The two caretakers stood, resting under the shade of a beautiful oak tree. The cemetery was completely empty, save for them, and one lone visitor who came most every day.
"There he is again," the younger of the two said.
"Yeah. That was his best friend you know. They played the game back in thirty-eight," the older one replied.
"The game?"
"Baseball. That standing there is the one and only Elijah Harwood. He was a heavy pitcher for the NLB, and then served in the Second World War as a Tuskegee Airman."
"The NLB? Who the hell are they?"
"That would be the Negro League Baseball. They pretty much disbanded when Jackie Robinson got drafted, but they were big in the day."
The younger man looked astonished and stared at the older one.
"You're shitting me."
"No. I got Elijah to autograph a baseball for me. He was the hero of his day."
They watched Elijah shuffle off.
He walked with a long, thin whip of a cane, which he deftly maneuvered with his strong, powerful fingers. He displayed his disabled bus pass and boarded the Tri-Met bus East, eventually changing it for one bound North for Interstate Avenue.
He walked three blocks one way, and stopped in a store. He bought himself a small cherry coke and a microwave popcorn packet.
At home, in his modest dwelling, he popped the corn and stood there, staring at a picture of himself and the man in the ground, taken well over fifty years ago.
"I think I'll be seeing you soon, Franklin. I hope you have a place next to you on the bench for me. I miss you a lot." He said aloud.
The popped corn he put into a large plastic bowl and carried it and the soda into his easy chair. He flipped on the television, tuned into the Seattle Mariners game, and promptly fell asleep.
When Elijah dreamed, he dreamed in sepia. He smiled as he dreamed.
The roar of the crowd, mostly full families in the stadium filled his ears as he stood on the pitcher's mound. He nodded to the catcher.
The catcher nodded back, and gesticulated with his hands.
Elijah's body moved like lightening, his pitching arm uncoiled with the force of a hurricane. The leather clad ball soared out of his hand, like a bird of prey.
The batter was a muscular young man, not much older than he was, and he connected with the sweet spot in the wooden bat with a beautiful hit. The crack was like a gunshot, he heard the announcer:
"He's going, he's going, and he's outta here!" He cried over the primitive public address system.
Elijah shook his head. He was tired, and it was the bottom of the ninth. With that hit, it was four to five. He had pitched the last six innings and the drain was incredible. The humidity in the Atlanta ballpark dripped off every man in the field. It was late August of 1938, one of the hottest on record.
His eyes turned toward his coach, whose face remained impassive. Elijah was all they had. This was the backside of the double header, Atlanta Crackers versus Cincinnati Tigers.
Another hit, and the Crackers would be tied, the game would go into extra innings, and Elijah knew if that were the case, he would fail. He could not allow that to happen.
The next batter was a fresh face to him, a rookie from a minor league, if there was such a thing for the Negroes League. His Jersey read, 'Palmer' and his first name was announced as Gary.
Elijah looked him over. He was wiry and looked strong. Elijah decided he wasn't going to fool around. He felt the weight of the game, heavier and thicker than the heat and humidity. The crowd hushed and could feel his pressure.
The batter took his place, and Elijah's decision held firm.
Three fastballs.
Three strikes.
Game over.
The crowed hurrahed in his favor and during the shake with the other team, one man shook him a little harder.
It was the first time they had actually met on the diamond battlefield, but Franklin Roberts was a reputation onto himself. He had one of the highest RBI's of the entire league, and was a deadly infielder. He was the one that knocked the ball out of the park.
Franklin looked him in the eye, his thick muscular neck shining with sweat.
Elijah nodded at him for just that much more of an instant, and a corner of Franklin's face turned upward ever so briefly.
Elijah was forced by the line to let go of his hand.
He trudged back to the dugout and collected his jacket, his bat, ball, and glove. There were no showers for the Negro league, but there was a bathroom.
It was the one with the crudely printed sign on it, attached with nail, and string. The sign read, 'colored' on it. He walked in, the stench of urine from the open trough hit him like the stank of a butchery. Flies congregated in clusters over spots on the aged concrete floor.
The cracked sink had a single spigot of moderately cold water, and he drenched his handkerchief in it, wiping his face down gently. He had a stubble of beard, and was supposed to catch the morning bus to New York for another game on Tuesday.
He paid no mind to the person who came in behind him, and walked over to the trough. Only when the other man spoke did his mental planning cease.
"I have to say, sir, that you pitch a fine game. I was lucky to get the hit I did. You polished off Palmer like he was nobody's business."
Elijah turned.
Franklin stood there, smiling. The golden flow of urine from his thick, uncut penis did not stop as the listened to Elijah:
