steer, guide, help, provide. He had the tools,
and so far he seemed to have the drive.
I would give him what I had never had: freedom. I didn’t want him to be perfect. I knew he was not. For all the skills and
talents and the wonderful mind, he could still be selfish, sometimes obnoxious, sometimes angry. Sensitivity and maturity
would come with age. I desperately wanted to stay close enough to be assured of that. But I also knew the day was not far
off when I would have to let him become what he wanted to be, not what I had mapped out for him.
I was amused one evening when he did a play-by-play of our sock-tossing game.
“Woodell goes back, back. He may never get to this one!” He motioned to me to throw the sock ball. “He leaps!” I tossed it
higher than ever, just missing the ceiling and heading for the faded drape above the couch. Elgin got a finger on the sock,
causing it to tumble end-over-end. As he settled onto the couch, he reached up with both hands and gathered in the sock.
“He’s got it!” he cried. “Elgin Woodell, youngest player in the history of baseball, saves the game for the Cubs! The ten-year-old
center fielder climbed the vines for that one, tipped it, and came down with it!”
That line of Elgin’s was one I had never heard from my brothers. They had always imagined themselves as Braves, making the
game-saving catch or the game-winning hit when they grew up.
This was something else that set Elgin apart from others in my life. They all waited and hoped to get the big promotion, to
win the lottery, to get a break. But Elgin didn’t dream about being a big leaguer when he grew up. He dreamed about being
a big leaguer now.
9
I tried to get Elgin interested in football and basketball throughout the fall and winter, but though he enjoyed following
the Bulls and Bears, baseball remained his true love. How could a boy his age care so much about box scores and statistics?
We were learning a lot from each other. He had inherited my knack for math, and he used fractions and percentages to teach
me how to figure earned run and batting averages. I pretended to care.
“It isn’t just the numbers,” Elgin told me. “Every game starts with an empty box score, and no two are alike. There’s always
the chance for a perfect game, or a no-hitter, or a shutout, or a blowout. Games have patterns. Sometimes you’ll go along
with nothing happening for five or six innings, then one team will explode. Sometimes both do.”
One night he made me wonder if he was gifted. Was there some dormant gene from a distant ancestor?
“Baseball is, like, sort of balanced,” he said. “You’re supposed to suffer when you walk too many people, and usually you
do. But sometimes you get out of jams when you shouldn’t, and then you see things fall apart with no one on and two outs.
The best play of a game might not work. It’s just like how we live.”
Could he have been thinking of the choices I had made, thedivorce, the move, my leaving him alone every day until I got home from work? I wanted to ask him, but he quickly moved back
to baseball.
He went on and on about how sometimes a great play doesn’t work while a mistake can work out for good.
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“Don’t you see it, Momma? On a bad play, out of position, lucky, a guy makes a double play that gets his team out of trouble
and keeps them in the game. Then, on the best play he makes all year, the runner is safe anyway and the game starts to turn.
In the scorebook, his best play looks like his worst and his worst is scored a double play.”
“So what’s the moral of your story, El?”
He smiled. “The moral is, you talk to your mother about baseball stuff and you get to stay up later.”
I chased him to bed.
“There really is a moral to that story, though, isn’t there?” I said as I tucked him in.
He shrugged.
I said, “I think that if you do the right thing because it’s the right
and so far he seemed to have the drive.
I would give him what I had never had: freedom. I didn’t want him to be perfect. I knew he was not. For all the skills and
talents and the wonderful mind, he could still be selfish, sometimes obnoxious, sometimes angry. Sensitivity and maturity
would come with age. I desperately wanted to stay close enough to be assured of that. But I also knew the day was not far
off when I would have to let him become what he wanted to be, not what I had mapped out for him.
I was amused one evening when he did a play-by-play of our sock-tossing game.
“Woodell goes back, back. He may never get to this one!” He motioned to me to throw the sock ball. “He leaps!” I tossed it
higher than ever, just missing the ceiling and heading for the faded drape above the couch. Elgin got a finger on the sock,
causing it to tumble end-over-end. As he settled onto the couch, he reached up with both hands and gathered in the sock.
“He’s got it!” he cried. “Elgin Woodell, youngest player in the history of baseball, saves the game for the Cubs! The ten-year-old
center fielder climbed the vines for that one, tipped it, and came down with it!”
That line of Elgin’s was one I had never heard from my brothers. They had always imagined themselves as Braves, making the
game-saving catch or the game-winning hit when they grew up.
This was something else that set Elgin apart from others in my life. They all waited and hoped to get the big promotion, to
win the lottery, to get a break. But Elgin didn’t dream about being a big leaguer when he grew up. He dreamed about being
a big leaguer now.
9
I tried to get Elgin interested in football and basketball throughout the fall and winter, but though he enjoyed following
the Bulls and Bears, baseball remained his true love. How could a boy his age care so much about box scores and statistics?
We were learning a lot from each other. He had inherited my knack for math, and he used fractions and percentages to teach
me how to figure earned run and batting averages. I pretended to care.
“It isn’t just the numbers,” Elgin told me. “Every game starts with an empty box score, and no two are alike. There’s always
the chance for a perfect game, or a no-hitter, or a shutout, or a blowout. Games have patterns. Sometimes you’ll go along
with nothing happening for five or six innings, then one team will explode. Sometimes both do.”
One night he made me wonder if he was gifted. Was there some dormant gene from a distant ancestor?
“Baseball is, like, sort of balanced,” he said. “You’re supposed to suffer when you walk too many people, and usually you
do. But sometimes you get out of jams when you shouldn’t, and then you see things fall apart with no one on and two outs.
The best play of a game might not work. It’s just like how we live.”
Could he have been thinking of the choices I had made, thedivorce, the move, my leaving him alone every day until I got home from work? I wanted to ask him, but he quickly moved back
to baseball.
He went on and on about how sometimes a great play doesn’t work while a mistake can work out for good.
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“Don’t you see it, Momma? On a bad play, out of position, lucky, a guy makes a double play that gets his team out of trouble
and keeps them in the game. Then, on the best play he makes all year, the runner is safe anyway and the game starts to turn.
In the scorebook, his best play looks like his worst and his worst is scored a double play.”
“So what’s the moral of your story, El?”
He smiled. “The moral is, you talk to your mother about baseball stuff and you get to stay up later.”
I chased him to bed.
“There really is a moral to that story, though, isn’t there?” I said as I tucked him in.
He shrugged.
I said, “I think that if you do the right thing because it’s the right
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