Carolina Grove

[DrewV]

Carolina Grove
(Link to Wordpress version)



“From my earliest childhood I've felt that something was going on in the groves, something of which I was not a part.”
--John Steinbeck

The unbridled electricity of the stadium in Fargo was palpable even from the television set on another end of the country.
All of this season, which pushed the edges of human emotion and tolerance for abuse, was spun like fabric now into a final 163rd game; a final inning; a final out.

Ricky watched from his lavish, eastern-fashioned office on Castle Island, which was at once a testament to the great isolation and privilege of the middle-aged General Manager of the Duluth Warriors.
Tied at three runs each in the twelfth inning of an elimination game, the Warriors fought for their lives like soldiers in the trenches. Rain pelted the windows of the aging seaside estate.

In Ricky McCoy’s memory, his grandfather stood along the pier, steady against the sun like a khaki saint enrobed in summertime light. With a cigar clenched casually in his teeth, the old man adjusted his sunglasses and threw the mooring line to Ricky—who jolted to reality amidst the cries of a few lazy seagulls and the steady cadence of seawater breaking along the battery at Castle Island.

Later in life, there were many qualities Ricky McCoy would assign to his grandfather, the hero of Luzon. With time, the glow of war medals for commendation and valor—which enrapture young boys when they know little about war or valor—faded to Ricky, replaced in primacy by the simple fact that Admiral Richard McCoy, Senior was, perhaps, the only member of Ricky’s family who was unafraid to show genuine affection.
The Carolina Grove was a Bertram Model 35 Convertible yacht, rocking softly to the hymn of a Carolina afternoon, set upon a blanket of sparkling emerald between Emerald Isle and Bogue Inlet. Polished faux-wood panels lined the off-white glint of the boat’s body, which to the eight-year-old Ricky seemed to be the greatest display of wealth and excitement in all of the Carolina coast.

On many summer days for many years, Admiral Richard McCoy Senior tossed the mooring line to his only grandson, demonstrating with patience the proper method for releasing a boat from the pier with his large, tattooed forearms and his steady, affectionate voice. It was clear to even a young Ricky that his grandfather was a great man—as great men can be known especially by the calm and confidence in their voices—and the boy discerned at eight years old to emulate his grandfather in every way.

On the water, the world expanded and thinned like a coin into a binary of sea and sky—heads or tails—and Admiral McCoy would recline into the chair near the fishing poles, lift one leg over the other, and impart wisdom to his grandson with a gentle but direct quality. Between pulls of cheap beer from a sweating cooler, the old man told Ricky about life, about women, and most importantly—that a man was measured only by the mark he left on the world—and that those marks were made in precious-few moments he must choose between greatness and obscurity.

This was a heavy mantra to inscribe on a young boy, and for many years Ricky attempted to work the details of the riddle into something he could hold in his hands.

At forty-two years old, Admiral Richard McCoy was a graduate of the Naval Academy who worked his way through the Pacific fleet as an infinitely talented leader of men on the sea—a cunning strategist with a short temper and an unequaled quality to understand and lead men at war. When Ricky was very young, several biographies of his namesake lined the parlor shelves on Castle Island. However, his father had them removed long before the Admiral died. Lost in those books, Ricky would sit cross-legged along the bay windows that overlooked the Outer Banks—the very same windows he now paced between as the game went to extra innings— and imagine the Pacific Fleet over the warm waters of the Gulf Stream. He would trace his index finger over the lines and try to find, hidden in the pages, where the Admiral’s own moments of greatness were decided.
Once, Ricky had the courage to ask his grandfather what he meant by this mantra of greatness—which seemed so important that he would impress it in his grandson’s mind at each excursion on the sea.

“You’ll know, when its time.” The only answer Ricky ever coaxed from between the wet cigar and sunglass-covered eyes.

In the bottom of the twelfth inning on a late Wednesday evening, Second Baseman Daniel “Tornado” Payne thrust the donut from his bat and walked confidently toward home plate to a roaring crown in Fargo, North Dakota.

Sixteen hundred miles away, Ricky McCoy, 38, General Manager of the Duluth Warriors, listened to the KWAR feed from his study on Castle Island, watching the churning, angry waves of the Bogue Inlet boil and torrent in concert with the rain that fell in salvos upon the sea-facing window.

“Payne takes the sign and steps into the box. They are going to keep the lefty in. Second and Third…sold-out crowd of thirty-eight thousand in the Home of Roger Maris on their feet. The one-two on the way from González…”

No one told Ricky when the Admiral died. He suffered a heart attack so ruthless that he was unable to call for help from the Carolina Grove, which drifted out toward the darkest currents of the Atlantic like an Icelandic burial saga. There was poetry there, Ricky was certain of it, even if no one else at the funeral could see it. His father recovered and sold the Carolina Grove not long after the funeral.
A man is measured only by the mark he leaves on the world—and those marks are made in precious-few moments where he must choose between greatness and obscurity.
The one-two changeup from Pedro Gonzales, which seem to hang suspended in time, was barreled soundly down the first base line and into the outfield, easily scoring Pat Watson from third and sending the closed-roof crowd in Fargo into an historic walkoff euphoria.

The Duluth Warriors, who had led the Division by twelve games at the All-Star break, were removed from playoff contention by a single game for the second straight season.
For some reason, gazing out over the storm from his large windows, all Ricky could think about in his coastal solace—over the din of the roaring Fargo crowd—was how lonely his grandfather must have felt in the end. He walked softly over to the television and gently clicked it off, letting the trampling autumn rain overtake the acoustics of the open, maple-floored room. The television snapped to black like all the hope and anticipation of the Warriors season—made silent like the breaking of lightbulbs underfoot.

Without a word, Ricky poured three fingers of scotch from the mini-bar and paced over to the window, forgetting about baseball, forgetting about greatness, and only watching the waves—thoughts of a sensitive, impressionable boy and his grandfather at sea.

[Sandgnats]

I love the Ricky stories. Is his green binder ready for WM?