Our ''Field of Dream'' Tale commences:

The instant I met James ''J.J'' Kingman, I felt an instant kinship. The man should have had Life-Long Misfit tattooed on his forehead in bright red lettering. He fit the mode of outcast to a perfectly crossed ‘T’, although like most of our ilk, seemed utterly oblivious of this fact. Not unusual to ignore what you subconsciously refuse to accept, as I know only so well. Years ago, when first embarking on a career as a so very wet-behind-the ears documentary filmmaker, I myself perfected the same cloaking device, no doubt as a tool for survival.

*

   “Glad’a meet cha, Mister Kirby,” James had blurted upon greeting, taking my hand in a steely grip, his oversized mitt practically swallowing my own whole. With his balding plate (the only survivors being tumbleweed-like patches behind each ear), bulbous nose (reddened to the point of glowing) and shaggy beard (think ZZ Top) layered in gray, he resembled a man closer to his sixties than his present listed age of forty-five.

   As we sat beneath a wide canopy and shared a cup of stout, steaming Folgers outside his double-wide, the flesh of my rear end alternated from pulsating aches to complete numbness. I’d split the sixteen-plus hour drive over two days, but still felt as if my butt-cheeks had been dipped in battery acid. Plus which, two days of convenience store coffee and fast food eaten behind the wheel had transformed my gut into a bubbling, grumbling, groaning sewage mass capable of creating level-five gas attacks at an instants notice.

   The actual city limits of Juniper Plains, Texas was located seven and a half miles to the west of J.J’s property, which I’d found literally by accident after several rather confusing inquiries as to its exact whereabouts. He seemed to have a few hundred acres to himself, the sparse clearing his trailer set upon surrounded on all sides by shoulder-high shrubbery, knee-high weeds and spindly thicket littered in tumbleweed.

    I’d departed the interstate for a narrow, winding, kidney-jarring two-lane that led into downtown Juniper Plains, one of the seemingly infinite tiny, off-the-beaten path Texas towns wherein the old adage ‘if you blink you’ll miss ‘em’ most certainly applied. Main street Juniper Plains had consisted of several local clothing shops (a few of which were boarded up), a Winn Dixie grocery store and connecting pharmacy, and an ancient K-Mart that looked to be teetering on the verge of collapse. I did spot a Sonic Drive-In and “Pizza Palace” in the far distance while veering off onto a one-lane dirt path I was told would eventually lead me to J.J’s place. Despite the rather simplistic directions I''d been given, there had been some serious moments of apprehension while steering my Camry along the ever-narrowing trail, which was littered with bolder-sized gravel and surrounded on both sides by overgrown thickets. Slowing the vehicle almost to a complete stop, it felt as though I was literally being swallowed whole while navigating a road that lead precisely nowhere.

    Just as the pathway grew nary impassable and total panic were about to set in (I recall the sickly moistness of my palms), a small clearing swam into view from my right and a shiny red Ford Pick-up with personalized plates that read ‘LILKONG1A’ soon followed.

   It was unseasonably warm that mid-March Texas morning, with temperatures in the mid-sixties and a steady breeze slapping our backs.

    “You buckin’ to be the next Michael Moore, are ya?” J.J had asked with a wide grin, revealing a set of crooked, dark-tinted teeth as he lit up his second cigarette in less than five minutes.

   “Not quite, Mr. Kingman. My film is gonna be based on facts, and unlike that pinko idiot, not of the made up variety,” I’d responded in-between sips. J.J laughed but continued to eye me suspiciously, no doubt still pondering why I’d chosen him as a potential film subject to begin with.

    “I’m here for the story itself, true enough, but what I mostly want to capture is the man behind it.”

    He’d maintained the lanky build of his youth, save a slight case of what my pal Milt Sanders often referred to as ‘pot-gut-imosis’, the curse of the middle-aged man, and found myself involuntarily entranced by the size of J.J. Kingman’s hands, which had practically engulfed my own upon greeting.

   “Call me J.J, Mister Kirby,” he’d beamed, reaching up with a shockingly elongated digit to scratch through the thick growth at his chin. I’d heard rumor about the man acquaintances had labeled ‘shovel-hands’, and this was one rural legend that had definitely held more fact than myth. J.J. Kingman could palm a basketball like most would a regulation softball.

