A True Gift -- My Grandson
by Tom Carroll Jr.
The second week of classes at California University of Pennsylvania, a new adventure I had just embarked on, was done, and my thoughts on Monday were as scattered as they had been on day one. Did I fit in? Did I feel like the old man on campus? Should I dye my hair and appear more normal? Should I buy a convertible, maybe a Corvette, with a dashboard and trunk-mounted boom system, installed and thumping, or just work through the brand new adventure? Inspiration was not on the horizon until I caught the tail end of a message coming in on my answering machine. Before I headed for my kitchen, I hit the play button and listened to the whole message, smiling from ear to ear.
“Pappy, I called you yesterday so I’m returning your call. Call me.”
And that was the icebreaker, the sense of inspiration replanting itself firmly.
Tyler Michael Carroll, 8, a little guy who magically appeared on March 27, 2001. I knew it was a boy at the time. Today, they have sonograms and all kinds of other ways of figuring out your child or grandchild.
So I brought the phone back into my living room and called. And as these things turn out, he answered, as if he sat right by the phone, waiting.
“Tyler, what’s up, buddy?” I asked.
“Nothing. Can I come down?” he replied.
“Sure thing. No doubt about it.”
“I’ll see if my mom wants to come down, too.”
I listened to how excited he sounded, but his mother said, “No”; she had a headache.
“When are you leaving?” he asked.
“ I’ll be there in a flash.”
“OK, Pappy, I’m waiting.”
Heading out to little Greenock where Tyler and his mother live, my thoughts were focused on Tyler: no longer the little guy in Pampers; no longer a bike rider aided by training wheels; no longer that little at all. It seemed it happened overnight. One day the shoulder rides are endless. Another day he has put on some height and some weight. That day is a struggle to stoop low enough to gallantly lift him into position, his hands buried in my hair, holding on as I struggle to stand, all parts of my body sounding and feeling rusty.
The drive out there as he waits I know like the back of my hand. As I take Eden Park Boulevard, straight through the center of Renzie Park, my memory runs in too many directions. I was born here in McKeesport, a once strong and proud steel town. It holds on today, the strength somewhat diminished and the pride never wavering. Tyler has become a part of this city. Everything a child could do at Renzie we both had shared.
I pulled down the little side street and stopped. George, Tyler’s step-grandfather, sat on the porch. I am not always into waving at everyone.
He opened the front door and went inside to tell Tyler I was there. Tyler, carrying his basketball, marched off the porch, looking at me and smiling – that grin of his that never changed.
“Hey, buddy. How you doing?”
“All right, Pappy.”
The volume was crushed low on the radio and I backed up and glanced over. Tyler already had his seatbelt on, the basketball sitting on the floor. It sure wasn’t that long ago that picking him up was different. Those times, he would bolt out the front door, running as fast as his little legs could move, running right into me as I squatted with open arms. Opening the front door and picking him up and sitting him in his car seat wasn’t yesterday or last weekend.
On Friday nights, he would wait, ready. That began our weekend. McDonald’s was first. Once we pulled into the parking lot and parked, he hugged me.
“Pappy, can I get some chicken nuggets? And a milkshake like you?”
“You got it, little guy.”
After standing in line, he would want to get us a booth. This habit he held for quite a while. I would sit right next to him as he stood on the seat of whatever booth he would choose. Following my eating habits as closely as a child will do, he soon needed some of that Big Mac I enjoyed. I held it steady as he took a bite, wiping his mouth off each time. Then it was a stop at Giant Eagle, right across from McKeesport High School, the same parking spot every time and then a buggy ride.
“Pappy, back it up right over there,” he said.
“Tell me when we find the right spot, little guy.”
“Right there, Pappy, right there.”
He had gotten totally into SpongeBob, wearing a blue baseball cap at 3. I think the hat, with a faded SpongeBob right above the brim, probably has disintegrated. He had even ended up wearing it backwards. He finally took it off when the fear of a haircut left at my barber’s one Saturday morning.
Some of those early years I lived through him. My own beginning was so different: a different time, a different set of grandparents, and a longing for my father that I could not start to settle until I finally sat down with him in my 20s. No grudges or feelings of anger and loss: just a feeling of happiness for each moment in time we shared. Tyler, as he grew, never met his father, and for quite a while, he called me Dad.
My oldest daughter, Crystal Ann, and I had talked about that a few times. For me, I couldn’t put a real solid opinion out there on that. It wasn’t one of those feelings of pride for having a boy after two girls. He was my grandson. I loved him and both my daughters.
As for myself, I had a stepfather whom I had called Dad, starting at about 8. And I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wasn’t my father. At that point in life, my real father took some unnecessary, unneeded heat as both my stepfather and mother insulted him every time the effort presented itself. When I started to grow and develop, as Tyler will, I made my mind up: My father was my father and I was being force-fed some awful insults and derogatory comments about him every time his name came up.
