva time finding a gal as nice as her. You were together what? Three years?”
“Four years.”
Lou sipped his Martini. “What the hell did you do to piss her off?”
“Nothing. It was a slow burn.” He squirmed. “Things built up. She doesn’t hate me or anything. She just won’t speak to me.”
Lou clicked the ball game off with his channel selector to the news. “So, you gonna be a good-time Charlie all your life? End up with no wife, no family, nothing to fall back on? That’s no life.
“Things are different these days, dad. Not everybody gets married and has kids and lives happily ever after.”
“All your old friends have, except Marstrulavich.” He shook his head at the thought of Marstrulavich. “And we all know he’s a special case.” He sighed. “Don’t you ever think about having a son? A son you can coach, so you can carry on our name?”
“I don’t think about it.”
“That just doesn’t sound normal to me.”
“It all depends on your perspective. None of the people I know want kids.”
“Well, it sounds like a dead-end to me. I’m gonna feel pretty bad if I die knowing my kid never amounted to what he wanted to be and hung out in bars all his life… a goddam boozer.” He gazed at Rick, concerned. “You happy, Rick?”
Kelso stared at the silver bat. He polished it once a week up until his senior year and loved to show it off to his team mates in Little League and American Legion and high school ball. “I’m doing what I wanna do. That’s all that matters.”
Lou finished off his Martini. “Christ, when I grew up, you didn’t have that choice. You did what you HAD to do to survive. I guess things are different these days. You don’t seem to give a damn about anything. You don’t seem to wanna sink your teeth into anything and take it by the horns and make something of it.”
Kelso finished off his beer and leered strangely at his dad. “You’d be surprised about what I’m sinking my teeth into, dad.”
“Dinner’s ready!” May called from the kitchen. Kelso was up and into the dining room before Lou could pursue the conversation.
