Our ‘Field of Dreams’ tale concludes:

***

 The five homer game had set a state High School record that is unmatched to this day, although three 4-homer games have transpired since that night, including one just twenty miles to the south in Augusta, Texas.  Meanwhile, the thirteen ribbies had tied a state mark that has since been surpassed (a fifteen RBI game from a kid out of Houston back in ninety-six). 

     The Comets were unceremoniously eliminated from state competition a week later, a 10-2 drubbing that was the definition of ‘anti-climatic’.  J.J had struck out twice and then hit a meaningless solo homer in the bottom of the eighth, ending his high school career with a line shot over the left field fence. 

    As he would divulge later that evening (with my camera rolling and his words growing increasingly slurred), J.J spent several years following high school graduation tooling about the country with several different semi-pro baseball teams (hence the earlier references to Biloxi, Mobile and Little Rock, among other brief stops).  He’d said it was around the spring of ’84, at the ripe old age of 21, that a tryout for a Triple-AAA Montreal Expo affiliate opened his eyes to reality in terms of his baseball future.  A scout had pulled him to the side and supposedly told him to ‘find another vocation, son, ‘cause the only lumber you’ll ever carry at the big league level is as a bat boy.’  According to J.J, it hadn’t been the first such advice since he’d left Juniper High.  A masher of dead-red fastballs, which is pretty much all one sees at the high school level, he soon discovered that off-speed pitches of any kind, that being curves, sliders and the such, would literally tie him into knots.  Opposing pitchers were quick to adapt to such a glaring but common weakness among High School phenoms, and J.J soon found himself whiffing at an alarming rate. 

    He returned to Juniper Plains that same year and began his career as a mechanic by enrolling in night classes offered by the state.  A year later he met Melody while attending a Juniper Plains High Football game.  They were married in less than six months.  A bitter divorce and child custody battle ensued some six winters following, thus the permanent move to Bridgeport he’d spoken of earlier.  ‘Mel despised baseball and sports in general…’ he’d said with a frown, his eyes droopy and glazed from a Coors Light barrage, ‘…couldn’t stand anybody even mentioning that game.  Pretty bad when even your so-called life partner is ate up with jealousy.”      

    J.J rarely mentioned his kids, and only within garbled, incomplete sentences laced with disappointment and frustration.  Josh, eighteen, had just graduated from Juniper with aspirations of attending Texas Tech.  Joanne, fourteen, would be entering JP High next fall.  From what I’d gathered, J.J had minimal contact with each, having long ago been labeled within the JP community as an ‘abusive lush’ by their mother. 

    “My name used to be gold in that town, y’know?’ he’d said with a sad smile, ‘now it’s just irrelevant.  These days its always ‘what have ya done for me lately?...never ‘what did you do to help put a backwoods burg like this on the map? Man, I’ve met folks as far away as the Carolinas that knew of Juniper Plains just because of me.  That said, I’d be willing to bet you could drive into my home town tomorrow and not find a single soul under twenty-five that’s ever heard of me or the events of May 8, 1980.  And to those that have, I ain’t nothing but a walking fossil anyhow.  Sad but true, Matthew. Sad but true.”

   J.J had passed out on the couch that evening with an empty beer bottle propped between his thighs and ESPN Classic replaying the 1989 World Series between the Dodgers and A’s. 

    I myself hit the sack that night pondering an age old question; is it better to have never known fame of any kind than to live out the remainder of your days attempting to match or surpass the feats of the past?

    The following day I drove into Juniper Plains to test J.J’s ‘irrelevant’ theory.  He’d driven into work around six AM, having taken the previous day off for filming purposes. 

*

    First on my list of people to see was one Roger Avery, former Comet hurler and the man J.J deemed responsible for the termination of the ‘Little Kong Tater Contest’.  Following that, I planned on looking up one Bradley “Hoss” Bowen, the man who gave up the historical three-run homer that sent Juniper Plains to the district playoffs.  After four years of college at Baylor University, Bowen had moved from Sperry (home of the Cobras) to Juniper Plains and opened the town’s lone car dealership during the mid-eighties, where he presently serves as company president.

   My interview with Mr. Avery had been brief (less than thirty seconds of footage would later be used in the finished product) and practically unusable.  Having given up teaching after the fall semester of two-thousand one, Roger Avery now worked as an independent realtor.  Having found his number in the local directory, I phoned him and he had agreed to meet me for an early lunch at the local Pizza Hut. 

    A short, stoutly built man with a horrific comb over (think Donald Trump with graying temples), I had found Mr. Avery to be less than congenial, especially concerning the topic of one J.J. Kingman. He’d seemed immensely irritated throughout our chat, as if he’d been under the assumption our meeting was to be real estate related.  Additionally, the presence of my camera seemed to rattle him even further, as if he was embarrassed by its intrusion. 

