KELSO'S SWING, CHAPTER 38
Kelso, drained and yawning nonstop, pulled into the driveway of his parent's home around 6 in the evening. He'd been at the store since opening it after closing the Sunset at 2 and cleaning up and getting to sleep around 3 after a few slugs of vodka. He sat in the Datsun. Parked along the curb was the boxy Oldsmobile belonging to one of Ray Kelso's best baseball friends, Ed Jordan, a pitcher who'd won world series rings with the New York Yankees in the early 1950s. Now a scout, Ed was younger than Ray and one of his golfing partners in tournaments run by baseball's off-season Hot Stove League, a loosely run organization of retired and active players who met to golf, play cards and drink afterwards during banquets in a generally closed and select fraternity. Ray Kelso was one of the more colorful after-dinner speakers at these functions, recalling anecdotes and roasting fellow players in a manner so hilarious the audiences doubled over in laughter.
Kelso dreaded going in and wondered if Max Koffroth was with Ben. Max was a refrigerator-sized ex catcher who'd had 12 at bats and gotten 2 hits in the big leagues, spent most of his life in AAA ball, and also scouted. He'd been Ray's team mate at one time and was known as one of the more affable drunks as well as a man so sentimental while in this state that he sometimes cried.
When Rick had gotten discharged from the army, Ray and these two men took him to a giant wholesale clothing outlet in downtown LA where discounts were offered to current and ex professional athletes. Ray wanted to buy Rick new togs to replace his sparse collection of rags, but Rick wanted nothing and grew quiet and distant upon running into a big leaguer his age on the visiting team playing the Dodgers that night—an infielder he had played rings around in high school.
Kelso was immediately bludgeoned by the recurring reality that he would never play ball again at age 23, and that just being around players much less going to a game in a ball park he once dreamed of playing in dropped him into a bottomless despair. The player asked him what he was doing and when Kelso said “nothing” he did not fail to detect a certain smugness, a bit of revenge against a once great prospect who never made it while he succeeded.
When they left, everybody but Rick toting sacks of garments, his father put his arm around him as they walked out, squeezing his shoulder.
Sure enough, Ed and Max sat at the dining room table drinking beers. They stood to pump Rick's hand. May brought Rick a beer and as he sat down he noticed that his father's trademark 17 inch plus neck had shrunk and he fought back a sob. But Ray was smiling. He was with his friends.
Ed, who wore the buzz-cut of his generation of jocks, was still rangy, a tall man with a paunch. He said, “Ray tells me you've really taken the bull by the horns with the business, Rick. That's pretty good for a guy who looks like Jesus.”
This was an old joke, the Jesus stuff, and Rick almost laughed but then glanced at Max who was fighting back tears. The man was a spigot. He always drank when he golfed and was possibly the worst golfer of the players in the great LA basin but Ray always took him on as his partner, compensating with his 2 handicap and still winning trophies. Max absorbed an inordinate amount of razzing from fellow players, took it in stride, and Ray had nicknamed him “The Big Hun.”
“Your dad, he's gonna be okay,” Ed told him. “He's a fighter. Nobody tougher than Ray Kelso.”
Rick glanced at Max, who was obviously drunk. Dinner was almost ready. So the men were preparing to leave. Rick remembered as a child, while in the clubhouse, crusty old veterans repeatedly asking him if he was a “lover or a fighter?” He always answered resoundingly, “A fighter!” You wanted to hang out in the clubhouse with these men, a kid had to accept the razzing, the molding of your future manhood. But Max was always different, always patted the seat of his locker stall and gestured for little Rick, who carried an old glove and pounded it with a baseball and bounced it on the cement floor and off walls, to sit beside him and share a stick of Spearmint gum and oil his catcher's mitts and clean his spikes. He always smelled a little different than the other players, for Max was a man who could consume prodigious amounts of beer.
When Ray and Rick walked the two men to the door, Max broke down and hugged Ray so hard he shuddered and then hugged Rick and hurried away, his shoulders sagging and chest heaving as he issued a loud sob. May always told Rick, “Max worships your father.”
Ed Jordan quickly slapped Ray on the shoulder without looking at him and took off after Max.
