Magic and Loss

4 
Palmyra Memorial Park 
Fourth of July, 1958 

It was a perfect day for a baseball game. 
The blazing sun was rising steadily over a row of tall poplar trees lining the back of the left-field bleachers at Palmyra Memorial Park. The entire Little League field was rapidly transforming into a dazzling, sun-drenched coliseum reminiscent of the glory days of ancient Rome. Shimmering rivulets of red, white, and blue reflected off the patriotic flags, posters, sparklers, decorations, ribbons, and brightly dressed fans pouring into the park. From high above the rolling cumulus clouds, the dazzling colors bursting from the field appeared to be sparkling sunbeams glittering off a lake of precious stones. 
In the stands, tiny, pig-tailed tots were already giddy with excitement, jumping up and down in their seats, frantically waving their miniature flags in the air. The kids were desperately trying to get the attention of George Palmer, one of the school board members, who was wearing a flashy, sequined Uncle Sam costume and wobbling along the sidelines high atop a pair of rickety wooden stilts. It appeared as if he was going to lose his balance any second, but George somehow managed to toss handfuls of candy to the youngsters without toppling to the ground. 
In the middle of the bleachers, a flirtatious young woman in blue short shorts and a low-cut red V-neck blouse was leaning back in her seat, showing off her curvaceous figure and slender legs. With her wavy platinum blonde hair and ruby-red lips, she looked like Marilyn Monroe playing a scene in a movie as she inhaled a deep drag off a cigarette and blew out a gusty plume of smoke with dramatic flair, leaving a sticky red smudge on the tip of her cigarette. Marty Casey, the designated town drunk, couldn’t help but notice the eye-catching woman in the stands. He was leaning on the chain-link backstop wearing a silly Statue of Liberty hat, drinking whiskey from a plastic cup. Marty, hoping to grab her attention, suddenly belted out an incoherent, drunken version of “God Bless America.” 
A few curious fans in the bleachers looked down at Marty, wondering why this pathetic buffoon was even allowed to attend the game. But unfortunately Marty’s lively vocal performance was wasted on the vivacious lady with the sexy legs. She never even noticed Marty; she was too busy staring at George Palmer, with whom she was currently having an affair. 
On the sidelines, a cute, red-headed majorette in a skimpy scarlet uniform and matching boots tossed her silver baton high into the air. She turned around full circle, waved enthusiastically to the crowd, and then extended her hand and let the airborne baton land perfectly in her waiting fingertips. 
Occasional clusters of snapping firecrackers and exploding cherry bombs blasted off in the distance while the pounding drums and brassy horns of the high-school marching band clanged and boomed like a thundering cavalry charge. Beyond right field, on a side street, nonstop dueling horns blared from a collection of antique cars, trucks, and fire engines. A blue and white Good Humor ice cream truck pulled up next to the curb rattling its tinkling bell, creating an army of riotous kids pleading to their parents for a dime followed within seconds by a screaming mob of youngsters rushing to the curb as if the Good Humor man was the Pied Piper in a starched white uniform. 
The short-sleeved, neatly dressed crowd was settling into their seats, sipping Cokes, chomping down on hot dogs, munching peanuts and Cracker Jacks, lapping up ice cream cones, pulling tufts of cotton candy off sticks, or chattering away while fanning themselves with the program for today’s game. Wholesome-looking, Norman Rockwell families gathered together on the corrugated aluminum benches, watching the pregame action on the field, soaking in the myriad sights and sounds of Independence Day in small-town America. The sights and sounds blended seamlessly into the baseball smells ascending from the grass, dirt, dust, and sweat on the field. In the stands, pungent aromas from pipes, cigars, and cigarette smoke floated in the breeze, merging with the smells of hotdogs, hamburgers, ketchup, and mustard wafting from the makeshift booths of the Palmyra Lion’s Club. In the dugout, two youngsters were adjusting the rawhide laces of their Spalding gloves while sniffing the grimy leather, which still reeked from a slathering of Neatsfoot oil over the winter. One of the players, trying to get a better grip, nervously rubbed handfuls of dirt into the handles of his white ash Louisville Slugger. 
Jackie Riddick and several other City League All-Stars were in the outfield catching lazy fly balls off of Osa Martin’s fungo bat. Jackie surveyed the growing crowd filling up the bleachers, wondering if his mother had made it to the game. She disapproved of baseball almost as much as American Bandstand, because she felt it occupied far too much of Jackie’s time “in the world.” But Jackie had begged his mother to attend, telling her that Danny would come with her and help her feel at ease. Betty was uncomfortable in large crowds. 
Suddenly, Coach Martin hit a high fly ball over Jackie’s head. Jackie quickly turned around and chased the ball almost to the fence before snaring it over his shoulder. Before throwing the ball back, he took a few steps toward the bleachers, hoping to catch sight of Vera Lincoln. He spanned the entire outfield from right field to left and was about to give up when he recognized Vera and her mother sitting together near the left-field scoreboard. Jackie waved to them, tipped his cap in their direction, and was rewarded with a waving hand and glowing smile from Vera. Jackie ran back to shallow centerfield, his heart pounding even faster than it had been five minutes ago. 
In the stands, fathers of all ages sat together with their sons or grandsons, pencils in hand, quietly explaining the rules for scoring the game with their red, faded, dog-eared scorebooks, preserving the history of ball games played on other fields in other hallowed, mythical eras. More than a few of the scorebooks were considered nearly as holy as the family Bible, and the father-son scorebook ritual was considered a truly special occasion, almost as sacred as attending church on Sunday. 
The hometown crowd loved every glorious moment of this annual holiday combining the celebration of America’s Independence with the great national pastime. Perhaps no two other social events better signified the glory and triumph of a country that had managed in less than two hundred years to create a stable democracy, win two World Wars, and establish the highest standard of living in the world. Baseball just seemed like a patriotic sport, an integral part of a distinctly American culture creating its own mythology with legendary gods to worship like Ruth, Williams, Mantle, Mays, and DiMaggio. 
At the moment, the carefree fans in the park felt very good about themselves. Any suggestion of an undercurrent of impending social disturbance or psychic discontent stirring among a few of the townspeople would have brought only derision and disbelief. This was, after all, the golden land of opportunity, the great melting pot of American assimilation. If the majority of people in the stands had cared to look, they would have noticed different minorities congregating in the park segregated into isolated clusters with friends and family. But if they weren’t on the field or managing, they may as well have been on the dark side of the moon.