A Misfit’s Vision

By Ron Brown and Clarion Book Review

When seventeen-year-old Billy loses his dilapidated baseball glove, the disabled, neighborhood dropout, Rodney Drake, finds and keeps it. In his pursuit to retrieve the glove, Billy witnesses the strength of Rodney’s pitching arm and concocts a plan to pursue his vision of grandeur by exploiting Rodney’s talent.

Billy befriends Rodney and naively embarks on a mission to turn the petty thief into a professional baseball player and thereby impress the girl of his dreams. In appreciation for Billy taking Rodney under his wing, Rodney’s peculiar, old-fashioned parents bequeath Billy a portion of their estate. When a catastrophe strikes his protégé’s world, Billy must solve a mystery if he is to reap the benefits of his inheritance.

With the help of his clique of ostracized friends—a twenty-something-year-old little person, a sixty-something-year-old deaf ex-G-man, and a crippled classmate—Billy tries to make sense of what has occurred. At every turn, he rearranges his priorities. Does he seek an inheritance, recognition for ambitious accomplishments, the girl of his dreams, or loyal friendship?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665563758

Ron Brown

Ron Brown, a geographer and travel writer, has authored more than twenty books, including Canada’s World Wonders and The Train Doesn’t Stop Here Anymore. A past chair of the Writers’ Union of Canada and a current member of the East York Historical Society, he gives lectures and conducts tours along Ontario’s back roads. Ron lives in Toronto.

Book preview

© 2022 Ron Brown. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/24/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-6374-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-6373-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-6375-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022911989

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

I SPRING

Having Friends

Making Friends

Nurturing Friends

II SUMMER

Getting Started

Keeping Going

Finishing Up

III AUTUMN

A Pleasant Surprise

A Shocking Discovery

The Mystery Unfolds

IV WINTER

Search for Significance

The Villain and the Treasure

In Search of a Vision

Epilogue

39803.png

I

SPRING

HAVING FRIENDS

39464.png

My name is Wilhelm Reichenbach III. I was born the year John F. Kennedy married Jacqueline Bouvier. I point that out because, in a way, I almost could have been their son. Everyone called my grandfather Wilhelm or Mr. Wilhelm and my father Will. But everyone calls me Billy. That tells you that your parents give you your legal name, but everyone else gives you your real name. And that’s the one that really sticks and really stings if you try to take it off.

I was born at a time when people had started trying to not appear to be prejudiced. The Mississippi Legislature had just passed a law providing separate but equal school facilities for black and white children. And for the second consecutive year, there had actually been no lynching. Racial bias was such a charged issue that President Eisenhower felt compelled to establish a fifteen-member government contract committee to discourage religious and racial discrimination.

The Civil Rights Act was passed about nine or ten years after I was born. I don’t remember exactly without looking it up. At the same time, Senator McCarthy was reportedly raising a royal ruckus over his conviction that communists were hiding in every nook and cranny. Even the talented and beloved Charlie Chaplin left the country because his loyalties came under scrutiny.

I suppose all prejudice has its roots in some reality of one sort or another. After all, we had just ended the Korean War, and Joseph Stalin, Russia’s most powerful dictator in history, had just died. But even now, sixteen years later, war drags on unmercifully over there in Viet Nam.

And I pray to God it ends before I am old enough for them to snatch me up in the draft. As far as I’m concerned, old guys in Washington, DC, should not be allowed to send young guys to get killed in their egotistical wars. If righteousness ever prevails, those self-serving political prigs will come to their senses and outlaw the draft.

All that said, I don’t know what makes the ignorant idealists of my generation think we can do any better than anyone else has. Prejudice is as old as time. And even though God hasn’t always condoned it, I bet more people have been killed in his name than for any other single reason. Oh, I expect we will pass laws and such, but you can’t legislate feelings because if you could—I’ll get into that later, if I don’t forget.

