Red fallen leaves blew across my shoes as I walked between the rain puddles on the path. I was visiting my hometown for the holidays and thought a brisk walk through the park might relax me, so I chose a familiar hangout of my childhood play. Across the way, I saw a solitary figure sitting on the park bench, shivering and coughing, surrounded by a flock of pigeons. As I walked by him, he said nothing, but kept his eyes to the ground as he slowly fed the birds. The sight of him sitting there on that park bench, with his bag of bread in his hands, brought back vivid memories of past days and particularly of one spring's encounter with Old Man Tethers.

Old Man Tethers was considered the town joke when I was a boy. He wasn't a bum or a drunk, but he kept to himself most of the time and only came out to feed the squirrels. My parents referred to him as "poor," "sad," and "hopeless," and all I had ever heard about his past was that he was an old and faded baseball star who had left New York many years ago at the peak of his career, much to the amazement of his friends and fans. No reason had been given. He just packed his things and moved out. Buying a one-room house in our small town, he buried himself in a shroud of mystery and solitude.

I remember how the kids often teased him in the park, coming up behind him and kicking him in the seat of his yellow checkered pants. He would turn and shake his fist at them, yelling through rotting teeth. His strange behavior scared me and though I never saw him hurt anyone, I still did my best to avoid him.

One Saturday morning, when my friends and I were practicing baseball in the park, Old Man Tethers was out resting on his usual bench, eyes closed, when one of the balls I had pitched went flying toward him. I yelled at him to duck, but he must not have heard; the ball struck him soundly on the chest. He jumped up with a start, looking around to see what kid had hit him.

His eyes fell upon the baseball lying by his feet and I cringed in pain as he bent down and picked up our only ball. I figured that was that and we were done for the day. I also expected yelling and cursing from Old Man Tethers, but all he did was sit back down on the bench and stare intently at the ball in his hands. The other kids gathered around me, and we decided that Tethers must not be angry and that we might get our ball back. Unfortunately, seeing how I was the one who had thrown the ball, I was "volunteered" to get it back from him.

I took ten deep breaths to brace myself and slowly walked toward him. As I drew near, my heart beat faster and I promised myself that I would never play baseball again if I survived this. When I came within five feet of him, I stopped and said in a small, timid voice, "Sir?"

He did not respond.

"Sir? Can I have my ball back? I'm sorry I hit you."

Jerking his head up, he replied in a husky voice, "You should be more careful. You could really hurt someone."

Stepping closer to him, I swallowed the lump in my throat and sickly smiled, mentioning that I was just practicing for Monday's game.

"You play? What position?"

"Pitcher, Sir."

"You need more practice. You know, I used to play baseball once. I wasn't half bad."

At this point in our conversation, I was caught in the middle of two emotions—confusion that he was not mad at us, and a strong desire to retreat to the safety of my friends. I had no stomach for talking with notorious, nefarious hermits. I just wanted to get out of there. A flash of what I considered brilliance entered my mind.

"Would you like to play with us? We could always use another player," I asked him (knowing he'd refuse, giving me reason to leave with the ball). A cold chill went down my back as he replied, "Okay, but I want to bat first." Walking back together to my friends, I saw their astonishment and shrugged my shoulders in response.

"Old . . . I mean, Mr. Tethers is going to play with us for a while." I tried to ignore my friends' confused and irritated faces.

Old Man Tethers moved up to the batter's box, swinging the bat in his hands, stretching out his arms.

"Okay Kid, but not so fast at first," he grumbled.

I decided it would be a smart move if I weren't so hard on him. I had already hurt him once, and I didn't want to press my luck. My first pitch was a slow one, straight and true, into the catcher's mitt. His bat went by with a swish and a grunt.

"Give me another!" he demanded.

I sent the ball flying at him, only this time, his bat struck the ball soundly and it went whistling over our outfielder's head. The boy ran and returned with the ball, throwing it to me when he came within speaking distance. He whispered, "Strike him out! You're being too nice to the old coot."

