Stan

By Robert Hilfinger

A product of Missouri, Stan Johnson is a precocious young boy, whose parents live vicariously through his achievements.
His father sees his son as a future version of Stan Musial, the legendary baseball player. His mother sees her boy as a future version of Stanley Babin, the great pianist and composer.
However, their son is neither of these exceptional individuals. He is Stan Johnson, his own unique person, who excels at whatever he sets his mind to.
To please his parents, he sets his mind on their obsessions, piano and baseball, and achieves statewide acclaim in both. Stan's skills are only surpassed by his character, as he bridges the gap, amongst his classmates, between the athlete and the artist. He is friend and role model to both groups.
At twelve-years-old, the boy's sights are set on statewide championship competitions in both endeavors. All who know him, expect the inevitable results from what would be the greatest summer of his life.
Then, the unthinkable happens...

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667881775

Book preview

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© 2022 Robert Hilfinger

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents in this book are either a product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Print ISBN: 978-1-66788-176-8

eBook ISBN: 978-1-66788-177-5

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Chapter 102

Chapter 103

Chapter 104

Chapter 105

Chapter 106

Chapter 107

Chapter 108

Epilogue

I dedicate this book to my daughter, Nora and my son, Connor.

Chapter 1

It was a snowy Missouri day in January 1995, and Sandy Johnson was in labor. For many hours, her body strained and stressed to no avail. By the middle of the night, she was weak and sleep deprived.

Her husband, who she had once considered her best friend, for some reason had become the stupidest bastard she had ever known. He gnawed at her with insane breathing instructions, and she was pissed. She was nine months pregnant; dilated at ten centimeters; trying to push a bowling ball out of her otherwise petite frame, and was not happy.

Nine months prior, there was nothing more she had longed for than this moment in her life. What had she been thinking?

Sandy could hardly have known, those many months ago, that the moment she longed for would include a visit from the Marquis de Sade. She never suspected that her husband, Brian, was so cruel. She would never forgive him.

She was sure this experience would be documented in medical journals and studied by med students for generations to come. The vaginal demolition witnessed today would surely become legendary; a cautionary tale for all womanhood.

The unprecedented level of pain, tissue carnage, and overall discomfort . . .

. . . then, the baby was out.

Her best friend in the world, previously the stupid bastard, now once again her soul mate, was holding her left hand with one of his own, and wiping tears from his eyes with the other. He watched as the doctor gently handed to the nurse the most beautiful baby ever created.

A moment later, the young parents’ newborn son was placed on his mother, whose arms gently protected him. As the delivery-room staff moved proficiently around them, Brian and Sandy gazed lovingly at the little body curled up on Sandy’s chest.

Although having dreamt of this very moment on innumerable occasions, the couple were wide-eyed and wholly captivated as they witnessed their baby boy experiencing the first moments of his brand-new world.

As Sandy stared at her newborn son, she saw a musical prodigy; a future concert pianist of worldwide acclaim.

As Brian stared at his newborn son, he saw a left-handed power hitter, with eagle-sharp eyesight, who would rewrite baseball history.

Chapter 2

Stan Musial was born on November 21, 1920. He had a lifetime batting average of .331 and a total of 3,630 hits over his illustrious twenty-two season career. He led the St. Louis Cardinals to three World Series Championships and was loved by fan and foe alike.

A first ballot Hall of Fame inductee, Musial enjoyed a post-career life of accomplishment and admiration. He was, by all accounts, a great baseball player and a marvelous human being.

In the recesses of Brian Johnson’s mind, he wished that his newborn son would grow into a gifted baseball player, much like Stan Musial. It was only a matter of practice.

After all, he had secretly influenced his name accordingly.

Stanley Babin was born on June 1, 1932. He was raised in Tel Aviv. His prodigious talent as a symphonic pianist was recognized at a very young age. As a mid-teen he moved to the United States, where he continued to study, play, and grow his legend and burgeoning career.

Winning numerous awards and accolades among the music elites, Babin was regarded as one of the great pianists and composers.

In the recesses of Sandy Johnson’s mind, she wished that her newborn son would grow into an exceptional pianist, much like Stanley Babin. It was only a matter of practice.

