I meet myself

I write what is supposed to be the sports column for the Villager newspaper in St. Paul. Most of the time, I deal with games and the people who play them. Every now and then, however, my editor gives me a little leeway to veer off base a bit. This is one of those times.

This is the column I will be running next week. It was one of the most extraordinary experiences I have ever had.

One of Rod Serling’s best efforts in the old “Twilight Zone” series was a tale about a fellow returning to the city where he grew up. In the show, Gig Young played an unhappy New York City ad executive who said he just needed to get away from the hubbub of the big city and return to the town where he grew up. He finds himself at a gas station about a mile away and decides to walk to his old town. As only Serling could present it, Young finds himself transported back in time to when he was a boy. At one point, he sees himself as a 10-year old carving his name into a post.

It has long been considered one of Serling’s top literary efforts but it clearly was intended as a fantasy. At least I thought so until the other day. Now I am not so sure.

Read on and decide for yourself.

It started on a sunny Saturday in Stillwater. I was there for a booksigning of my tome “162-0”, the historical fantasy of how the Minnesota Twins mange a perfect season. A young fellow sat down on the chair opposite me with a book in hand.

“Would you like to me autograph that for you?” I asked.

He nodded his head shyly.

“What’s your name?” I asked.“Ari,” he replied softly. After a couple of hard seconds of thought, he added, “I am a baseball fan.”

Turned out Ari was slightly more than a baseball fan. He is a pitcher and a first baseman for a team called the Minneapolis Millers. “I’m better at pitching, though,” he said. “I’m not that good of a hitter.”

“Do you want to be a ballplayer when you grow up?” I asked. “Either that or an announcer. That’s where some guys go when they aren’t good enough to play anymore,” he said.

“Do you have a favorite pitcher?” I asked, expecting to hear him say Francisco Liriano, Nick Blackburn or some other members of the Twins’ staff.

“Jon Lester,” came the reply. “I’m lefthanded like he is. But the real reason I like him is because he has beaten back cancer.” The idea that a young boy knew would even use the term “beaten back cancer” threw me a bit. The fact that this fellow knew this was even more surprising. Ari, however, was just warming up. “I’m a Red Sox fan,” he said proudly. “I like the way they play the game.”

And so it went for the next half hour or so. Ari allowed that he also liked the way the Twins play. “They’re ahead 4-2 today,” he informed me. “Valencia hit a home run.” That particular fact had occurred roughly five minutes before I entered the store.

There was only one way Ari could have known this. “So your mom lets you listen to ballgames on the radio in the car,” I said.
Ari nodded. “We have a deal,” he explained. “When my sister and I are in the car with mom, I get to listen to the ball game one way and she gets to hear her music the other way.”

“How is it you got to listen to the game coming out here today?” I asked.

“My sister didn’t realize the game will be over by the time we get back to the car,” Ari replied.

Later in the conversation, Ari showed himself to be a true Red Sox fan. “I don’t like the way the Yankees always buy their players,” he said. “But what about (Derek) Jeter, (Jorge) Posada and (Mariano) Rivera?” I protested. “They came up through their system.”Ari fixed an evil eye in return. “That was a long time ago,” he replied. “They stopped doing that.”

The conversation continued. “What do you think of the Twins’ playoff chances this year?” I asked. Ari pondered this for a minute. “They’ll do fine if they can get a lead into the seventh innings. They have enough closers to take them home from there. I’m not sure about some of those starters, though. They got enough hitting, though.”

Now it was Ari’s turn to ask questions. “Do you think Gonzalez will win the Triple Crown?” he asked. I looked up in surprise. There may not be 500 people in Minnesota who know who the hell Carlos Gonzalez is or the fact he plays for the Colorado Rockies. But this kid not only knew that but he was aware he has an outside chance to become the first National League in 73 years to win the batting, home run and RBI titles.

“I don’t think he can catch (Albert) Pujols for the home run lead,” I said. (At the time, Pujols led him by six.) Ari conceded the point. “Probably not,” he said. “He is striking out more than before.”

I looked it up. Gonzalez already 25 more whiffs than last year. This kid is pretty good.

I decided to try one last gambit. “My wife and her sister are going to Las Vegas next week,” I said. “Who should they bet on?”
The reply came back rapidfire. “The Phillies probably have the best club (in the National League) but Cincinnati is a good bet,” my new-found sage said.

“Who do you like in the American League?” I asked. Ari made a face. “Well, the Yankees have the most talent,” he sighed. Looking directly at my sister-in-law, he added, “But you’ll get better odds on the Twins. And they could win it if their pitching holds up.”

I wondered how in the world this boy, who said he was 10, showed more wisdom than some adults I know. I resolved to find out why. “Ari, when I was a kid, I used to scan the boxscores in the paper for all the games,” I said. “Do you do that?”
“No,” he said. “I go online to mlb.com every day.” (Silently, I thought to myself it was a good thing the internet and cable TV wasn’t around when I was his age. My mother might have lost her mind.)

A tall woman suddenly stood behind Ari’s chair. It was his mother, who signaled it was time to move on. “You have a terrific son,” I said to her. “We’ve been having a lot of fun talking baseball.” Ari’s mom smiled, “He has a lot of passion.”

I told her that my wife once asked me how was it that I could name the starting lineup of the 1961 Detroit Tigers but would forget to take out the trash. My reply wasn’t very helpful: “I don’t have a passion for the trash.”

Ari said his goodbyes. I told him if he ever wrote a book to let me know. I wanted an autographed copy. His mother smiled again. “He’ll remember,” she said. “He remembers everything about baseball.” As Ari walked out the door, I found myself flashing back to the memory of a young boy who once patiently explained to his mother why the Detroit Tigers were nuts to trade away Charley Maxwell for a guy named Bob Farley.

I turned to my sister-in-law, who had watched this conversation with appropriate bemusement. “I think I just met myself at age 10,” I said, somewhat in awe.

My sister-in-law smiled, “I hope you were that polite. Did you notice how he looked you in the eye when he talked?” I sighed in response, “My mother used to tell me to do that. Come to think of it, your sister tells me to do that now. Glad to see I’m getting better at it.”