I turned to face Old Man Tethers and he smiled at me with his yellow-corned grin and said, "See? I told you I was good. Throw me another."

I pitched a faster ball the next time, but his bat connected with it and again, it went over another outfielder's head.

"What's the matter with you?" my friends yelled. "Strike him out!"

I decided to get serious, so I wound up with an even more powerful pitch and let it go.

"Bam!" The ball went soaring high once again. As I watched the ball sail to the outfield, I heard him chuckle behind me. I decided that I had been nice enough. I concentrated intensely on my next pitch. This time I let him have an inside fastball, and a smile came to my lips as I heard the “Whoosh!” as he swung unsuccessfully at the ball.

A startled, scared look was in his eyes, but it soon passed as he knelt to the ground and began to grind the end of the bat into the dirt. As his knuckles grew whiter and whiter with his effort, I wondered if I had that same startled, scared look in my eyes then. He was no longer just having fun. He was trying to intimidate and beat me. I was hurt and confused that a grown man would treat me that way. Wasn't this just a game?

I stood there, trembling, waiting for him to give me some sign to begin. His eyes were cold and determined, but I noticed a twitch in the corner of his mouth. After so many years of being out of practice, did Old Man Tethers have the "stuff" to even play against a twelve-year-old kid?

I changed up my pitch and paused just before releasing, trying to throw off his timing. When the ball finally left my hand, I put all my strength behind it, trying for a curve ball. It was a beautiful sight as the ball soared in a perfect crescent, swinging outside at first but then shifting high but to the middle, constricting Tethers’ choices. He swung wildly, clumsily tripping over his own feet, and fell to the ground. The air around was instantly filled with the laughter, cheering, and jeering of the kids on the field.

"Dammit!" he roared. "No kid is going to strike me out!"

Old Man Tethers rose like a mountain of fury, ripped the ball from the catcher's hand, and ran off the field and out of the park. We all gathered around the home plate and watched as his checkered pants scurried out of sight.

"What a weirdo!" someone muttered.

After short discussion (and with equipment missing), the kids decided to meet the next day to finish our practice. This time, though, we would bring more than just one ball. One by one they all left, until I was the only one standing on the field.

Pondering what had happened, my anger for Old Man Tethers was replaced with that same pity I heard my parents express when referring to him. I felt an overwhelming urge to go to find Tethers and apologize for the way that they had treated him. Tucking my mitt under my arm, I started in the direction of his home. Along the path, I found my baseball—muddy and lying in the gutter—apparently tossed aside by Old Man Tethers.

When I reached his home, it was nearly twilight and shadows were looming in the corners of the timeworn houses nearby. I snuck up to his side window and peered inside. Tethers was sitting on an old, beat-up couch, staring at the five O'clock news on a small, black-and-white television set on a chair in front of him as he polished a trophy in his lap. On the walls surrounding him were yellowed newspaper clippings, pennants, photographs of his former baseball team, and a giant trophy case that covered one entire wall in his living room.

After he had buffed his trophy to his liking, he lovingly kissed it, and then got up, returning it to its apparent rightful place inside the dusty, cobweb-filled trophy case. The heartfelt pity I felt for him quickly turned into a queasy stomach. I quietly slipped away and went home, vowing to move my baseball trophies down from the top shelf to the middle one that night, to brush my teeth better—and to never own checkered pants. I placed the muddied baseball from the gutter next to my most prized trophy (as a trophy of its own).

During the baseball game on the following Monday, I ended up “walking” five opponents during the first three innings. Subsequently (but not surprisingly), we lost big (according to my annoyed teammates), but it didn’t bother me much. After all, it was just a game. Later, when they ridiculed me for my carefree attitude, I simply replied, "Sorry, but you’re welcome to have any of my old trophies, if that makes you feel better."