I was at home sitting in an old lawn chair with a freshly lit Cuban dangling from the corner of my mouth, and out of nowhere, I saw an old friend sauntering down my driveway.
It was him alright. The bowed legs and the “half-fro” gave him away. Over the years, baseball was one of the few things that kept bringing us together.
We were a part of a dying breed: Black men who still love baseball.
On this day, Rufus was wearing a white Sammy Sosa jersey.
“What’s happppppppnin? Rufus asked, revealing a gold tooth surrounded by yellowing teeth.
“You,’’ I said.
“Sosa? You are probably the only person in Indiana to still have a Sammy Sosa jersey. I gave mine to a used clothing store years ago.”
“I’m campaigning,’’ Rufus said. “I’m trying to get my boy elected to baseball’s Hall of Fame. I done called everybody. Bob and Tom. J-M-V. ESPN. But I can’t get no air time. But I’m tellin’ you, Sammy Sosa should be elected to the Hawlah Fame.”
I reached into my case and gave my friend a stogie. It was already cut. He placed it against his nostrils and inhaled. Then he smiled broadly. As with any cigar connoisseur, he gave it a good lick, and placed it between his lips. I struck a match, and it was lit. Moments later, I offered him a chair and a sympathetic ear.
“Yeah, man, Sammy gave us some exciting times,’’ I said. “He has 588 career home runs, and in the ‘90s he was great. Remember when he hit 66 home runs in 1998 and 63 in 1999? ‘Slammin’ Sammy’ could flat out hit. He may have been one of the greatest home run hitters of our time.”
“That n… should be in the Hawlah Fame!” Rufus said between puffs of smoke.
Then Rufus brought a smile to my face. The old-timer stood up and did his best Sosa imitation, kissing his fingers, tapping his chest three times, and throwing up a peace sign just like Sammy did after he circled the bases after clobbering a monster home run at Wrigley Field.
“I get it,’’ I said. “You can only remember the good times. But don’t forget--Sammy was popular during the Steroid Era—linking him to admitted steroid users like Mark McGwire, Barry Bonds, and perhaps Roger Clemens.
“Also, don’t forget about the corked bat incident. Sosa snapped his bat in two during a game, revealing a cork. He said that the corked bat was his batting practice bat that he accidently used in the game.”
Rufus flicked his ashes and got in defensive mode.
“That’s some bull,’’ Rufus said. “Cork in a bat doesn’t help you hit home runs. Talent helps you hit home runs.
“Check this: “Remember the pine-tah incident with George Brett. Using a pine-tah bat illegally didn’t stop voters for voting for George Brett.
"Besides, there's no proof that Sammy used steroids!’’
"OK," I said, "but remember in 2004 when Sosa found out that he wasn’t in the starting lineup during the last game of the season, and instead of sitting on the bench to watch his teammates, he left the stadium without telling his manager or his teammates? I don’t think Sosa has spent much time in Chicago ever since.”
After I told him that, ol’ Rufus was speechless. Neither of us had much to say after that.
It was that awkward silence that most people hate. So I broke the silence.
“Hey, Ruf, I got a Carlos Zambrano jersey you can have," I said sarcastically.
He didn’t find it funny. He just got up and his bowed legs walked away.
