The Man on the Porch

 I didn't know much about the guy next door when I was growing up. I didn't know his name, how old he was, if he was retired, or if he even had a family. All I knew about him was that he loved to sit on his rocking chair, on his porch. He was always sitting on it, looking out onto the road. It was like he was watching the world pass by.

      There was something about him that made me feel uncomfortable. Maybe it was the way he always sat on the porch, no matter what the weather was like. My brother and I use to always call him "The Thinker". Not because he leaned over in his chair with his elbow on his knee, and his hand on his chin (which he didn't do). In fact, he always sat back in his rocking chair all relaxed. We called him "The Thinker", because he always had an expression of thought on his face.

        The other thing that made me feel uncomfortable about him was how still he was. He would stare straight ahead. If he didn't move his head, and get up every once in a while I would have thought he was dead. He was almost old enough to be. Then there where the times my mom would be pulling out of the driveway, and would wave at him. He wouldn't respond, and mom would dismiss it saying, "He must be in another dreamland". I knew mom was giving him the benefit of the doubt, but I thought he saw and was just being rude.

          It wasn't until one day when my brother and I were throwing a baseball back and forth in the front yard that I truly met the man on the porch. I was practicing trying to catch long tossed balls. I played outfield on my baseball team, and wanted to get better. So my brother threw a very long and high ball. It threw right out of my reach! It went up and over our neighbor's porch rail, and landed right next to his rocking chair. I ran over to my brother and looked at him, "What are we going to do? That's my only ball!"

         My brother looked down at me with a smirk, "Well it's not like we lost it." He pointed over the porch, "Go get it. I'm sure The Thinker won't mind."

          I remember cringing at the thought of going over there. What if he was mean, and snapped at me? I glared at my brother, "You threw it. You get it!"

          My brother laughed, "It's your ball! I don't care if you get it back." Then he made a amused smile, "I dare you to get it."

          I groaned as I scrunched up my face. My brother knew I was never one to turn down a dare, and be a chicken. I let out a slow small breath, "Fine, I'll get the ball, but will you wait here for me."

          My brother smiled a victory smile, "Fine, but make it quick." And he sat down on our porch step.

          I remember approaching his porch with a knot in my stomach. I stopped right in front his porch rail, and knock on it like a door. He turned his head to me and blinked. Great...I had to make the first move. I swallowed, and spoke politely like my mother taught me, "Hi Sir, my name is Frank Carry. I am your next door neighbor." I paused, and pointed at my house, then at the ball on his porch. "My brother and I were playing ball, and my ball landed on your porch. May I come up and get it?"

          Then to my surprise he smiled, and motioned to the ball. "Of course you can Frank."

          "Thanks, Sir!" I said as I quickly went up to retrieve my ball. Once I had it I held it up for my brother to see. I smiled at the man, "Thanks again," and I headed toward the stairs.

            Before I got down the stairs I heard the old man speak softly, "I use to play baseball myself when I was younger. I was pretty good at it actually."

             I turned around to look at him, "Oh really?"

              He nodded, "Yes. I started with pee-wee when I was just a boy. Then once I got older I was on my high school, and college team. My most fond memory however, is when the pros offered me a spot on the Red Sox."

             I remember my eyes widening, and my jaw dropping, "No way, you can't be serious!"

             He had laughed, and nodded, "Oh yes Sir. I have all the proof needed: the trophies, the awards, the papers. There all right there in my house. I can go get them, if you would like." He started to get up.

             I quickly glanced over to my brother, who was waving me over. "Oh gosh sir, I would really love to, but my mother is almost done making dinner. Sorry, but thanks for letting me get my ball."

             "Alright, maybe another time. It was nice meeting you officially Frank." He called out to me as I ran down the stairs.

             The fallowing day my mind drifted back to what my neighbor had told me. I couldn't help, but want to know more about his story. So I made my next visit, but this time it was planned.

              He was right where I thought he would be, on his porch in that rocking chair. I greeted him, and asked if I could see that box he spoke of the other day. He smiled, and quickly said yes as he got up. He was in his house for roughly five minutes, before he returned with a large and heavy box. I helped him by taking it, and placing it lightly on the porch. I sat crossed legged in front of it, and he took a seat back in his chair.

               "What are you waiting for Frank, go on, take a look." He said with a smile.

               So I did, and quickly found out that the box held more than just his memory of baseball. It held a story of his life. There were pictures, awards, letters, and so much more. I found out that his name was Roger Willson. He first started playing baseball at age five. He was the MVP on his high school team. He got a scholarship at the University of Tennessee. Mr. Willson even had a letter from the coach of the Red Sox. He was going to sign up to join, but before he got to he got drafted to the Vietnam war. While in the war he met his wife, Anna, who was a surgical army nurse. They met because he got a bad shot to his leg. A bad enough shot, that he had a permanent limp and a ticket home. If it wasn't for his leg, he could have had another go at baseball. But he eventually got over the sadness, and married Anna. They were married for 45 years, before she passed away. They lived in this very house for 31.

                I remember being amazed by his stories, and quickly befriended him. He was just misunderstood all this time. As for his nickname, "The Thinker", it stuck. He thought it was perfect, because he loved to think on his porch. As for my baseball team, we did pretty well. We had a new assistant coach named, Roger Willson. As for that one baseball I had; I got Mr. Willson to sign it. After all, he was almost a pro, and that was good enough for me.