For Whom The Knuckleball Tolls

I wandered into the grand ballroom of the Genesis Convention Center in Gary, Indiana, where Bob Uecker was the featured guest at a sports card show. Among the smell of egg muffins and beer farts, overweight middle-aged guys hovered over three rows of tables full of plastic-wrapped card displays and open binders. Piles of sawdust and roofing nails from last week’s home show littered the same red, blue, and yellow kaleidoscope carpet as my friend Jared’s bar mitzvah thirty years ago.

Wearing a light blue dress shirt and slacks, white hair sticking out from a Brewers hat, Bob sat behind glossy headshots and four stacks of baseball cards, one for each of the teams he’d played for: Milwaukee, St. Louis, Philadelphia, and Atlanta. The headshot was from his acting career. Late ’80s, silver perm, colorful plaid sport jacket with elbow patches. Probably the first Major League.

“I used to get along great with the BP pitchers,” Bob said to the first guy in line, “They tossed a few no-hitters against me, but, you know, I was all about building their confidence.”

The guy chortled like 1985 George McFly, but Bob’s deadpan expression never changed. Bob scribbled his autograph on a picture and let the guy choose a baseball card. “Now beat it,” he said. “Crowd’s getting out of hand.”

“Must be in the front row,” the next guy said before spouting off every line from Bob’s Miller Lite commercials. 

Bob sighed, signed another photo, and handed him a card with a young, stout, smiling kid who had the same beak nose. 

“Whoa,” the guy said. “St. Louis Cardinals. 1965.” 

“Card’s worth about a buck,” Bob said. “Minus five with the signature.” The guy took a picture with Bob and left.

I was a little gun shy. I’d never actually been this close to a celebrity. Once, my family sat next to Donnie from New Kids on the Block at an Italian restaurant before their show at the Spectrum, but this was an icon. “Mr. Uecker,” I said then cleared my throat. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

Bob looked over my shoulder. I turned and saw empty space.

“I’m from Philly, passing through. Driving my family to Wyoming for vacation. Had to take a leak and—”

“Say, Mack,” Bob said. “What do you say you help a fella out?”

“Sure, Mr. Uecker, anything.”

“I took one of those Ubers here last night. Told the guy to meet me back here around noon. But the Brewers are playing two against the Cubs.” He shrugged and scanned the room. “And it’s kind of dead in here, you know what I’m saying?”

“You need a ride?”

“Would you mind?”

“Not at all. We’re parked outside.”

Bob grabbed his Brewers jacket off the back of a chair, leaving the pictures, the cards, the pens, and a bottle of water. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” He tapped my arm and followed me out the front door.

When I opened the slider to the minivan, Preston and Jules were slap-fighting over who got to sit in the back seat.

“Hey, cut it out,” I said. “We have company.”

“Hi, kids,” Bob said, scooching beside them. “Give a career two-hundred hitter a break, will you?”

Preston and Jules froze as Bob leaned against the window, using his jacket as a pillow. I waved them to the middle seats.

Monica stared at me as I pulled on my seatbelt. “What were you doing?” she whispered. “And who the f is that?”

“That.” I clicked my belt. “Is Bob Uecker.”

She opened her mouth and squinted at Bob.

“You know. Mr. Belvedere,” I said.

“Wow, he lost weight,” she said.

“Not the British dude. The dad.”

She glanced again. “Oh, yeah.” Then she said to Bob, “Nice to meet you. I’m Monica.”

“Morning,” Bob said. “Thanks for giving me a lift to the ballpark.”

“Ballpark?” she asked me. “What’s he talking about?”

I swallowed. “Miller Park. Milwaukee.” 

Monica picked up her phone with the Waze App running, our five hours and eight minutes until Des Moines flashing in bright blue. “That’s like, two hours in the opposite direction,” she hissed. 

“Come on, honey. The guy’s a legend.”

Monica took a deep breath and changed our destination. 

“Say, Preston,” I said. “Bob here used to play for the Phillies.”

Preston turned to face Bob.

“Wouldn’t call it playing,” Bob said. “Some days, Gene Mauch told me to go slug cold ones whenever Charlie the vendor threw out his back.”

I coughed up cold rest-stop coffee, but Monica glared at me.