After all, she had secretly influenced his name accordingly.

Stan Johnson was born on January 9, 1995. He had a lifetime, until this moment, of one week and had been home from the hospital for exactly five days. In the recesses of Stan Johnson’s mind, he knew something was about to blow into his diaper, and he was hungry.

He was about to practice screaming.

Chapter 3

Centerville, Missouri, is an All-American landscape deserving of a Norman Rockwell canvas. In this sleepy little bedroom town, flowering dogwoods line the quaint neighborhood roads. Children run freely in this incredibly protective environment. Everyone looks after everyone else.

Amenities of larger communities can be found here, only in a scaled-down version. A very much scaled-down version. An intimate downtown is the center of what little commerce operates within the town’s boundaries. And most of the town’s small shops are located on Main Street.

You will not find a Walmart in Centerville, but most of life’s necessities are available at Sam and Molly’s Convenience Shop, located at 3 Main.

No Piggly Wiggly Grocery Stores exist in this town, but you will be warmly greeted at Josie’s Butter and Eggs (by Josie herself), located at 5 Main.

Every establishment is familiar and welcoming, and most are multi-functional. The town’s post office is tucked into the back corner of Molly’s Convenience Shop.

The UPS Store is located just inside Brown’s Bike Shop at 9 Main, on the right-hand wall, an arm’s length away from the BMX Bike rack.

Jimmy’s Barbershop, at 12 Main, has a hidden bar, for resident adults only, who all abide by the honor system. A haircut is optional.

On the outer fringe of downtown, one will find the Baptist Church, also multi-functional. A beautifully towered holy structure, this house of God is no stranger to the occasional nighttime visitor seeking shelter and a place to sleep.

It is not unusual for Pastor Thomas to find a hungover individual, having slept in a pew, awakening to the new day.

The drowsy visitor is always welcomed with a cup of coffee courtesy of this sympathetic minister, who is more than willing to lend an ear to any man’s story. A story that usually ends with his missus booting him out of the house.

Residents of Centerville are well aware that the Baptist Church is always available to those in need. And that the doors are never locked.

Inasmuch as the downtown businesses, institutions, and neighborhoods are woven into the personality of Centerville, the town is much more than that.

The outskirts of this town are of equal importance.

On the southside of Centerville’s periphery is a small airfield that is the envy of neighboring towns; Pavilion Airfield offers aerial services typically reserved for much larger communities.

The airfield accommodates small aircraft and helicopters, used by local farmers for crop-dusting and other varied purposes. Pavilion Airfield gives Centerville residents a sense of gravitas and bragging rights that they mightily enjoy.

A rail yard exists on the northwestern fringe of town. The rail yard handles mostly freight trains passing through; however, there is a limited passenger service that is a welcomed convenience for many people in the area.

While most residents work in neighboring towns, few take the train. They drive. However, the train, plane, and automotive options for travel are a great source of pride for the citizens of Centerville.

A large swath of Centerville’s outer real estate is agricultural in nature, with small farms and the like. Additionally, a section of land is reserved primarily for the circus that makes its annual visit.

With everything the outer boundaries of town have to offer, nothing is more important than one aspect of its value: the vast, open land that is carved into a blueprint of athletic playing fields.

Seemingly boundless, flat space that is reserved for the town’s most precious commodity . . . its youngsters.

Young athletes are raised in Centerville like corn in Iowa. Local folks know this. This is the source of their greatest pride. Sons and daughters are the reason for this town’s very existence.

Upon the God-given blessing of infinite pristine land is where these young human beings grow up. Their strength, confidence, and competitive spirits are forged by outdoor athletic endeavors: football, soccer, hockey, and the spring sport.

The vast open fields are groomed meticulously to service these activities.

Good fields, groomed and lined for football and soccer in the fall. Good fields, cut out and designed with outdoor rinks, for hockey in the winter.

Good fields, all.

But the great fields are different. The great fields, the truly great fields, are groomed for the spring sport . . .

. . . and one specific athlete . . . the Youth League Baseball Player.