Back in the house, they ate a near silent dinner. Afterwards, Rick proudly pulled out the bulging wad of money and checks he'd collected from making eleven deliveries and began separating the checks and sizes of bills and placing them in piles and counting them, a ritual his father had indulged in nightly when Rick was a boy. He always let Rick recount it and he always told him, “the feel of money, making it, it's a good feeling. Something about it. You can't get too greedy, though. Gottta spend it. Too many scrooges left over from the Depression. Part of the fun of making money, son, is spending it on other people. That's all good, a good feeling.”
So they counted the money together while May brought out her pumpkin pie with whipped cream on top.
Kelso dreaded going in and wondered if Max Koffroth was with Ben. Max was a refrigerator-sized ex catcher who'd had 12 at bats and gotten 2 hits in the big leagues, spent most of his life in AAA ball, and also scouted. He'd been Ray's team mate at one time and was known as one of the more affable drunks as well as a man so sentimental while in this state that he sometimes cried.
When Rick had gotten discharged from the army, Ray and these two men took him to a giant wholesale clothing outlet in downtown LA where discounts were offered to current and ex professional athletes. Ray wanted to buy Rick new togs to replace his sparse collection of rags, but Rick wanted nothing and grew quiet and distant upon running into a big leaguer his age on the visiting team playing the Dodgers that night—an infielder he had played rings around in high school.
Kelso was immediately bludgeoned by the recurring reality that he would never play ball again at age 23, and that just being around players much less going to a game in a ball park he once dreamed of playing in dropped him into a bottomless despair. The player asked him what he was doing and when Kelso said “nothing” he did not fail to detect a certain smugness, a bit of revenge against a once great prospect who never made it while he succeeded.
When they left, everybody but Rick toting sacks of garments, his father put his arm around him as they walked out, squeezing his shoulder.
Sure enough, Ed and Max sat at the dining room table drinking beers. They stood to pump Rick's hand. May brought Rick a beer and as he sat down he noticed that his father's trademark 17 inch plus neck had shrunk and he fought back a sob. But Ray was smiling. He was with his friends.
Ed, who wore the buzz-cut of his generation of jocks, was still rangy, a tall man with a paunch. He said, “Ray tells me you've really taken the bull by the horns with the business, Rick. That's pretty good for a guy who looks like Jesus.”
This was an old joke, the Jesus stuff, and Rick almost laughed but then glanced at Max who was fighting back tears. The man was a spigot. He always drank when he golfed and was possibly the worst golfer of the players in the great LA basin but Ray always took him on as his partner, compensating with his 2 handicap and still winning trophies. Max absorbed an inordinate amount of razzing from fellow players, took it in stride, and Ray had nicknamed him “The Big Hun.”
“Your dad, he's gonna be okay,” Ed told him. “He's a fighter. Nobody tougher than Ray Kelso.”
Rick glanced at Max, who was obviously drunk. Dinner was almost ready. So the men were preparing to leave. Rick remembered as a child, while in the clubhouse, crusty old veterans repeatedly asking him if he was a “lover or a fighter?” He always answered resoundingly, “A fighter!” You wanted to hang out in the clubhouse with these men, a kid had to accept the razzing, the molding of your future manhood. But Max was always different, always patted the seat of his locker stall and gestured for little Rick, who carried an old glove and pounded it with a baseball and bounced it on the cement floor and off walls, to sit beside him and share a stick of Spearmint gum and oil his catcher's mitts and clean his spikes. He always smelled a little different than the other players, for Max was a man who could consume prodigious amounts of beer.
When Ray and Rick walked the two men to the door, Max broke down and hugged Ray so hard he shuddered and then hugged Rick and hurried away, his shoulders sagging and chest heaving as he issued a loud sob. May always told Rick, “Max worships your father.”
Ed Jordan quickly slapped Ray on the shoulder without looking at him and took off after Max.
Back in the house, they ate a near silent dinner. Afterwards, Rick proudly pulled out the bulging wad of money and checks he'd collected from making eleven deliveries and began separating the checks and sizes of bills and placing them in piles and counting them, a ritual his father had indulged in nightly when Rick was a boy. He always let Rick recount it and he always told him, “the feel of money, making it, it's a good feeling. Something about it. You can't get too greedy, though. Gottta spend it. Too many scrooges left over from the Depression. Part of the fun of making money, son, is spending it on other people. That's all good, a good feeling.”
So they counted the money together while May brought out her pumpkin pie with whipped cream on top.
