Some things are worth the wait

It’s nine o’clock on Saturday morning, outside the sun is shining and I’m inside, pulling the ladder to our attic down from the ceiling in the garage. I’m heading up on a search, I’m armed with a flashlight and a broom. It should be clear sailing through the boxes of Christmas decorations, the bags of garland, the giant canning pot and boxes of empty jars. My destination is in the back, behind a curtain of cobwebs two decades thick. I will definitely need the broom. There’s a blue Tupperware bin back there, inside it is the artifact I’m after. I’m a mother on a mission.

I’m wishing I’d labeled the bins better, there are several blue ones behind the curtain. I’m looking for the one that contains the baseball memorabilia of our son’s youth. I know I haven’t turfed it, it holds all of my little boy’s treasures. Our son was a baseball fanatic in those days – he was a Blue Jays super fan. The bin contains the starter jacket Santa Claus brought him when he was in grade six – 1992, the year the Jays won their first World Series. It also holds several ball caps and a collection of well worn, faded t-shirts. I’m after one of those shirts in particular.

The shirt will be threadbare, it was his favorite. On the back will be the number 17 and the name of his hero, Kelly Gruber – third baseman extraordinaire.

The clutter in the attic is overwhelming – I call my husband for help, he has always indulged my eccentricities. He stands at the bottom of the ladder to receive the debris as I try to clear a path to the back. I can see my destination, I just can’t reach it – yet. Undaunted, I mine my way to the bin. Finally, pay dirt. I back my way out, my prize clutched in my hand.

The t-shirt is smaller and in worse shape than I remember, and it’s dirty. There is no time to spruce it up, we are on a deadline. Kelly Gruber is scheduled to sign autographs in a sport memorabilia store 30 miles from here – we’ve got to hit the road.

I’ve been chasing this autograph for 25 years.

I wrote a story about the illusive autograph for my original creative writing class in 1993 – it was the first completed assignment I handed in. My instructor was a huge baseball fan and really enjoyed the story – he suggested I submit it for publication to several magazines and to also send a copy to Kelly Gruber. I was new to this creative writing thing and fairly buoyed with his encouragement. The story wasn’t well written but it was heartfelt. I saved my rejection letters like they were participant ribbons and chucked them, with the story, into a file folder. I never dreamt Kelly Gruber would actually receive his copy – I mailed it to him in care of the Los Angeles Angels.

Several months passed before a large envelope appeared in our mailbox, inside was an autographed picture of Kelly Gruber. It was addressed to me. Of course I thought it was a prank. My favorite uncle is a confirmed prankster/baseball fan and had been a major part of this baseball chapter in our lives. My uncle swore he hadn’t sent the picture. I put it in the file folder with the story.

A lot has happened in the past quarter of a century; our kids grew up, we got old and the attic filled with the fodder of time. I surprised even myself when I located the t-shirt this morning.

Kelly was a little late for his one o’clock date at the store, but fifteen minutes is but a drop in 25 years. He was charming. I told him the story about the story and showed him the picture he autographed for me all those years ago. He took a quiet moment and read his own inscription. I watched a smile sneak onto his profile. He looked at me and said, “I think I remember.”

He autographed the t-shirt, smiled for a photo and shook my hand. I may have swooned, just a little.

The debris from the attic is still littering the floor in the garage, the sun is setting and I am sitting here looking at a yellowed t-shirt that is sporting a brand new autograph of a much beloved hero — some things are worth the wait.

I  feel almost foolish retyping this story — I like to think my writing has matured with the rest of me. But here it is, exclamation points and all…

From the archives — 1993

Some Heroes Never Die

“Thwack!” The sound of the ball landing in the third baseman’s glove could be heard over the roar of the crowd.

“Did ya see that Mom?” Bryson clapped his hands and returned to the game on TV. At seven years old he was a baseball fanatic, the Blue Jays the dream team and Kelly Gruber, a hero. I should have hated baseball, it was turning my son into a couch potato. He lived and breathed the sport. Instead, I was becoming an admirer of a pastime that has cast a spell over boys young and old, for over a century. Bryson cried that fall when the ‘A’s pounded the Jays for the American League pennant.

