My Cat Is Getting Old

My cat, Kringle, turned ten years old today. According to Calculator Cat, that would make him 57 in cat years. July 27, 2001 is not his real birthday. When our family picked him up from the shelter on December 27th, they had him listed as a 5-month old kitten. We stuck with the 27th, subtracted five months, and decided to use July 27th as his birthday. I could also tell you about the elaborate back-story my brother and I created for him. About how he lived with Fidel Castro while growing up in Cuba, and preached revolution in his previous lives. Or how he batted leadoff and played centerfield for his shelter baseball team. Or even the eight illegitimate children he fathered with two different women. But all of that would bore you.

Kringle's backstory was very important to us as young teenagers, and was instrumental in the development of my love for storytelling. But more than anything, creating a narrative for Kringle was necessary because cats are just plain boring. They sit, they sleep, they eat, and if you're lucky, they provide a change of pace and lick their ass for a few seconds. You can only play with a cat for the first year or two of their life and then they start to become bored. Really, you're going to make me chase around that feather again? I'm too old and wise for this shit.

Talking about Kringle's past exploits allowed us to create some excitement when there wasn't any. None of it was true, but I'll be damned if I didn't start to believe in it. Yesterday night, Kringle tip-toed into my room and began sniffing around. My bedroom windows were open, and a glimpse of the outside world for a house cat is what reality TV is to humans. My windowsill is about three feet high. In his younger days, Kringle jumped up there with no problem. Despite the two-inch width, he would always manage to measure up the height and time his jump perfectly to land on the windowsill with ease. Nowadays, he's more hesitant.

Kringle looked up at the now Goliath-sized windowsill. He stared for a minute, poked is head around, checked out the other windowsill, and realized he couldn't make the jump. He hasn't been able to make that jump for some years now, so he's taken to jumping on my desk and then stepping on to the windowsill. My desk is about two and half feet high. I've never seen him have a problem with jumping up to the desk.

As usual, my desk was a mess -- empty water bottles, empty beer bottles, laptop, obnoxiously large books, keys, wallet, glasses case, etc. I pushed most of the crap to back in an attempt to clear out some space for him to jump up. Kringle sniffed around some more and surveyed the now-open space. He stretched out on his hind legs, and batted his paws at the top of the desk. I interpreted this as a way to psyche himself up. Kind of like when a boxer jumps around in his corner during introductions and punches himself in the face before the fight is about to start. Kringle did the super-stretch a few more times before settling in. He crouched down real low in preparation for his jump. Glued to my desk chair, I stared. I was riveted.  He looked at me, and before I could react, he jumped up to my lap, jumped on to the desk, and stepped on to the windowsill in the span of two seconds. The once one-step process turned two-step process, is now a three-step process ten years later.

I guess that is what getting old is about. There's no easy way to do anything anymore. I'd be lying if I said I didn't have a flashback of the times we coaxed him into jumping five feet in the air to track down a noise-making ball. Or of the times I had convinced myself he made diving catches in the outfield. The reality is: he's ten years old and has lost his athleticism. And some of that athleticism was imagined to begin with.

As Kringle lay on the windowsill and stared into the blank night, I decided I would blog about this. I hadn't posted anything in a month and figured my five loyal readers were probably wondering if I was still alive. So I disappeared into another room to find a camera. I was going to take this visceral, even symbolic picture of Kringle staring into the black vastness of the world and use it for the top of this post. Camera in hand, I made it back into my room. As I steadied the camera and just about took the picture, Kringle turned around and jumped off the windowsill. The photo above is what I was left with. The perfect, fleeting picture I burned into my memory morphed into the picture I actually took. 

I can't help but to think that too is what getting old is about.           