Over the years, Centerville baseball has become the gold standard for Youth League excellence. The little town is the perennial center of the Missouri talent pool for young baseball players.

They are born in Centerville to play baseball. They are raised in Centerville to play baseball. And they play baseball in Centerville . . . to win.

This is a story about a boy who grows up in Centerville and plays baseball . . .

. . . and the piano.

Chapter 4

Springtime, 1999, and Stan Johnson was four years old. He sat in the back seat of the family Ford Taurus station wagon, dutifully seat belted-in for the weekly Saturday morning shopping run with mom and dad.

After much negotiation, Brian and Sandy Johnson decided that on this day, two events would take place; they would buy Stan (who turned out to be right-handed) his first genuine leather baseball glove and afterwards, would enroll him in piano lessons.

Brian was certain the piano lessons would be a passing phase. In short order, he believed Stan would become bored, and that his boredom would create sufficient frustration within his mother that she would allow the pursuit of this cultural art form to end. At that point, greater time and effort would be more properly devoted to the development of Stan’s true calling: baseball.

Sandy had no doubt that the private introductory piano lessons would be just the key to unlock her son’s overwhelming yearning to explore the exciting world of music and culture. If this were to initiate an intellectual pursuit of the arts at the expense of childhood play such as baseball, well, that would be out of her and Brian’s control.

What neither parent could have foreseen was the physical and emotional connection their son would make to both activities. And they could not have perceived the multifaceted prodigy in the form of their innocent little boy.

At 10:00 a.m. on this cool Saturday morning in April, Brian and Sandy Johnson could only dream that they were driving their four-year-old child, humming and swaying in the back seat of their family station wagon, toward a future in the arts and in America’s favorite pastime.

What Brian and Sandy could not have known was the impact these two activities would have on their beloved son’s life. And what they could not have foreseen was the dramatic impact their talented boy would have on so many other people’s lives.

Their child would accomplish more than what the young couple could ever hope for. He would surpass all of their hopes and dreams.

However, Stan Johnson’s life would not be without turmoil. His life would not be idyllic. Life rarely is. Their son would not escape the challenges that so many others are destined to face.

Given those challenges, the little boy in the back seat of the young couple’s Ford Taurus station wagon would grow into a wonderful human being and a good friend to all who knew him.

He would lead a life that would make his parents proud.

And a life that would reflect on the memory of Stan The Man Musial and Stanley Babin . . .

. . . splendidly.

Chapter 5

If Brian Johnson was being perfectly honest, he would admit to his discomfort with his son taking piano lessons. This was not a Johnson thing. Music lessons of any kind were not part of Brian’s experience growing up.

He understood that a certain type of person yearned to play the piano, clarinet, guitar, or maybe the flute. Wonderful. But that person is not a Johnson. At least not a Johnson with his family’s blood coursing through their veins.

Johnson people are physical. They run, they throw, and they catch. Johnson people do not sit in the stands surveying sheets of music, blowing into pipes of one type or another. They do not stand in a chorus and sing. Please.

Johnsons are on the playing field; battered, bloodied, and bruised. If your day includes spitting out dirt and nursing wounds, it is a good day.

Brian’s family played sports; that’s all there was to it. He grew up in a world void of cultural pursuits. If you weren’t smashing into someone, or swinging a stick at a ball, the Johnson family wasn’t interested. Give them a scoreboard and a crowd to cheer them on. That’s all they asked for. The Johnson kids would do the rest.

But don’t get the Johnsons wrong. They loved music. They simply had zero interest in making music. Making music was for others. They could live with the mystery of how music was made. They simply didn’t care.

In Brian’s world, this fell into the same category as, say, biology. He knew that food entered the body at one end, and something called waste exited the body at the other. What happened in between was a mystery he could live with. This was how he felt toward music and the arts in general.

This mindset was formed in Brian at a very early age. As a child and adolescent, he was taught that those who played music were not like him. He was different. He was, well . . . better.

He was on the field making dazzling plays while musicians sat comfortably in the grandstands, playing their respective instruments.

Brian stood at gymnasium podiums, proudly accepting athletic tributes for high performance, and inspiring hundreds of classmates with his words and charisma.

