Amaretto

He did what he always did. Walked to the Baseball field of his youth before the sunset; just to see the lights go on. Pushing 64, that was one of the few pleasures he allowed himself. Coffee in hand, harsh winter wind, he could not help but feel nostalgic. Glaring over the field, he once stood as a hero among men. He twisted his flask, he held the flask in his hand and couldn’t wait to sit and overlook his field. He could hear the cheers, see the sweat, the pants, the hits, the crowd roaring… they all came back to him. Drinking coffee, scarf around the neck, calmly staring at the Baseball field. In his old age, he had given up being the social sort. He never cared much to talk to anyone; he’d lived there long enough for people to understand this. His profession allowed him the satisfaction of solitary contemplation and ad hoc arguments— via letters or lengthy pieces. Being at each other’s throats hardly required schmoozing so he settled into that life. He came here when he felt life was too much to bear. But this day, he felt compelled. He needed to say something to someone, anyone.

He scanned and noticed someone sitting. He saw her.

Scarf around her neck, glazed over eyes, black gloves, hair pulled into a bun and lips, unquivering. Had he met her?

The field and her went way back. Old age had only taught her anguish; but her inner resolve was too strong for her to cry. But yet, her travels always led her here. She was missed. She loved this place and she needed to be here. A shadow of a man stood near her. Fumbling to take off his gloves, and sip his coffee. Her lack of interest was apparent and there was no need to engage him. They would sit in silence and contemplate their memories separately, however intimate the scene was.

“Hi there!” He shouted. His clear eyes were familiar, his nose crooked, and his smile sheepish.

He frowned. It was him. Everyone knew him. He was the poster child of those high school days and high school nights. Name plastered everywhere and hollered through the halls. Mr. popular. He was known around here. She must not be from here.

He watched her rub her hands together and with venom mutter “Am I bothering you?”

He was taken aback. “No, just thought you needed a welcome to the town. I’m…”

“ I am not new; I went to school here.” He couldn’t place it; Her “r”s were different from his. But her “new” marked her as a part of the town.

“Really? Well, Me too”

He walked closer and her posture changed, “C’mon, a little company never hurt ‘nybody.”

The silence between them was comfortable. A warm blanket as the sky turned a soft purple and showed ripples of orange light. He was paying attention to it. He felt the awkwardness and said “Something healing about a baseball field, right?”

Men. With their vagueness they call insight.

“Were you always on the field in high school?” Her voice betrayed her disinterest.

“Morning and night; sometimes on the weekend”

“Dedication?”

“Something like that.”

“You like Baseball?”

“No but my cousin used to play”

“What position?”

“No idea. I hardly watched him. Roy always told me I need to try to understand sports but I think my life is fine without it”

“But somehow you just drifted ‘ere to sit” he paused “in silence?”

Her eyes shut slowly, “Well, she brought me here. This was where we met. Where I learned…”

Her voice cracked and she fell silent. She did not need to finish. He was not sure what she meant. But he knew the look of longing when he saw it. For a better time, a better place. That was it. She needed a distraction.

“Do you know who I am?”

Why not humor him?

“Obviously”

“You don’t like me much, huh?”

“Not at all”

“Even back then?”

“Nope”

He racked his brain to figure out who he had offended in high school. Maybe many, maybe none. Did that even matter?

“Wan’a know why I love this field so much?”

“I don’t but I have a feeling you’ll tell me anyway”

“I cried here”

“Sure, after a loss?”

“No”

“A girl dumped you here? You lost a scholarship?” her flippantly tone remained consistent.

He ignored her. Stopped looking at the sky and met her eyes “I cried here because it was where I realized that I was a nobody in High School and I will be a nobody until I died. Everything I did on this field was erased by the next day. Every mark I made, every effort I put in, every weekend I spent here… all for nothing. It was bittersweet.”

Her reaction was a chuckle met with a grin on his face. He knew. There had been no search for “knowing eyes” or compassion. Whatever purpose it served, the story was absurd. Absurd enough to capture her attention and absurd enough to mean nothing to her. They’d just met. But there was some comfort in knowing that 64 was not the reminder of his mortality; the field was. He came here to remember; she came here to remember her. The moments that she felt most alive and the day that it ended. Opposite reasons, the same space.

But there was something in his faux fable of a story that provided some comfort. 64. She had lived 64 years and nothing had made her feel more alive than she. How sad. Her thoughts went to her husband’s death, then Roy’s and now, she. The reason for her return.

“Jimmy, you had it all. Why would you have cried?” Her voice was confident and serious which confused him.

“What did you call me?”

“Jimmy. That is your name, isn’t it?”

He sipped his coffee.

“That’s not me.”

She knew she owed him an apology but said nothing.

With one last glance, her eyes looked at the field and then to him, “I am glad you found a way to make your life worth it. It takes courage to return to the place your dream died and you do it every day.”

With that, her walk to the exit began. It never crossed his mind to ask her questions, like her statement about him being here every day. It was just one of those things. Like amaretto, a sweet burn. Some people inspire something in you, for no reason. Sipping on his coffee, he wondered if he knew her. Who could she be? Her presence was had been 46 years too late. The one girl his eyes may have met but lips could never capture. Even if they had met, she would never had been his. Her heart belonged to she, whoever she is.

Well, he sighed. You’ll never know unless you try.