Dusty Uniforms and Tape Recordings: A Memory Essay in the Format of N. Scott Momaday's The Way to Rainy Mountain

The soft dryness of the dirt under my fingertips was exciting; I was actually touching the dirt that felt Luis Aparicio sliding safely into second base. Linda and I went through the wool White Sox uniforms that the laundry people dumped just outside of the locker room. The night had been on the cool side so the players had to use the wool uniforms instead of the cotton ones which were for warmer weather. We were searching for loose change the players might have forgotten in their pockets. They used to have to carry around quarters and nickels for the pop machines because no one provided Gatorade or other refreshments like the big shot players get today. It was a big win that day for the Sox so my dad and all the office people were upstairs at the bar, well, now it’s the stadium club but you know where that is. We hadn’t won for a few straight games so the victory was something for the club officials to celebrate even more—and the players too but they probably went out elsewhere. There would be quite a few toasts tonight which was good for us. We would have more time to run around the ballpark like we owned the place. I heard pounding footsteps echoing off the concourse ramps and knew that Bobby had figured out where we were. We all had been playing hide-and-seek behind the scoreboard until the time when Linda and I knew that the uniforms had been piled up. That’s when we snuck off to the locker rooms. It was a kid’s dream to be able to run around a ballpark and not get yelled at for making mischief. We were lucky that our dad worked for the Sox. That’s why we could play hide-and-seek on the lower concourses after the games. 

Until 1970, Major League ball clubs provided their players with cotton and wool uniforms. Between the mid-19^th century and the 1950s, flannel, which was often a blend of cotton and wool, was the choice fabric for baseball uniforms (Dressed).  The Pittsburgh Pirates was the first team to “feature synthetic double-knit fabric, pull-over buttonless jerseys, and beltless pants” (Dressed). These uniform innovations quickly became popular; soon every Major League team, American or National, suited up in synthetic uniforms. The style blanketed the big leagues until 1993 “when the Cincinnati Reds became the last team to abandon pullover jerseys and beltless pants” (Dressed).

When I listen to the tape recording of CV I like to pretend that I knew him. I picture him sitting in the fourth row behind the net a little left of home plate. He would lean forward in concentration if he was really interested in a player otherwise his cool Southern composure came out in a laid back position. I press play and the mini tape recorder crackles to life sending out the smooth voice of my grandpa. He recounts the important specifics of a young lefty pitcher he saw throw a few hours earlier. I can hear him remembering the exact form of the player’s pitch. He says that the pitcher had a good arm but his control was “so-so”. The pitcher threw a pretty good fastball: one pitch was 89, maybe 90, miles per hour. CV hardly ever used a radar gun; my mom said it was because he had watched baseball for so many years that he could tell the difference between a 90 mile-an-hour and an 89. CV’s recorded voice is the only true memory I have of him. I imagine him best when I think about baseball. It is comforting to go to a Sox game and be a part of the same kind of atmosphere my grandpa loved.

Works Cited

Dressed to the Nines: A History of the Baseball Uniform. The National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum. 2010. Web. 4 Feb. 2010.

Belief in the City

In the morning the glass walls gleam and reflect the pink sunrise. Seamless steel beams reach up and up, looking like the arms of eager school children squealing to answer the question first. Each rooftop holds up the sky with broad shoulders or piercing spires. These are towers of inspiration and evidence of the sheer imagination that is born in nature but only successfully executed on the streets of a versatile city. If you stand looking out a window in one of these buildings, high above the city streets, you can take in the immensity as you would a breath of fresh air. The infinite amount of movement is invigorating. People begin to ready themselves for the day ahead; boarding trains and buses, mounting bikes and walking along sidewalks, getting to the places they need to be. The order in this transfer of people from vehicle to building is awe-inspiring; everything running so smoothly. All the while connections are made between every one of these moving persons. Between the businessman and the Starbucks barista. Between the concierge and the hotel guest. Even between the train motorman and the CTA rider. These are the links that make my belief in the city unbreakably strong. People are meant to be close to each other. The city is proof of that. Without these ties between every person in a city, no fresh ideas are created. Ideas are the product of deep thinking that is culminated by groups of people, the likes of which can be easily found in cities. An urban setting is a haven for innovation. Cities are affluent with new buildings, new technologies, new policies, and new people. The constant need for these new things is a reflection of the survival tactics that are fundamental to urban dwellers. Open-mindedness is the key to the versatility unique to the city. When people live and breathe in such close proximity to one another, each person must adapt a sense of tolerance of and receptiveness to the thoughts and beliefs of those with whom they make even the slightest connection. The city draws people to interact with one another in order to build a solid and original future.

