Wiffle Ball With Chris

Chris was this weird kid I'd met through a different neighborhood kid. He lived with his mom, his step-father and his sister, Colleen.

It was the first time I'd ever met anyone who went to Catholic school. Shit, his last name was "Pope" I guess now, it was stupid to think otherwise. But Chris loved baseball. He also had THE most massive baseball card collection known to man. In fact he had a bunch of vintage Cincinnati Reds crap. Collectible Hudepohl beer cans, vintage caps, jerseys, he had a bunch of stuff like that. His room smelled like an attic.

I'm not sure what happened to his birth father, but it seemed to be a hushed subject in their household. I recall Colleen being a wild child. She was beautiful. She seemed to know it. One day, around when she was 17, she'd disappeared from their home. I'd always go over to their house for Kool-Aid, as my mom HATED anything with sugar or color. She'd known about artificial coloring before a lot of suburbia. And Colleen was just...gone. I'd ask Chris where his pretty sister went. She was nice to me. Kinda' like that sister in "The Wonder Years" Karen played by Olivia d'Abo. She'd tussle my hair and punch Chris in the arm on her way out on a date. That's what girls should look like, is what I thought. Chris told me she'd just left. I asked where. He didn't know. Which is all the information he was given.

Every Saturday morning around 5AM, Chris would go door to door knocking on kid's door to come out and play wiffle ball. The knock in the morning drove my mom insane! "Tell that idiot to stop pounding on our door." He was that guy who not only knocked he'd also ring the doorbell. And wouldn't stop till you showed up at the door.

Bleary eyed I take a look at him, and he'd just brightly chime "let's go."
"Let's go" meant walking 30 yards to the circular turnaround at the cul-de-sac we lived on. It was a
perfect baseball diamond shape, and home plate ran right to the edge of my front yard.

"Jeez, Chris, give it a rest on the bell, dude." It never stopped him. He loved irritating people. Forget that he was also waking up parents, grandparents, and whoever else lived in those houses back then. I knew he was just being a jerk when he got to Eric's house one day. Eric...man...I feel bad to this day. Eric's dad died of cancer when he was really young. His mom became a widow in her 30's. He was a dentist. A weird guy who had a super weird rubbery face. He used it to great effect during Halloween. He thought it was a gas to peel back his eyelids and greet trick o' treaters with his rubbery face and inverted eyelids. He'd give out the biggest candy bars. Damn shame. Anyway, Chris would get to Eric's house, mind you this was about a month after his pop had died, and he go to a window and start cawing like a bird "caw-caw, caw-caw." Then he'd tap the end of the wiffle ball bat on the window. I thought he was gong to break it. That's when Eric's mom came out and saw the both of us waiting for Eric to come out for the game. She was pissed. I don't think I've yet seen any mother this irritated at anyone. "C'mon, Eric!!" Chris would yell. "Chris!...do you mind? Really?!" Eric's mom would say. For some reason Chris would just laugh "oh sorry, just wanted to get the game started." "You do this every Saturday morning. Sorry really doesn't cut it anymore." "Yes, ma'am" he'd chuckle to himself. She just rolled her eyes and went back into the house. Eric pull on his t-shirt and met us in his driveway. There is no boundaries with him.

Back at the "field" I grabbed my duct taped bat and went outside. There'd already been a bunch of other bleary eyed kids waiting to pick teams.We used a tennis ball, since it got more distance. And we pitched underhand, since it was about busting the ball and putting it into play, rather than strikeouts. I'd crack one over a house in center field, and it'd land in the veterinary field where horses were grazing. That was a home run. My sister came out to play as well. She took the game seriously. And she had a pretty good batting average. Though, we always had to play on separate teams, 'cause that'd be weird. Man, we were out there from sun up to sun down. We'd drink water through our garden hose. Being inside sucked!

Over the years we did this, kids came and went. We saw some new faces, and some that stayed forever. Chris stayed for a while. Until eventually he grew up and left the neighborhood. I'd already gone off to college. My Mom asks about him every once in a while "You ever talk to Chris anymore?"
"No, ma. I haven't talked to him in...since I started high school."
"Ah." I'm not sure what her point was. Only that maybe we keep in touch with hometown kids. Or that she remembered his birthday was one day after mine. I learned later on that Chris didn't spend much time at home because his pop was hitting him. His mom did what she could. She was a sweet lady, but...step-dads, back in the 80's really stood their ground. Chris never wanted to be this dude's friend. So he spent as much time as he could outside. And we had to join him or he'd annoy us to death.

I went back home a few years ago and saw some children playing in the street, as we did. I looked through the group and wondered if there was a Chris in that bunch.