A couple of mornings later, I was back at Spring Lake, this time toting a van full of buckets and mops, brooms and scrub brushes. I was unloading at Seph lodge, which sits away from the main courtyard on a hill in the woods. Coming nearer and nearer, penetrating my consciousness, I noticed the systematic "thump, thump" of someone running slowly down the dusty road beside the cabin. As the runner drew abreast of the cabin door, I and turned and looked to see who was being so energetic on another hot day. I couldn’t believe my eyes! It was Mr. Clarence Jones, jogging by without even a sign of the odd gait exhibited at our previous meeting. He recognized me immediately and broke out into a big grin.
Coming over to the cabin door, he started, "I be enjoying these shoes you gave me. I get in my exercise, now. It be hard to run in them old shoes. I already walked this road seven times today. I gotta stay in shape, ya know. As soon as I’m able, I’ll be gettin’ back to New Orleans. My boys is gonna need their coach. It won’t be long befo-"
I interrupted, ‘You coach? What do you coach?"
"Baseball!" he answered impatiently as if there were no other sports to coach. "Little League. I’ve got me a great team of boys. We’re playin’ fall league."
"Wow, that’s great. So you like baseball, huh? We like baseball too, my family, I mean, my husband and my boys. They play in the back yard all the time, and my youngest son played on a church team last spring. But whatever made you want to coach?" I started to add "at your age" but caught myself just in time.
Then without a hint of pride and gazing away, as if remembering something, he said, "Me? Aw, I don’t know, after playin’ professionally, it just be the right thing to do. It’s a hard game to walk away from." He kicked the dust with the tip of one of his new shoes.
I was flabbergasted. A professional baseball player? Surely he was joking with me, trying to pull my leg. Why, I had looked at him a few days before and figured from his attire and his mannerisms that he was just a bum. Or ex-bum maybe, someone who had moved from the welfare roll to the social security roll. Now, I looked at him a little closer. He was short, but powerfully built with thick legs and big shoulders. He was older, yes, but not bent. Yes, I thought I could see the athlete in him! His body was probably healthier than mine.
He must have guessed my thoughts because he looked me right in the eye and said, "Negro League."
I liked the way he rolled the word "Negro" off his tongue, stretching it out, "Neeee-grow".
He continued, "It was a long time ago. It was before you was born. You wouldn’t know about them days."
Then it happened again -the prick - the one in the tough skin of my heart. It was the Lord, again, trying to get my attention. Showing me my pride.
"Oh God," I silently prayed, "forgive me for my prideful spirit. Help me not to foolishly make judgements about other people!"
But aloud, I said, "Oh Mr. Jones, that is amazing! Professional baseball. Wow! Would you mind if I brought my boys by to visit with you later. My middle son just loves baseball history. He studies baseball players and teams and statistics and memorizes them. I know that he would want to interview you! Would that be okay with you? Could you tell him all about when you played and who you played for and what it was like to be a player in the Negro Leagues? If it isn’t too much trouble, I mean." I felt like I was begging.
"Sure," he said with just the tone of voice I envisioned a Little League coach using on an over-zealous parent, "You bring them boys to Faith Lodge and we’ll play checkers and talk baseball."
"Alright, I’ll bring them tomorrow night."
He nodded and waved as he headed back to the dusty road and his self-imposed fall training schedule.
That was the last time I ever saw Mr. Clarence Jones.
When I took my boys back the next night, new ready-to-be-autographed-baseball in hand, his checkerboard was being used by another pair of players. Thinking that maybe he had just gone out for a little exercise, we walked the dusty roads of the campground until it starting getting dark. Finally, Steve, finding out which bunk Mr. Jones was assigned, went into the lodge to leave him a note. He came back with a disappointed look on his face. All he had found was a bare, empty bed; and just peeking out from under the edge of the bed was a pair of ladies sandals. Mr. Clarence Jones was gone.
Days later, I found by checking bus tickets that he had taken a late-night bus to Memphis, Tennessee. Some of his lodge mates thought he might have said he had family there. What I didn’t understand was why I felt so sad. Mr. Clarence Jones entered and left my life in the span of four days. Why, there were leftovers in the refrigerator that had been around longer. There was no reason why this man’s sudden departure should leave a void. What was wrong with me?
The words of the Wal-mart sales clerk answered from my memory "Be careful, you might get hurt!"