The Carnival Papers

The Kryptonite Heart

In a period of turmoil when women burned bras, students burned draft cards, and soldiers burned villages, the city of Bentley still believed in baseball.  The Lumber Kings had never won a championship in their sixty-year history, but the dawn brought Game Seven of the championship.  I knew the Kings would prevail because I knew something no one else in town did:  my dad was more than a mere mascot; he was a superhero.

Unlike the comic book heroes, Dad’s transformation from mild-mannered plumber to the scourge of all visiting teams was a gradual process.  My mom and I would see him with less frequency throughout the month as he spent increasing amounts of time lifting weights in the basement to work off the flab from winter’s hibernation.  In March he cultivated the first orange sprouts along his jaw, so that by Opening Day he had the beard of a Viking.  A week before the start of the season, he stomped into the kitchen, plaid flannel shirt hugging his thick chest, faded blue jeans tucked into scuffed work boots, and gray stocking cap pulled low on his broad forehead.  As he stood in the doorway, I dropped my spoonful of oatmeal onto the linoleum and gaped at King Paul in all his glory.  My mouth continued to hang open as he crossed the room in three steps and tousled my hair.  “You better clean that up before your mom sees,” he said with the thundering voice of a god.  I nodded and watched him rumble out the back door.

After wiping up the glob of oatmeal left on the floor, I sat on the steps outside the kitchen, mesmerized by my father as he returned from the tool shed with King Paul’s axe, which stood as tall as my eight-year-old body.  Its silver head gleamed in the sun and, like Excalibur, Ol’ Splinter had a legend behind it.  The story went that Roy Klassen, the town blacksmith and original King Paul, awoke during a blizzard to find a stranger at his door.  In exchange for shelter during the storm, the stranger gave Roy an axe, the handle of which was fashioned from a splinter Paul Bunyan had plucked from his thumb.  Every incarnation of King Paul since had carried Ol’ Splinter into battle, despite the protests of the Christian Ladies Association, who questioned the wisdom of a mascot wielding a deadly weapon.  As a compromise, my father didn’t sharpen the edge.

On the morning of the big game, Dad came into the kitchen with Ol’ Splinter wrapped in a blanket featuring the team’s logo—a cartoon King Paul with a baseball bat instead of Ol’ Splinter.  At his entrance, I again dribbled oatmeal on the floor and he shook his furry head.  When I apologized, he laughed with the force of an ocean wave and clapped me on the shoulder.  “Don’t worry, it just leaves more room for hot dogs later,” he said and winked.

As I cleaned up the mess, Mom swept into the room—dressed in pearls and high-heels as though going to church—and stood on her tiptoes to kiss Dad on the lips, a gesture that made me wince.  “Did you get any sleep last night?” she asked him.

“I’ll sleep after the game,” Dad said.

“You’re worse than Toby on Christmas Eve.  Which reminds me, someone needs to get ready to go.  We don’t want to be late.”  She licked an index finger and wiped remnants of oatmeal from my chin.  “Everyone in town’s going to be there, so make sure you dress nice.”

I ran down the hall to my bedroom and dug my stiff church clothes from the closet.  To offset the formality of the starched white shirt, black pants, and black clip-on necktie, I snagged my brown Lumber Kings cap from one bedpost and my mitt from the other so I could catch any foul balls that came my way.

By the time I returned to the table, Dad had donned his blue work jacket and replaced his stocking cap with one like mine.  He finished his mug of coffee and stood up to flick the bill of my hat.  “All ready to go?” he asked, his voice as soft as an evening breeze.  When I nodded, his eyes narrowed.  “You don’t have to go to the bathroom before we leave?”