A Masked Future

The night was black and the world was dark. Madness struck when the sun went down and soon the already depressed city would be hardly recognizable from all the damage. Chaos raged through the cracked streets. Buildings burned, people screamed and ran. Children cried but no one swept them up in loving arms to dry their hot tears. Angry dogs chased people hungrily through the back alleys. Everyone argued and pointed their fingers in accusation at anyone that walked past. Bitterness and animosity was apparent on every wall where graffiti was scrawled in harsh colors. Above the unwelcoming city, a mysterious silhouette stood strong. This stranger’s sudden visit was unknown to the city’s destructive residents. They would never discover her identity either. The outsider, however, was not unfamiliar with the city. She was well acquainted with the hostile pattern of life that blanketed the city; for once it encompassed her own existence and actions. The austere silhouette did not flinch as yet another battered building exploded into severe yellow and orange flames. Shrieks erupted from the blaze and slowly did the visitor step through the brush towards the mayhem. She seemed to walk with little confidence but her intent was sure behind her disfigured mask which was partly visible by the flaming red glow. A young girl ran frantically, despite the heat that seared her smooth face, away from the inferno. Tears streamed down her face. She stopped suddenly and, with wide eyes, looked up at the masked stranger. The sorrow and dejection in her eyes reminded the child of the eyes of the mother she once had. The mask hiding the stranger’s face looked as if cold sand was blowing and pulling its features away. The curious girl wondered if the unknown yet compelling visitor that stood in front of her was native to her city. She recognized something in the tall uncomfortable looking woman; something unmistakable yet the girl could not for her life put her finger on it. The masked woman knew what the young girl was contemplating and did not want to be so easily discovered by such an innocent child as she that stood limply before her. Brusquely, the masked woman backed away from the child. She rounded a corner. Out of breath, she reminded herself of the reason she had returned to her childhood in the first place. The woman hesitantly pulled a small piece of paper out of her pocket. In her rough hands she held her own future. She knew what her future had been because it was her past. Even still she could not be tempted to open the paper and take a glimpse. Ahead of her was a depressing play lot with the swings broken and offensive writing on the faded slide. No children played there anymore but the mysterious woman knew her childhood was filled with memories of this park. In one of the plastic climbing tubes she slipped the folded paper. She slowly took off the mask that hid her scarred face. She could feel the hot flames as if they were chasing her once more. The great woman wept, remembering the fire that pursued her. The hot tongues of red and orange ran her out of her own home; away from her mother and towards the desolate play lot, her new home. She remembered the tears that fell down her face in rivers that felt refreshing and torturous at the same time as they flowed over the deep burns. Standing up, the tall woman tried to keep her composure even though no one was around to see her. Her life, as a child, would change soon and the masked woman knew everything would work out. Away she turned and began walking towards an unknown future that awaited her.

To a Non-Reader...

If you are the kind of person who, at the sight of a book, cringes and rears away…if you open a book and stare in confusion at all the letters and words printed on the page…if you scoff at those who always seem to have a book in their face and call them bookworms or nerds…this is a letter for you. Books are really nothing to be afraid of or avoid. They are mere pieces of cardboard and sheets of flimsy paper smooshed and glued together. And all those black letters and words are simply blotches of dried ink that, when put down together, form sentences and ideas. If it’s these sentences and ideas that are daunting to you, I assure you, there is nothing to worry about. Everything that is written down in these tree byproducts is familiar to you and often times, surprising as it may be, relatable. You see, all these ideas and sentences come from people, not unlike yourself, who imagine and create them for the flattering reason of sharing their thoughts with you and others. It truly is an honor and privilege to open an assemblage of paper and cardboard and know that what is printed on the pages is meant for your eyes. The wealth of information and knowledge on the pages should be inviting not intimidating. Imagine reading a book and coming away with understanding and wisdom you never expected; that is the value of being a reader. As for those bookworms and nerds, are they really that different? And for that matter, what’s so terrible about different? Do you, as a non-reader, want to live the rest of your life knowledge-less? Of course there are different types of knowledge, for simplicity—book smart and street smart. But how can you possibly deny yourself the versatile knowledge that only comes from reading the ink on those flimsy pieces of paper packed together between two pieces of equally impermanent cardboard? The things you gain from books can only improve your person. And, as I mentioned, books are a bit temporary—all that knowledge and information won’t stay there forever. Books are objects that don’t last for eternity. That is exactly why people like you must pick them up off shelves and tables, read them and hold onto their words and ideas in order to pass them along to others. By becoming a reader you can better yourself plus, casually help those around you—possibly the entire world! Books never limit your imagination. When you make the decision to become a reader and take on the world of books—one sentence and one idea at a time—the effects will be apparent almost instantaneously. No time is better than now to start reading. Think of the possibilities that await you! Best wishes from another reader.