   With twitchy eyes and matching hands, he referred to J.J as a ‘bitter drunkard’ who had abused his wife and dismissed his family.  As for the ‘Little Kong Tater Contest’, Avery had stated that J.J’s accomplishment, however amazing, was simply old news some fifteen years after the fact, and that the ‘public embarrassment’ that he’d become as an adult simply didn’t warrant continued praise.  Avery stated that J.J had accumulated several DUI’s soon after moving back to Juniper and marrying Melody Watson, and had also been a regular brawler at ‘Thirsty’s Bar & Grill’, a juke-joint located a few miles outside the city limits.  When I had asked the man what kind of classmate and/or teammate J.J had been during their high school years, Avery’s face had contorted like he’d just stepped in a heaping pile of dog excrement and growled, ‘Not a bad guy ‘til after that night.  Complete jackass aferwards.  Ain’t changed much either, from what I’m hearing.  There comes a point a man has to glare hard into the nearest mirror and see what’s ahead of ‘im, not what he’s left behind.”

     Once I’d brought up the envy factor, Mr. Avery began accusing me of ‘favoring the subject’ of my film and pretty much clamed up.  I recall finished my meal in virtual silence, then politely thanking the man for his time before departing.  He’d grunted a response without eye contact.  Told me all I needed to know. 

*

    In complete contrast, I found Brad ‘Vapor Trail’ Bowen to be an upbeat, funny, and refreshingly honest individual whose memories of 5/8/80 were anything but bitter coming from the man infamous for giving up ‘the shot heard ‘round the state’. 

    We’d met inside his spacious downtown office, the door to which read ‘B.BOWEN/President/BOWEN CHEVROLET’, sipping coffee and eating Cheese Danish. With his cosmopolitan aura, slick-backed brown hair and neatly trimmed beard, Bowen gave the impression of a man ten years his junior, in stark contrast to the man I was there to discuss.   With his slim waist, barrel-chest, and broad shouldered appearance, it was obvious the man kept himself in tip-top shape.  Framed photos of his wife and kids had adorned the oak desktop, the children in various stages of growth as years had passed.

    Leaning back with his massive hands tucked behind his neck and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, Brad Bowen had little negative to say about the night he’d made state sports history, albeit in a rather unfavorable way.  Unlike Mr. Avery with his nervous glances and wringing hands, Mr. Bowen seemed astonishingly relaxed as I trained the camera his way, as if born to play the part.  He’d pitched a few years at Baylor while obtaining a business degree, meeting his future wife-to-be while on campus, then returned to Sperry and worked in father’s printing business before opening the dealership at the tender age of twenty-seven.  Rumored to be one of the wealthiest men in the county, he didn’t seem the type to flaunt the material things.  He drove to his office each day in a late nineties model F-150 riddled with dents and a quickly fading paintjob, and while he did own a lake home near Arlington, the two story brick that served as his main abode was said to be fairly modest in both size and scope. 

    In speaking of that faithful night at Comet Stadium, Brad had stated that the final outcome had little effect on him personally.  He hadn’t been the shell-shocked teen overcome with ‘suicidal tendencies’, as many would have thought.  He’d never taken sports that seriously, having been literally pushed onto the squad by his father, who had seen his son’s potential and refused to allow waste of same.  Yes, he’d been shocked at J.J Kingman’s four-hundred foot shot to dead center off one of his prime heaters.  Yes, he’d stood in awestruck wonder at the sight of ‘Little Kong’ standing at home with a shattered bat as the ball rocketed skyward.  No, the incident hadn’t ‘shadowed’ his existence for more than a few days, as just weeks later he was a newly enrolled student at Baylor University with a whole new set of priorities and didn’t include high school baseball games.  As remarkable as it may seem, Brad hadn’t seen J.J Kingman since that night some twenty-five years ago, despite the fact that they resided less than ten miles from one another. 

   “Thing is, I’d still know the lanky son of a gun if I saw ‘im,” he’d said through a toothy grin, ‘…I hear a regular diet of hops and barley has beefed ‘im up some, but it’s just never happened…our meeting that is.  I’ve heard he rarely if ever crosses the city limits, and I’ve got no business in Bridgeport.  Still, it is kinda strange, isn’t it?  Almost like that one face to face was all me and Kong were supposed to get.  One of us might as well be camping out on Mars.”

   When queried about J.J Kingman’s legacy within the surrounding community, Brad had paused, staring up at the ceiling with great intensity.  Finally he shrugged, stared directly into the camera lens and spoke three simple words; words that spoke volumes within the oft times cruel realm of cold, hard fact.  Those words had been ‘the ancient past’.  After thanking Brad (and unlike with Roger Avery, actually meaning it), I had originally planned on padding the segment with several ‘downtown’ shots of Juniper Plains before ultimately deciding to toss caution directly into a waiting funnel cloud and pay an unplanned visit on still another JP resident. 

    J.J had mentioned his ex’s home address only briefly the day before, but it had obviously stuck in my subconscious for a reason. 

   It had been around 2 PM that evening when I pulled into the paved drive at 219 Drummond Way, the name ‘M.Grant’ painted on the side of the dark blue mailbox that fronted her. 

    Melody Grant had been cautiously polite upon our initial greeting.  That lasted only until I explained the reason for my visit, wherein her personality quickly transformed from ‘Misses Jeykl’ to ‘Sister Hyde’ within the single blink of an eye.

