There was no comparison...
The stadium sat like a huge frosted doughnut on the rim of the river. Mrs. Stella Crump, trotting resentfully beside her husband, wished that a giant hand would swoop out of the overhanging clouds and dunk it into the coffee-colored water. Instead, a strong gust of wind swept across the walkway, disarranging Mrs. Crump’s carefully tinted and lacquered hair. The pennants on top of the stadium snapped and fluttered. Mrs. Crump shrieked and stopped in her tracks to tie a purple scarf over her ruined hairdo. Mr. Owen Crump waited impatiently, while the crowd surged around them, eager to reach their seats before the final recorded strains of the national anthem died away.
“Hurry up, Stella! Why don’t you wear that nice red hat I got for you?”
“Because I hate red and that hat looks like a squashed soup-bowl.”
“Come on, Stella. We’ve already missed the starting lineup.”
“What difference does it make? They all look alike to me. Wait a minute. I’ve got something in my shoe.” Mrs. Crump limped to the side of the walkway, methodically removed one shoe, shook it out, felt gingerly inside it, and replaced it on her foot.
The crowd had thinned out and a roar sounded from inside the stadium. An amplified mumble could be heard making an announcement. Owen Crump took his wife’s arm and hauled her at a half-run toward the stadium gates.
“Not so fast, Owen,” she whimpered, “I’ve got a pain in my side. I want to stop at the ladies’ room. Wait for me.”
By the time they reached their seats, the opposing team had two men on and their most powerful batter was approaching the plate. Owen Crump began hastily filling in his score card, while Stella ostentatiously pulled out her knitting, a complicated mass of cables and popcorns, and began furiously clacking her needles.
The count was three and two, and the batter had just popped a foul into the stands behind home plate.
Stella said, “I’m thirsty. I’d like a soda.”
Owen, leaning forward in his seat and ready to groan in dismay if the batter connected, muttered, “In a minute, Stella.”
“I’m thirsty now, Owen. The least you can do after dragging me out here is get me something to drink. I don’t think that’s too much to ask for. I’d go myself, but I’ve still got that pain in my side.”
“All right. All right. Here.” He handed her the score card. “Keep track of what happens.” As Owen rose from his seat, the umpire signaled ball four, and the players walked. The bases were loaded, with no outs.
Stella peered down at the field through her bifocals, shook her head scornfully, and stuffed the score card into the bottom of her knitting bag. Owen raced up the stairs toward the refreshment counter, staring over his shoulder as he went.
As the crowd in the stadium tensely waited the next batter, Stella settled back in her seat to knit and rehearse her grievances. Bad enough, she thought, that we used to have to see every weekend game. But now that Owen had retired, he’d bought season tickets. This year he intended to see every home game. And Stella would see them too. Oh, she could stay home, tend to her knitting, visit their daughter and the grandchildren. But where was the fun in that when Owen would be here at the stadium enjoying himself without her?
The umpire called ball one.
Stella completed an intricate cable and her needles worked rapidly toward the next pattern. No. If Stella didn’t go to the ball games, Owen would take some crony and they would drink too much beer and eat those filthy hot dogs, and he would come home flushed and overexcited and more than slightly drunk. This way, at least, she could keep an eye on him and make sure he didn’t overdo things. He was just like a little boy. Stella smiled grimly and considered herself extremely noble for sacrificing her summer afternoons and evenings.
The batter swung and missed but Stella was oblivious.
It wasn’t as if she didn’t have better things to do. Stella’s thoughts strayed over all the better things she could be doing. They all involved Owen’s money and Francis X. Lafferty. Dear, sensitive, handsome, refined, perceptive Francis.
Stella had met Francis X. Lafferty almost a year ago when he’d come to address the Garden Club on the subject of “Flowers of Contentment.” Someone at the speaker’s bureau had got their signals mixed. Francis X. Lafferty knew nothing of gardening, but his talk was well received all the same. It was inspirational without being embarrassing. Mr. Lafferty’s melodious voice caressed the ears of his listeners, and no one felt obliged to rush off and do good works, or be kind to animals, lose weight, or stop drinking sherry. The ladies loved Francis X. Lafferty and flocked to buy copies of his slim, privately printed book. Stella smiled again, this time fondly, wishing that she could help dear Francis in his desire to travel across the country, indeed around the world, spreading his message. Preferably with Stella at his side.
Down on the field, the pitcher threw an inside curve and was rewarded with a called strike, but Stella was miles away, touring the great cities of the world and witnessing the peace and contentment that dear Francis would bring to troubled hearts everywhere.
It was inevitable that Stella would compare Francis X. Lafferty and Owen Crump. There was no comparison. While the stands grew restless and erupted in cries of encouragement to the pitcher, Stella knitted on and totted up a mental ledger. On the one side, dear Francis, although far from the first blush of youth, was young at heart. He viewed the world with enthusiasm and made all dreams seem possible. Owen had for forty years viewed life from the confines of the paper-box factory whose finances he had guided and guarded until the day of his retirement. Paper boxes had been good to Owen, but the years of poring over balance sheets and operating statements had left him bald, stoop-shouldered, and paunchy. Dear Francis stood straight and slim and silver-maned, and had a most imposing presence on the speaker’s platform. Owen shambled and told coarse jokes in mixed company. On the other hand, Owen had been clever about investments while dear Francis, through his devotion to his mission, had admittedly neglected the crasser side of life’s potential. It was a problem.
Stella looked up from her knitting as a sharp crack split the expectant air and the crowd went wild. Dimly, she saw a small white object fly through the air and land in an outstretched glove.
“Here’s your drink. What happened?” Owen plumped himself down beside her.
“I don’t know. Somebody caught a ball. That fellow over there, I think it was.” Stella gestured vaguely toward the outfield.
“Where’s my score card?”
“Oh, dear. Did I have it? I must have dropped it.” Stella bent to look under the seats. “Not there. Are you sure you gave it to me? I’m not sure you did.”
“Never mind. I’ll get another one.”
Throughout the rest of the game, while Owen cheered and heckled and added his voice to the communal warcry of “Charge!” Stella knitted and dreamed of faraway places, fame and glory for dear Francis, and herself, the treasured companion, making it all come true through Owen’s money. The sweater she knitted was to be a birthday present for Francis. It was the least she could do.
The following Sunday was Bat Day.
Owen had said, “I’d like to take Ronnie to the game. It’s time he got his first baseball bat. Would you mind missing this one game?”
“Oh, I think I’ll survive. Maybe I’ll have some of the girls in for tea.” Stella’s mind leaped to her invitation list. It was a short one.
“Cackle session, huh? Just be sure the hens have flown the coop before I get home.” Owen chuckled and Stella smiled.
“Don’t worry, dear,” she said. “It’ll all be over before the end of the ninth.”