For One More Day by Mitch Albom

Author:Mitch Albom [Albom, Mitch]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, General
ISBN: 9780748112623
Publisher: Hyperion
Published: 2006-09-26T07:00:00+00:00

I saw him whenever I swung a bat or threw a ball, which is why I never gave up baseball, why I played through every spring and every summer on every team and in every league possible. I could picture my father at the plate, tipping my elbow, correcting my batting stance.

I could hear him yelling, "Dig, dig, dig! " as I ran out a ground ball.

A boy can always see his father on a baseball field. In my mind, it was just a matter of time before he showed up for real.

So, year after year, I pulled on new team uniforms–red socks, gray pants, blue tops, yellow caps–and each one felt like I was dressing for a visit. I split my adolescence between the pulpy smell of books, which was my mother's passion, and the leathery smell of baseball gloves, which was my father's. My body sprouted into his frame, broad and strong shouldered, but two inches taller.

And as I grew, I held on to the game like a raft in the bumpy sea, faithfully, through the chop.

Until at last, it restored me to my father. As I always knew it would.

HE REAPPEARED, AFTER an eight-year absence, at my first college game in the spring of 1968, sitting in the front row of seats just left of home plate, from which he could best study my form.

I will never forget that day. It was a windy afternoon and the sky was a gunmetal color, threatening rain. I walked to the plate. I don't usually look at the seats, but for whatever reason, I did. And there he was. His hair was graying at the temples and his shoulders seemed smaller, his waist a bit wider, as if he had sunk down on himself, but otherwise, he looked the same. If he was uncomfortable, he didn't show it. I'm not sure I'd recognize my father's "uncomfortable" look, anyhow.

He nodded at me. Everything seemed to freeze. Eight years. Eight whole years. I felt my lip tremble. I remember a voice in my head saying, Don't you dare, Chick. Don't you cry, you bastard, don't cry.

I looked at my feet. I forced them to move. I kept my eyes on them all the way into the batter's box.

And I smacked the first pitch over the left-field wall.

Miss Thelma

MY MOTHER'S NEXT APPOINTMENT, she said, was with someone who lived in a part of town we called the Flats. It was mostly poor people in attached row houses. I was sure we'd need to drive there, but before I could ask, the doorbell rang.

"Answer that, Charley, OK? " my mother said, putting a dish in the sink.

I hesitated. I didn't want to answer any bells or pick up any phones.

When my mother called out again, "Charley? Can you get that?" I rose and walked slowly to the door.

I told myself everything was fine. But the instant I touched the knob, I felt a sudden blast that blinded me, a wash of light, and a man's voice, the voice from Rose's telephone.

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