An Excerpt

I glanced at my watch. I was really late. Darius would not be happy. Slowly, I nudged open the door to the make-shift conference room. The Malvagio was not high class at all. Darius was all about the penny pinching and he had no shame for it. I guess that was fine though; we would just have to endure numb behinds from sitting too long in old swivel chairs with ripped cushions and yellow foam stuffing peaking out. Every head jerked up at the sound of the door opening. Darius, whose back was to the door, turned around. His swivel chair squeaked loudly as he rotated it to stare at me with incriminating steel grey eyes. Darius was a man of small stature but he used severe body language to relay his immense and quite unsuspecting authority. He could simply walk into a noisy conference room and silence everyone with a wave of his hand. His gait was also a bit imposing; strong and confident with heavy steps. Once he quieted that conference room and began to speak the room became even more silent and motionless as his voice was relatively soft and he never raised it above a loud whisper. One could even hear a single drop of sweat splash on the grimy cement floor when Darius Wern spoke. “Samari, we’ve been waiting for you to arrive. Something hold you up?” “My apologizes, Darius. Traffic was really slow and the mayor was caught up on the phone so I couldn’t leave right away. I’m so sorry.” “Well, enough excuses. Let us convene the meeting. Tegan, will you please explain to Samari the current situation at the 47th street bank. Thank you.” Tegan stood up; his lanky frame seemed to rise forever. He had strikingly red hair that fell like long feathers over his angular face. Tegan was quiet and always kept a straight face. When he did talk he wasted no time, using only the words he needed to relay whatever the message. He spoke with clear diction, allowing the words to slip out of his mouth like smooth syrup. “Samari, the cops found the burned up electrical box in the 47th street bank’s basement. Then they saw Jonesy walking around the area. They are starting to make the connection.” “What? But that thick-headed superintendant couldn’t have…” I was shocked that Filio had already picked up the hottest clue at the bank. This was not supposed to happen yet. Darius interjected, “Tegan. Aren’t you forgetting one very important detail? I think Samari needs to know this one.” He twirled a pencil around his fleshy fingers, smiling wryly at it before lifting his devilish eyes to meet Tegan’s. Tegan sighed and looked forlornly out the dirty window. It was obvious that whatever he was about to tell me was something he wished he did not have to. “Samari, we bugged the phones in the Mayor’s office. Mayor Toland believes that you have something to do with the bank heist. She also thinks that you are a part of the Malvagio.” Tegan raised his crestfallen eyes to my face when he finished speaking. I tried to appear indifferent or at least hide my guilt but my face was completely covered by the pain of my own betrayal. How cruel of Darius to force Tegan to break the terrible news to me, his own sister! I looked at Darius, “How could you bug the phones and not tell me? I would have been more careful!” “That is just it, my dear Samari. I knew you would slip up someday and I was hoping it would be soon. I really can not afford for you to ruin my plan against this dying city. Mayor Toland is going to release you tomorrow and the next day we will be married. That way you can stay in our new house and tend to things of that homely manner while I take care of more important matters.” “You are an evil being, Darius Wern!” The words choked out and hot tears began to flow down my face. “Oh I am so glad you think so. Wickedness is just the characteristic I need in order to save this dejected city. I will finally unleash it. Gehald will finally rage with immensity. Its power will thrive and strongly rein over ever other city in this dark world.” The hateful passion Darius emitted was so strong; its sharp, searing fingers lingered over my skin. I cringed a bit, but not enough to show Darius, and realized the disastrous effects of his cunning. I had fallen for his charm and was now paying dearly for the consequences. There was no turning back. Darius never forgets or forgives. I would be stuck as his wife for attracting him and enemy for betraying him.

A College Essay

Finger to her lips, my mom ushered me and my sister into another lobby complete with brass elevators and ornate arched doorways. I stared up in awe at the meticulously tiled ceiling and listened to my mom softly explain to the concierge that we just want to have a look around. He peered down at two angelic faces and could not refuse. I was elated to continue the exploration of Chicago’s hidden gems on what my mother referred to as her lobby tours. My sister and I tiptoed across the polished terrazzo toward the majestic white marble stairway as if we were to adorn the presiding royalty with priceless gifts. We walked in wonderment through the vaulted corridor of the classic Chicago lobby as if in the presence of power and greatness. Throughout my childhood my mom treated me to these downtown excursions which became my earliest exposure to the architecture of Chicago. I explored majestic atriums and treasured the ornamental ironwork and intricately carved balusters. Although I did not recognize the architects’ names, I valued the sophistication in the smallest detail of their celebrated works and the contributions they have made to beauty, stability, and historic value. Today I still take time to experience the grandeur of Chicago architecture. These downtown visits and those of my childhood inspired my wish to study the field of architecture. To discover the focus and determination of the architects who designed the magnificent structures that define Chicago architecture would satisfy my academic curiosity. To learn the mechanics of the structures themselves would prepare me to join the ranks of a profession I respect and admire.