Peter Leaning Forward

Part I

Peter Petrovich leans forward, arms straight out from elbows pulled tightly into his ribs, forearms leading to small wrists, and blood red hands that grip pink rubber grips, while his pasty white legs pump, and his head bobs with every rise and fall of his knees over the pedals. The chain groans along its inexorable path over the teeth of the sprocket and gears as Peter cranks himself and his bicycle up the Mesabi Trail like a breakaway racer on the Tour de France. He wears an electric blue racing shirt advertising a plumber in Hibbing he has never used, matching shorts from K Mart, and a threadbare Minnesota Twins baseball cap improbably signed by Sandy Koufax of the Los Angeles Dodgers with the bill pointed forward into the wind and about to fly away uncovering a spotted red and white scalp peppered with widely spaced hairs. Breathing hard, he knows this is the hardest part of his once a week forty mile ride from Chisolm to Virginia and back. But real Minnesotans like me Peter Petrovich suck it up. Soon he will crest the last hill and coast into Chisolm pedaling lazily toward Lake Street where his girlfriend lives for his weekly victory over age and gravity. Just before he gets to the house, the chain falls off his bike, and he has to walk the last block. He parks his bike and enters his live-in girlfriend’s house at First Street NW and then descends into the cellar. He pops a beer and munches a microwaved pizza while watching the big game—Minnesota Twins versus the Baltimore Orioles. It’s Sunday afternoon in Chisolm Minnesota. He grins because he knows he has the whole week to himself. Ellen is on a business trip and won’t be back for days to bother him. He reaches for his vintage Twins Hat to turn the bill backwards in preparation for the game and finds it missing. Gosh Darn it. Must have left it upstairs.

A week later, Ellen flies home after cavorting for six days half-naked on a Malibu beach with her new boyfriend named Wiley. She has resolved to tell Peter that she is leaving him for Wiley and that he needs to move out. She is practicing her breakup speech as she fumbles for her keys to the front door. It’s best for both of us Peter...no, too corny…how about…we both know we were never right for each other. Inside the mosquito-screened porch, Peter’s blood-red Bianchi racing bike is leaning casually against a white Adirondack chair with the chain hanging loose from the main sprocket. She wonders why Peter would leave such an expensive Italian bike unlocked. When she opens the front door, she quickly notices that the house is filled with the faint stale smell of sundried tomatoes but also catches a whiff of pepperoni gone rancid. She quickly concludes a mouse has died somewhere inside a wall. Upon hearing the TV downstairs, she yells out. “Peter,” you there?” When no one answers, she calls Chisolm Pest Control about the mouse. Soon after, Billy Milosovich arrives and begins to search.

“Found it,” came a voice from the cellar.

“Oh good. Where was it.”

“Sitting on the davenport. Seems to have choked on a Pizza.”

“Ha. You’re a funny fella,” she said as she laughed.

Billy held his nose as he bent over to look closer at Peter whose bulging eyes reflected the electric glow a TV tuned to ESPN. A large piece of pizza was stuck in his mouth.

“Call 911.”

“What for a mouse?”

“No. For Peter. He’s dead.”

“Peter’s dead?”

“You betcha.”

The coroner arrived soon after and picked up Peter’s moldering body. After she opened all the windows and turned on all the fans she could find, she called the Salvation Army to pick up every last piece of his possessions.

Part II

Sixteen-year-old Tony Kovac lost his father soon after he was born. On a warm Indian Summer day, he was out for a long walk on the Mesabi wilderness trail which ran behind his house. He was licking his wounds after another brow-beating by his grumpy besotted grandfather named Andric who had moved in with him and his mother soon after his father’s death. As Tony enjoyed his calming stroll along the path, he noted the irony that his grandfather could barely walk at all. That was because long before Tony was born, an overloaded mine hutch broke loose and careened down the rail tracks of Slovak mine #2. Andric never saw it coming and it sliced off his right foot like a knife as he sneaked a snort of Russian Vodka on his break. It was his last day as a Slavic miner in a Slavic town where everyone mined for a living. 

After that, he worked part-time for the Minnesota Museum of Mining in Chisolm to do what he could to help make ends meet until he was taken in years later by Tony’s mother. The miner’s local union boss had leaned on the Museum to give Andrich a job as a sort of charity for a crippled member of the union. After one of his frequent rants at Tony, his mother would console her son by telling him that his grandfather had not always been a mean man—“not until his accident,” she would say. Yes, mother. But I was born long after the accident. It’s the only way he’s ever been to me, he thought. And why does he have to live with us anyway? And then, Tony would take a walk to soothe himself.