   “Only if you drop the mister and call me Matt, J.J. You sure you’ve got room for me? I thought I saw a hotel in town.”

   “Purely a roach trap, Mister…uh….Matt. That ragged old lean-to ain’t seen a human tenant in years. ‘Sides, I got a grade-a guestroom complete with a brand-spankin’ new Plasma color TV and combination CD/DVD/VHS player. While you’re a visitor to the J.J. Kingman estate, my home is your home,” he’d insisted with a gentle pat of my right shoulder, stumbling back a bit while bracing himself against the trailer’s open screen door.

   Standing six-foot six, the man still struck an imposing figure despite the apparent unsteadiness of his gait.

   He’d spent the last twenty-plus years as a garage mechanic at ‘The Auto Doctor’, located on main street in Bridgeport, a tiny township of just under fifteen hundred citizens that served as Juniper Plain’s ‘sister city’ some eight miles to the east. J.J Kingman had, long ago, apparently resigned himself to a life spent along the road less traveled. In a era long removed, James Jerrod Kingman had grasped the elusive brass ring; hugged the golden fleece tightly to his massive chest, if only for a few precious hours on a warm spring night in Eastern Texas.

*

May 8^th, 1980 had been the night angels had rode atop his wide, youthful shoulders and labeled him ‘King for a Day’. He would spend the remainder of his breathing years doing little more than cultivating a myth that gradually faded as seasons passed; unable (or possibly unwilling) to escape a legacy that would soon no longer exist outside faded newspaper print and the incoherent ramblings of old men. I felt a tugging at my gut as J.J Kingman invited me inside the modest double-wide he called home. Right away, I felt a sadness for the man, long divorced with teenage children whom he said looked upon him as a buffoon, a ‘drunken grease-monkey’. I would later discover a twinge of respect as well. Respect for an individual whose prime passed him by in a single three-hour flash at the tender age of eighteen, leaving him little in the way of a viable future that wasn’t permanently (and unjustly) labeled as ‘potential unfulfilled’. Ridiculous as that might sound, undeniable proof stood before me as a living, breathing entity complete with name, social security number, and monthly truck payment.
    Once inside the surprisingly spacious living room, we consumed a hearty lunch consisting of fried bologna, sausage links, eggs over easy and southern-style biscuits. An hour or so later, as our initial interview commenced, J.J sipped a Michelob Light while I nursed a cool glass of orange juice. After I’d explained the set-up I had in mind for the first scene, J.J departed to a back room, only to immerge a few moments later with a thick stack of magazines piled atop a leather bound scrap book. 

   The Sports Illustrated dated May 14^th, 1980 topped the stack, with a scowling Jim Rice sharing the cover along with a grinning Reggie Jackson. It was an issue I was quite familiar with, as in my research I had run across the brief but informative blip in the ‘Faces In The Crowd’ section covering the miraculous performance of one Jerrod James Kingman, age eighteen, of Juniper Plains, Texas.

   There was also a June 1980 issue of Baseball Digest with a similar blurb, although it did contain a more informative profile of J.J’s personal life, and a September 1991 issue of The Sporting News that featured an article entitled ‘Sports Enigmas: The Greatest Single Game Performances of All-Time’ that listed J.J’s accomplishment as number thirty-two among baseball’s all-time top fifty. I briefly thumbed through the scrapbook, which was filled to overflowing with fading newspaper articles, some local and others as far as three states away.

   “I’ll get a shot of this these later..,” I’d said, pointing past him towards the framed photos, ‘…along with these. Maybe let you explain their personal significance to you.” I recall J.J nodding agreeably even as his face reddened. The man seemed sincerely embarrassed at the concept of it all.

    Less than thirty minutes later, he popped the top on his third brew. By late that afternoon, I’d watched him methodically finish off a half-case without showing the first sign of inebriation. Suddenly the origin of his crimson-shaded snout was no longer a mystery.

   I began by filming a five to seven minute intro with J.J sitting on his living room couch as decades-old framed photographs lined the back wall behind him. Photos of a J.J. Kingman in his youthful prime, his slim frame taunt with muscle as he posed in various action shots that displayed his prowess from both an offensive and defensive slant.