As you can see, I’m somewhat of a history buff, but the irony is that history is my worst subject in school. Our history teachers don’t get it as far as I’m concerned. They pay no attention to the relevance of anything. And I, for one, am not going to waste my time trying to memorize all those trivial dates so I can just regurgitate them on a test and then forget them the next day.

I just turned sixteen, and if nothing else, I hope knowing about history serves as a useful conversation piece for meeting girls. Like every other guy my age, I devote a generous share of my time to obsessing about girls. It’s not that I meet many girls, mind you, but I’ll be ready when the opportunity presents itself.

But unlike most other guys my age, I’m not really interested in meeting a lot of girls. I have eyes for one girl, and I haven’t really had the chance to lay my best stuff on her yet. She is always with Stan the Man. I’ll tell you more about him and her, Autumn Winters, later.

Within a couple of weeks of my sixteenth birthday, I got my driver’s license. I waited a respectable two weeks so I would at least appear credible to the police. I could have passed the exam the day I turned sixteen because understanding the rules of driving is a cinch. And I, like all the other guys around here, had been driving for years. The year I was born, 70 percent of the drivers on the road were males.

My generation of young men have grown up driving either his dad’s tractor, car, or pickup truck. Now that I have a car, even though it is nothing to brag about, with a license and an after-school job, I might add, I’m all set to take Autumn out. Several things stand in the way, however. Not the least among them includes the fact that my car isn’t the coolest. And I have this other problem: My acne flares up intermittently, usually at the most inopportune times.

I’m telling you all this stuff because I think you need to know where I’m coming from when you meet my friends. They are not the regular sort of people, and you probably wouldn’t believe that a respectable dude, like myself, would actually enjoy the kind of guys I pal around with. But I have to tell you that I’m never more myself than when I am with my buddies.

It’s because I have a lot of interests and talents. For one, I like to hunt and fish. I joined the Field and Stream Club at school so I could mix it up with the other guys in my class with similar interests. But most of them weren’t all that interested in hunting and fishing as far as I could see. I think they just wanted something to put on their resumes to help them get into college. A couple of the club members actually got into a fight over which one would be president.

I went to a couple of meetings and pretty much decided that there are two kinds of people in this world: talkers and doers. I am the latter when it comes to outdoor activities, and I think it’s fair to say that most of them were not. So I just quit. I didn’t bother to say goodbye because I don’t think they even realized I was a member.

Another interest of mine is sports, pretty much anything with a ball in it. Give me a ball—any kind, any size—and I can run with it. I have always done well in gym class, so I figured I should try out for a varsity sport. But then I got this car I told you about. Then, of course, I had to get a job to support the car, and well, you know the rest.

Initially, I was thinking that if I went out for varsity sports, maybe I could have impressed Autumn by beating out Stan the Man for a first-string position. But even if I would have gotten a date with the girl of my dreams, I wouldn’t have had wheels to take her anywhere. So now that I have the car and not the varsity endorsement, I guess I’ll have to find another way to get the girl.

Then I have my music. I see music as a very private thing, sort of like my relationship with God. Once you write a song and perform it or even perform a song written by someone else, you have exposed a very intimate part of yourself. So you’d better be ready for the fallout.

Until now, except during hunting season, I’ve always come home, opened my guitar case, taken out the Martin guitar my dad left me (when he left Mom and me), and worked on a Glen Campbell song or some other hit. Depending on my mood, I have worked on writing songs of my own. Music is one of the best media to express one’s feelings or impress girls, if I ever have the opportunity and can work up the courage.

Trust me, I have plenty of testosterone to go around, but even real men get the blues sometimes. That’d be a great title for a song, come to think of it, for someone like Merle Haggard to write and sing. Now all that information is about as intimate a revelation that I’m going to share with you. So keep that to yourself if you don’t mind.

But enough about my interests. If I’m not careful talking about things that interest me, I will flat bore you. And there is nothing more boring than someone who insists on talking about himself all the time. Instead, let’s get back to my friends.

