A Humam Ghost

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A Humam Ghost

Post by ca13 » Fri Jul 17, 2020 3:02 pm

Grandma says she remembers the day her husband died. She tells me this a few days after his funeral. Pappy Kal, we called the quiet, haunted man who outside of the occasional slight smile seemed disconnected from life. I had wondered how, with 25 grand-children bustling about, our parents beaming, meemaw presiding over the chaos, a proud matriarch, pappy somehow drifted in and out, and afterthought really in those halcyon days at the family home.

Every Sunday, my dad and his four brothers would gather their wives and broods, and we'd head to meemaw and pappy's. Swim in the pool during the summer. Have S'mores by the bonfire in the fall. Sled down the long hill in the side yard in the winter. I didn't realize how special it was at the time. But looking back, those are among the most treasured memories I have. I don't know that I even like my cousins, except for Brishna, she was always so kind to me. I was a quiet child, not as raucous as my siblings and cousins. I preferred to keep to myself.

Perhaps that's why when others just accepted that pappy never really got involved, just floated in and out, a nod here, a pat there, I wanted to know more. Where did he go? What was he doing in his den, while others played and laughed? I'd follow him, but every time, meemaw would cut me off. "Why meemaw? Why doesn't pappy play with us? Can I go see him?"

"No child. Pappy needs his space."

Once, I'd gotten into a fight with an older cousin over a toy, and gotten yelled at by an uncle. Another time, I didn't want to play the game my younger cousins did, and I ashamed to admit, probably threw a bit of a tempter tantrum and was scolded by an aunt. I just didn't fit in. So I kept to myself.

Thinking of this, the way a child's mind does, I asked, "Meemaw? Does pappy not get along with uncles and aunties either?"

She looked at me, alarmed. And even now I can see her realization of how my little mind worked and the laughter that started around the wrinkles at her eyes and lit up her face, when she told me, "No little Baghish, he gets along with his sons and daughter just fine."

"Then why Meemaw?" I pleaded, needing to understand the way a child does.

The laughter left her face. Her eyes grew cold, sharp. I was frightened a little.

"Something very bad happened to your pappy. He simply has never been the same."

"What was it meemaw?"

Dear one, "I cannot speak of it now. Someday, if you care, I will tell you when you are older."

Last week my pappy, Kaliq Humam, passed away at the age of 82. My grandmother, at his funeral, spoke lovingly of this man, who to us was an empty shell, but in their quiet times alone, was a man of great kindness, intensity, and at one time in his life, great vigor.

"I remember the day he died," she said. "They broke him."

She tells us of the summer of 2043. I had not known my grandfather was a professional baseball player. It was never spoken of. Not once. She tells of how pappy Kal, out of the goodness of his heart, and love of baseball, played that year on a rookie level baseball team in its very first season. His career was more or less over. Dreams cut short. Kaliq Humam simply didn't have the talent to get any further. Perhaps it was the shoulder injuries in his early 20's, or the constant dead arm, or the multiple herniated discs that stopped him. Maybe he just wasn't good enough in the first place. But at age 31, he was done, until the Baghdad Kings called, and offered him a job filling out a new rookie level roster, mentoring kids. It was the mentoring kids that sold him, grandma said. Se he took his aching back and throbbing shoulder to Hong Kong, to play for the Bombardiers.

Little did he know that the upper level management in Baghdad was so callous and disinterested. The Kings brass never did put any of those kids on the team. Poor pappy, and five other tormented souls were the only pitchers on that team. Night after night, one of them would run out there, hurting, exhausted, and make it as far as he could. By the time pappy "broke" grandma said it was torture to watch. These abused men, not wanting to come out of games, desperate to spare their brethren the futility, humiliation, and despair of another day of abusing their bodies for no purpose.

They never succeeded. Some of the braver ones would talk about making it 3 or even four innings, but inevitably, each wold last a batter or two, unable to continue, before the least injured would muscle out the last 6-7 innings of the game.

I know baseball is just a game, but what is it like to give up 30+ hits and 25+ walks in a single outing? To give up more runs in a few frames that some teams score in a month? And to have to do it again and again?

"Just a game", but really what kind of psychological torture must it be to be used so cruelly, to no purpose, over and over and over. No end in sight. No hope.

Pappy was the one light on the club, said my grandmother. He refused to give up. "Friends, we can do it today. It can be better. The have to get us some help sometime."

She remembers his positive attitude on a Saturday night. July 11th, 2043. He'd just given up 48 runs, 46 earned, in 6.1 innings. Allowed 37 hits and 26 walks. But he'd struck out two. Back throbbing, arm falling off. She smiled as she remembers him beaming about the two batters he'd struck out. The day before, Pappy had allowed 47 runs, all earned, in 6 innings, and struck out zero.

She'd been so proud of this man and his indomitable spirit.

The next day was the day she watched him die. The starter only lasted one inning. Four more pitchers two innings between them. Pappy Kal took the mound and threw 357 pitches over six innings. He faced 111 batters. Gave up 56 hits. Walked 37. Allowed 84 runs.

Grandma says she remembers the pitch. She doesn't remember if it was the 3rd home run he'd given up or the 10th. But she remembers watching him break. As if the last three days pointlessness all hit him at once. 868 pitches in three days. 271 batters faced. In three days. For what reason? The team lost its 22 straight game to start the season that night, having been out scored on the year 1007 to 66.

Grandma says pappy didn't cry, or yell, or really do much of anything after the game. He never really did much of anything again. Just a broken man. A shell of a person. A Humam Ghost.
Last edited by ca13 on Sat Jul 18, 2020 10:53 am, edited 2 times in total.

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Re: A Humam Ghost

Post by usnspecialist » Fri Jul 17, 2020 3:28 pm

I'm dying, this is incredible.
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Re: A Humam Ghost

Post by GoldenOne » Fri Jul 17, 2020 3:48 pm

Nice!
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Re: A Humam Ghost

Post by Jwalk100 » Fri Jul 17, 2020 4:50 pm

Great story!
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Re: A Humam Ghost

Post by jtannehill » Fri Jul 17, 2020 6:54 pm

Oh Man...that's good stuff brotha..

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Re: A Humam Ghost

Post by HerbD » Fri Jul 17, 2020 9:33 pm

Awesome stuff
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Re: A Humam Ghost

Post by ca13 » Sat Jul 18, 2020 12:18 am

Thanks for the nice reviews. I really enjoyed writing this, and have to thank Chad for correcting me about his team hanging 97 on Hong Kong. Because of that I ended up seeing that Humam was unfortunate to get murdered 3 days in a row.

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Re: A Humam Ghost

Post by Dington » Sat Jul 18, 2020 10:48 am

ca13 wrote:
Sat Jul 18, 2020 12:18 am
Thanks for the nice reviews. I really enjoyed writing this, and have to thank Chad for correcting me about his team hanging 97 on Hong Kong. Because of that I ended up seeing that Humam was unfortunate to get murdered 3 days in a row.
To be fair, every CBL team is responsible for his demise. Great article.
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Re: A Humam Ghost

Post by ca13 » Wed Aug 05, 2020 12:35 pm

Update: Kaliq Humam is out with a torn ucl. Made 4 more appearances after his legendary abuse. Poor guy.

Hong Kong down to 3 pitchers on the roster. Don't know what happened to the other guys.

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