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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Sprung from Grief” Down in the Dirt, v184 (the June 2021 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Lockdown’s Over the Down in the Dirt May-August 2021 issues collection book		get the 420 page May-August 2021 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Bill, Polio and Big-League Dreams

R. L. Peterson

    We were like brothers, Bill, and I, that summer of 1951, before Dr. Salk’s polio vaccine protected millions of kids from the lethal force that struck silently, relentlessly, in a matter of seconds, leaving its victims paralyzed or dead. For four decades, bewildered authorities responded to this menace by shuttering movie theatres, closing public swimming pools, limiting large gatherings, suggesting that only distilled water be used to quench thirsts and wash bodies, and one should answer nature’s calls in outdoor toilets until this vicious enemy was conquered.
    Polio was of no concern to Bill and I. We were too busy playing baseball – weekly games where Bill often struck out the side without allowing a meager foul ball, and hours of imaginary games on the empty lot next to his house. We were inseparable, and invincible, certain someday we’d play for our beloved St. Louis Cardinals and bring home a World Series trophy. It was baseball in morning dew and afternoon’s burning sun until stars twinkled in the evening sky.
    Bill’s mother closed adhered to the advice of public health authorities that kids should rest an hour every afternoon. “I’ll whistle when I’m up,” Bill would whisper as he shuffled off in response to his mother’s call. “I wanna work on my curve.”
    Bill was thirteen, tall and lean. I was eleven, short and stocky. Most mornings I was up with the sun, to pull perch and bluegill from a gurgling stream that twisted through the hills near my Missouri Ozarks home. An empty stringer meant going hungry, unless my brother and his trusty .22 calibre rifle plinked a squirrel or two for supper’s stew.
    I had wood to chop, green beans to weed, water to carry before I was free to play baseball. Bill would wait in the shade of the tall oak in front of our ramshackled shanty, slamming a baseball into his glove, until at long last, I was free. We’d run to our carefully laid out diamond where Bill would fire his roll-off-the table curves and singing fastballs until my hand grew swollen in my mitt and fireflies blinked against an ink-black sky.
    A PK – preacher’s kid – Bill’s thatch of brown hair, snapping black eyes and knock-your-socks-off-smile caused young ladies to go weak kneed at his shadow. Grown men watched with envy when Bill went into his graceful wind up and fired his almost unhittable pitches.
    My tattered jeans and worn sneakers didn’t bother Bill when we travelled to other towns for Saturday afternoon games. His only concern was that I’d dig his curves from the dirt and hang on to his zipping fastball. In our pretend games, I’d smash ninth inning home runs and Bill would strike out Musial, Ruth, and Robinson on nine pitches to win the game. “We’ll be big leaguers someday.” His dreams were my dreams.
    I yearned for a family like Bill’s, a sister like Naomi to iron my blue jeans and polish my shoes, a mother who fried eggs for breakfast and served 3 square meals daily, a father at home to say grace at suppertime. The twenty-five cents Bill earned when he mowed a neighbor’s yard went into his pocket, though he gladly shared with Naomi. When I hoed Mrs. Hafner’s onions, stalked her tomatoes and filled her box with firewood morning and night, the half-dollar she dug from her purse each Friday went to Dad, sometimes for a dozen eggs and loaf of bread, but most often for beer - his thirst was unquenchable.
    One warm July night, Bill and I slept under the stars, sharing a single blanket, dreaming of fancy cars and grand houses befitting the big leaguers we were sure to be. The next morning Bill’s fastballs had extra pop and his curves hooked like a bull’s horns. Bill shuffled his tennis shoes before he minded his mom’s call that afternoon.
    Later, we chased fly balls until the evening shadows forced us to the porch where Naomi poured Kool-Aid and served fig newtons. Whippoorwills called. A barn owl hooted. Bill stood, stretched, laughed, twisted like a gnarled oak, and fell face down in the grass.
    Naomi and I laughed too, thinking Bill was play acting until the scree of his lungs gained our attention. Naomi called, “Mom, Mom.”
    I carried Bill’s stiff body to the porch. His father ran for the car. We loaded Bill onto his mother’s lap, hair tousled, face pale, body cold. I’m sure she held him close all twenty-seven long miles to St. Mary’s Hospital in Jeff City. I was too scared to cry.