Stumped

The three men arrived in their rusting white van. Armed with an arsenal of destruction weapons, they would eventually begin hacking at the tree. First, the youngest and most fit man climbed to the top of the tree. He wore special tree-climbing boots and was supported by a rope tied around his waist and to the sturdiest branch. He had with him his chainsaw and used it to saw the weakest, most thin branches. By the time he was done, he had created the world's largest bird's nest beneath him. The oldest of the three men took it from there. He gathered up a pile of branches and took them to the wood chipper, and repeated this single step until all of the branches were destroyed. The man on the tree had it pretty easy from there -- a few semi-developed dead branches and then the main event -- the trunk. You watched it all from your bedroom window.

The three men were hired to take down your tree and three of your neighbor's trees. An insect outbreak most likely got a hold of them and were killing off a bunch of trees in the neighborhood. After the workers took down the trunk of your tree, the third man used a heavy machine to grind away the stump. He looked happy doing it, knowing he had a place in the world. You're outside now and you give him a head nod up to acknowledge his good work.

The man finishes with the machine and covers the hole with what looks like a grassy soil mixture. The area is a bit uneven, and takes on a yellow hue. A passer-by might think a dog pissed all over the area, but never that a tree used to live there.

You reenter your house, walk upstairs back into your room, and notice the unobstructed view. Gone is the tree and everything becomes so clear to you. Your eyes focus to the left: Chris' pool. You remember the time -- about six years ago -- when Chris, your younger brother, and yourself were able to convince Brittany and Sarah to come swimming with the three of you. Sarah possessed the good upper body, Brittany the good lower body, and both of their faces were decent enough. You decide on Brittany even though there is nothing spectacular about her. Sarah had been flirting with Chris and you're not about to encroach on his territory. Sarah is the better looking one. Son of a bitch.

While in the pool, Brittany suggest you play a game. The name of the game now escapes you. One of the girls opens her legs and one of the guys is to swim through them. In the event of a successful pass, the girl is to put her legs a little closer together. You lose when the girl's legs are so close together that you crash into them before you are able to get through. This is a great game because losing is really like winning.

In the pool you try to put moves on Brittany. You get close to her and say things you think will impress her. She laughs you off and is more interested in your younger brother. He could care less about her. Chris is not able to close Sarah. Everyone gets out of the pool, dries off, and leaves unhappy.

Your eyes move gradually to the right and fix on the Rizvi's shed. Behind the shed is where Chris and you had your first egg-throwing experience. It was a warm summer night and the two of you were a couple of bored suburban middle-schoolers looking for something to do. "Hey, why don't we egg a house," you say. "Sure," Chris replies. "Have you ever done it before?" you ask. "Sure. Lots of times." "You're a liar."

The two of you agree on 12:30 in the morning. The perfect time. Everyone should be asleep and it's not like cops come through your neighborhood anyway. You are able to sneak out the back door with no problem. Your parents have work in the morning and go to sleep early regardless. Chris is not so lucky.

His parents are asleep but he has to pass by their room to make his way down the stairs and out the door. Chris' mom has the ear of an owl. The slightest creak of the stairs would wake her. Chris decides not to chance it. He places his house key in his pocket, opens his bedroom window, and removes the screen. He climbs out the window and on to the roof. From there, he is able to grab ahold of the basketball rim and drop down to his driveway.

You brought four eggs with you and hand two to Chris. You're afraid of the streetlights giving you away so you hide behind the Rizvi's shed and Chris follows you. "We can throw them from here," Chris says. "A few houses down they have a sliding door in the back. We can peg the shit out of it from here. It's not that far." You look over to the sliding door. It seems pretty far to you. You've never thrown an egg but you have thrown a baseball before. Chris has a better arm than you and you want him to go first.

Chris cocks his arm back and lets it fly. You gaze at the magnificent flying egg until you lose it in the darkness. Splat! A direct hit. "Holy shit," you say as you get ready to throw. You release. Splat! Another hit, just below where Chris connected. You become so excited and you body fills with adrenaline. You don't wait for Chris' turn. You throw again. This time with all your might. Splat! That one almost hit the roof! Splat! Chris had flung his last egg.

