Dole

Jack loved bananas. He ate them plain, dipped in chocolate syrup, or on bread with crunchy peanut butter, and he loved them sliced and piled on his pancakes. As a baby, hairless and chunky, his first word tumbled out of his mouth at a mere eight months as he sagged in his height chair, streams of hot tears glimmering on his flushed cheeks. Naa! He screamed, his arms flailing. Naaaaa! He was wide-eyed and in sheer disbelief that after eight months he was finally able to tell me what he wanted. And so began a ritual: a banana for breakfast started his day, one at lunch time, and if he finished his dinner, one before bed. Other children threw tantrums in the candy aisle and in front of the gum ball machines. But Jack would choose bananas over candy every day.

Jack’s interest in baseball sparked when he was eight years old. He was lying belly-up on the couch, neck tilted back, watching the television from an upside down position, when a commercial advertising Dole bananas appeared on the screen. Robert Dole, a popular major league baseball player, ate a banana nonchalantly while he waited his turn to bat. Jack sat up on the couch, his eyes transfixed on the screen as he listened intently to Robert Dole’s words.

“…and I eat Dole bananas because they help me run faster, throw farther, and play harder. Do you want to be a champ? What are you waiting for? Eat Dole bananas.” Robert Dole turned from the screen, the camera centering on his number 16 as he ran for the batting box. The wind up, the pitch and with a swift swing of his torso, the bat launched the ball into the stadium and the crowd erupted with applause, a homerun. The commercial faded out. Jack’s eyes were huge when he turned to face me. I stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, watching the smirk on his face transform into a grin.

“Hey, Mom? Do you think I could play baseball?!” He asked excitedly, jumping from the couch and walking toward me.

I smiled and knelt down in front of him. “Well, I don’t know, Jack. Sports take commitment and responsibility. Do you think you can handle it?”

“Yeah!” He said, putting his hands on my shoulders. “I promise I can.”

I gazed into his eyes and smiled again. They were brown like mine, but they glistened with the innocence of a child, excited to try on the world. “Well, I suppose you can try it out. See if you like it.” I patted his stomach as I rose from the floor.

“Really?”

“Really. But we better start practicing.” I glanced out the window. “We still have a few hours of daylight left. Think we can get some swings in?”

“Yeah!” Jack said. “I’ll be right back.” He sprinted to his room and I listened as he rumbled through his closet, searching for the necessary equipment.

The living room was a mess again. Hot wheels  toy cars littered the hard wood floor. In the corner, a coloring book lay open to a scribbled pink and black page, broken crayons and cap-less magic markers scattered around it. An liquid circle covered the center of the antique coffee table; orange juice he had at dinner time, two hours ago. That would definitely leave a stain, I thought to myself. I ran hurriedly to the kitchen and grabbed a towel.

“Jack!” I yelled as I laid the towel in the orange mess. “I thought I told you to be careful with the table.” I shook my head and sighed. It did stain. A large, ugly, light circle right in the middle. I took a few steps back, hoping that it wouldn’t be noticeable from the distance. That is when I noticed them. Stickers. Dole banana stickers, all over the table legs.

The only problem with bananas were the stickers. Each individual banana is stamped with a sticker, advertising their brand, and Jack loved the stickers. This was a recurrent problem in the house. A month ago, I found three Dole banana stickers stuck to the backside of my cell phone. I’ve found them in unusual places, too: The freezer, the side of the dryer, and the toilet seat. It drove me crazy. There was nothing I hated more than peeling stickers off of important papers and nice furniture. Sometimes they wouldn’t come off because he glued them on. He always glued the ones that had lost their adhesiveness, or “sticky-ickyness”, as he called it. I sighed heavily, trying to control my frustration, hoping the stickers were not glued to the legs of my coffee table.

“Jack! Come now, please. I’m not very happy with you.” I yelled in the direction of his room.

“What did I do?” I heard his voice approaching behind me. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Jack Joseph! We have talked about this!” I shouted, kneeling down beside him as I pointed at the table.