“You a player?” Bob asked Preston.

“Shortstop on his little league team,” I said.

“I played a little shortstop,” Bob said. “My ex-wife told me I was a short stop between her old husband and the guy she hadn’t met yet at the bowling alley bar.” He moved his jacket and sprawled out on the back seat. “When I asked her to marry me, she said she’d rather be intentionally walked.” 

Monica smiled for the first time that morning since we left the Marriott in South Toledo. 

It was my idea to drive. Monica wanted to fly into Boseman and rent a car. But I’d never been west of Pittsburgh and wanted the full Midwest experience. Break away from the suburbia-Jersey shore routine. I-80 out. Grand Teton for a couple days. Then Yellowstone. We rented a cabin for a week of fishing, mountain bike riding, and hiking. Something we’d never done before as a family. Now that Preston was eleven and Jules was nine, we’d passed the are-we-there-yets and hadn’t yet reached the do-we-have-tos.

Bob was asleep by the time we hit Route 90. Started snoring so loud I had to turn up the music. Preston and Jules counted his nose hairs and argued over the final number. Carson said twelve, Jules insisted on fifteen. 

“You can both be right,” Monica said. “Just leave the man alone.”

After a couple pit stops, one for the kids and one for Bob, who recommended a barbecue joint near Racine, we made it to the stadium an hour before the first pitch. Bob took us into VIP parking and scored us club box seats near first base so Preston could see Christian Yelich up close. Monica took Jules around the park to stretch her legs while Preston and I ate unlimited brats. Beer for me, soda for him.

“Don’t you think we should get a room?” Monica asked when the first game ended, a 7-3 home win.

“Good idea,” I said. 

Then Bob came in with T-shirts and bats signed by the players for the kids. “Hey, you want to meet some of the guys?”

Monica gave me the let’s-go head jerk, checked the time on her phone while Bob paused for selfies with some fans. 

“We appreciate this, Bob,” I said. “This was amazing. But we’ve got to hit the road.”

“What?” Bob said, squinting. His upper lip curled. “You’re not staying for the rubber match? Woodruff’s on the hill against Hendricks.”

“We have an early start. Kids are tired. Mount Rushmore tomorrow.”

“Gees. That’s the thanks I get.”

I lowered my head and slumped my shoulders. Monica put her phone in her purse and adjusted the strap. 

“Why don’t you stay,” she said to me. “Yeah. I’ll take the kids to the hotel, and you can get a ride after the game.”

“Seriously?” I said.

She bit her lip. “Um-hm.”

“Ha!” Bob put his arm around my shoulder and squeezed my neck.

“We didn’t mean to upset you,” Monica said.

“Nah, you kids can’t hurt my feelings. I didn’t get all broken up when they refused to sell my jersey at the Atlanta Goodwill.” 

Monica corralled the kids. “Okay, so we’ll see you later?”

“Sure,” I said. “Later.” 

I kissed Monica, kissed Preston and Jules. Then Bob took me up to a different box for the second game and introduced me to Bud Selig and Robin Yount.

Bud handed me a plane ticket.

“What’s this?” I asked Bob.

“Got us on the charter to Colorado,” he said.

“I can’t ditch the family vacation I planned.”

“Listen, Dean.”

“Dave.”

“Dave, you’re a good dad. For wanting to show the kids the country and all. It’s admirable. But you know what’s going to happen.”

I shrugged. 

“You’re setting the bar so high. What are you going to do when you can’t take them to Disneyland next summer? Or Paris the summer after that? I don’t want you feel like an underachiever.”

“You think?”

“Take it from a guy who watched six seasons in the bigs. I have low standards. That way, one home run off Sandy Koufax becomes extraordinary.” 

I still blame Bob years later. For the disappointment on Preston’s face. Wiping away Jules’ tears. Monica’s silent treatment. The family pictures on my Facebook timeline. Snake River. Electric Peak. Old Faithful. With me noticeably absent.

Greg Oldfield is a physical education teacher and coach from the Philadelphia area. His stories have appeared in Hobart, Carve, Barrelhouse, and Maudlin House, among others. Oldfield also writes about soccer for the Florida Cup and often rambles about soccer on Twitter under @GregOldfield21.