"We should get out of here," Chris says. "I'll see you tomorrow." Chris jumps back into his yard as you jump the Rizvi's fence and head across to your house. Your first act of petty vandalism and it feels so good.

Staring out your window and your eyes move to the Rizvi's front lawn. The Rizvi's didn't always live there. Before they bought the house, it had gone unsold for many months and the original owners had already moved out. No problem. You and the rest of the neighborhood kids adopted the house as your own. You played on the giant tire in the backyard and swung on the swings. Occasionally, each kid would bring food from home and you'd eat together on the patio. When basketball became boring, and it hardly ever did, you would play tackle football in the Rizvi's yard. It was the only house that wasn't fenced in -- plenty of room for a mock football field. The neighborhood kids don't play basketball or football nowadays. It's all about hockey. You can't drive anywhere without having to wait for a kid on roller blades to pull his net to the curb.

When the Rizvi's moved in you were devastated. The house you ate and played at, and took so much care of now belonged to someone else. At your age, you didn't know the first thing about home ownership but it felt like your house was being taken from you. This was supposed to be the house nobody wanted. Shortly after assuming ownership, the Rizvi's had a fence built. Your football field became but a distant memory.

The three men packed up their demolition tools and drove off. They left four piss-colored patches of grass in four different yards. Your once obstructed bedroom view is now a mirror to your past. That tree used to scare you as a kid. As you tried to sleep, its branches looked like monster's claws waiting to break though your window. You don't even sleep in this room anymore.

Why did it take the removal of a dead tree to help you remember? Why did you push these memories aside in the first place? You're sure of one thing: with loss comes recollection.

Some Satchel Paige Stories

I normally stick to producing original content around here, but at this point in the year would require me to write about the Cubs. It's the middle of summer. The sun is shining. I don't hate myself, and thus, am not going to devote time to something that is just going to piss me off. My old college roommate used to say, "All Cubs fans are masochists." He was absolutely right.

Instead, I have some Satchel Paige stories from the book I just finished, Invisible Men: Life in Baseball's Negro Leagues by Donn Rogosin. The Hall of Fame pitcher is probably the most well-known Negro League player (excluding players such as Jackie Robinson and Hank Aaron who spent the majority of their careers in MLB). The pages devoted to him were the most entertaining. It's a shame Paige's career didn't sync up with the Internet era. Twitter would have loved him.

All passages are in italics and quoted directly from Rogosin's book.

On his pinpoint control...

It was in the Southern Negro League that Paige began to emphasize his precise control by disdaining a regular home plate and placing a gum wrapper down instead. "This is my base," he'd chortle, or he'd place two bats about six inches apart and zap the ball between them into the catcher's mitt (45).

As the definition of confidence...

The greatest single episode of Paige's lengthy career occurred in Forbes Field on July 21, 1942, when Paige had his penultimate showdown with Josh Gibson. That hot July day Paige knew he really had his stuff and he baffled and teased the Grays through six innings. With a 4-0 lead, he was a picture of nonchalance, as he put the first two men out in the seventh. Then lead-off man Jerry Benjamin tripled.

Satchel motioned for first baseman John "Buck" O'Neil, the Monarchs' captain, to approach the mound. "Hey, Nancy," yelled Paige, using the nickname he gave O'Neil, "I'm gonna put Howard Esterling on base; I'm gonna put Buck Leonard on base; I'm gonna pitch to Josh!"

"Oh, Satchel, you got to be crazy," moaned O'Neil, who was accustomed to Satchel's antics.

Behind the scene was this story. When both Satchel and Josh had been rising young stars with the Pittsburgh Crawfords years before, Paige had told Josh, "Some day we're gonna meet up. You're the greatest hitter in Negro baseball, and I'm the greatest pitcher, and we're gonna see who's best."

So on that day in 1942, Paige walked Howard Esterling so that Buck Leonard entered the batter's box and Gibson reached the on-deck circle. "Hey, Josh, you remember that time when I told you about this," roared Paige as he began deliberately to walk Leonard. "Now is the time."

