Truth be told, I originally was very ambivalent about going to my 50th college reunion. I'd gone to nearly all the rest of them, and my cumulative pleasure with them had faded over the years.
I suppose that my status as something of a regular prompted not one, not two, but three entreaties from various people to show up. I wondered about that. Why the bother? They didn't need my contribution all that much. Most of the people who graduated with me had better-paying careers than mine as a teacher. I figured that the university should be milking them to strengthen its endowment.
But it was also commensurate with my overall mood, no doubt exacerbated by Covid. I guess I was no stranger to what someone at my church called a "malaise," that overall feeling that things weren't right and weren't going to be so, at least not for quite a while, accompanied by concomitant grouchiness.
With about two weeks to go, though, I decided to get over myself and show up. I didn't think anyone would miss me all that much, seeing as how they hadn't seen me in quite some time and weren't likely to see me again. But three people trying? I thought that was odd.
I took a moment to step back. There must be a reason for this, I thought. Maybe if I show up, I'll find it. But you don't have to know about something like that for some time. Fate doesn't work that way. Forces in the universe take their good-natured time. And maybe it was just my application of mystery that pulled me back, perhaps one last time. If I wouldn't come, though, there'd be no chance of knowing.
I didn't even have to look for it. It arrived the first night I was there. All I had to do was stand at the far edge of the counter in the pre-arranged meeting room in one of the dorms, which had been designated as our class "headquarters"--i.e. a place to drink and inhale munchies mostly unimpeded by pretenses, which is also what Lawrence had been known for.
I didn't know Tony, who approached. I knew of him, which is fairly common at a small college like Lawrence. But we had never had a conversation, never since 1969, when we originally matriculated.
"You're Mark Cebulski, right?" he said. I confirmed that. "Mike Grogan had some really nice things to say about you."
Mike Grogan. Holy smoke. Yes, he was in our graduating class. Yes, we played baseball together. Yes, Tony was his college roommate.
Yes, he died of cancer way too soon. Some time before, too. Hell of a shame.
Of course, I appreciated Tony's gesture. I also appreciated the message it delivered. As normal, nobody really knows what other people think about you until they say so. They aren't likely to do that. Neither are people likely to ask. If you beg for approval, it diminishes you the instant you do so, as in why would you even ask? It exposes you as needy. So most of us compliment each other based on what we do rather than who we are. It's risk-avoidant.
I was gobsmacked, though. I scarcely knew what to say besides, "I'm glad I know that."
Mike came to Lawrence as a transfer. He had talent in the position in which I started on the team, catcher. It presented Coach Bob Mueller with a problem. He decided to send me first to the outfield, then to first base and leave him behind the plate.
I could see this coming, but I adjusted pretty decently and stayed cheerful. My approach to playing baseball was pretty much to throw me a glove and I'd be a happy camper. As a result, though certainly not a star, I rode the bench very little in my four years with the team.
Besides, Mike could throw out baserunners better than I could. Anybody with more than a passing knowledge of baseball knows how vital that is. I was good at blocking pitches and handling pitchers, two skills that are good to have in a catcher (when a pitcher was getting wild, I'd step out from behind the plate and fire the ball back at him full speed with the accompanying comment, "Throw strikes!" It worked more often than not.). But my throws to second were too erratic (Mostly because I had already thrown out my arm as a kid in recreation league. Which I have told no one. Until now.). So I came to accept that. Remaining in the starting lineup salved the wound. Besides, I ended up liking first base a lot. Outside of catcher, it's the center of activity on the diamond.
But Mike also had an odd quirk. Listening to him talk, which he didn't do much, it felt that he saw himself as a throwback to the players of old time, eschewing fanciness of all forms and promoting acceptance of baseball as a no-frills, tough game for tough people (which most of the time, it still is). He expressed that through his usage of his catcher's mitt.
The team had a couple of mitts, one of which I was happy to employ and it worked for me. But Mike had brought his own. As opposed to the team's, which had pockets that were normally large-sized so as to assist with wayward pitches, his mitt had a pocket exactly the size of the baseball located right in the middle. He was proud of it, proud of the challenge it presented. It was as if he was trying to raise the level of his game by making a difficult position even more difficult. His mitt looked like the ones used by, say, Bill Dickey and Gabby Hartnett in the 1930s.
Playing catch and doing pre-game infield practice, the mitt seemed to work. When he got into the game itself, though, the ball would keep popping out. Most of the time, this didn't matter. But when runners took off for second, dropping the ball presented them with free steals. Mike was a likable guy, and no one wanted to approach him (especially not me, the guy he had supplanted. Very poor form.). We would encourage him each time it happened. But that would turn to the silence of disapproval. Again, you tend not to tell someone that he's being a stubborn goat until he asks--and he sure didn't ask.
Because he was a good hitter, we tolerated the drops while he improved the glove's pocket. He would be sure to work it extra hard in practices, always just flinging a ball into it. Eventually, he got it to where he was consistent and the drops largely stopped. He became a damn good catcher, a steadying influence on the field, one that a team rallies around.
So it was with ambivalence that I received Tony's news. I was certainly glad Mike had thought of me positively; it was clear that I had backed away from the starting catcher's position with enough class (I'll allow myself a small pat on the back here) so as not to leave much of a trail. Intrateam jealousies, real or imagined, can wreck it.
But my second thought was, as I said to Tony: "I'm sorry he's not here. We would be talking about baseball and having some laughs."
I meant that in the purest way. It would have been good to see him, good to have a beer or two while talking about the game we both loved so much, especially with the rules changes that have taken place in baseball. Damn. But you have to wonder, too, about the force that brought Tony, who didn't know me, across the room to deliver the delightful surprise. He had remembered what Mike had said about me, whatever it was (he didn't provide details). And Mike must have said things more than once. It wouldn't have stuck with his roommate otherwise. That felt awfully good.
I wouldn't have missed Mike had Tony not approached, probably wouldn't have given him more than a passing thought. But now I do. Mike had a good heart. The world would have been better off if he had survived all these years. Beyond Sept. 11, 1998, though, we'll never know.
Had I realized that he thought well of me and I of him, well hell--we might have been more than cordial teammates. The repeatable lesson: Don't hide good thoughts. Speak them. We all need it. Without it, you might lose a friend. With it, you might acquire and keep one.
What was that all about? An angel? A force from the hereafter? A message in disguise from one who had gone before us? As one nears the final horizon, one gets better in touch with whatever possibilities lie ahead. Maybe Mike's soul is in a better place. Nothing wrong with hoping so.
Be well. Be careful. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.
Mister Mark
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