Thus Spake the Zonbi - Alexander Dougal

Goodbye, Neighbor

Nearly every weekend when I was younger, my dad and I used to ride our bikes to the park just down from our house. The sound of my training wheels grinding against the asphalt was like TV static echoing off of the houses. My dad would ride circles around me, large swooping circles executed with such grace, then he would ride up alongside me, zig-zagging to maintain balance while he explained his plan for the rest of the afternoon. Most proposals concluded with: "do you think you'll have the legs to ride down and grab some ice cream after we're done?", to which I would nod vigorously and then pedal with equal vigor to keep up as he zoomed off once again to return to his roadway gymnastics; the gray bag on his back swaying to and fro, baseball bats protruding from the top like baguettes, water bottles swinging from the sides like the rods on a wind chime.

After I turned six, my dad signed me up for tee-ball. We were the Panthers, and we donned sleek black shirts with any number of our choosing on the back -- any two-digit number that is. I chose number 61. I'm not sure why. Coincidentally, our team would practice at the  very same park that my dad and I had always played at on the weekends, so I would ride with my dad to the park, but now I would do so in my uniform, which I wore with the utmost of pride. After all, I was in the big-leagues now, and it would be only a matter of time before I was to be drafted into the MLB. Of course, I would lead my team to the championships, and I'd probably hit the game-winning home run. Surely.

Occasionally we would get to travel to other parks in nearby neighborhoods to play against other teams -- mere stepping-stones on my path to inevitable stardom. There were the Land Sharks in navy blue, the Crocodiles in green, and the Brown Bears in... well, brown. These other parks were far enough away that we would have to take my dad's car, so it became my responsibility to keep track of the gray bag, which I clutched anxiously from the back seat. After we pulled up to my first game (against the Land Sharks), he turned back to me and said:

"Hey bud, you know those little white lights in the sky? Everybody calls them 'stars', as you've come to know them by, but the truth is, and not many people know this, but they're actually baseballs. Yessir, they're baseballs that other players hit so hard that they shot all the way up into space, and now they're all just floating around up there. Kinda like floating trophies. And all those dark spots on the moon? All the craters? Well, those are because the very best players smacked the ball so stinking hard that it went even further and crashed right into the moon. And you know what? That's going to be you someday, bud, and it all starts today. Swing for the sky, Alex. Smash that no-good baseball right into space. Knock the moon right out of the sky."

"Did you ever hit the moon, daddy?" I'd responded in boyish wonder.

He shook his head. "Your granddaddy put a big ol' hole in the moon when he was younger, but your dad never quite got there. I can see it in you, though. I just know you're going to put an even bigger hole in the moon than grandpa. I just know it."

On my eighth birthday, my dad gave me the baseball bat that grandpa had given to him after he graduated from high school. He told me about how he used to go to the batting cages when he was in college, how he'd bring the bat with him and spend hours smacking round after round of balls into the netting, and with each satisfying thwack!, his stress would gradually trickle away. His face lit up as he reminisced and his eyes seemed watery. Even though the bat was much too big for me -- too heavy, too long -- I loved it more than anything and I practiced with it anyway. If grandpa could hit a ball to the moon with this bat, then with enough practice, I would too. 

My dad passed away about a month later. Cancer.

I would often sit in bed at night just holding the bat. He lived on through it. I could hear his voice, see his face, taste the ice cream. I imagined his younger self at the batting cages, launching ball after ball into the netting. That was his medicine, and now this was mine. I displayed the bat prominently everywhere I lived: beside my bed when I was in high school, on the wall above my bed in my dorm, and now on the table next to my recliner in my apartment. I couldn't bring myself to use it. I didn't want to damage it. I didn't want to tarnish what I had left of him. But now... panting on all fours, darkness looming... Dad, I need your strength.

"Swing for the sky, Alex."