Hank Never Left You In The Wilderness

You talk about an interesting time to be an American.

I long for the days of Sergeant Joe Friday on the old “Dragnet” TV series, and his perfunctory “Just the facts, ma’am,” as he interviewed a witness.

Facts seem to be as scarce as hens’ teeth these days. We get opinions. We get analysis by the bucketfuls. We get ramblings of never-ending length. We get tirades and diatribes. We get “plain talk” that the closer you listen, the less plain it becomes. We get extra makeup and sterling white teeth….

Everybody seems to be pushing an agenda. Mostly, their own I suspect. Or, at least, the agenda of whoever is footing the bill.

This stuff would boggle Albert Einstein’s abundant mind.

As I attempt to shift through this morass of thoughts, intrigue, mystery, chaos, backbiting, untruths, ambiguities, sniping, and flat-out name-calling, Hank Blackwell keeps creeping into my mind. I have not seen or heard from him in 50 years.

Mr. Hank was the baseball manager of the McKenzie “town team” when I joined them in 1962. Every little wide spot in the road back then had a men’s team. They would meet up on Sunday afternoons with a neighboring town and play for pride, bragging rights, and the championship of the known world!

It was serious stuff. I was 15 years old the summer I joined them. The next youngest guys on the team were Bobby Jack Cantrell and Goat Hays; they were 21 and 20 as I recall. You can see I was in over my head. And you can’t believe the things I learned about life in the ensuing summers. But I digress….

Mr. Hank wore his sawmill work clothes to the games. Sometimes you could see where the chainsaw oil had left a streak of dark stain on his khaki shirt. He had this scar that started right below his left ear and stretched down his jawline to the point of his chin. I wasn’t sure if it was a chainsaw accident or the result of a bar fight. I wasn’t about to ask.

He put me in the lineup and I played fairly well for a few games. And then I hit the skids. I couldn’t buy a base hit. I fielded poorly and was feeling kinda lost. And lonely. And thinking I ought to be playing with people my own age!

Mr. Hank called me aside before our game with Dyer. I thought he was going to give me a pep talk. Console me a bit. He actually laid his hand on my shoulder. And then leaned over real close and said, “Son, if you want to be on this team, you’ve got to play a lot better.”

Hank Blackwell didn’t have no agenda. What you saw was what you got! He didn’t give out any mixed signals. He might not have been the smartest or most articulate person I’ve ever been around. But you never had to guess what he was thinking. There wasn’t any chaos or mystery about him.

He was as straight up as they come. If our oldest and best player wasn’t getting the job done, he got the exact same talk as I did. He didn’t care a thing about political correctness, he didn’t care where you came from, he never minded to ask about your parents, your financial situation, or the current price of hogs at the Tri-County Stockyards.

He just wanted to beat Dyer; Trenton; Frog Jump; Milan; or whoever was on our schedule that Sunday afternoon. Life was not complicated for him.

It never crossed his mind not to tell the truth. He took everything at face value and expected the same in return. He’d point out your good qualities on the field and your flaws with equal aplomb and directness.

It was refreshing to know him.

I watch the political news unfold night after night and can’t help but wonder what has become of the Hank Blackwells of this world….

Respectfully,
Kes