THM: Chris

THM stands for the title of a post I hope to do soon on my old friend, Bill Heintzelman, who, when I knew him, was a Blue Moon bartender. An honored post in my culture. Today is voting day, and I don't have the time to write it. But in going through my tubs and bins, I came across a sheaf of papers he gave me once: short monographs of Blue Moon people he hoped someday to make into a book or a play, perhaps? He didn't live long enough to finish it. But I can't let them go unpublished. Here is one of them:

"I used to play pro ball. Tacoma Indians. Once pounded a homer outta Cheney Stadium. Still go back and look at the place where it cleared the center field wall. My eyes fill with tears. A catcher, I was. Most catchers can't hit."
Now he plays softball in the derelict league. Still a catcher. Still can't hit, no evidence of any home run ever. As Casey said, "You could look it up."
He wears an Oregon Ducks baseball hat with a peak at the crown and a perfect curve in the bill. He talks to all the women. If they won't stand still, he doesn't mind following. People introduce him as a former baseball player. No catcher since Smokey Burgess had that physique. Everybody's buddy, Chris.
People don't mind the baseball story. When he tells it, guys who have played with him look at the floor and wait for, "most catchers can't hit."
It's not regrettable, he wants to meet you, all of you ladies. Just sit next to him. "Want to go out to my car and smoke some dope?" He's gone a discreet twenty minutes and comes back smiling conquest. But it's just another whack over the center field wall at Cheney. No harm done. So he doesn't always tell the truth.
"Nice hair cut, nice car; nice shirt; I like your hat." What a pal. It's hard to return the compliment, but you want to say something. Hi, Chris, wonder what you do for a living.