"Okay, Satchel, okay," cackled Gibson in his high-pitched voice. In repartee, Gibson was not ready to challenge the voluble Paige.

"I'm gonna put Buck on. I'm gonna put him on, and pitch to you. I want this to happen," Satchel told Josh.

Now the fans began to realize just what was happening. They stood and cheered. And then, as Leonard hustled to first, loading the bases, they turned oddly silent.

"Now I'm gonna throw you a fastball, but I'm not gonna trick you, I'll tell you what, I'm gonna give you a good fastball," said Paige as Gibson stepped in.

Boom! It was a knee-high fastball. Josh didn't swing. Strike one.

"Now I'm gonna throw you another fastball, but I'm not gonna try and trick you. Only it's gonna be a little faster than the other one," teased Satchel.

Boom! Again, Josh didn't swing the bat. Strike two.

"Now Josh, that's two strikes," laughed Paige. "Now I'm not gonna try to trick you. I'm not gonna throw any smoke around your yoke. I'm gonna throw a pea on your knee, only it's gonna be faster than the last one."

Boom! It was a fastball, knee high on the outside corner, and Josh didn't swing. Strike three.

As Paige walked off the mound even the Grays' fans cheered. "I told you, I was the greatest in the world... (97-98)"

Again teetering the line between confidence and cockiness, and durability to boot...

Wendell Smith argued Satchel Paige's greatest days came in July of 1934. Pitching for the Pittsburgh Crawfords, Paige mowed through the Homestead Grays' lineup at Forbes Field. Paige had such extraordinary stuff that day, he'd shout to the batter, "You'll get nothing today," while an appreciative crowd howled with laughter. Finally Buck Leonard, to slow Paige up, complained that Paige was tampering with the ball, and in an unusual concession, several were thrown from the game. Paige scornfully approached Leonard and yelled, "You might as well throw them all out, 'cause they're all jumping today." Then after his victory, the incredible Paige hopped into his roadster and drove straight to Chicago; there he outdueled the American Giant ace Ted Trent 1-0 in a twelve inning ballgame (78-79)!

The time his team's owner threw him into a Dominican jail...

The Negro League players, loyal only to their wallets, watched amused as the Dominican factions used baseball as the arena for their power struggles. One day Chet Brewer, who was playing for Santiago, went hunting for Satchel Paige, who was playing for Trujillo City, to invite him to have a beer with him. Unfortunately, Brewer couldn't find Paige. Then as Brewer recalled, "A little kid (they know all the business), he said, 'En la carcel,' that's 'jail' in Spanish. Trujillo had put them in [protective custody] before they were gonna play us. So they wouldn't 'rouse around. He was gonna have it (167).

With the top down screaming out, "Money ain't a thang..."

Stories of irreverence toward segregation became staples of Negro league lore. Satchel Paige, who loved fast cars and had a tongue as sharp as his fastball, was legendary for getting "one up" on the white man. Double Duty Radcliffe relates that once Paige got a speeding ticket while zooming through a small Kansas town in his new Lincoln. A policeman escorted him to the local judge, who fined him forty dollars and asked if he had anything to say for himself. According to Radcliffe, "Paige pulled eighty dollars from his wallet and said, 'Here you go judge, 'cause I'm coming back tomorrow (132-33).'" 

You are so dumb. You are really dumb...

While playing for the Pittsburgh Crawfords he loaded the bases with Philadelphia Stars. Third baseman Judy Johnson called for the ball, and while rubbing it up, informed Paige that "the fellows were kinda hoping you'd get in this spot." "They did, did they?" questioned Paige. "Yeah they did," answered Johnson. "They said you were such a pop off." Paige fulminated a couple of minutes and then struck out the side on nine pitches. Quickly he walked toward the Stars dugout and boasted, "Now go back to Philadelphia and tell that (99)!"