It’s Sunday afternoon, and I’m outside shooting basketball at the net-less hoop my mom let me nail to the side of the house with no windows. Vernon pulls up in his ’57 Chevy, sounding real cheery. It’s a relatively-warm spring day; the snow has just melted. Just when Vernon hops out of the car, the ball hits a muddy spot on the dirt court, makes a tic sound, and just sticks to the spot where I last dribbled.

I stop to retrieve the ball, and my feet skid out from under me, landing me squarely on my butt. Vernon slaps the ground with the palms of his hands without even bending his knees, laughing in that strange, high-pitched timbre that little people have. He keeps laughing as he waddles toward the court on those compressed legs of his, waving his short pudgy arms.

Hey, man, if you’d been concentrating on the court instead of daydreaming about Autumn, you’d be struttin’ instead of buttin’, Vernon chides me.

"If you don’t wipe that silly grin off yer mug, I’m gonna pry off the blocks you used to build up the pedals in that sweet little Chevy. Then you won’t be able to get your butt back home," I chide him.

So then I just stay here and play in the mud with you? Ain’t we a little old for that? Besides—Vernon looks down at his new platform shoes dramatically—I already took care of the accelerator pedal problem.

Somehow little Vern dressed in bellbottoms and platform shoes strikes me as being comical. I squelch the urge to laugh.

Vern changes the subject. I came over to see if you have any time to help me get the boat ready. It’ll be time to go fishing before you know it.

I wonder if he thinks I am not having fun with this banter or whether he saw the hint of a smile on my face and guessed that I was enjoying myself too much at his expense.

I’d be glad to help except for two things, I tell him.

Vern raises a pudgy forefinger and discloses his first prediction. One, you need time for daydreaming about Autumn—

I pick up the ball and start dribbling.

I guess you don’t want to deal with the real issue. That it? Vern says.

I stop dribbling. Listen, Vern. Let’s settle this right here and now. If I can make three out of five foul shots, you’ll let it go, now and from here on.

Make it four. Now Vern is testing me. Four out of five.

I hesitate, a little too long for Vern, I guess. Either you don’t care very much for her or you lack confidence. Either way, you ain’t gonna get the girl, man.

That’s it for me! Okay, you’re on, my little friend.

I carry the ball over to the grass and dramatically wipe off the mud. Then I tuck it between my elbow and waist and walk as nonchalantly as I can manage to the spot where the nascent spring grass borders the wet dirt, a spot that approximates the distance of a regulation foul shot. I dribble my routine three times, bend my knees slightly, and launch the ball to the hoop. Seeing immediately that it’s going in, I keep my arm up in the shooting position and drop my hand at the wrist with my pinky extended in the universal picture-perfect follow-through form. The ball bounces off the side of the house, since the hoop has not net attached, right back to me, and without hesitation, I perform the same routine. This time the ball goes through the hoop but only after rolling around the rim twice, and it drops straight down. Vern is kind enough to get it for me, but the basketball, seemingly as big as he is, overwhelms him and his pass to me is off target, which, in turn, interrupts my rhythm. My next shot misses.

Two out of three, Vern announces. That hoop really shrinks when you miss.

I can count. I’m thinking that he is messing with my head a little. I take the next foul shot. The ball hits the front of the rim and barely ekes over and through the hoop.

Vern shakes his head, a little too dramatically for my liking. Little lack of follow-through there, my friend. Maybe part of the get-the-girl problem. You still gotta make the next two.

I glare at Vern. I said I can count. Then I slam the ball down and walk off the court. Don’t mean nothing.

Vern shrugs. Your love life, not mine.

You’re right about that. I know for a fact that Vern has no love life. He looks a little hurt by that comment. You’re better off, I add.

Vern ignores me, or at least pretends to, and resumes the subject of boat repair. So what are the two things that get in the way of getting the boat ready?

