In a Roundabout Way
James Earl Jones passed away this week. In a roundabout way, the death of this remarkable man, acclaimed actor, universally recognizable voice—that of Darth Vader and King Mufasa—brings to mind the two most memorable celebrations of my birth.
Can’t remember the exact year. My son Casey, just now turned 25, was an age that had him playing Little League baseball. I was coaching his team. For my birthday, he and my wife accompanied me on a pilgrimage to Dyersville, Iowa.
We’d come to Iowa for reasons many can’t even fathom, driving down one back road and then several more before turning up a gravel driveway. The owners of this property didn’t mind if we looked around. We were first to arrive this particular morning, had the shrine to ourselves for a time. Broke out some gear we’d brought along on the trip—a bat, gloves, some hardballs.
Casey and I had us a catch. Then he grabbed a bat, him heading for home plate, me making my way to the mound. No sooner had he settled into the batter’s box and I’d started my windup, he looked up, our eyes met, he winked. I threw an admittedly poor excuse for a high hard one in the general direction of his head. Anyone who’s seen the movie knows I had no choice.
Soon, busloads of schoolkids arrived. An impromptu game of kickball started; Casey joined in. I sat in the bleachers, like James Earl Jones as Terence Mann, entranced.
That memory brings back another from four decades earlier. I remember the exact date. June 23, 1970. Another pilgrimage to another shrine, this time with my dad, my brother and a school chum. A month to the day after my 10th birthday, I was treated to my first major league game at Wrigley Field in Chicago. We found our seats in the upper deck on the first base side, sat there in shirtsleeves on a perfect afternoon, as if dipped in magic waters, cheering my heroes, memories so thick it’s as if I have to brush them away from my face.
All these years later, I still remember the score, no need to look that up. Mets 12, Cubs 10. I recall one of my heroes, Billy Williams, hitting a home run. The crack of the bat still echoes in my ear, my mind’s eye can still see the flight of that ball, can still picture it clearing the wall in left center field. The box score from that game confirms it happened. I could’ve sworn that Donn Clendenon of the Mets also hit one out that day, but the box score shows no evidence of it. Clendenon entered the game as a pinch hitter, went hitless in his only at-bat.
I also vividly remember Ed Kranepool playing first base for the Mets. He did, briefly, near the end of the game, as a defensive replacement. Didn’t get to hit. Not quite how I remember it. No matter. Life has rolled by like an army of steamrollers, one phase erased like a blackboard, giving way to a new one that’s erased again and replaced by another. Memory marks the time and the twists and the turns, if not always with adequate precision.
Ed Kranepool died this week, one day before James Earl Jones. To the child making a first pilgrimage to a cherished shrine in 1970, Kranepool was the enemy, a member of the Miracle Mets who dashed the championship dreams of Cubs fans in 1969. More than a half-century later, the man that child became knows that Ed Kranepool was the classmate and teammate of a dear friend of mine, Mike Moskoff. A native New Yorker, Mike grew up with Ed. Mike played third base on his high school team, Ed played first, wore #7 on his jersey, Mickey Mantle’s number.
Ed Kranepool and James Earl Jones are now but memories. But memories are reminders, of all that once was good and could be again, of all that might be mistaken and should be set straight. In a roundabout way, I am reminded this week that it’s best to go easy on declaring enemies, for we all are more connected than we know and have a great deal in common, including a shared eventual fate.