Sad Story May End Happily Ever After

The little girl climbed onto her granddaddy’s lap, shortly before Christmas in the year 2043, looked into the loving eyes of his tired face and said, “Tell me the story again, Grandpa.”

“Oh, sugar, aren’t you tired of that old story yet?” he asked.

She shook her head, pigtails flopping, until eventually Grandpa Anthony crooked an arm tightly around her waist and said, “OK, OK, OK. Once upon a time, there was this tall, strong, handsome young man”--he squeezed and made her giggle--”who had a job pitching baseball for the New York Mets of the major leagues.”

“You, Grandpa,” she said.

“Shhh. Hush now,” her grandfather whispered. “This was a fine young man who was born and raised down Houston way in Texas, away back in 1966, nigh onto 70 years before you were even born. Why, back when he was born, the New York Mets themselves were maybe only three or four years old.”

“They were?” she asked.

“They were,” he said. “Well, this young man became a very popular baseball player in high school, then in college, until eventually the Mets came around in the summer of 1987 and invited him to become a part of their organization, just a few short months after they had beaten Boston and won their very last World Series.”

“They did?”

“They did. And they sent the young man to the minor leagues, where he overcame some troubling injuries that made him miss most of the 1989 season. He developed into such an outstanding prospect that by the time he got to their farm team in Jackson, the young man had become such a splendid pitcher that during the season of 1990, he won 15 games and lost only three.”

“Fifteen and three?”

“Fifteen and three. With an earned-run average of 1.65. For which he was voted the Texas League’s pitcher of the year. Do you know how many earned runs he gave up in 158 innings on the mound that season?”

“Twenty-nine?”

“Twenty-nine runs,” he said. “Say, who’s telling this story, you or me?”

She giggled.

“So, where was I? Oh, yeah. Jackson. So the following summer, after the young man moved on to Tidewater and won seven more games, the Mets called him up to the big show, gave him the ball and sent him out there to start eight games. And while he only won a couple of them, it was no big deal because the Mets were going to go out and get themselves a bunch of better players so that they could challenge for the 1992 pennant.”

“Did they?”

“Well, yes and no. They got the players, but they didn’t challenge for the pennant. They went out and got themselves Eddie Murray and Bobby Bonilla and Bret Saberhagen. Don’t you remember my telling you about Murray and Bonilla and Saberhagen and where they ended up?”

“Hall of Fame?”

“Yeah, one of them. Anyway, every time the young man went out and pitched, he did his absolute best. He always gave his best, and he always acted like a gentleman. Week by week, though, his pitching record got worse and worse. The Mets were a very, very bad baseball club. The young man lost 10 games in a row, then 15, then 20, then 25. Remember?”

“I remember.”

“Everybody was so sad for the young man. Everybody told him, ‘Keep your head up.’ ‘Don’t get down on yourself.’ ‘Hang in there.’ ‘Your day will come.’ They told him that so often that sometimes he dreaded hearing it. He had to stand there every day, signing autographs, giving interviews, being mature. Remember?”

“I remember, Grandpa.”

“And then do you remember what happened to the young man after that?”

“I know! I know!”

“What?”

“He started winning?”

“He started winning. That’s right,” her grandfather said, pinching her nose. “All of a sudden, like out of nowhere, everything changed. He beat one team. Then he beat another team. No matter what sort of stuff he had, he couldn’t lose. I mean, the young man could not lose. Three-hitters. Two-hitters. Shutouts. Complete games. Even when his own team only scored one run, the other team got none. Remember?”

“Yeah, Grandpa.”

“Yeah. And how much longer did the young man pitch?”

“Ten more years?”

“Ten more years. And where did the young man end up?”

“Hall of Fame?”

“Hall of Fame. And how much is his autograph worth now?”

“A zillion dollars!” the little girl said, and then she let out a squeal that everyone in the house could hear because Grandpa Anthony began tickling her sides and saying, “Oh, a zillion dollars, is it? Is that all? A zillion dollars?” and they kept on playing that way until the whole Young family was called to the table for Christmas dinner. It was a wonderful life.