understand,’ says Joe. ‘I’ve barely scratched the surface. I want someone to say to me, “You’re not crazy. No matter what the rest of the world thinks.”’
‘It took me about twenty years to accomplish that,’ says Gideon.
‘Over three years for me,’ I say. ‘Look, I’ve got to get home. Joe, can you come to the farm this afternoon? Gideon, how about you?’
‘I’m not doing anything much except being a fugitive,’ says Joe, with a wry grin.
‘I can’t leave Missy alone for long,’ says Gideon.
‘Missy is your wife? Daughter?’
‘Neither. She’s the adult daughter of a close friend who passed away. Missy has Downs’ syndrome. I’m her legal guardian.’
‘Bring her along. She’ll enjoy my daughters. They have a whole menagerie of pets.’
Gideon nods.
‘Say three o’clock at my place,’ I say.
‘There’s one other thing I’d like to mention right now,’ says Joe. ‘On top of everything, there’s this feeling that I’ve been living two lives, maybe ever since I left Iowa all those years ago. I don’t know how to put this clearly, but do either of you suppose there might come a time in a person’s life when they have a choice, only they don’t know it’s a choice, at least not consciously; when they either follow the life they’re in or veer off in a completely different direction? Do you think it’s possible, that those who veer keep on living their original life in another dimension or a deep inner life?’
‘You’re experiencing that, too?’ I ask.
‘I shouldn’t have brought it up just yet. But I keep getting flashes, like an amnesia victim must when they’re starting to recover, scenes of the life I’d have lived if I’d stayed in Iowa. What I wonder is, if those who live their straight-arrow lives get little glimpses of the unknown, little fragments of eternity dropped on their heads, so they get an inkling of what would have happened if they had veered?
‘Anything can happen,’ says Gideon.
Joe laughs, causing the waitresses and the few remaining customers to stare at us. We have been speaking so quietly for so long most of them have forgotten we were there.
‘“Anything Can Happen,” that was the Seattle Mariners’ slogan the year I played for them,’ says Joe. ‘It didn’t work.’
‘What you’re saying,’ I ask, ‘is that you think you’re living or recalling bits of your life as it would have been if you’d stayed here in Johnson County? I know there was some kerfuffle about you not playing in the State Tournament. The story made it all the way to Sports Illustrated, didn’t it?’
‘I’ll get to that. I’ll get to everything if you give me time. Three o’clock, then. At Ray’s farm.’
Karin is home from school by the time Gideon arrives with Missy. Gideon drives a very old pick-up truck. I fix coffee, and thaw some of Annie’s strawberry muffins.
‘You’re not,’ Annie had said to me before anyone arrived, ‘going to get us into something crazy? I mean this Joe McCoy is wanted. Wanted. Dangerous.’
‘We’re going to listen to the rest of his story. That’s all. No involvement. Nothing.’
‘You’re not a good liar, Champ. You’ve already decided this guy’s legitimate or you wouldn’t have invited him here. Watch yourself, okay? Don’t do anything really foolish.’
But at the same time she is admonishing me, Annie is hugging me, letting me know she trusts me. Annie is sunshine, she is. And when I see how few people have someone who truly loves them, I realize for the thousandth time how lucky I am to have her.
Late in the evening, after Joe has related several more adventures, after Gideon and Missy have left in Gideon’s truck, I suggest to Joe that we have a look at my baseball field.
‘I feel privileged,’ he says.
The floodlights bathe the field in gold. A few wisps of ground fog cattail about the outfield. The players are warming up, playing catch; a grizzled coach hits fungoes. The sounds and smells of baseball envelop us, frying onions, fresh-cut grass, newly watered infield dirt. There is the low buzz of fans, as the bleachers begin to fill. Joe doesn’t seem to notice, but there is a line-up of perhaps thirty cars waiting to cross the cattle guard onto my property, park their cars and visit the field. Gypsy, my brother’s lady, dark and mysterious as her name, collects fees from the visitors, money they willingly hand over, for what they lack is peace and harmony, not ready cash.
We find a spot a few rows behind first base.
I can’t decide about Joe McCoy. Listening to his tales has been like scouting a rookie, trying to decide if he deserves a positive scouting report.
‘I don’t know when I’ve felt so relaxed,’ he says. ‘Being on the run takes a lot out of a fellow. You know some of those players look familiar. What are they, local guys in old-time uniforms? Where do the fans come from? Are they locals, too?’
What wonderful, reassuring questions. Joe McCoy sees. I feel much better about him.
‘Those are the 1919 White Sox on the third-base side.’
‘Go on!’
‘That’s Shoeless Joe Jackson down in the corner tossing balls with Happy Felsch.’
‘For whatever reason, I believe you,’ says Joe.
I offer to buy him a beer and hot dog and he accepts.
‘The opponents are often different. A couple of weeks ago it was the 1927 Yankees. Murderers’ Row. Gehrig had four hits. Ruth hit a home run down each foul line.’
‘Who’s playing tonight?’
‘I think my desires have some effect on who plays here. And you don’t have to be dead to play on the dream field. One of my favorite World Series was 1946. I always wished I could have seen Harry “The Cat” Brecheen and Howie Pollet pitch, Enos “Country” Slaughter and Whitey Kurowski hit, Marty Marion play short stop. Every once in a while I get my wish, like tonight.’
‘Is that Joe Garagiola catching?’
‘You got it.’
‘The 1946 Cardinals against the 1919 White Sox?’
‘That’s it.’
‘I heard there was magic here, but Stan Musial, Terry Moore, Dick Sisler. Wow! Thanks for trusting me enough to show me this. I know you must have had misgivings.’
‘Thanks for seeing.’
He looks at me, smiles slightly and nods. We settle back to watch the game.
