Hey Odell!

I came home after many years. The drifting, the loneliness, the pain, it all finally came to a festering head. For years I’d run. Always trying to stay a step ahead, knowing full well I was always one behind.

My bus pulled into the Greyhound station at 4 p.m. in Richmond, Virginia. Right across the street from The Diamond ballpark on Boulevard.

A lot of my youth was spent in those stands. More was spent in old Parker Field, the old ballpark that this ugly monstrosity replaced back in 1984 or so. I loved Parker Field and it’s ratty bleachers and rusted metal poles everywhere. It had some character. The Diamond? It had none then. And now, over 25 years after it was built, still has none. Even the giant Indian -- Connecticut -- is gone. He had some “it” factor to it at least. More the “what the hell is it doing here?” or “why the hell did they build it here?” kind of thing. I always wondered why they called it Connecticut as a kid. But I never asked. Just like now, I don’t just Google why. That destroys something. I just called him “Chief Knock-A Homa.” Because that was what the white guy, white Italian guy when I met him, was called. He’d go around the stadium with his Indian garb on, taking photos with kids. I even got his autograph once. His wife was “Queen Win-A-Lotta.” So wrong now, but so right then.

That’s one of the good memories for sure.

I think that place is where I started to learn how to hide. My dad always took me to games. It was his way of bonding with me I guess. Taking me to games, professional ones like the minor league baseball games there of the Richmond Braves, or maybe a Washington Redskins game, or a UVA basketball game. Those were the times we were supposed to be father and son. What it really meant was dad goes and drinks with his buddies while little Randy tries to find something to do to get away from that.

At the games at Parker Field and the Diamond, I’d try to get autographs before it, sit with dad for a while, maybe getting something to eat, until he started drinking. Then, I’d get up and go. Just wander around the stadium. By myself. The ushers got to know me. Let me sneak into better box seats sometimes. Except for that ugly old guy. They called him Ratty. Don’t know if it was his nickname or his name. Whichever, it fit. He’d chase me out of places I shouldn’t be. So much so you’d try to find him early, so you knew where to avoid. Sometimes I’d just go way up in the rafters of the stadium. Look out at the city in the distance, dreaming of something else. Never really have been a pin-pointer of what exactly, but always something else than what was in front of me.

Other times, I’d play cup ball in the area behind first base. It was kind of like The Sandlot, except the kids were always different. Or if they weren’t, I didn’t know the difference. I don’t remember ever asking a name or anything from the other kids. Guess I always loved the distance anonymity allowed.

Foul balls and home runs interrupted games. That was it. Everything else was focus. If a person walked on to the field, they may get hit by a hand batted cup ball or by a throw from one of the fielders. That meant only one base, and some of us got good at hitting the fans instead of trying to actually get the out. It would save a run or two every so often. And get a good glare from someone who dared enter our territory. Every so often, a player would venture into our realm. Either going to the locker rooms or even to grab some food. The game would stop, and we’d all stare at them in awe. These behemoths of baseball. Walking amongst us.

Our game would end and everyone would go back to where they came from when the real game got close to ending. Sometimes we’d actually set a score to reach, or a number of innings. But that was not the norm. It was just a game that ended when it was supposed to. I’d hang out in the empty area many times. Sweaty and covered with ballpark grime -- a mixture of spilt beer and soda, chewing tobacco and spit, peanut shells and hot dog buns. The black under fingernails comforted me somehow.

Dad, on the other hand, he’d see me covered in the scum and get angry. “Go to the bathroom! And get cleaned up dammit! Why are you always so damn dirty?” he’d slur to me.
One time, he told me I smelled of shit. Loudly. And being that I mastered public shitting around my 14th birthday, he could have been right a lot of times. This time, he was too. I used to do everything in my power not to shit in public restrooms. Holding it in until it forced it’s way out like toothpaste tubs in your carry on luggage. At that point, I’d sit on my foot and use it as a barracade against the impending poo missile or missiles. Holding. Holding. Holding. It was embarrassing. In the middle of things, taking a knee and grimacing. He’d see me doing it sometimes and he’d yell at me. “Dammit boy, go to the bathroom!” He’d cuss up a storm. Even as a little kid in diapers I vaguely remember it. He’d scoop me up, smell my ass and tell me to “take a shit. Right Now!” I’d go in the toilet, sit on the bowel and cry. Sometimes he’d come in with me, keeping the door open and staring at me. He’d cuss more when I didn’t go. He’d then go drink some more.