Andrich was recovering from his foot amputation in the hospital in 1960 while dreading his future as a crippled man. He was absent mindedly watching the news when a reporter announced that the Washington Senators baseball team would be moving to Minnesota. The news augured the birth of a new team that would be called the Minnesota Twins. Andrich came to attention. Though he had never been a sports fan before, from that day forward and for the rest of his resentful life, the only bright spot in it were his Twins. To him, they were guardians of the north who had appeared in his hour of need. His grandson Tony might have been a nuisance, and his mother a nagging landlord to whom he paid no rent…but he had his Twins!

When another team would beat his heroes, anger spewed out of his mouth in hateful words spoken in Slovene which he preferred to English. While he verily worshipped his Twins, he had a peculiar irreverence for the Los Angeles Dodgers. Led by ace pitcher Sandy Koufax in 1965, it was the Dodgers who dashed his beloved Twins hopes of winning the World Series by winning four games to the Twins three. Koufax pitched three of the four Dodger wins. Andrich was still bitter over Koufax forty years later. 

As Tony walked toward the highest point on the trail before it descended back down to Chisolm, he noticed a crumpled piece of cloth lying beside the trail that someone had lost or discarded. As he neared it, he noticed that it was a threadbare navy blue baseball cap with the underside of the bill stitched with green colored fabric. Reaching for it, he quickly noticed a white embroidered T interwoven with a red C. The T and C letters stood for the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul, the home of the Minnesota Twins. He marveled at its age. It was different than the modern Twins caps he was familiar with. Probably a seventies cap, he thought, might be even older. Maybe he hoped— just maybe, his grandfather would thank him for it if he gave it to him and think twice before abusing him again. He was encouraged enough to pick up his pace and jogged his way back to his house wearing the hat all along the way home.

Tony found his grandfather watching his beloved Twins holding a glass of Vodka straight up in a glass.

“Gramps?”

“Yeah kid. Whaddya’ want now?”

“I found something.”

“So, I’m watching the game.”

“But.”

His grandfather turned his body far enough in anger at the interruption to see Tony and possibly give him another slap on the face like he had done earlier in the day. But as he turned, he spilled vodka in his lap.

“Jesus. Now look you did, you worthless little jerk. You made me spill my drink. Go get me another and quick. The Twins are just coming back to bat.”

Tony went to the kitchen still wearing the cap, poured a fresh glass of Smirnoff Blue and walked back into the room where his grandfather sat with his cane beside his chair. Tony took the hat off his head and held it close to the fresh glass of Vodka as he handed it to his grandfather to make sure he noticed.

“What…what is that. Where’d you get that cap,” he asked excitedly. That’s a sixties Twins cap. How in the world?”

Andrich marveled at the navy blue cap. It took him all the way back to the time that he lost his foot in the mine and then found meaning in the Twins.

“You can have it grandpa. It’s yours,” offered Tony with a hesitant smile hoping the gift would be reciprocated with a sliver of kindness instead of a rap on his head from his cane. 

Andrich continued to rotate the hat to see the letters T and C up close and to feel the wool fabric between his fingers. He wondered if it was his size. Turning it over, he looked. “Seven and a half,” he noted. “Just my size.” He started to put the hat on his head when he noticed some scribbles on the grass green underside of the bill. Taking out his glasses from a shirt pocket, he read the words out loud. “Sandy Koufax,” he spoke blankly as if he had just read the name of someone named Smith or Jones. Then he read it again as the words took on meaning in his head. “Sandy God Damned Koufax signed this” he uttered before turning toward Tony while reaching for his cane. As Tony backed out of range, Andrich uttered just two more words before he slumped over dead in his chair —“Sandy Koufax,” he said in amazement.

Tony did not feel guilty about the death of Andrich as he helped his mother gather his meager belongings most of which would go to Charity. He made sure that the old hat and the cane were in the pile.

Part III

Twelve-year-old Ezra Hoffman was living in a foster home sponsored by the Catholic Charities of Hibbing, Minnesota not far from Chisolm. His parents had emigrated from Moldavia ten years earlier to build a new life in America. They were killed in an on an icy two-lane road near Eveleth when they collided with a farm tractor driven by a Norwegian immigrant during a sub-zero whiteout. All three were ejected from their vehicles. They survived the crash, but not the cold. Authorities found them and the Norwegian frozen to death on the road near the overturned tractor the next day. Their demise left Ezra without a mother or father, and he had no relatives living in America to stay with. Foster care was his best hope though his recent diagnosis with Savant Syndrome made placement difficult. Like other children with forms of autism, he exhibited repetitive behaviors. He often stared blankly at lights and sometimes ran in circles for no apparent reason as his overwhelmed foster parents Mr. and Mrs. Mc Bain looked on and endeavored to persevere.   

