Holly and Cobb's Cleats

Part One

There they sit, two tattered pairs of baseball spikes attached to the inside of a mahogany case lidded in glass. 

They're the only thing that have my attention. For the last fifteen minutes, my aunt Blanche has been inside, frantically searching for our never-mailed Christmas card, and she insisted that Nick and I not leave without it. But right now, it's all about the spikes. They're at the rear of the neighbor's station wagon, crammed in alongside all sorts of other boxes and baseball paraphernalia. Bats, gloves, old uniforms, small glass cases, each displaying the ball that was hit breaking a particular record. A big purple and white cardboard placard stuffed against a window, Welcome 1993 Inductees, even though the year is 1997. The afternoon heat of New York is dive-bombing in, catching the top of the glass, a kamikaze of glass and sun.

The only reason we're here is that aunt Blanche's home is one exit down from Winky's Waterpark—which is where we've been all day—and Dad's been pressuring me to drop in when I'm in the area and let her see Nick. But today, dropping in on my great aunt has also meant dropping in on her nerdy neighbor. Since we arrived, she's been walking back and forth between her house and car, carrying armloads of baseball knick-knacks, gabbing away about her twenty-four years at Cooperstown, then gushing over the busted water main that flooded the museum's basement just a few days ago.

"I volunteered to take care of some of this stuff while they cleaned everything up," she said, while hauling a glass case full of old-timey gloves. "But now I've got to get it all back to the museum!"

She's got that exaggerated seriousness about her, and since she and Blanche share the big dual driveway between their homes, I've been standing here, hostage to her yakking. Nick, my quirky son, is over in the backyard, trying to jump up and catch dragonflies. The things that go on in a nine-year-old's mind.

Back to the shoes. I'm trying to be a good girl. We did our duty. Sat down to a plate of stale Ritz crackers, some knock-off ginger ale. Listened to Blanche's daily medication routine while staring at floral-print peach wallpaper from yesteryear. It's time to get this silly holiday card, collect my son, and skidaddle. But given the status of my checking account, the shoes have made things very interesting. And when I think back to one particular antique dealer in rural New Jersey, the situation has gone from interesting to downright fascinating. If you ever come across any old baseball items bring 'em in. I usually give a pretty penny for that stuff. I'm paraphrasing but you get the idea.

Does being broke ever become, well, hip? Fashionable? To me, it's as normal as getting out of bed or staring at a billboard on the highway. When you get right down to it, Winky's was a luxury that we really couldn't afford. One of those the-bills-be-damned situations, the kind you regret the second you drive away, the fun of the day fading. I shift my weight from left to right, look over at the ragged tarp folded up under a rusted toolbox in the back of my old Cheyenne pickup. A plan's developing in my head. The hot summer air is empty of noise, save the jumping about of Nick, who's moved down to the other end of Aunt Blanche's backyard. He's now engaged in some kind of conversation with the dragonflies. 

Across the pavement, through the screened window, I've got a clear visual of my aunt, her arms and head still buried in a large box, sifting away. I swivel to my right, glance at the side door of the neighbor's house. Nothing. And then, as quickly as Winky's took our twenty dollars entrance fee, I walk to the back door of the station wagon. Give the spikes another good gander. And then do the deed.

Here's the tricky part: trying to explain to my unpredictable son the sudden reason for the two to three hour drive to Jersey. But since we live in Grand Gorge, and have driven a good forty-five minutes south to get to Winky's, we're generally already going in the right direction. As we hit the road I seize upon part of our earlier conversation with aunt Blanche and manage to pull it off.