Eventually, when he’d leave, I’d go. Always embarrassed.

One time, before we even left, I’d been too excited to poop. In the meantime, my drawers got a little soiled. On the ride to the game, he smelled it. He pulled to the side of Interstate 95 and smacked me. “You went in your pants again, didn’t you?” he yelled. I hadn’t, but I was sure there was a streak of something in there that smelled. “No,” I’d say meekly. He flipped me over and smelled my ass. “You’re lying!” his rage increased. Back home we’d go. “Change your clothes and go to the bathroom!”

I’d go inside, change while trying not to cry. My mom would ask why we were back. I wouldn’t answer. She’d figure it out soon enough, I thought to myself. She must figure these things out, right?

That place of so many good memories blurred always by the bad.

One time, my buddy Chris tagged along. I no longer had bowel issues by then, we were teenagers. Both geeks. But happy geeks. Getting autographs and eating Cracker Jacks while trying to catch foul balls. Still haven’t caught one to this day.

My dad, he drank a lot that night. Even before we left for the park. My buddy thought it was all so funny, my happier than usual dad. His dad didn’t drink, that I knew of. At least not in public. So this was probably some kind of visceral experience for him. For me, it was an average Tuesday night in the summer.

We got to the park, went after some autographs. We had our eyes on a veteran on the other team -- pitcher Odell Jones. He was a tall, lanky right-hander who was once a Pittsburgh Pirate. That made him almost a god to both of us. I thought he looked a lot like Satchell Paige, not that I’d ever seen ol’ Satch in real life or anything. Just a baseball card that was a painting of him.

He came out of the bullpen and signed our cards. Smiling the entire time. Cool, I thought. Odell is an alright guy.

We got back to our seats. They’re good ones on this night. My dad must’ve known someone who gave him the tickets. We’re hoping he’ll buy us some food.

“Who’d ya get?” he slurs to us.

I cringe. Chris smiles.

“Odell Jones,” Chris finally says. I look at him, hoping he’ll stop. Wondering why he spoke up.

“Odell? He’s starting today!” my dad blurts out in that just a little too loud voice that drunks share.

The next six innings, my dad and his buddy who is at the game, taunt Odell Jones.

“Heeeeeeeeeeeey Odell! Odelllllllllllllllllllllll. Odell. Odell. Jooooooooooooooooooooooones!” he yells. In between large Dixie Cups of beer.

Odell tosses six shutout innings that night. He’s in rare form for a guy with over a decade in pro baseball but pitching in Triple A now. As he lets two get on in the seventh, he’s yanked.

My dad stands up and continues the taunts.

“Odellllllll. Can’t you finish anything? I guess we know why you’re not in the show anymore!”

Odell looks up to find the bane of his night in Richmond. He finds us. And tips his cap to my dad. This brings a loud series of guffaws from my dad. He elbows his buddy. “We got to him, didn’t we?” His buddy takes a long sip of beer. I don’t think he’s amused anymore either.

I don’t speak on the entire trip home. We drop off Chris at his house.

Then my dad says “Odell was inspired tonight. Wasn’t he?”

I say nothing.

It’s a nice summer night when we get home. He pulls into the driveway. Parking the car. I get out. He doesn’t. Instead, he starts the car back up, puts it in reverse and goes. Luckily, I’ve been a latchkey kid since I was nine, so I have a key. Back to the bar, I guess.

Two things ring out as I look at my Odell Jones autographed card here in my parents’ house decades later, me back with the world around me collapsing. 1/I did a best not to become the bad in my dad, succeeding and failing, but mostly succeeding, and 2/Potty training patience definitely was inspired by my awesome experiences as a wee lad. It was the one good thing I did while dating my last girlfriend -- potty training her kid for her.