Intro Segment

Segment Format: One on one interview

Subject: J.J. Kingman

Runtime (unedited): 7:21

   “You play ball at a young kid, J.J, or were you a late bloomer?” I had asked, keeping the shot centered on his head and upper shoulders while also trying to maintain at least a portion of the photos within the frame.

   “Played summer ball, like most kids growin’ up in Juniper. Wasn’t til I sprouted up four inches in the summer of eighty that the coaches took notice of me. Tried like hell to recruit me for the B-Ball squad ‘til they saw how clumsy I was. Coach Barrett, that’s Clyde Barrett, rest his cantankerous soul, saw me hittin’ off the pitchin’ machine one day during PE and asked me to work out for the squad.”

    “You didn’t exactly set the world afire that first season, I understand,” I chided, careful to maintain a playful tone.

   “That’s a real polite way to put it, yeah. I was your basic ‘bull in the china shop’ fielder. A butcher wearin’ a first baseman’s mitt, that was yours truly in a nutshell. As far as my prowess at the plate, I’m afraid I was the ultimate hit or miss proposition….with miss winnin’ out the majority of the time. Man, I could’a put out forest fires with the funnel clouds I created at home plate that first season.”

    Whether it was natural or alcohol-induced, I found J.J’s calm demeanor and subtle tone to be the direct opposite of what I’d originally anticipated. There was no underlying cockiness or biting sarcasm, nor any apparent overtones of submerged anger that was sometimes commonplace with former athletes. I could read the man’s eyes; his body language. It had been a long time since anyone had given J.J Kingman the time of day concerning his past heroics. Locals old enough to recall had grown weary of the tale. Youngsters couldn’t care less, apparently including his own children. Those in-between were simply indifferent.

   Re-living his legendary fifteen minutes of fame had sadly become his reason to live; the sole highlight of his forty-five years. It allowed a pleasurable escape, not only from the everyday mundane, but the failures and disappointments of all the yesterdays that had followed soon after.

   “Kind of hit your stride your senior year though. What made the difference?”

   Like a seasoned pro, J.J consistently avoided the camera’s intrusive eye as he scanned the room while speaking, as if addressing a group that encircled him from all sides. Although it might have been decades since his last interview, his every gesture was that of a seasoned pro.

   “Guy by the name of Pete Woods took me under his wing that summer. Worked with me on my stance and how to cut down on my swing on specific counts. The man showed real patience, I gotta say. I wasn’t exactly the easiest kid to coach, I’m sure.”

   “…So this Pete Woods was a coach?”

  “Naw. He’d played some college ball at Baylor and was dating my sister at the time. He owned a car dealership in town ‘til a few years back. Passed away from lung cancer. Ol’ Pete puffed a carton a week, I hear. Class act, he was.”

   “You guys made the district quarterfinals that year, right?”

   “Yep. Went from the outhouse to the penthouse, you might say, from county doormat to area champ. Only won ten outta twenty-five games my junior year, but went nineteen and six just twelve months later with pretty much the same line-up. Go figure.”

   “So the batting tips paid off, I take it.”

   At this point, J.J rose from the couch and began to slowly pace the room, growing increasingly animated as moments passed. In my haste to keep him centered in the frame, I stumbled ahead a step and barely avoided flipping head-over-heels over a shin-high coffee table.

   “Dramatically. I went from hittin’ two-ten with thirty-one K’s, that’s strikeouts, in eighty-three at-bats my junior season to three-eighty-six with only seventeen whiffs in ninety-plus at-bats. I mean, I was still a free-swinger when the situation dictated, but with men on base and two out, I was no longer an automatic strike-out.”

   “You led the district in homers, right?”

   “Well, yeah…’ he shrugged, smiling modestly as his frantic pacing continued, ‘….nailed fourteen taters in twenty-six games. ‘Course, there was that one game that kinda...padded my stats.”

   “Hence the nickname ‘Little Kong’. Who came up with that colorful label?”

   J.J halted in mid-stride, turning towards the framed photos on the back wall.

   He pointed at one in particular, one featuring him taking a mighty cut with his face locked in a permanent scowl, while a background image displayed another player standing in the on-deck circle with his bat slung loosely over one shoulder.

