April 1, 1984. It was a Sunday. The night still held onto winter's chill, but the sun of the day had felt warm. Warmer than it was I suppose, but at thirteen, I was never still enough to feel the cold. I stood, the furthest from my home. Two sewers down, protection from the long ball. The pros hadn't begun, but the children of my Brooklyn neighborhood had retired our footballs for bats and baseballs. It was my favorite time of year. The smack of the bat, whether it be a real baseball, softball, tennis or rubber, made a sound that made me feel whole. All the sounds of baseball rung out like a symphony in my ears. A weak grounder to the pitcher and it was our turn to bat.
I jogged in, nodded to the older black man who owned the laundromat, sitting in his folding chair, smoking a cigar, paper folded neatly by his side. It was Sunday, so he still had on Sunday best. He lifted his fedora, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. Then used the hat to motion me over. "Aren't you cold young man?" not sure whether he was commenting on my summer attire or kindly reminding me that my jacket was strewn across the hood of his brown Cadillac. "No sir. Thanks for reminding me." I grabbed my jacket, careful to make sure the zipper didn't scrape the hood, and jogged back. Grabbed a bat, one I'd attained from a previous Bat Day at Yankee Stadium. Bucky Dent was emblazoned on it. Ironic looking back, because I had just started hating Dent, the New York City hero of just a few years ago. I stood at the plate, a manhole cover and awaited the first pitch.
The bat cocked over my shoulder, my eyes squinted and the pitcher, an older boy from across the street got ready. Suddenly a door opened an a friend was called by his mother. The game stopped. I relaxed a bit, but then another door. Then I heard the familiar sound of my mother's voice. "Come in the house, quickly," she yelled. Then another door and soon the lively streets were silent. I ran into the house and she was already heading upstairs to where our television was. I locked the door and followed. I arrived to hear "Tomorrow, he would have turned 44."
Marvin Gaye had been shot and killed by his father. In the ensuing weeks, more would come out and the usual rumors of drugs, money and possibly a woman, were all blamed, but for many, this was akin to John Lennon dying and the underlying cause was dwarfed by enormity of the loss. For the next few days, the sound of his voice echoed in the streets, coming from inside homes, outside corner bodegas and from the boom boxes carried up and down the avenues. People stopped and listened, smiled at each other and some were brought back to different times in their lives. For us, it was all new. An icon had died and as people like Gaye, Lennon and other started to depart, part of our childhood too.
Yesterday, a few hours after learning of Sam Shepard's death, I thought back to right before, or maybe after Gaye's death, when I was lucky enough to see his play True West, which at the time starred two unknown actors from an acting troupe. Their names were Malkovich and Sinise. In the following years, I'd grow to know their work, as well if not better than that of Shepard or even Gaye's. All four, oddly linked to 1984. All four helping mark the end of my childhood; innocence, as some would say.
Last night, some 33 years later, I sat with a drink, under the bluest sky, so similar to that day from my youth, but hot. Feeling the same pain over the loss of Sam as I felt for Marvin and understanding death much more now than I'll ever understand life. I sat and read a short story he wrote, Berlin Wall Piece, which brought back laughs more than sorrow. Childhood is funny, because we expect our elders to know everything. As an adult, we remember times and places, but the history of that time isn't so much a memory, but simply a list. I barely remember the Berlin Wall being taken apart, but remember the smell of that old man's cigar, his brown suit, matching hat and his big brown Cadillac. I remember the name on my bat, the blue stripe up on the handle and the sound of my mother's voice. I miss Marvin, Sam, the old man and the games in the street, but most of all, I miss that voice.
I jogged in, nodded to the older black man who owned the laundromat, sitting in his folding chair, smoking a cigar, paper folded neatly by his side. It was Sunday, so he still had on Sunday best. He lifted his fedora, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. Then used the hat to motion me over. "Aren't you cold young man?" not sure whether he was commenting on my summer attire or kindly reminding me that my jacket was strewn across the hood of his brown Cadillac. "No sir. Thanks for reminding me." I grabbed my jacket, careful to make sure the zipper didn't scrape the hood, and jogged back. Grabbed a bat, one I'd attained from a previous Bat Day at Yankee Stadium. Bucky Dent was emblazoned on it. Ironic looking back, because I had just started hating Dent, the New York City hero of just a few years ago. I stood at the plate, a manhole cover and awaited the first pitch.
The bat cocked over my shoulder, my eyes squinted and the pitcher, an older boy from across the street got ready. Suddenly a door opened an a friend was called by his mother. The game stopped. I relaxed a bit, but then another door. Then I heard the familiar sound of my mother's voice. "Come in the house, quickly," she yelled. Then another door and soon the lively streets were silent. I ran into the house and she was already heading upstairs to where our television was. I locked the door and followed. I arrived to hear "Tomorrow, he would have turned 44."
Marvin Gaye had been shot and killed by his father. In the ensuing weeks, more would come out and the usual rumors of drugs, money and possibly a woman, were all blamed, but for many, this was akin to John Lennon dying and the underlying cause was dwarfed by enormity of the loss. For the next few days, the sound of his voice echoed in the streets, coming from inside homes, outside corner bodegas and from the boom boxes carried up and down the avenues. People stopped and listened, smiled at each other and some were brought back to different times in their lives. For us, it was all new. An icon had died and as people like Gaye, Lennon and other started to depart, part of our childhood too.
Yesterday, a few hours after learning of Sam Shepard's death, I thought back to right before, or maybe after Gaye's death, when I was lucky enough to see his play True West, which at the time starred two unknown actors from an acting troupe. Their names were Malkovich and Sinise. In the following years, I'd grow to know their work, as well if not better than that of Shepard or even Gaye's. All four, oddly linked to 1984. All four helping mark the end of my childhood; innocence, as some would say.
Last night, some 33 years later, I sat with a drink, under the bluest sky, so similar to that day from my youth, but hot. Feeling the same pain over the loss of Sam as I felt for Marvin and understanding death much more now than I'll ever understand life. I sat and read a short story he wrote, Berlin Wall Piece, which brought back laughs more than sorrow. Childhood is funny, because we expect our elders to know everything. As an adult, we remember times and places, but the history of that time isn't so much a memory, but simply a list. I barely remember the Berlin Wall being taken apart, but remember the smell of that old man's cigar, his brown suit, matching hat and his big brown Cadillac. I remember the name on my bat, the blue stripe up on the handle and the sound of my mother's voice. I miss Marvin, Sam, the old man and the games in the street, but most of all, I miss that voice.
Noice.
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