Geiger Counter

THE GHOST When I was a kid, I tried to get a ghost to help me be good at baseball. The person I cared about most in the world had died. She wasn’t technically a relative, not a mother or grandmother, but she was actually something more. She lived next door to us on the farm. While my mom and dad inarguably loved me, they had to love me. They were compelled by nature to feel affection for me, and they were forced by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts to provide things like food, clothing, and a roof over my head. When you think about parents loving their kids, it’s important to remember that they actually have very little say in the matter. They are genetically programmed to love you, and even if they don’t, they have to at least act like they do or run the risk of prolonged incarceration. But our neighbor Helen - or “Auntie,” as I called her - seemed to love me by choice. It was never entirely clear what she saw in me. When I look back, I don’t find my former self to be particularly cute, or charming, or clever, or funny, or even particularly nice. I think it’s safe to say I was spectacularly average in every measurable way. Plus, I was often gassy and rarely erudite. And yet Helen, whose cat-eyeglasses, matronly blue dressed, thick beige pantyhose, nurse’s shoes and pink plastic hair rollers made her look very little like the Helen of Troy who made half the world plunge into war, doted on me. People often deride the Massachusetts accent, but when spoken by the right person – a kind person, which is admittedly difficult to locate on that quadrant of the country – it has a beautiful sing-song quality. I was still fairly young when Helen died, and after she was gone, I hoped to use her ghost to become a better baseball player. I wasn’t particularly religious as a child, but I had seen enough movies to know that sometimes, supernatural forces are needed. I spent an entire Little League season planning to pause just before stepping into the batter’s box, gaze poignantly into the distance, and think: “This one’s for you, Auntie.” If I did that, I was sure – and am still sure, to this day – I would have hit a homerun. Before every single game, I planned this little scene. I would be like Babe Ruth when he hit a home run for a sick kid, with the notable exception being that the person I’d be hitting a homerun for had already expired. I was unclear on the semantics of it all. Perhaps my love for the recently departed would simply inspire me to swing harder, faster, and with more assiduity. Or maybe her wrinkly, lovely, phantom hand would briefly put down her knitting needles and actually guide my bat. The metaphysics of it were a mystery to me. I didn’t know exactly how it would work; I only knew that it would work. But for some reason, every single time I stepped to the plate, I forgot. My mind would simply go blank. I would shuffle into the batter’s box, heave the stained aluminum bat onto my shoulder (was is always this heavy!) and wait. I usually forgot to swing. If I did move the bat, I often missed. If I made contact, it was feeble, making a little sound not unlike “bink!” All season long, I only got one hit, which I told friends was a double but was actually an elaborate series of fielding errors accomplished by several children on the opposing team, one of whom wet his pants that day, quite possible while the ball I had hit was dribbling past him. After each game, I racked my brain for an explanation. Why, if I loved Auntie so much, couldn’t I remember her when I was at the plate? Didn’t I care enough to recall this woman - who fed me peanut butter and fluff sandwiches, who played with me in the garden and made bread and butter pickles so sweet they were exhilarating to eat, who would cover me up gently with blanket she had knitted when I fell asleep watching the Red Sox game on her couch – to remember her when I played? It took more than 30 years to realize that something special was happening each time I stepped up to the plate. Something a bit beyond the boundaries of scientific understanding was taking place. It took me all these years to understand that the forgetting was her gift to me. Because I missed her nearly all the time, and I had trouble understanding that she would never again, for all of eternity, slather just the right ratio of sugar, dried eggs whites, corn syrup and vanilla onto a piece of bread. Every single one of the hundreds of Red Sox games I watched over the course of my life, from that point forward, would be watched without her there. She was helping me, each time I stepped up to the plate. She was clearing my mind of suffering and clutter, making me so serene I couldn’t even manage to swing a bat with any real effect. It was like meditation, up there, much to the chagrin of teammates, coaches and spectators alike. Because sometimes having your mind go blank is a wonderful gift. Sometimes it is only then, if you are allowed to merely exist for a few moments in a world where you feel you must always do and accomplish things, that you are truly happy. That you are truly yourself. Her ghost didn’t make me better at baseball. But it did make me better. Which is more than I knew to ask for, and more than I deserved.