   “Mark Steiner….’Dumbo’ we called ‘im for those jug ears’a his. He was a big Cubs fan in those days, and Dave ‘King Kong’ Kingman was his favorite player. He likened my ‘all or nothing’ style at the plate to my namesakes, and presto, the birth of a nickname.”

   “Come to think of it, I do seem to recall Kingman as a guy who either struck out or homered.”

   “Yeah, the old joke went that a Cubs announcer says ‘there’s a man on first and Dave Kingman’s at the plate. The pitcher winds, then turns and throws over to first…and Kingman swings and strikes out!’ Ol’ Kong did nail his share of taters though. Four-hundred forty-two if I ain’t mistaken. Never make the hall with those K numbers, plus they say he was a Grade-A jackass to the media.”

    I spent the next few moments filming selected pages from J.J’s scrapebook as he described each, including the infamous box score from the night of 8 May 1980. The game stats, along with a head shot photo of J.J, had been featured as a lead story in the Fort Worth-Daily News sports section the morning of the 9^th. J.J’s batting line had been enlarged and bolded in dramatic fashion, and despite the fact I’d viewed the numbers countless times while researching the story, just the sight of them caused my scalp to tingle and the hair of my arms to stand out like quills.

   The headline above his smiling image read ‘Juniper Plains Teen shatters State Records in Astonishing Style!’

   Already surpassing my set time limit for the segment, I concluded by asking J.J if he’d mind accompanying me to the actual field where history had been made some twenty-seven summers past.

   With a somewhat shaky smile, J.J Kingman’s eyes met the camera lens for the first time.

   “I won’t mind if they won’t,” he’d responded a bit wearily, piquing my interest with his apparent hesitance to revisit the grounds of his greatest glory.

   “JPHS park was rebuilt ‘bout ten years back, right after they constructed the new gymnasium on the east side of the High School. The old ball-field is still there, but the school doesn’t maintain it anymore. Lookin’ pretty ragged last time I laid eyes on her,” he explained a bit later over ham sandwiches at the kitchen table. Again, J.J was milking a fresh brew (into his third six-pack) while I preferred a chilled Mountain Dew.

   “If you don’t mind me asking, J.J, off the record of course, what did you mean ‘I won’t mind if they don’t’?’ I’d asked somewhat timidly. Didn’t want to tread on hollowed ground, so to speak, or soiled earth for that matter. On the other hand, I had the feeling it was a topic J.J expected me to broach as to allow him expulsion of some long-repressed feelings.

   “Don’t spend much time on the old stomping grounds, is all. Actually, I ain’t stepped foot in Juniper in over five years, I ‘spect.”

   “Five years? But, I mean, you’re only what….five or six miles from the city limits?”

   “Seven and a half. Might as well be seven thousand as far as I’m concerned, Matt. I’ve been an o-fficial cit-I-zen of Bridgeport since the year of our Lord nineteen ninety-one. Had spent a few years in Little Rock, then a couple on the coast near Biloxi and Mobile. Never intended to settle here for the duration. Life’s funny that way, ain’t it?”

   Having gulped the remainder of his beer, he then crushed it in one giant fist and tossed the empty over his left shoulder. The man’s tone was darker, and growing increasingly shrill. I couldn’t say whether the transformation was perhaps alcohol related, but there’s little doubt the overabundance of suds were fueling an inner anger that was quickly ascending to the top.

   “Before ya even ask, here’s the gist; got an ex-wife and two kids livin’ in JP, none of which I’ve heard hide nor hair from in over a year. I send the ex-old lady a check every thirty days like clockwork. Proud to say I ain''t never missed a payment.

   Also, had an old High School classmate and former teammate of mine spearhead a move to eliminate a tradition the school began the year we graduated. A tradition that was, let’s just say, very close to my heart. Jealousy does strange things to people, Matt, you know that? Evil things. Things you never thought possible, and from the unlikeliest of sources.”

   Following a series of comically musical belches, J.J snagged himself a fresh brew from the fridge. I recall feeling an unrelenting urge to grab the camera and resume filming, realizing I might well be passing up a true gem, then thought better of it. I could always add to the narrative once editing began, using a simple voiceover. The idea of using a booze-induced rant simply didn’t appeal to me. It wasn’t my intention to showcase the faults my subjects displayed, nor to label them ‘god-like’ for their amazing accomplishments. There had to be a middle ground in telling their stories, and it was up to me to search out and find that ever-elusive gray area in-between.

