Where Have You Gone Joe DiMaggio

“Be home by supper” wasn’t some kind of catchy pastoral phrase back in the days of front porches and lemonade laden afternoons. Nothing homey or idyllic about it. And we never considered it an acronym for, or an allusion to, the old South.

I don’t care how they pictured it in that movie about the fried, green tomatoes. I don’t care how it was portrayed in the book, “The American Dream: The 50’s” by Richard Stolley. And I don’t care how many “Happy Days” reruns you have watched….

In 1956, “Be home by supper” was a command from on high! In every house in our community. Mom and Dad didn’t kid around about family meals. If you were alive, you were expected to be there, washed up and on time. It was more than a ritual. Or an obligation. It fell into the “we all eat together breaking bread fellowshipping around the table with love and Kumbaya” clause that I believe is found in Deuteronomy, or maybe Leviticus. I don’t think it was Ecclesiastes.

My parents didn’t have many rules, especially in the summer. They wanted us to grow, make friends, have fun….and frankly, they probably didn’t want us underfoot in that hot, un-air-conditioned house fighting and squabbling all day long.

We lived in such a safe community, we could go anywhere and do ’bout anything we wanted as long as it was legal. Leon was the only one of us boys that blurred the lines sometimes. ’Course, he always had a good excuse when he didn’t make the pre-supper blessing. He was kidnapped and carried off to Paducah by an unknown assailant. Aliens called him up to the space ship, again. He drowned in the Obion River.

Daddy whipped him anyway. Rules were rules at our house. If Mother worked to prepare the meal, we could, at the very least, honor her by being there to share it.

We were playing baseball in that field of dreams across from the Pajama Factory. We’d gotten in maybe a hundred and six innings that afternoon. We all noticed the sun sinking towards the National Guard Armory. Time was obviously growing late on us.

The problem was the game was tied. We had to have a clear winner. We sped up our “at bats.” We hustled in and out between innings to conserve time. We did everything we could think of short of grooving a pitch right down the middle or making an error purposely to let in the winning run.

It was still baseball. And there is a right way to play it. We were ten years old but we all knew that!

When the lower edge of the sun dropped behind the Armory, I knew we were in trouble. I had blasted what I thought was the game winning hit two innings before which might have gotten us all home on time. But John Ingram made a spectacular diving one-handed catch to keep the game going.

Nobody quits on a baseball game. And no real baseball player ever settles for a tie. Ever!

You play until somebody wins. You don’t flip a coin because it is getting late. You don’t draw straws to declare a winner. You don’t play rock, paper, scissors for it. And a tie ain’t nothing like kissing your sister!

You don’t go home crying after kissing a sister. Baseball is a way of life. Nobody has a right to mess with it!

Buddy Wiggleton dropped a bloop double over Kenny Butler’s head at third base. Ricky Gene Stafford hit a bullet into center field and the game was over. Nobody had given an inch all day. We had played it to the very end.

But we didn’t have time to celebrate, or cry. Everybody took off for home! I ran the mile out to the end of Stonewall Street knowing my fate was already sealed.

The meal was practically over! Mom disapprovingly reminded me that we eat as a family. Daddy was standing up. I didn’t have a chance. Leon broke the awkward silence, “Well, it don’t appear that you drowned somewhere.”

I was out of breath from the run. Dad was about to take me “out back” when I found my voice. “The game was tied. We tried hard but nobody could get ahead. We had to decide the winner.”

Dad let go of my arm immediately and sat back down. “The boy is right. You cannot quit, win or lose, until the game is over. Wash up quickly son, Mother will fix you a plate.”

Leon near ’bout drowned on his crumbled-up cornbread in a glass of buttermilk dessert….

I was reminded of this story when last week’s Major League All-Star Baseball Game ended in a tie. Oh, they had some kind of plastic, fake, mean-nothing, home run derby to decide the winner. That is like flipping a coin!

It’s a slap in the face to all the John Ingrams, Buddy Wiggletons, Ricky Gene Staffords, and Kenny Butlers in the world.

It would make a real baseball guy mad enough to spit, but my heart is too broken….

Respectfully,
Kes