Tyler will not face the same challenges as he grows. I will always be there for him. That is where the true difference slams in. Looking at the differences spread out on a table, I’m reminded of a flea market where everything displayed is all a quarter. You make the choice. Something always catches your eye. That find and choice behind the glance is almost like walking down to the corner store with some change.
I remember my Brother Terry and I, plus the group of friends from the neighborhood, staring into tall, glass-fronted display case holding all the candy we could ever imagine in one place -- so many choices. Some of the change we had came from returning glass bottles we had searched for, a lifetime ago before plastic. A nickel for quart bottles and two cents for the eight-, 12- and 16-ounce, pop bottles. Tyler’s childhood seems lightyears ahead of my own.
And that brings in worry. With Tyler, the worry is my own influence on his life, an influence that I really did not have at his age. Everything I do with him, he wants to try, and that is normal. Renzie Park has, at my last calculation, seven baseball fields. Every day in the summers of my youth, we headed out to Renzie, and, when we decided not to swim, we walked out there, lugging our gloves, bats and baseballs. Jimmy Long Field we called our home field. An all-day game, win or loose.
When Tyler was 5, we headed out there one Saturday afternoon. The same field, years apart. Today, the children growing up have so many other outlets, staying at home being No. 1. The field was immaculate, not a footprint anywhere on the infield. I had shown Tyler how to carry a bat over his shoulder. His little glove hung on the handle. I carried an old one, a Vida Blue Rawlings, with a rubber ball, and the glove folded under my left arm.
“Pappy, are you ready to pitch?” Tyler asked.
Standing on the mound, I replied, “Are you ready to hit one?”
Looking in at the plate, he stood ready. I underhanded the first one; Tyler’s eyes locked in. A terrible swing, the ball bounced to the backstop. I laughed to myself, remembering my own first attempts at baseball.
“Tyler, we need to work on that swing a little bit.”
I started walking to home plate. He had already grabbed the ball.
“OK, Pappy.” A little sweat had begun appearing on his face.
“First off, let’s walk the bases, and then we can work on your stance.”
We walked around the infield, arriving back at home.
“You sure you know where to go when you get a hit, little guy?” I asked. Foul balls were not even thought of then. Let him hit the heck out of the ball. If he started to get the baseball fever, we would work out the rest.
“OK, look, the plate has a batter’s box on both sides,” I said. “You’re right-handed so let’s give that a try.”
Standing behind him, I guided him into a better stance. He held the bat, showing a more level swing.
“Keep your eyes on the pitch coming in. Bring the bat around smooth. OK?”
“I’m ready, Pappy.”
I walked to the mound, ready to pitch again. He missed the first one. His swing was better. The third pitch, he got one, a little dribbler down the third baseline, and off he went.
“I got a home run!”
Laughing, I watched as he ran the bases. The rest of his swings were better. I waited, knowing the heat would run him out of gas. All the way back to my house, he talked nonstop about it.
We took Eden Park Boulevard through Renzie, and we talked a little, with his gaze sometimes zeroing in on me driving.
“So how is school going, Tyler?” I asked.
“Good, Pappy.”
“So what are you learning right now in third grade?”
“Times tables and all kinds of other things.”
The conversation had grown. He no longer was a little guy. He had taken a little longer to talk than some kids do. There were no funny-sounding attempts. He just talked one day. He listened to every word he heard. That is a cool way to learn. I never used any swear words around him. I removed them from my vocabulary ages ago. I know he will learn them; we all do.
Today, then, when we arrived at my house, he took my spot on the couch. I turned the TV on for him, and he searched the channels. I had told him on the way down that I had some writing to finish. I parked myself on my chair to get at it. In fact, he didn’t realize I was working on this piece. I will let him read it when he gets a little older – that is happening fast.
When I finish writing, we headed down the street. A neighbor has a hoop set up in front of his garage, the garage he calls his hangout. He’s only a couple of years younger than I. Tyler started shooting immediately. I noticed the hoop is set real high, maybe two feet more than regulation. Tyler continued his shooting. Watching his expressions, I took my own collection of snapshots. I tried a few shots, and he watched, laughing. Not mean-spirited, like some kids will do, just a laugh in general, enjoying the moment. Sweat built on his little forehead, slowly moving down both sides of his face. When we finished, we walked back to my house, got something to drink, and then it was time to take him home.
When I dropped him off, I asked for a hug. At an earlier age, they came unexpectedly, regular and unasked. Now he’s 8 and a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek still have meaning, but he’s heading into that funny little part of a boy’s life.
On my way home, I felt a little stronger. Sure, I felt out of place at Cal U, but that came with the territory. And I knew that one Saturday or Sunday, Tyler and I would take a ride up, tour the campus, eat some lunch, and he would fire away questions, his curiosity blazing. And my mission would not be complete without being as much of an influence on him as I can be. That, alone, is so invigorating. And that, alone, comes equipped with a unique territory. |
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