In the stands sat the student musicians, attempting to play the school fight song; missing notes, tripping over timing, and relying on other musicians around them, to smooth over their mistakes.

This was the way it was. It was the way it always had been. Athletes were athletes. Musicians were musicians.

It wasn’t that Brian didn’t like the musicians, or the theater actors, or the yearbook photographers, or the editors. He just didn’t see any reason to know them.

And then he met Sandy.

Chapter 6

Sandy McPherson grew up in a serious household. She and her sister competed academically for their parents’ and each other’s approval. Social acceptance was not relevant to the McPherson girls.

Both Sandy and Debbie looked the athletic part, both trim and pretty, with a very physical and confident presence. One would easily interpret the McPherson look to be the result of two fit and active girls.

Fit they were, physically active they were not. Unless you were to define active as one who roamed the corridors of the downtown library and flipping through pages of the Great Books.

The only competition these girls sought was scholarly achievement. The only scoring they cared about was in the form of grades and academic awards. The tunnel vision of these two intellectual overachievers was intensely focused.

Sandy McPherson loved music. She was greatly impressed with school bands, whether in high school or in college. She would sit in the grandstands, ignoring the play on the field, and watch the myriad of instruments swaying back and forth to the rhythm of the music.

She felt that one day, when her academic life allowed, she would learn to play. However, her instrument would not be found in a standing or marching band. It would be found in the orchestra: the piano.

The reality was that Sandy did not particularly care for people in general. Certainly not jocks. She was not attracted to those who found any value in physical contact and sweating profusely.

She cringed at the thought of breathing the same air as a sweaty, pompous, dolt of a human being, who actually found pleasure in throwing a ball back and forth. She laughed at the idea of even befriending such a boy. What was the point?

And then she met Brian.

Chapter 7

Brian and Sandy met in the spring of 1988. Both twenty-two years old and newly minted college graduates. Although having grown up in the small town of Centerville, they were strangers to one another. They had surely laid eyes on the other hundreds of times throughout elementary, middle, and high school but never actually made a connection.

They were as different as two people could possibly be. Two separate species in the animal kingdom coexisting on the same soil but neither noticing.

Having graduated, they were now back home living with their folks. One midweek afternoon, Sandy was driving her mother’s car, returning from shopping in neighboring Westford, when she spotted Brian hitchhiking. While "thumbing a ride’ was not encouraged, it was an effective mode of transportation, especially for young locals who were often recognized by passersby on these country roads. This neck of the woods still exhibited an innocence and trust long ago lost in large metropolitan areas.

Sandy, driving her parents’ grey Buick sedan, recognized Brian as a boy she had gone to high school with, and decided it was safe to give him a lift. She remembered that this particular boy had been somewhat of a high-school hero, the kind she and her sister would fall over laughing about.

Although feeling a tinge of guilt, Sandy thought she might get a mental laugh or two experiencing the older version of this self-absorbed individual. Pulling the car over to the curb, she found herself smirking.

As he jumped into the front, passenger-side seat, the boy offered an appreciative Thank you, accompanied by a big smile of appreciation.

He glanced quickly at the driver, expecting to see the middle-aged mother of one of his friends, as this was the typical profile of female drivers who tended to pick him up. It wasn’t unusual to hear from his own mother that she’d picked up one of his buddies for a short hitch to somewhere in town.

To his surprise, the driver was no middle-aged mom but a particularly lovely looking young girl, who appeared vaguely familiar to him. He found himself saying, Hi, quite unnecessarily, as he had already given a gesture of salutation when he first hopped in.

He could not help himself and awkwardly began to verbally ramble. I live on Ridge Street, just past Emerson Park. About two miles from here. Do you know where that is?

The pretty operator of the vehicle, focusing straight ahead as her car reemerged into light traffic, found herself already amused at her passenger. I know where Ridge Street is. I’ve lived here all my life. I think you and I went to school together.

Brian didn’t realize he was now gawking at the young woman when he responded. "No way; I would have remembered you. Heck, if you had gone to my school, we probably would’ve