It was just about an hour after the setting of the sweet summer sun. Autumn was teasing with the days already getting shorter. At 45, I was feeling something close to peaceful for the first time in my life. Instead of sadness in regard to another end to my favorite season, I was feeling reflective of just how wondrous a summer it had been. For the moment, I was standing still, holding on to first base during the final inning of another one of the summer’s daily kickball games.
My daughters Laura and Mary Kate were eight and nine respectively, and I knew that in the three months of summer we had been creating meaningful moments – images that would be ingrained in their fabric for a lifetime. It became an anticipated neighborhood ritual to meet up at designated makeshift fields and dive right into some competitive kickball. On a habitual basis the Siegel girls, along with a couple of neighborhood kids, would take on our neighbors, the Kleeschulte family. These games were played with the kind of intensity rarely seen with such neighborly games. The battles mostly took place at the country club tennis courts, just a short walk from all of our houses.
As six year old Scotty Kleeschulte was preparing to roll the ball down and pitch to Laura, I stared into the fading light and took a snapshot of the moment. I had come so far and had so much more ahead. All the doubts that had plagued me for a lifetime in regard to my own self- worth were finally dissipating. I had never been able to convince myself that a conventional life was in the cards for me. A life made up of a wife and children, a thriving career, and a house on the golf course. Yet, here I was standing tall on first base with a very good start to living a dream that I thought would never be within my reach. I couldn’t help but breathe in the day and the entire summer that had preceded this night. I couldn’t help but forecast all the potential that lay ahead for me and my family. But first there was a kickball game to be won.
The Kleeschultes had a one run lead. It was the bottom of the ninth with two outs. Laura took Scotty’s roll and kicked it far into right field. I abandoned both first base and my daydream simultaneously and started my sprint toward second. My thoughts were suddenly single minded—I was going to try to make it all the way home and make this a tie ballgame.
In that summer of ’05 we must’ve played 40 games of kickball. Every night the phone would ring around 7 pm. Usually it was Scotty on the line.
“You guys ready to lose tonight?” would be the banter out of the lips of the six year old. With older brothers Drew, Doug, and his dad, Doug Sr., Scotty had the team behind him to back up his bravado.
“They’re ready, they’ll be up in five minutes,” was the typical response of my wife Donna, as she had already prepared the girls and her husband for battle. First, we would check with the other neighborhood teenage girls, Kate and Kelsey, to see if they wanted to play. Next I would check with my girls on which kickball they wanted to use for the night’s contest. Finally, we would head up the road as a unit to our make-shift stadium. The tennis courts were perfect for our kickball games. One baseline was home, one pole that held up the net was first base, the other baseline second, and the other pole was third base. Over the fence was a home run. Doug Jr. had 37 homers that magical season in the sun. His dinger barrage got so monotonous that I got the cart boys to stay after work to stand outside the fence and try to catch all the balls that flew over. I made the rule that if they caught the ball over the fence it was an out, not a homerun.
All summer we waged life or death competitive games of kickball. Scotty and I argued on many occasions about out and safe calls, as well as who was a bigger baby. Drew and Laura batted eyes at each other in the most subtle gestures of young flirtations. Mary Kate got a chance to show her athleticism and observe what her “win at all costs” dad looked like in action. Doug Jr., and Doug Sr., were happy to take a break from the grind of honing their golf talents during the day. The few nights we skipped kickball, we would all fish in the golf course ponds. Seven of us casting lines, catching the same bass, and throwing them back in to be caught again. Through that enchanted summer of bonding and coming of age, I was affected like I had never been before. I was at a point in my life and had gathered enough wisdom to understand the type of memories we were creating. I felt this powerful sense of family, of sharing, and the foundations of a life well lived. As I sprinted around those bases that night in mid – August I knew it was the most content I had ever been .
My arms were spread like a jet plane as I turned up my engines. Drew did his normal trick of attempting to trip me up as I rounded second base. There I was, headed for third with a full head of steam and taking a glance back to evaluate my chances of making it home unscathed. Doug Jr. was closing in fast with his arm cocked ready to peg me for the final out. We were both displaying huge grins as I reached out to touch third base. One second later, I was halted in my tracks as my body flew forward but my ring finger stayed behind. Thinking I had just stumbled, Doug nailed me in the back of the head with the kickball to ensure victory with the final out. Laying on the surface of the tennis court I looked back toward the third base net pole to see my finger completely separated from my hand. My first instinct was to scramble along the ground to retrieve my appendage before anyone could take notice. Before long Doug Sr. was standing over me with an outstretched hand to help me to my feet. “
“You alright?” Doug Sr. asked without a glance. “Good game Richie. Tough loss.”
For what would be the first and last time, I would sneak a peek. I opened my clenched fist and my eyes to show Doug my severed finger. I can’t recall if any more words were exchanged between Doug and I as the two of us kickball warriors, one sporting a serious battle wound, headed through the twilight for his car and the hospital.
To sum it up, my wedding ring got caught on a hook attached to the tennis net pole. The adornment of matrimony acted as a sharp blade and sliced off my finger. The rest of my evening was filled with hospital visits, helicopter rides, endless hours of surgery, and plenty of pain. I pleaded, groveled, and outright begged the doctors to summon all their powers to make me whole again. It was nine the next morning when I came back to consciousness. Now it was just Donna and my parents standing over me. They didn’t have to speak for me to know that I was permanently without a wedding ring and a finger. Before I even glanced down to survey my damaged hand, I started to cry. It would be the only time, during or after the incident that I would shed a tear over this misfortune.
It has been nearly ten years since that night on the tennis courts. With the exception of Scotty, all the participants in those games are either attending or have graduated, from college. Just recently I was telling myself that this was the time to write about that special summer. Before I pecked out a word, I picked up the phone to call Ann Kleeschulte. I had not spoken to Ann in a long time and was hoping she had some photographs from those summers. She told me she thought she might and that she would check and send me anything she had. It was the first time we had reminisced about that summer. Ann did most of the talking.
“Richie, there was something different about you that summer” she offered. “There was something different about all of us. It was so perfect. It’s such a shame that the last memory we all have of that time is of you losing your finger.”
She didn’t know it, but I was crying again. But this time they were happy tears. As I was saying goodbye I looked at my hand and it occurred to me that my loss actually represented my sweetest victory. A constant reminder of the best summer ever.
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