—
There she was again, our neighbor, waving at me. I sheepishly waved back.
I can’t recall the first time I saw her on her porch as I rode by on my bike. It seemed to me as if she had always been there, or at least ever since I was old enough to ride my bike through the neighborhood and past her house.
I do, however, recall the first time she invited me to sit with her on her porch. She introduced herself as Mary Schick, but since my parents had insisted that we address any elder as “Mr or Mrs”, I quickly became comfortable calling her “Mrs. Schick”. She was genuinely interested in my school, family, and activities, and I gladly soaked in the attention.
The year was 1961. I was in first grade.
I was intrigued by her. I really had never spent much time with people older than my parents. She must have been around 60 years old, which, to me, seemed impossible that people could live that long. She walked with a crutch, lived alone, but was totally independent and self-sufficient.
I grew to look forward to our visits. My mom would often send me on my bike to the local market to pick up milk, or bread, or cereal – staples that a family with seven kids was constantly running out of. What should have been a 20-minute task turned into a much longer trip as I would invariably stop and visit with Mrs. Schick, and forget about the mission my Mom had given me. It was often Mrs. Schick that reminded me that I was supposed to be running an errand. Mom never scolded me for taking so long. She knew where I was, who I was with, and that I would complete my assignment eventually.
Then came the spring of 1962.
My parents had agreed to let my brother, 2 years older and way more athletic than me, play Little League Baseball for the first time. I desperately wanted to play as well, but my dad thought I was too young. Plus the family budget could barely withstand the sign-up fee for one of us to play baseball, let alone two. My older brother even pleaded my case to our parents, which shocked the hell out of me since I was convinced he hated me and was secretly arranging to have me placed in an orphanage. So when dad called the league, he was probably disappointed that, yes, I was indeed old enough to play. But he cheered up a bit when they told him that signing up a 2nd child came with a 50% discount in the sign-up fee. I was in!
As I look back on that time now, I realize that I was one of the worst players on the team. But not in my 8-year-old mind. I was convinced that I was a key part of a team that managed to win the league championship. Heck, I had THREE hits that year! By comparison, my brother probably had three hits per game. But he played every game, the entire game. I only played enough innings that year to meet the league minimum requirement.
I didn’t care. When the season ended I knew I was getting a league championship trophy. Plus all-star selections were coming up, and I was certain that those three hits would be recognized by the all-star selection committee and get me on the all-star team, not to mention one of those coveted all-star jerseys.
Our league championship trophy was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I couldn’t wait to jump on my bike and show Mrs. Schick.
“What have you got in the bag?” Mrs. Schick asked.
“It’s my baseball trophy”. I declared proudly. She seemed as thrilled about the trophy as I was. We took turns admiring it.
“So your baseball season is over now?” she asked.
“Not exactly. We still have all-stars coming up, and I think my brother and I will get chosen to be on the team. They pick the team tomorrow.”
“Well, I’m sure you will get picked.” She seemed as confident as I was that I was a lock to make it.
The next day the coach called. Sure enough, my brother had been selected. But I wasn’t. My dad broke the news to me.
“Dad. Could you call the coach back and ask him to put me on the team too?”
“Nope.” My dad was a man of few words. And by now I knew even tears weren’t going to help since Dad hated few things more than crybabies.
Shocked and dejected, I decided I’d better go let Mrs. Schick know, because I was sure that was all she’d been thinking about for the past day.
As I told her about the injustice that had been handed down, she feigned shock. “I don’t understand how they could exclude a good player like you. I guess there’s not much that can be done at this point.”
A thought hit me suddenly. “Could you talk to the coach? Maybe if you call him he’ll change his mind.”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t do that. I don’t know anything about baseball.”
“Yes, you do. You know how good of a player I am, and that I deserve to be on the team.” It was pure desperation on my part, but I was out of options since my own dad was unwilling to argue my case.
“It would be silly for an old woman to do that. And it would make you look silly too. There will be other opportunities for you to make the all-stars. But for now, you should just be happy for your brother, and go cheer him at the all-stars.” She was right of course.
Years flew by, and my visits with Mrs. Schick became less frequent. One weekend when I was home from my freshman year in college, my mom told me that Mrs. Schick had passed away. I was sad that I would not have one final opportunity to visit with her on her porch. And I’m not sure at the time that I fully appreciated the impact she had had on me.
It’s September now, and another baseball season is winding down. I’m certain that a lot of little boys (and girls) will be experiencing disappointment in not winning the championship, or not making the all-stars; similar to the disappointments I had at their age. The difference is, they don’t have a Mrs. Schick to listen to them, and help them understand that it’s not the end of the world. I don’t have an all-star jersey, I long ago lost sight of that beautiful league championship trophy, but I do have wonderful memories of Mrs. Schick.
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