Nothing Says I Love You Like Bob Brenly
Rarely during 35 years of marriage have I found myself scrambling to find gifts that would bring a smile to my wife’s face. Unfortunately, back in October of ’92, the reservoir of ideas that had served me well during our first decade together had run uncharacteristically dry. So much so that I was starting to sweat as Marion’s birthday approached. With a week and change to go, I might as well have been planted on a barstool instead of at my desk in Maryland’s Department of Health and Mental Hygiene for all the work I was getting done. There were certainly no answers to be found in the neglected spreadsheet staring back at me.
Jewelry was out; I’d presented her with some snazzy topaz earrings for our latest anniversary. Choosing a piece of folk art or an upscale tchotchke without consulting her beforehand was very much a hit and miss proposition, and I wanted this to be a surprise. Spa days or massages, while safe and reliable, screamed safe and reliable (unless administered personally by George Clooney), like handing out boxes of raisins on Halloween.
“Hey, Mattster!” said my pal, Mike, as he happened by. “Catch the Series last night?”
I’d been vaguely aware that the Fall Classic was in progress, but given that the Giants, Marion’s and my home team, had just endured a sub-.500 campaign, I was in no mood to watch a squad from Toronto or Atlanta hoist the Commissioner’s Trophy in a cloud of champagne spray. Our boys hadn’t notched a title since the first Eisenhower administration at that point, though they’d made it to the big dance several years earlier only to be drubbed by the Richter scale and our cross-Bay rivals. Without the Giants, this contest packed all the appeal of watching Murder, She Wrote. However, this casual inquiry about a meaningless game somehow jump-started my imagination.
An adolescence spent watching Mays, McCovey, and Marichal–Hall of Famers all–in their primes had afforded Marion no shortage of immortals to idolize. And while teams of more recent vintage had featured their share of colorful luminaries, from Will Clark to Kevin Mitchell (1989’s MVP), she’d focused her affections on a rock-solid if unspectacular catcher who sported a .247 career batting average and a less than herculean 91 homers.
“Excuse me, Mike,” I said while reaching for the phone and dialing the operator (remember that?). Soon I was speaking with a charming woman in the Giants’ Public Relations Department. “Hi. I know he’s not playing anymore, but is it still possible to get an autographed picture of Bob Brenly?” I explained that my wife might be Brenly’s biggest fan outside of his family and former teammates and that this request was time sensitive. “No problem,” she chuckled. “We love Bob.”
*
Five days later, a padded envelope emblazoned with that familiar interlocking SF landed on my blotter with a thwack loud enough to startle me and draw the attention of my cubicle neighborhood. I described the occasion to a gathering throng and proudly displayed Bob’s rugged profile. You’d have thought I’d bought her a vacuum cleaner or gym membership, judging by their reactions.
“That’s for your wife?” inquired two women so in sync they could have jinxed each other.
“Better have a plan B,” whispered Mike. “Just in case.”
“How about some jewelry?” somebody offered, to a host of approving nods.
“Or a spa day.”
“Cookbooks are nice,” chimed in a nameless consultant.
This had me wondering whether my flash of inspiration would end up living in gift-giving infamy, at least if Bob had to carry the load alone.
*
A doubt-fueled Friday night of tossing and turning led to a bleary-eyed Saturday in pursuit of a more suitable gift, much like a GM’s search for a late-season signing that could vault his also-ran into contention. As time melted away along with my reluctance to arrange a spa day, I passed a boutique with a striking blouse by Segrets, Marion’s designer of choice, on display in the window. The clerk informed me this was the only one left in stock and wrestled it off the mannequin. And, as if answering my prayers to the birthday gods, the tag read “M.” M for Marion.
The birthday girl was up and out early the next morning, leaving me two hours to set my lineup of treats. Fresh coffee and pastries from Muhly’s (Baltimore’s storied, old-school bakery) occupied the leadoff spot followed by a can’t-miss bouquet of tulips. Lilian Jackson Braun’s best seller, The Cat Who Wasn’t There, went third with the blouse batting cleanup. Bob now found himself relegated to the bottom of the order thanks largely to those unsolicited comments from the peanut gallery. All that remained was to arrange everything on the kitchen table and wait for her to return from dance class, hungry and high on endorphins.
It wasn’t long before I heard the front door open. Beaming like a schoolgirl, Marion practically bounded to the kitchen table and surveyed her bounty.
*
The tulips, while appreciated, quickly lost their virtue, drooping over the side of the vase a few at a time until there were none. The Cat Who Wasn’t There made it to the next rainy weekend. Who knows how often it’s been pulped and reborn since? The blouse did secure a place in her regular rotation before falling prey to an errant splash of soy sauce. And Bob? Despite eventually being nudged down a peg in Marion’s baseball pantheon by Brandon Crawford – he of the golden glove and regrettable man bun – Bob’s image has graced every one of our refrigerators since its official unveiling, from Charm City to Albany, California. Not exactly a bust in Cooperstown, but he made the Birthday Present Hall of Fame and still brings a smile to Marion’s face.
MATTHEW SNYDERMAN lives in Northern California with Marion. When not writing, he enjoys swimming, watching old movies (preferably in a theater), and collecting music. His work has appeared in The Avalon Literary Review, The Berlin Literary Review, Dark City, Fabula Argentea, Killer Nashville, The Lowestoft Chronicle, The Opiate, Twelve Winters, and Twin Bill.