The next spring, with hope anew, Bryson memorized the Blue Jays lineup. Through a winter of sorting baseball cards he knew the stats of every player on the team. Bryson was eight when the Jays lost out on the pennant again, again he cried.

By the time he was nine baseball was Bryson’s life. If he wasn’t playing the game, he was watching it. A poster of Kelly Gruber hung in the place of honor over his bed. Daily the sports section of the newspaper disappeared. Scrapbooks were started with carefully cut out articles and pictures of his beloved Jays. There were no tears in the fall when the Jays bombed again. Big guys just take a deep breath and go to bed.

The summer of Bryson’s tenth year found him on the road from Vancouver to Toronto. Full of anticipation he sat in the car for seven days as we drove across the country toward the Skydome. When we were given tickets to a game Bryson was speechless. He bought an official Blue Jays hat and a t-shirt with Kelly Gruber’s name and number on the back in hopes of having his hero autograph it for him. Kelly Gruber had been plagued with injury the entire spring and was not in the lineup the night we made our way into the dome. Regardless, Bryson was in seventh heaven as he took his seat behind third base. We all lived the play by play of that game for weeks afterward, Bryson lived in his Kelly Gruber shirt.

The Jays stayed on a roll throughout the season the excitement built as they inched their way toward the fall classic. Our entire household functioned around the next baseball game, by the middle of October the ‘A’s and Jays were head to head once more. Obsessed with the playoffs, I let Bryson stay home from school to watch the afternoon games. He wore his Kelly Gruber shirt for each game to bring the team luck. The Jays won the American League! Bryson was out of his mind with excitement. for the first time in baseball history a Canadian team was playing in the World Series! the pennant came home to Toronto at the end of October.

Baseball takes a break during the winter for a few months, then spring training comes along, draft picks and trades. It was in the spring of 1993 that Bryson caught wind that Kelly Gruber was going to be traded. He was devastated. Kelly would go to California to play for the Angels. Bryson cried. After a mourning period he got used to the idea and decided the Angels could be his second favorite team.

Kelly was sent to the Vancouver Canadians in the spring to beef up after shoulder surgery. Bryson could hardly believe it, Kelly was in our own backyard! At our first opportunity the whole family headed to Nat Bailey Stadium, to see Bryson’s hero close up. Bryson took his cherished Kelly Gruber shirt in hopes of getting it autographed. Kelly was the Designated Hitter that afternoon and Bryson’s eyes lit up every time he came to the plate. “What a guy, hey Mom”. The day ended too quickly and the players didn’t hang around afterward for autograph seekers. I promised Bryson we would try to see another game before Kelly went back to the Angels.

One Tuesday afternoon found us free to go to a ball game in search of the illusive autograph. Bryson took his favorite t-shirt with Kelly’s name and number on the back and a felt pen. We were determined  this would be the day the shirt would get signed and be retired to the bedroom wall beside the Kelly Gruber poster. We arrived well before the start of the game. I waited while Bryson and 12 other boys stood behind the fence at the home team  dugout. One by one the Canadians started to appear on the field. A few of them stopped and spoke with the boys but the players knew it was Kelly the kids were waiting to see. The team warmups began and the boys waited. A television crew set up, and the boys waited. They uncovered the infield, and the boys waited. I checked my watch, it was only minutes before the game was scheduled to start. It would be so disappointing if Kelly wasn’t in the lineup today. The boys waited, their baseball cards in hand, for the coveted autograph. One title boy, mine, held his worn out t-shirt. Suddenly there was a streak of white and Kelly Gruber ran out. The boys buzzed with excitement as their hero dashed by. As he made his way over the 100 yards to the rest of the team silence fell over the small group of boys. He passed them by. They put their cards back in their pockets and turned to make their way to their seats before the super star looked back to where his fans had been standing. I looked down at Bryson. He swallowed hard. He had been close enough to touch his hero and the man had never looked up. Bryson was composed when we reached our seats. When Kelly came up to bat, Bryson was in full swing again. The hero stepped up to the plate, “What a guy, hey Mom!” Bryson said. “Not exactly what I was thinking Bryson,” I replied.

As I tucked Bryson into bed that night I noticed the t-shirt carefully folded in the corner of his room. ‘What a guy’ Gruber has gone back to play for the Angels with one of his fans still wishing him well.