           Aside from his sometimes perplexing behaviors, Ezra was also a very bright boy who read voraciously. His favorite writer was Bob Zimmerman, a Jewish boy who called himself Dylan, and who also came from Hibbing. He knew all the words to every song Dylan had ever written. Though Dylan was famous for his music and his calls for social justice, it was the poetry in his songs that enthralled Ezra. So, it was not surprising that when Ezra spoke, it was often in poetic riddles.

I plot around in circles,

Always straight ahead.

And I never ever fuss a lot,

Lest you make me go to bed. 

           He also made a habit of devouring names and numbers. For example, Ezra had read and memorized the time and place of every major conflict since the Trojan war, the names of all the winners of the Tour de France along with the brands of the bikes they rode since 1903, as well as the history of professional baseball since 1871. Fergus Mc Bain was always amazed at Ezra’s recall of obscure facts.

           “How long was the first Tour de France?” he asked.

           “2,428 Kilometers—1903.”

           “Who won the 1949 tour and what bike did they ride?” 

           “Fausto Coppi—Bianchi.”

          Fergus and his wife Gael had come to America from Derry to escape the Troubles in 1968. As Catholics, they were the oppressed in the Protestant north of the country, but wanted no part in avenging their plight in the brutal civil war that followed. They were poor when they left, and were still poor in Hibbing. But they remained good Irish Catholics who believed in caring for the needy even though they were needy themselves. Ezra, it turned out, was their special needs child, and he gave them nothing but joy. To give him joy in return, they needed help.

           Downtown Hibbing had a Salvation Army store. It was where they went for furniture, kitchen items, clothing for themselves, and special things for Ezra. Bob Dylan albums, for example, would bring tears to his eyes. A book of collected poems by Emily Dickinson was another. Fergus, in particular, was always on the hunt for something out of the ordinary for their special child. One cold December day, Fergus went to the store to find something for Ezra on Christmas. Sleuthing the isles, he walked past an old bicycle. “Bianca” read the badge of its maker. Bianca sounded familiar, but Ezra was not much of a bicycle rider, so he moved on to another row. Halfway down that row was a section devoted to baseball. There were little league bats, uniforms, catcher’s mitts, baseballs, and all sorts of other things. One item caught his eye. Among a pile of baseball caps from teams around the country was a navy blue hat that had two letters on the front—a T and a C. Being an Irish catholic immigrant, he had no clue what the T and C meant, so he asked a clerk. The clerk was from Somalia and was of no help, so he flagged down another clerk who was from Hibbing. “What’s this hat for.”

           “That’s an old Minnesota Twins hat sir.”

           “Is it worth anything?”

           “Nah. Our people always check things like that. It’s just an old hat. Here’s a better one,” he offered. It was a more recent Twins hat made of Polyester instead of wool.

           “I think I’ll take the old one made of wool. Feels better.”

           “Yes, sir. Anything else?”

           The red Bianca bicycle had been addling his thoughts since he left the aisle. Something about the word Bianca was familiar. 

           “That red bike in the other aisle. How much is it?”

           “I think it’s $25.00. Doesn’t have a chain you know.

           “I’ll take it.” 

Part IV

           It was October 11, 1965 game 5 of the World Series and Sandy Koufax was pitching a shut-out. Harmon Killebrew, the monster hitter of the Twins who sported a .357 batting average stepped up to the plate against Koufax. Hammerin' Harmon, as he was called, was the home run king of the 1960’s and was carrying the weight of Minnesota on his shoulders. Twins fans sat on the edge of their seats as he came to bat. They were already down five runs to nothing in the top of the seventh inning of play, but Killebrew was always a threat and gave them a sliver of hope.

It was Harmon’s third at bat and likely his last chance to get the home run he desperate for to redeem his dismal performance. In the second inning, Koufax had struck him out. In the fifth, he only managed a single that he hit to centerfield. It was now the seventh and Twins were hoping for a Killebrew explosion.

Koufax went through his routine on the mound as he prepared to face Killebrew. He was not about to give him something he could hit. Winding up, Koufax pitched a ball. Winding up again, he pitched a second ball. Not wanting to walk him, Koufax gave him a slightly better pitch and Killebrew hit it hard to left field, but it went foul. Koufax eyed Killebrew once more knowing full well the power he could unleash on an errant pitch. As the fourth pitch was on its way, Killebrew wound up his powerful body to kill it. Crack went the bat sending a line drive along the foul line toward left field. Twins fans jumped to their feet praying the ball would stay in play. And it did, but left fielder Lou Johnson trapped it in his glove before hit the grass and the mighty Killebrew was out.

After the game, Koufax was signing a few autographs on his way to the clubhouse. Someone in the crowd reached toward him and shoved a navy blue Twins cap in his face. Koufax looked up to see Harmon Killebrew holding out his hat with a smile. Koufax turned the hat over several times to find the best place to sign. The navy blue was too dark for the autograph to show. The only place to sign it was under the bill where the fabric was grass green.