He had changed his clothing to an oversized Chicago bears football jersey. On his feet, he wore a pair of red and blue light up Spiderman sneakers, green socks that rose to his knees, and his legs were covered with a purple pair of windbreaker pants, tucked in neatly to his socks. The outfit was complete with knee pads, a mouth guard, a yellow plastic baseball bat, and an old, wrinkled glove holding a dirty baseball. “Yes?” He said as he pulled the mouth guard from in between his teeth. “What is it?”

“More stickers, Jack? Come on now. I thought we discussed this.” I said, pointing at the table legs, trying to restrain the laughter I felt inside at his ridiculous outfit choice.

“But Mom, I put them where no one could see them!” He whined, trying to excuse his way out of punishment.

I laid my head into my hands and let the laughter flow out of me. “Let’s go. We are wasting daylight. But you listen to me young man; tonight you will be peeling all of those stickers off of those table legs. Deal?” Even as I said it, I knew it wouldn’t happen.

“Okaayyy.” He agreed whiningly as we made our way for the front door. “Oh! Wait!” He turned around quickly and glanced up at me. “Mom?”

“Yeah?” I said

He glanced at the legs of the table, thought for a moment, and then said cautiously, “Can I have a banana?”

              I enrolled Jack in baseball the following month, just after his ninth birthday. He was in parent pitch; they called it little league. School had let out for the summer, and the days grew longer and warmer. Practice was an excellent way for him to release his never ceasing energy. He ate a banana before every practice, claiming it enhanced his performance and power. He’d come home sweaty and tired, but uncontrollably excited for the first game. They put him in the outfield as a beginner, reassuring me that it was the safest, best place for him to acquire a feel for the game. He seemed to like catching the pop flies his coach would hit to him. I enjoyed watching myself as well. His focus on the ball as it flew into the air was resilient, and just before gravity pulled the ball to earth, he would position himself just right, raise an extended arm, and the ball would fall gently into the seat of his glove, like it was supposed to be there all along.

              Jack’s first game was on a Saturday, the 22^nd of June and the first day of summer. It was a hot day. Once of those summer days that is too warm and muggy, when your clothes stick to you and the air feels thick. One of those days that felt like someone lassoed the sun and pulled it closer to the earth. With a game at two o’clock, I pushed Jack to drink water throughout the morning and early afternoon. He consumed a liter and a half and claimed he would explode if he drank anymore. He dressed for the game at eleven o’clock, excited to wear his uniform for the first time. A yellow shirt with Hornets written across the front, grey boys baseball pants, black knee-high socks, and brand new cleats I had bought him for his birthday. We took pictures outside underneath the oak tree in the front yard. He ate two bananas, and we headed for the field.

              With the suns scorching heat hot on his number sixteen, Jack ran into the outfield for the first time. In my seat to the right of home plate, I leaned back, satisfied with my excellent view of the field. “Play ball!” An umpire yelled from the pitcher’s mound, and the game began with a round of applause as the first opponent made his way to the batter’s box. I knew parent pitch games were usually uneventful; it’s not very likely a nine year old will hit a grand slam. But I stayed involved, standing and clapping at the field changes, yelling encouragement the first time Jack stood in the batting box and reassuring him when he struck out, waving at him as he stood motionless in the outfield, waiting for something to happen. After the second inning, I visited him in his team dugout. I delivered a cold bottle of water and demanded that he drink it.

              “You’re doing great, buddy!” I said excitedly. His face was scarlet red and sweat dripped off his temples and shined across his forehead.

              “I haven’t even done anything yet, Mom.” He twisted the cap off the water and took a long sip.

              “Yes you have, baby. You go out there and get them!” I raised my hand, “Give me five!”

              He tapped my hand ever so slightly, unexcited. “Thanks. I better go.” Wiping his forehead across his arm, he grabbed his glove and followed his team onto the field.

