Simple Life
“Thanks for helping out,” she said. “See you next spring.” “Thank you,” I said. “But I might have a job in Washington.” “Nah,” she said. “You’ll be back. The Birds will too.” On the way home, we stopped off at Woody’s for a final milkshake and cheese steak. The team was so rowdy the owners threatened to throw us out. The winter of 1980 was a busy one for me. I followed candidate George Bush across the frozen tundra of New England for the presidential primaries and went with him to Puerto Rico. I wrote more murder stories and hung out with the last gator hunter in the Okefenokee Swamp. Washington was still making noises, but the job offer didn’t come. Miss Brenda called right at the crack of April. “Tryouts are this Wednesday, Coach. I’ll let you have the same players who’ve come back.” The Birds of Paradise were all back. The routine resumed — adding a couple more from Capital Homes to the load. Naturally our first game was a no-hitter. Milkshakes and cheese steaks followed. The Birds of Paradise asked to see where I worked, so I brought them downtown to the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. They were beautifully behaved, perfect manners all around — though on the way home, as usual, they ransacked my car. I suggested a team cookout at my apartment, hoping their parents might come. Only one white mother came. My new girlfriend helped out. The Birds had a glorious time playing my records and wrecking my home office, even finding my stash of Playboy magazines. We didn’t lose a game in season two. Our victory supper was held at Woody’s, of course. The owners now welcomed us. The best part came when Dale Murphy stopped by to say hello. The Birds went crazy. On a lark, I called up the president of the Buckhead youth baseball league and suggested we play an unofficial Metro championship. He liked the idea and suggested we do it at their field in the all-white suburbs. I even drove
Pete and Freddie out to see the field. Unlike ours, their field had lights, actual bleachers, a perfect grass surface, even a concession stand. A day later though, the Buckhead guy called me back and said we had to cancel. “Some of our parents think it might make your kids feel bad, given all that’s going on right now.” I took the Birds for a final round of shakes and steaks at Woody’s and apologized. A week or so after this, a self-styled music promoter named Wayne Williams was arrested for the murder of two adults and accused by Atlanta police of being responsible for twenty-three of the twenty-nine missing and murdered children. A year later he was convicted and is serving a life sentence. Not long after that, I left for Washington and eventually moved to New England. A decade later, I tracked down the original Gang of Four and invited them out to dinner in Buckhead with my wife Alison. Pete, Ready Freddie and Rodney showed up. Alvin was in the Army and couldn’t make it. Rodney was about to join the Navy. Freddie and Pete had both gone to college, Freddie on a scholarship. We had a fine time, talking about those remarkable baseball seasons, then we hugged and parted, promising to stay in touch. Not long ago I was in Atlanta on business and was pleased to discover Woody’s was still there, still packed, still selling great cheese steaks and shakes. I sat in a corner booth where the Birds used to gather, making way too much noise and horsing around, thinking how grateful I remain to them for ransacking my life when I needed it most. Wherever they flew away to in this world, I hope they know how much they meant to me. OH Contact editor Jim Dodson at jim@ohenrymag.com.
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