Last Good Swing

    Her name was Opal Morrison. She was four foot eleven, maybe ninety pounds, with silver hair pinned back and eyes that had seen a century of history. When I walked through her front door, she was sitting in a worn armchair by the window, a Dodgers blanket across her lap—she'd grown up in Brooklyn, Gerald explained, back when the Dodgers still played at Ebbets Field.

She looked up at me.

For a moment, she didn't say anything. Just stared. Her hands went to the arms of the chair like she was going to try to stand, then thought better of it.

Her eyes filled.

"Lord have mercy." Her voice came out barely a whisper. "Thane Briggs is standing in my living room."

"Yes ma'am." I stayed in the doorway, giving her time. "It's an honor to meet you."

She pressed a hand to her chest. Took a breath. Then another. Gerald moved toward her, but she waved him off.

"I'm not having a heart attack, baby. I'm just—" She looked at me again, shaking her head. "I've been watching you for fifteen years. Every game I could catch. And now you're here. In my house."

"You're her favorite," Gerald said softly. "Has been since your rookie year."

She patted the chair beside her. "Come sit down before these old knees decide to try standing up anyway."

I crossed the room and sat. She took my hand immediately—her grip surprisingly strong—and just held it, studying my face like she was memorizing it.

"You're taller than you look on television," she said finally.

"Yes ma'am. And you're exactly as beautiful as Gerald described."

She laughed—a sharp, delighted sound that took thirty years off her face. "Oh, he's a charmer, this one. Gerald, go make us some coffee. The good stuff, not that instant garbage."

Gerald disappeared into the kitchen. I saw him wipe his eyes as he went.

Opal held my hand and studied me. "You know why I watch you?"

"I'd like to know."

"Because you play like my father played." Her eyes went distant for a moment, like she was looking at something I couldn't see. "Leonard Morrison. He was a ballplayer. Played for the Louisville Black Caps back in the thirties, then factory leagues when he needed work. A Black man couldn't play in the majors then, so he played where he could. Never made a dime from the game that mattered. But he loved it like it was holy."