              The events of the next few minutes still confuse me and they continue to haunt me, even to this day. They happened in a haze; a thick fog in slow motion. When I think back to them now, the only thing I can truly remember is the sound of my heart beating in my ears, so loud it blocked all the other noise out. The last think I heard was ding of the opponent’s metal bat as it collided with the baseball, powerfully heaving it straight up and straight out. I stood up on the bleachers as I watched Jack’s eyes follow the ball’s flight through the air. Come on, Jack. You have this one, buddy. His feet moved swiftly around in the grass, steadying him, searching for the correct position, eyes in the air. Maybe that is why he didn’t see the second baseman, number eight, running backwards with his arm extended. Perhaps, if Jack would have been standing a little further into the outfield, or if the second baseman would have stayed near his base, the outcome would be different. Or if one of them would have yelled “I HAVE IT!” that way the other one could have backed off. But that didn’t happen. And as the ball descended onto the field, number eight jumped backward, his arm straight and stretching, reaching for the ball. Jack jumped forward, oblivious to his teammate in front of him, determined to catch the ball before it hit the ground. I knew they were going to collide even before it happened. He’d have some scratches, I thought. But when Jack jumped for the ball, number eights extended arm rammed into Jack’s outstretched neck. I drank in the moment, blinked my eyes, and then my son was on the ground.

              I see the rest from somebody else’s eyes. Like I left my body and I watched myself from a bystander’s point of view. Me rushing off the bleachers, me sprinting to the dugout, struggling to open the gate to the field, me shaking as I ran, tripping over my feet, hyperventilating. It felt like it took me hours to run to him, like my feet were stuck in quick sand or like I was running through water. I couldn't get there fast enough. And then I'm reaching for him. I’m feeling his heart, I’m touching his face, I’m telling him to “Please, wake up baby.” I’m crying.  When the paramedics arrived, they pushed me aside and I fought with them. And I screamed at them over and over again the only question running through my head, “Why wasn’t my son moving!! Why wasn’t he moving!!”

              It is a mother’s job to protect her children. But mothers don’t know everything. I didn’t know it could happen that fast. My son was alive, and then with nothing more than a blink of my eyes, he’s taking his last breath. Trachea collapse is what they called it. Collapse doesn’t make much since to me. Bridges collapse, or tall buildings after earthquakes. Why didn’t I know tracheas could collapse as well? If I would have known I could have protected him I told them.  They tried to explain it to me, using small words. His cartilage in his neck was severely damaged when he was hit. When he inhaled directly after the trauma to his throat, the cartilage could not hold a patent airway, they said. It fell into itself.  I screamed at them. I told them to get away from me. I told them to help Jack. They gave me a sedative. They sent me home and I fell into myself.

              Burying my own child hurt more than death will, because most of my soul was buried with him. The funeral was simple. I was present; however, my mind only remembers fragments. His baseball uniform, still dirty from the only time he wore it, lying across the top of his tiny coffin. Clusters of bananas placed strategically around the church. The slideshow of pictures at the beginning of the service. There I am holding Jack as a newborn, a few hours after his birth. Jack eating ice cream. Jack missing his two front teeth. There he is at Christmas time, sitting under the decorated tree. And then he is blowing out the candles on his fifth birthday cake. Family Vacations. His first and only trip to Disney World. His first day of school. Jack eating two bananas at once. And then he’s in his baseball uniform, standing beneath the oak tree, excited to play his first game.

              I saw them last week for the first time. It’s been two months since… It was the first day I’d managed to pull myself out of bed. They were stuck to the legs of the coffee table, right where he left them. I found more the next day when I was cleaning up my bathroom, glued to the side of the sink in a circle. And even more the day after that, on the inside of the microwave, and the bottom drawer of the refrigerator.  And now, as I lay here in his bed, reflecting on the past, thinking of him, hurting inside, I oddly feel like laughing. Nobody ever sees beauty until it is taken away. I know where to look now if I need to see it. Usually I don’t have to go far because he is everywhere. I look up: Dole.