   “What was the tradition, J.J? Something to do with the game?”

   “The county high school all-star game is held in Juniper every spring ‘bout mid-way through the regular season. In ’81 they began holding a home run derby as part of the pre-game festivities, pitting the county’s top three home run hitters against each another. They called it ‘The Little Kong Tater Challenge’, named after yours truly. I gotta admit being thrilled to the bone when they asked me to MC the event, and I did just that for five of the first seven years it was held. I was traveling quite a bit by then, but always tried to make it back to JP for the all-star game whenever possible.

   Well, drove up from Mobile in the spring of ninety-four to find out that Roger Avery, now a biology teacher but also a former classmate and teammate of mine back in the day, had taken upon himself to have the home run contest dropped from the opening day activities. Seems a little green monster named ‘envy’ had crawled up that boy’s rear end and taken up permanent residence. If I recall correctly, Avery was a bench-warming smart-ass who was booted from the team our senior year for never showing up for practice. Simple case of sour grapes, I figure. Petty BS. No more, no less.”

   J.J then leaned back with a solemn expression and fell silent, pulling a pack of smokes from his breast pocket. I suddenly realized I’d been in the man’s home for just under three hours, and was only then experiencing an extended bout of rather uncomfortable silence.

   As if to acknowledge his unspoken desire to take a break, I utilized that time to check my camera’s visual and audio settings. A sudden, sharp rapping at the door had snapped me to a few moments later. A rail-thin man whose age was impossible to gauge greeted J.J at the door grasping a twelve pack of BUSCH. At first glance, the man gave the impression of being a bit scruffy. He wore baggy blue jeans and a matching jacket, a badly faded ‘COWBOYS’ cap pulled low onto his forehead as he peered forward just beneath the bill. His chin held several days of grayish stubble, and a stout mix of body odor and stale cigarettes trailed him inside the room like a stalking shadow.

   J.J introduced him as ‘Mac the Knife’, and the man took my hand briefly, then stood back and studied me through tightly squinted eyes. Apparently Mac Jamison was J.J’s closest neighbor and the sole remaining member in good standing of the ‘Little Kong Fan Club’. J.J would later inform me that Mac worked as a handyman at Bridgeport Elementary, while also serving on the local volunteer fire department.

   “This man here,” Mac had stated a bit later while sipping a fresh brew and clapping J.J on the shoulder, ‘…could’a been a major leaguer if given a fair shot. Did he tell ya ‘bout the time he slammed four dingers during a double header in Wichita Falls? You was playin’ for that outfit outta El Paso, right Kong? The Plainsman or Plainsmen or some such?”

   “Plainsmen. Yeah, well…I also struck out four times the next day. Feast or famine in those days, Mac. Mostly famine, I’m afraid…”,

    It was fascinating watching the two exchange two distinctly different versions of the same story. His movements as animated as an exited child, Mac Jamison would no sooner begin to regale a story of J.J’s past greatness than be interrupted by the man himself, playing down each detail with a ‘aw shucks’ modesty I’d found endearing. Watching the two interact, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the old Warner Brothers cartoon featuring the strong, stalwart bulldog and the scrawny terrier that idolized him, trailing several steps behind his fearless hero.

   A few beers and countless smokes later, Mac departed with a wobbly nod, reminding J.J about their forthcoming ‘appointment’ at Thirsty’s Bar that forthcoming Friday night. Seems it was a weekly ritual that served as the highlight of the week for both men.

   “So you want me to give ya a tour of the old ballfield, huh?” he’d finally asked while I was reviewing some of the earlier shots through the viewfinder.

   “Yeah, I mean, that is if you don’t mind driving into Juniper Plains. I see the sun’s already set. Might be better if we do it by the light of day if it’s okay. My night-shooting skills leave much to be desired, I’m afraid.”

   J.J rose from the couch and submerged his cigarette butt into a half-filled coffee cup.

