The man and the boy were well-acquainted by the time they became spliced by baseball. The emotional adhesive could have been a number of things — fly fishing, astronomy, model trains — but for these two it was baseball.
Their shared experience began as they listened to the Atlanta Braves on an old AM radio in 1991. Soon, though, they were watching the games on TV, making it easier to explain the game.
As time went by, they initiated a weekly shopping appointment for baseball cards, cruising past the Sandy Springs firehouse to the old Target to get a pack each.
As their inventory grew, they began to make trades. The boy would not part with his David Justice cards, though he had several identical ones. In his eyes Justice was the best player in baseball, and even a 6-year-old knows one does not trade the best player’s card.
One summer, when the boy attended camp, he climbed onto that big old yellow school bus daily with the sports page tucked under his arm like a commuter.
On his way to the campsite he read the box scores and the daily transactions, hoping to espy a pitcher or another big bat for his team.
The first big leaguer the boy ever met was Greg Olson, the Braves’ rock-solid catcher for those early seasons. They chatted and the boy looked at his autographed baseball with eyes that were about as large.
Another time they heard Denny Neagle was signing autographs at a paint store in the boonies. They drove pell-mell to get a ball, then to the store.
They were a minute or two late; Neagle was gone. A store employee grabbed the boy’s ball and got Neagle to sign before he drove away. They dined on that story for weeks.
They catechized one another from hours of talking baseball. The free market was the topic when they pondered was any man worth $10 million a year.
Ethics came into play when the dialectic was whether Pete Rose be allowed into the Hall of Fame. And when a bad call robbed the home team of a win, well, who said life was fair?
Monday night, when the Braves fell out of contention, the man and the boy — now a man — “talked” via their Blackberrys. When this all started a blackberry was nothing but the makings of a mighty fine pie.
Bobby Cox, a bit player in this resinous aspect of their relationship, was now leaving, and after the final out the older one texted: “Thank you, Bobby.”
A minute later the younger responded: “You and me and Bobby had some great times,” then added “Thank you, too.” And with that the man had to remove his glasses because of the tears.
This was not about baseball. My son Zach and I staked common ground with the teams of Bobby Cox; he grew up and I grew older. And now a new chapter of Atlanta baseball is being written.
Oblige me, but out of love’s habit I believe I’ll linger over this one a little while longer.
Jim Osterman lives in Sandy Springs. Reach him at jimosterman@rocketmail.com
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