Bunky’s enjoying his coffee and newspaper at the kitchen table when the alarm goes off. It’s 5:30 a.m. He still sets the alarm, every night when he goes to bed. Never fails to do so.
And every morning, Bunky wakes up at least 30 minutes before it every chimes. Yet he never turns it off before it blares out it’s cock-a-doodle-doos. He figures that clock only has one reason to exist, and that’s to make noise in the morning. So why take that away from it.
He remembers when he used to have a reason. It was throwing the ball 60 feet, 6 inches. Took him all the way to the show, that left arm of his. Never won a game there, but dang it, he made it.
Now? Bunky’s a greeter at Wal-Mart. It’s not nearly as exciting, that’s for sure. But neither was the 40 years of working in an office. Selling insurance to folk. Nice folks, usually. Until the end, when the big office started not filling claims the way it used to do.
“Times, Bunky, they’ve changed,” his bosses told him one day when he called about a denied claim from a family of four. Three children and a dad. Who just lost their mom in a car accident. But it was deemed the father’s fault. He had the window open, and his cigarette blew out of his hand. Into the car beside him. The driver of that car -- a 1987 Cadillac El Dorado driven by the son of the former sheriff -- swerved right into the Gorges’ family car, a Hyundai Accent, sending it into a ditch. Everything seemed fine, until Ryan looked at his wife. The mailbox he remembered hitting as he spun out of control had cut her left after popping through the window.
She was dying. And he knew it. The kids were crying. It was raining and the sheriff’s son was cussing up a storm outside his window. He told his wife, Rebecca, that he loved her. She smiled and closed her eyes.
Bunky got that story in court. He went to the trial. The sheriff’s son was found not guilty. The insurance company then didn’t pay the claim on the accident. Citing driver error. Bunky quit right after the trial.
That was 11 years ago. Bunky’s 74 years old now. A long time from his days with the Washington Senators. For what the announcers call “a cup of coffee.” Bunky started drinking coffee only after his ball playing days were done.
He thought about the day in 1959 when he knew he would no longer be a ball player. He was making $4,000 a year in the minors. Four years removed from the show, but still full of moxie. The managers all loved that about Bunky. He got guys out, most of the time. But he didn’t strike ‘em out. He did it with grounders and fly balls. Only problem was the last two seasons, the guys behind him weren’t fielders. The manager, Jack Jackson, he knew that. And because of it, he kept Bunky around. To teach the other pitchers how to pitch. How to keep their cool. Three years ago, a lanky kid, nick-named the Ripper by the local scribes, came into town. Throwing 100 miles per hour, but not knowing where it would land half of the time.
Bunky sat down with him after a particularly interesting day by the Ripper, real name Jessie Overton. Jessie struck out 17 batters. Walked 11 and hit six. He also gave up just one hit. A grand slam homer in the ninth that lost the game 4-3.
Jessie took a look at the wall in the dugout and reared back to punch it. Bunky stood up and took the punch instead. Jessie looked at him dumbfounded. The two were inseparable the rest of the season. Bunky told him about the bigs. About how he once struck out Mickey Mantle. One of just 34 strikeouts he had in his career.
The Ripper went 16-2 the rest of the season. Was in the bigs in September. Sent Bunky one of his baseball cards every year. The Ripper stayed in the show for 23 years. Won 342 games. Struck out 4,000. And he sent Bunky a card, every single year.
Why? Bunky only had one card. He played in the bigs for parts of four seasons. But only once did Topps deem him worthy of a card. After his second year.
And the photo wasn’t even him.
Bunky told the Ripper that story the night after the punch. That was when the Ripper started calling him Wally. Because of the wall, and because he reminded him of Wally from “Leave it to Beaver.”
A few years ago, the Ripper was inducted to the Baseball Hall of Fame. He asked Bunky to introduce him. Two weeks before the induction, the Ripper died. Killed in a car accident.
It was too much for Bunky. He didn’t go to Cooperstown. Everyone understood why.
The Ripper’s wife took the stage and told the story of the baseball card. There wasn’t a dry eye in the place. Even Barry Bonds cried, the scribes said.
Bunky cried too. At home, watching it while he looked at the album he put all those cards in. The Ripper was really his last “baseball” friend. Everyone else had died a while ago.
Now, his friends were the ladies of the meat department at Wal-Mart. Where he greeted shoppers every day. Always with a smile.
Some days, old-timers would ask to hear stories of his ball-playing days. Bunky never disappointed.
Kids didn’t know who he was. They sometimes took his chair and hid it. Bunky didn’t get mad. He just smiled and said “ya got me.” They’d always bring the chair back when he wasn’t looking. That made him smile some more.
Bunky takes the bus to work every morning. And to lunch at 2:25 every day. The same time his wife used to bring him his lunch at work in the insurance days.
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