Five years ago, I wrote a story about a hat, but it was never really just about a hat. On this date 12 years ago, I lost one of my best friends. I woke up today, and I felt like sharing my story again. I apologize if you have read it before, but if you have not, I hope it puts a smile on your face.
“You’ll ride a black tornado cross’t the western sky, rope an ole blue norther and milk it til it’s dry, bulldog the Mississippi, pin it’s ears down flat, long before you take this cowboy’s hat.”
I’m a Reds fan.
That’s really no secret.
I got my first fitted Reds hat my freshman year of high school, and I have since outgrown or destroyed six of New Era’s finest. If you see me during baseball season, I’ll probably be wearing a tattered Franchise hat: its majestic red color faded to a dull pinkish kind of grey. Or I’ll be in number seven, my trusty 59Fifty: its crown marred by the blood, sweat, and tear stains from the months surrounding my love affair with an old blue chair due to a brain tumor.
Few hats ever been more faithful than number seven. He’s added some eye black stains to the bill this past spring as we made our triumphant return to the Ruston Parks and Recreation coed slow pitch softball league. Number seven was even with me when I legged out a triple hit down the right field line. A slow pitch triple might not seem like a big deal to most, but for the guy who ran a 4.5 minute 40 before being forced to use a cane, believe me, it was a huge deal. With all that being said, if you see me on a Sunday afternoon after church, I won’t be wearing a Reds hat. I will be wearing a Yankees hat
Yes, I did say a Yankee hat.
Before you start to call me disloyal or a bandwagon fan, you should know a thing or two about why that navy blue cap means so much to me.
I grew up in a sports loving family, and the likes of John Elway, Larry Bird, and Shaq covered my bedroom walls. Though one of my heroes wasn’t a ball player, but former laundromat worker who grew up picking cotton during the Great Depression. Her name was Rubie Jackson, and she was my maternal grandmother: my Maw-Maw.
Maw-Maw loved sports. Her favorites were Warren Moon and the Oilers, Larry Bird and the Celtics, and the Yankees. She and I would sit and watch games for hours on end.
Sundays were always special to me at her house. As a kid growing up, I would be awoken to the sounds of classic country music and the smell of bacon frying. When I got older and started driving, I would drive to her house after church, sit on the couch, and listen to stories until it was time for lunch. After lunch, there was always a game on. Football for the majority of the year, NBA games during the early spring, and baseball throughout the summer.
My Maw-Maw loved baseball. It wasn’t until after she died that I learned she would often go into the yard and play baseball with her kids. I would give anything to see that. I can’t help but imagine her throwing some inside heat and bursting with laughter.
One of the last great memories I have of her came in my senior year of college. I made a surprise visit, and she, not expecting company, was lying down in a back bedroom down the hall. I sat down beside her, took off my hat, and we talked for several minutes. I then went to the kitchen to grab a quick drink. Before I could get back to her bedroom, she came out of the hall, walker in tow, and wearing my Yankees hat. I have never been accused of having a small head, so there was my hat engulfing this tiny, frail lady. I couldn’t help but roll with laughter as she gave me her famous grin. I said, “Maw-Maw, I would’ve gotten my hat later.” She replied, “It’s OK. I like the Yankees.”
Maw-Maw wouldn’t be with us much longer after that. I had the incredible honor of speaking at her funeral. I did so with a Yankees hat that I bought her the day after she died perched on the podium with my notes. I wasn’t too sure of her size, so I went with a 7 1/4, my size at the time. After all, she pulled it off so well. Before her casket was sealed, I placed her hat next to her body and said my final goodbye.
So each Sunday I put on my Yankees hat because it reminds me of her. I get a lot of strange looks, especially from those I meet for the first time. I accept the jeers, ignore the sneers, and just smile. I don’t expect a lot of people to understand. It’s my personal tribute to my Maw-Maw, and I know she’s watching with a grin.
The Yankees hat that provided me with one of my favorite memories has since shrunk and will no longer fit on my head. It stays in my home office hanging on a candelabra that I gave Maw-Maw our last Christmas together.
My new Yankees hat doesn’t quite have the character of the old one, nor does it have the broken-in feel, but it will get there . . .
One Sunday at a time.
Four Six 3 