I scratch my head because I temporarily forgot. Oh yeah, I remember. One, it’s Sunday. And two, I want to get some skiing in this summer, and all you want to do is fish.

I paid for the boat. If you want to ski, you buy the ski equipment, and I’ll take you skiing. That ought to be good for a good laugh or two. Probably more.

Deal. I’m not going to take the bait, no pun intended, and respond to his negative expectations.

Vern heads toward the ’57, expecting me to follow. I guess he forgot that there were actually two barriers. Hey, Vern, it’s Sunday, I remind him.

Vern stops dead in his tracks and turns around. I guess you think Autumn would be more impressed with a skier than a big fish. So the longer we wait, the longer it takes to get on with this fantasy of yours. Then he crinkles his brow as though a new thought occurs to him. Maybe waiting ’til later wouldn’t be so bad after all.

While I’m thinking about what just happened, Vern walks to the Chevy, opens the door, and hops in—because that’s the only way he can get up to the seat. He fires up that 327 motor, and before I can flag him down, he’s down the lane and history. He leaves a little rubber on the road and sounds off his ah-ooh-gah horn for good measure.

I guess Vern is a little disappointed in me, but he’ll get over it. He always does. He wants to have me around every time he does something, but I have other things to attend to. First, I must go make these foul shots because I can’t end on a miss or on an Autumn-doesn’t-love-me run. I’ll go for four out of five, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll extend it to eight out of ten. I hope I don’t have to do it too often because as you have probably guessed, I’ll stay here as long as it takes even if it kills me.

Well, I got it—eight out of ten—third series, after sinking the first six in a row. It’s about three o’clock, and I have between two and three hours left before I must get ready to go to church because for some reason unbeknownst to me, we have church on Sunday nights. Since we go Sunday mornings, I can’t see a reason for going again the same day unless the preacher thinks he is making too much money to preach just once on Sunday. Or maybe he doesn’t think he is raising enough money in the morning service and he needs another one to make up the difference? He claims that the people who attend Sunday night services are the ones who are hungry for the gospel. I suspect they are more likely the ones who are just afraid of going to hell, if there is such a literal place that fits his terrifying description.

Anyway, with spring in the air, it’s time to start thinking about baseball. So I think I’ll get my glove and head over to the elementary school baseball field and see if anything is going on. My glove is getting pretty worn, so I have replaced some of the leather bindings with string. I hope it holds. Money that I would spend on a new glove would be money that I couldn’t spend on gas.

I grab my glove and slip the part that goes over your wrist onto the handlebar of my bike. I grab the waterlogged baseball that I found in the weeds beyond the outfield, where, I am obliged to admit, Stan the Man hit it once; put the ball in the pocket of my windbreaker; and head toward the field. I would drive the car, but I gotta save gas, you know. When I arrive, a group of nine guys is playing, so I put the kickstand of my bike down to park my bike and hang out off to the side, thinking that I would make the sides more even and soon they will invite me to play. Instead, one of the guys who is on the varsity team yells, Hey, Billy! Stan ain’t here, so that means neither is Autumn. Still wanna play?

I feel my face redden despite my best efforts to hide it. How does he know? Worse yet, does that mean that Stan knows too? Or the worst: Does Autumn know? Best just to ignore it, I tell myself.

If you could use an extra player, I reply, but I don’t like the way my voice just sounded or, more accurately, didn’t sound.

Nobody responds, so I hang around just a little longer, and then, still receiving no recognition, I leave as inconspicuously as possible to head home.

Right now, I must admit I am feeling pretty low.

Well, I had a good night’s sleep because when I am bummed, sleeping is the best way to escape reality. Church was pretty much a bummer too. I wish they had some good-looking girls there at least. I sat beside Sherman Longsight as I always do. Sherm is a sixty-something-year-old ex-G-man who can’t hear thunder. But he is very smart, and he knows a lot more about history than I do. Plus, he likes to fish even more than I do. He says he lost his hearing on the job, but he won’t answer questions