"Tell me about the baseball," the boy asked him.
"In the American League it is the Yankees as I said," the old man said happily.
"They lost today," the boy told him.
"That means nothing. The great DiMaggio is himself again."
"They have other men on the team."
"Naturally. But he makes the difference. In the other league, between Brooklyn and Philadelphia I must take Brooklyn. But then I think of Dick Sisler and those great drives in the old park."
"There was nothing ever like them. He hits the longest ball I have ever seen."
"Do you remember when he used to come to the Terrace? I wanted to take him fishing but I was too timid to ask him. Then I asked you to ask him and you were too timid."
"I know. It was a great mistake. He might have gone with us. Then we would have that for all of our lives."
"I would like to take the great DiMaggio fishing," the old man said. "They say his father was a fisherman. Maybe he was as poor as we are and would understand."
"The great Sisler's father was never poor and he, the father, was playing in the big leagues when he was my age."
"When I was your age I was before the mast on a square rigged ship that ran to Africa and I have seen lions on the beaches in the evening."
"I know. You told me."
"Should we talk about Africa or about baseball?"
"Baseball I think," the boy said. "Tell me about the great John J. McGraw." He said Jota for J.
"He used to come to the Terrace sometimes too in the older days. But he was rough and harsh-spoken and difficult when he was drinking. His mind was on horses as well as baseball. At least he carried lists of horses at all times in his pocket and frequently spoke the names of horses on the telephone."
"He was a great manager," the boy said. "My father thinks he was the greatest."
"Because he came here the most times," the old man said. "If Durocher had continued to come here each year your father would think him the greatest manager."
"Who is the greatest manager, really, Luque or Mike Gonzalez?"
"I think they are equal."
"And the best fisherman is you."
"No. I know others better."
"Qué va," the boy said. "There are many good fishermen and some great ones. But there is only you."
"Thank you. You make me happy. I hope no fish will come along so great that he will prove us wrong."
"There is no such fish if you are still strong as you say."
"I may not be as strong as I think," the old man said. "But I know many tricks and I have resolution."
"You ought to go to bed now so that you will be fresh in the morning. I will take the things back to the Terrace."
"Good night then. I will wake you in the morning."
"You're my alarm clock," the boy said.
"Age is my alarm clock," the old man said. "Why do old men wake so early? Is it to have one longer day?"
"I don't know," the boy said. "All I know is that young boys sleep late and hard."
"I can remember it," the old man said. "I'll waken you in time."
"I do not like for him to waken me. It is as though I were inferior."
"I know."
"Sleep well, old man."
The boy went out. They had eaten with no light on the table and the old man took off his trousers and went to bed in the dark. He rolled his trousers up to make a pillow, putting the newspaper inside them. He rolled himself in the blanket and slept on the other old newspapers that covered the springs of the bed.
He was asleep in a short time and he dreamed of Africa when he was a boy and the long golden beaches and the white beaches, so white they hurt your eyes, and the high capes and the great brown mountains. He lived along that coast now every night and in his dreams he heard the surf roar and saw the native boats come riding through it. He smelled the tar and oakum of the deck as he slept and he smelled the smell of Africa that the land breeze brought at morning.
Usually when he smelled the land breeze he woke up and dressed to go and wake the boy. But tonight the smell of the land breeze came very early and he knew it was too early in his dream and went on dreaming to see the white peaks of the Islands rising from the sea and then he dreamed of the different harbours and roadsteads of the Canary Islands.
He no longer dreamed of storms, nor of women, nor of great occurrences, nor of great fish, nor fights, nor contests of strength, nor of his wife. He only dreamed of places now and of the lions on the beach. They played like young cats in the dusk and he loved them as he loved the boy. He never dreamed about the boy. He simply woke, looked out the open door at the moon and unrolled his trousers and put them on. He urinated outside the shack and then went up the road to wake the boy. He was shivering with the morning cold. But he knew he would shiver himself warm and that soon he would be rowing.
Unlike Santiago, I never remember my dreams. I remember the feelings from dreams. Two mornings ago, I woke with cold fingers on my shoulders, in my stomach. Darkness in my eyes. Usually, I shake off these last cobwebs of sleep within a few seconds, turn my face to morning and sun. In these days of quarantine, I've found it harder and harder to disentangle myself from these dream threads.
Today, I woke in palm of warmth. Whatever my mind had pushed before my closed eyes in the moments before waking, I felt happy. It could have been a memory of the first time I held my infant daughter or son. Or the memory of my father leading me to an empty room on the day I graduated from college, hugging me, saying he loved me, was proud of me. My mother laughing at a poem by Anne Sexton about a girdle. The warmth of my little Australian shepherd under my fingers, nestled against my chest. My wife looking at me with love, wanting to be with me, only with me, for the rest of her life.
Sometimes, life can be a good dream. Rarely, but sometimes. It doesn't last very long. A few seconds. Maybe minutes. If you're lucky, a string of days or weeks. Maybe months or even a few years. Then you wake up and your daughter is a college junior, in love, studying to be a doctor. Your son values his laptop computer more than his grades. And the hopeless love of your life is hopelessly obsessed with everything but sitting on the couch in the dark with you, watching Crazy Rich Asians, holding hands.
This is one of my reality check blog posts. You see, dreams are brief, fleeting. Whether they're bad or good. Then reality sets in. You wake up and have to face the morning sun. Now, all you self-help/crystal candle lovers out there are thinking, "You're in charge of your own happiness." I get that. Totally agree with it, as a matter of fact.
Happiness is hard work. Right now, it's snowing outside. Buckets. After I'm done typing this post, I'm going to go outside to shovel. For at least a couple hours. I'm not afraid of hard work. I do it. Every day. All day. Because that's the way I was brought up.
Like everyone else in the world, I want to be happy. So, it's time. To get on my boots. Zip up my winter jacket. Put on gloves and hat. Grab the snow scoop on my front porch. Go outside and work the shit out of this snowstorm.
Like I said, dreams are brief as icicles. They hang around for a while, but, when the morning sun hits them, they vanish after a few minutes. If you want real happiness, it's all about leg, back, and arm work. An endurance test until spring arrives, ushering in a few months of green and heat and gold light.
I love Christmas. The colors. Beautiful decorations. Happy music. A month or two where everyone embraces joy and love and peace and happiness.
Saint Marty is always dreaming of a white Christmas. And a green spring. A blazing summer. A mustard autumn.
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