   “No big deal, Matt. Only thing is, lets get out there nice and early. Don’t wanna be run off school grounds by the local flat-foot. I hear they got a deputy runnin’ around JP these days thinking he’s Barney Blessed Fife,” he’d croaked, tugging the tangles from his beard as he headed towards the kitchen. In the shadows of dusk, J.J Kingman resembled a man twenty years his senior.

    I’d bedded down in what J.J referred to as his ‘National Pastime Shrine room’, a back bedroom inundated with baseball memorabilia both past and present. Each wall was lined with posters and pennants representing a specific era. A ‘golden age’ wall featured posters of such ionic figures as Ruth, Gehrig, and Cobb, while another labeled simply ‘the 60’s’ featured Hammering Hank Aaron, Ted ‘the splendid splinter’ Williams, and Willie ‘The Say Hey Kid’ Mays. A similar wall entitled ‘70-80’s’ showcased such luminaries as Mike Schimdt, Gaylord Perry, and Nolan Ryan. The last was titled ‘21^st Century and Beyond’ and featured such modern day stars as Mark McGwire, Barry Bonds, Sammy Sosa, and Jim Thome. The bedspread I laid upon was layered in team logos both past and present, and the baseball glove shaped alarm clock would blurt out ‘take me out to the ballgame’ as its wake-up theme. At least a dozen tightly wrapped and taped over boxes sat in one corner, each marked with a sharpie by company name and year (as in ‘Topps ’82’ or ‘Fleer ’87’, etc.). I had always heard of individuals who truly placed the word ‘fan’ in ‘fanatic’, but had never witnessed such marked tributes until that night.

   Above the headboard had hung a glass case no more than a foot high but at least four wide. The bat it held looked to have been glued into place, as did the lacquered wooden plague hanging to its right. There was no tell-tale signs of cracks near its thickly taped handle, as I had expected. No doubt some serious plastic surgery had taken place. The plague’s inscription had been burned into the wood via some sort of burning tool, and simply read ‘THE MAGIC WAND – 6/8/80 – CONGRATULATIONS KONG!’. Inexplicably, I again felt my flesh ignite with a barrage of chill bumps.

   Sad thing was in thinking back, I’d hadn’t noticed a single photo of J.J’s estranged family displayed anywhere inside the home.

   We arose before sunset that next morning, sipping hot coffee from separate thermoses as dawn broke over a distant tree-line. It was seasonably chilly, and a thin layer of fog blanketed the ground in scattered patches.

   We crossed over the Juniper Plans city limits at just after six AM, J.J hunched like a astronaut inside a cramped capsule within the limited confines of my Camry’s passenger seat. As he struggled to find a comfortable position, I’d quipped ‘don’t think they build rides like these with you in mind, J.J’.

   To that, he’d replied through a sly grin ‘not to worry, Matt old buddy. I learned long ago to adapt to the world you little folks created. This ain’t the first time I’ve played sardine, and surely won’t be the last.”

   He seemed in exceptionally good spirits, showing no signs of a hangover while regaling me with some of the juicier tidbits concerning his hometown’s history.

   Traffic was predictably sparse, and we’d arrived at the Juniper High School grounds in less than fifteen minutes from the time we’d departed the mobile home.

   J.J directed me onto a narrow two-lane that led behind the main school buildings and past a large brick structure he identified as the new gymnasium. The road winded past a series of fenced in tennis courts and outdoor basketball courts before dead-ending directly in front of a large wooden billboard proclaiming ‘COMETS Stadium’ in bright blue letters. The words were tucked inside a rocket-shaped image that served as the sports team’s emblem.

   “They built this right behind the old field. Added seating and a new concession stand. Holds near five thousand I hear, and I’m sure she sells out every Friday night during pigskin season,” J.J had said as I parked near the breezeway entrance.

   “Guess we hoof it from here,” I’d said, reaching into the back seat for my gear,”…think I’ll get some shots of the new stadium for an intro.”

   “Just be sure ya save some for old glory,” he replied, combing his beard with splayed fingers. The sun’s first rays began to melt away the fog at our feet as J.J took the point. I recall pondering if he might have felt a bit like a wandering phantom returning to an old haunt.

***

COMING IN PART II of ''American Oddity: Touch ''em All''...

Kong relives the magical night he rewrote the baseball record books and in the process, literally doomed himself to a life of disappointment....