    Later Naomi and I sat on the front porch as a broken moon climbed in a black sky, her sobs the only sound. “He looked so old sprawled in the yard. Tell me he’ll be okay.” Two days later, polio claimed her brother and my best friend.
    A week after his funeral, my body aching, my voice hoarse, I knocked at his family’s front door. Naomi ushered me in. Bill’s mother, her face tear stained, her face swollen, pushed me away when I reached to hug her.
    “Get out! Get out! You killed my Billy.” Her fists hammered my head and shoulders. Why would I kill Bill?
    “You played ball with him when he should have been resting. He’d come in dripping with sweat from running after balls you threw. Your filthy jeans and dirty feet carried the germs that killed him. He was destined for great things. If someone had to die it should have been you, not my sweet Billy. Get out.”
    Naomi, surprised as I was, led me to the yard. “Momma’s not been herself since Billy’s passing.”
    Bill’s father voice broke the solemn air. “Repent, woman, repent. That raggedy-assed orphan didn’t kill our Billy. It was God’s will our boy died, a warning to us to live a more righteous life.”
    I could not make out her reply. Naomi pushed me gently toward the gate.
* * *
    Five days later, I knocked again, desperate to tell Bill’s mother how much I missed her Billy. Their house was dark. A peek through the bare window, showed an empty room. My enquiry to the next-door neighbor was answered with a vague, “Moved to California, from what I hear.”
    How I longed to crouch behind home plate once again, see Bill’s smooth wind up, watch his arm flash forward, hear his fast ball hiss toward home plate, the batter standing frozen, completely flummoxed by Bill’s pitch. Then, he’d snatch my return throw from the air, give me his sly grin and motion for the next victim to step into the batter’s box so he too, could be struck out.
    As the years passed, I came to agree with Bill’s mother – I’d caused his death by letting him pitch when he should have rested. If I’d said ‘no’ when he wanted to work on his curve, he’d be alive today. For seven long years my heart hardened with such thoughts.
    Bourbon, or alcohol of any kind, became my daily friend, dousing my pain to a degree. Somehow, I graduated high school and joined the Marine Corps. After boot camp, I was stationed in a fast-growing Central California town, where the hum of impending space travel and war preparations created thousands of high paying jobs.
    I wonder, Does Bill’s family still live in the Golden State?
    That question was soon answered. Pacific Missile Range, Headquarters civilian employees enjoyed shopping privileges at the Base Exchange on Wednesdays. I was there to buy razor blades. A pretty girl with a thatch of brown hair and black eyes that reminded me someone, peered at my name tag. “I grew up with a boy who had your last name. You from Missouri?”
    “Hello, Naomi.” She grabbed my hand. “I’m so glad to see you, Pete. Dad brought us here to start a church. He died two years ago. Mom and I live in Oxnard. She’s not well, but she’ll want to see you so she can apologize for how she acted when Billy died. Would you come see her, please?”
    The next Saturday afternoon I rang their door bell. Naomi led me to her mother. The years had not been kind. Her hair was white and thin. Her back stooped. She hobbled to a nearby table. Tears streamed down her papery cheeks, her voice a whisper, she pleaded, “Please forgive me. You loved Bill as I did. His death changed both our worlds. I put my anger and hurt on you after his funeral. That was wrong. He said he could dream with you and no matter how hard he threw, you’d catch his pitches. My actions were unchristian. I was angry Billy died and jealous he loved you. Please forgive me.”
    Hot tears flooded down my face. The resentments and guilt I’d built up over the years gave way to golden memories of imaginary games where Bill struck out Ted Williams, Joe DiMaggio, and Ted Klusewski, and we brought home the World Series trophy. I returned to base that evening feeling light and carefree. Cold sober and glad of it. I forgave Bill’s mother, and in the process forgave myself. I was free.
    Perhaps some summer day two young lads will once again play imaginary games on an empty lot in the Missouri Ozarks, laughing and dreaming big league dreams.
    “Fire it in here, Billy. This guy can’t hit the ground if we gave him two tries. Rock and fire, Billy. Rock and fire.”

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