   “Keep your camera packed away, mister, I ain’t interested,” she’d spat sourly, closing the screen door behind her as to block our dialogue from anyone inside the home.  A short, chubby woman with a pasty complexion enhanced by dark brown hair that hung past her shoulders, Melody’s voice had grown increasingly shrill as she pointed an accusing finger my way.

    “Why you bothering anyhow? You that hard up for material, mister? I mean, glorifyin’ fifteen minutes of fame that happened more than twenty years ago? Nobody around here cares, mister, ‘cept J.J himself and that drunk groupie of his, Mac Jamison.  Kinda pathetic if ya ask me. Worthless bastard cares more ‘bout that skinny lush than his own children.  Make sure to include a segment ‘bout how he used to gut-punch me every time he got a snoot-full, you hear? J.J Kingman missed his true callin’, mister, and I ain’t talking about baseball.  He would’a made a hell of a boxer, yes sir.  I stopped enough of his rights and lefts to know that.  Had a mean uppercut, to boot.  There’s a reason that man ain’t go no friends in Juniper Plains, you know? Mainly because their all sick of hearing him flap his gums ‘bout the ‘olden days’.  Moron acts like his life began and ended in May of nineteen eighty.  There comes a time ya just gotta let it go, am I right? Sensible people understand such.   Problem is, J.J Kingman ain’t got the common sense of a house fly perched atop a steaming pile of cow manure.  By the way…’ she ranted, ‘…you can quote me on that, mister filmmaker.”

      I left the Grant property without speaking another word, but more importantly without any useable video or audio footage.  While editing the final product months later, I would insert the gist of Melody Grant’s tight-lipped tirade with a little help from the wife, who would provide voiceover.  I understood the legal ramifications of such actions, that being not getting express permission to do so, but figured Miss Grant would hardly press the issue in light of her attitude towards her ex-husband.   As it turns out, my instincts were (for once) right on the money, as not a single lawyer representing Miss Melody Grant have came knocking on my door.  Either that or she simply hasn’t bothered to watch the film, or (more likely) flatly refuses to do so.  It never ceases to amaze how people once so devoted to one another can become the most hated of enemies. 

     J.J and I had dinner that evening at a local sandwich shop called ‘The Sub-lime’, where I told him of my earlier interviews with Avery and Bowen while wisely omitting the brief exchange with his ex.  To my surprise and relief, J.J didn’t seem angered by Roger Avery’s snide remarks, nor the apparent indifference expressed by Brad Bowen. 

    “With Rog it’s sour grapes, cut’n dry.  Always has been.  Strange, but a lotta my old teammates are the same way, I hear.  Avery was the easiest out in our line-up, not to mention the weakest glove.  Brad…well, seems ol’ vapor trail’s gone on to bigger and better things.  Wish I could say the same,” J.J had mumbled in-between sips of a frosty Coors Light.  It was the first hint of regret he’d shown throughout our visit.  I recall starting to press him on the exact meaning of such a statement, then decided better of it.  As it turned out, he expounded further without any prodding on my part.

    “Life gives you choices.  Leads you to an intersection or two.  It’s up to the person which trail to blaze, I reckon.  But, ya know, sometimes a man can’t help but wonder how things…might’a been if he’d taken the other path, you know? I mean, like maybe if I''d given the game one more shot while I was still young.”

      My jaws stuffed with a hefty portion of meatball sub, I’d nodded without comment.  As I recall, the remainder of that particular evening passed by in a comfortable silence between two men with a decade between them and little in common in terms of lifestyle, but who nevertheless shared many of the same general opinions on life. 

      All said, I had shot just over seventy-six minutes of footage, at least thirty of which would never see the light of day past the editing room floor. It was a story that deserved more than your basic sitcom-length treatment, and I later found the editing process of this particular segment to be the hardest of all; a true ulcer-inducing pain in the rear.    

     I departed the residence of J.J. “Little Kong” Kingman the next morning at 5:30 AM. We shook hands firmly and I promised to stay in touch and keep him updated on the progress of the project.

    As originally agreed upon by all parties, I handed J.J a cashiers check for ten grand (the remaining half would be paid out once a distributor for ‘American Oddities’ was found and a release date given) attached to a business card containing both my home and cell phone numbers and my email address.

     Staying within character (unlike the night before), J.J’s departing words to me had been ‘see ya at the Oscars, Matthew.  I’ll even buy a new tie just for the occasion.’ 

     The sixteen hour trek back home was spent in deep reflection as exactly what I’d gotten out of two and a half days spent in rural West Texas.  As with all subjects involved, there had been much more than meets the eye to one James Jerrod Kingman.  Yes, there was a sadness there, born of what had been and what might never be.  Then again, most of us are never privy to even a moment’s fame within our relatively short life-spans, our ‘fifteen minutes’, as Warhol had chimed.

   It was never quite clear to me if the pity I felt for the man was due to his brief bout with greatness, or my lack of the same. 

   Regardless, there were other stories to tell.  As I, Matthew Kirby, was to discover, each was equally compelling in their own unique way.