|
the fossil record
|
||
|
#33
|
||
|
Fatal Error Buddy Harrelson killed my grandfather. Harrelson was the shortstop for the New York Mets from the mid-sixties through 1977. That was the year he killed Irving Smith, my grandmother’s second husband. The next season the Mets let Harrelson go; he finished his career with the Phillies and the Texas Rangers and then retired in 1980. But the damage was done. Irving was a mild mannered man, henpecked beyond mercy by his wife Ruth. I have no clear recollection of Irving speaking at all. He found solace in golf and baseball and his store, the Star Market in Waterbury, Connecticut. Irving was in charge of the deli and Ruth ran the market. Some of my fondest memories of childhood are from that market: The narrow, poorly lit aisles. The wood floors which I would sweep in the summers when we would visit. The mingled smells of corned beef, sawdust and dill. Irving pickled his own cucumbers. I’ve never tasted any better. My reward for sweeping was for Irving to lift me up and let me grab a pickle out of the barrel in the back room. They were incredible. I’m convinced that I have never done anything for the world at large, nor will I, that compares to my grandfather’s pickles. And Buddy Harrelson killed him. It was early in the summer of 1977, and the Star Market had closed. Irving had retired to a quiet life of being badgered by his wife. The 7-11 that opened around the corner had been the beginning of the end. They still had plenty of customers from the neighborhood synagogue but the little old Jewish men and women weren’t enough to keep the business going. The bulk of their business had come from the seemingly endless line of kids who came in from the park across the street. In the summers I’d go to that park and play ball with the local kids. Afterwards we'd always go to the store for a Coke. After the 7-11 opened the kids preferred going there, maybe because the clerk there didn’t tell them to tuck in their shirts or to say thank you. Still, I’m glad my grandmother did. After my grandparents sold the market and retired, Irving spent his afternoons playing golf or watching the Mets on television. That is where he was on the day he died. It was a beautiful June day, perfect for baseball. Irving was in his easy chair. As my grandmother remembered it, she was in the kitchen making dinner. She hadn’t heard a word out of Irving all afternoon when she asked if he wanted lima beans or carrots with his brisket. A few minutes later she heard him yell, "Shit! Dammit!" Those were Irving’s last words. Although it was rare for Irving to swear or really to speak at all, Ruth didn’t think much about it. A half an hour later she went into the living room and found him in his chair dead from a coronary. When we asked her what had happened she said, "He was watching a ball game, then he was dead." I checked the box scores the next day. The Mets had won a close game. The only mistake they had made that day was an error committed by their shortstop, Buddy Harrelson. Looking at the point in the game the error was made and the time my grandmother thought she heard Irving cursing, it seems that my grandfather’s heart attack was a direct result of Buddy Harrelson’s error. I'd like to meet Harrelson some day and tell him that my grandfather died watching him play.
—Howard Drucker |
||
