Kevin Finnerty

Mistaken Success

“That’s my Boys, for you.”

That’s the way 80-year-old Ellis Campbell, whom everyone called El, summed up the recent actions of his sons Patrick (Rick) and Hubert (Hugh).  Rick and Hugh were both men in their fifties, much richer and more famous than their old man, but El still referred to them as his Boys.  They’d both issued confessions of sorts, acknowledging the error of their ways in a way.  I wanted to know why so I flew to find El sitting on the porch to his cabin.  He hadn’t showered or shaved after spending the morning fishing but had at least considered the former prior to my arrival.  

“I don’t want to be offensive, but I was on the lake longer than expected.  That’s what happens when time ain’t important anymore.” 

His rust-colored dog came over and sniffed my loafers and khakis, then gave me a puzzled look.  It could have been the attire; it could have been that it was freshly laundered.

“What kind of dog is it?”

“She’s an Irish setter.  Name’s Carol.”

“Seems like an unusual name for a dog.”

El got to his feet and brushed past me.  Carol followed without being called, but El had to whistle to let me know I was expected as well. 

Not unlike other cabins, the interior wasn’t overly spacious.  I saw a kitchen area and a door that presumably led to a bathroom, but the living and dining areas were one and the same.  El had a small HD TV and a few books, but most of his possession were practical items like fishing and hiking poles.  Few objects of comfort.

Had I met El on the street or in the woods, not knowing anything about him, his place might not have been surprising, but I knew of his sons, like most.  El hadn’t any photos of either of them as far as I could see, but I saw a wedding photograph and another picture of the woman I took to be his wife.

El caught me staring.  “The original Carol.”

“I take it she’s passed?”

“Three decades now.”

“Never remarried?”

El patted me on the shoulder before moving into the kitchen.  He returned with a beer for each of us.  I was surprised it was of the craft variety.

“That would be like a ten-time All Star refusing to recognize when his good run was done and going back to AAA to jump start his career.”

“Given that analogy, I guess we should start with your older son.  I don’t see any photos of him.  Or Hugh.”

“I can see my sons any time I want.  On TV, the Internet.  In person if I have to.”

El waved for me to follow him back onto the porch.  He had two wooden rockers out there so we each claimed one.  The second Carol rested at El’s feet.

“Hard to discuss one without the other.  They were Irish twins.  Inseparable, almost indistinguishable, during the early years.  Same blond hair, brown eyes, fair skin, and wiry legs.  They’d tell you they loved sports.  And they did.  Name a sport, they played it.  But what they really loved was the competition.  With each other and everyone else.  In just about everything they played, one was always slightly better than the other.  Except baseball.  It was hard to compare them because Rick was a catcher and Hugh a pitcher.  Usually, they were on the same team, so they complemented each other.  They competed in practice when Hugh pitched to Rick.  You play any ball growing up?”

“A little.  Through high school but just in a small-town league.  Nothing like your sons.  It was just something to do for me.  Actually, I like playing in beer softball leagues better.”    

“Nothing wrong with that.  See the ball, hit the ball.  A lot better than what they’re doing in the bigs these days.”  El rocked in his chair and drank his beer, then tapped mine, which sat on the table between us, droplets running down the can.  “Want another?”

I grabbed the beer and lifted it to my lips just for a taste.  “I still got plenty.”

El had washed his face and hands by the time he returned wearing a trucker’s hat.  He only brought one can this time but placed it on the metal table, whose paint was chipping away, to keep mine company.

“Did you think either of them would make the majors?”

“They didn’t have the right genes for that.  Carol and I knew they were smart and would succeed using their heads.  Who knew we’d underestimate them?”

“Why’d Hugh go off and do what he did?”

“Because Rick was a year older and got a head start in coaching.  Hugh had to do something different.  Making a lot of money was a way to surpass his brother, so finance.  That wasn’t surprising.”

“I take it the move to politics was?”

“At first, until I realized it was another form of competition.  You ever run for office?”

“Eighth grade student body president.  Lost.  It wasn’t close.”

“See, that’s why Hugh never ran himself.  He figured it’s much easier to win from the outside.”

“Especially when you’ve got a lot of money.”

El got to his feet and Carol immediately lifted her head as if she knew something exciting were about to happen.  “C’mon, we can walk and talk at the same time.” 

Carol raced past me to be beside El, leaving me a few steps behind.  I asked a couple of questions that went unanswered as we hiked through forest brush, crackling leaves, and small branches.  El identified varieties of trees and plants and pointed towards animals I could barely hear and rarely saw.  Despite their age, Carol and El kept a brisk pace until we reached a ridge, where El stopped and sat on a boulder large enough for a couple had we been one.  He placed himself in the center, so I had to find some other, less comfortable rock.

I tried to follow El’s eyes across the horizon.  At first, I saw only trees and clouds.  Then I spied an eagle gliding and presumed that was what had captured his attention.  I waited a few minutes after it disappeared to ask about his sons’ confessions.

“You’re going to see them, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then ask them.”

“I will, it’s just you might have another perspective.”

“They’re still competing.”

“With each other?”

“And with themselves and their legacies.”

“Can you explain more?”

El rotated his neck to look at me.  “I could.”

I waited a minute or two before realizing El was the sort of man who played by his own set of rules or not at all.  He returned his gaze to the horizon.  “How about this: you go speak with them, get their explanations, then ask me what I think.”

It wasn’t a suggestion but a directive. 

I met Rick Campbell at his home adjacent to a golf course in Scottsdale.  I’d seen him many times on television but whenever I did, he was always wearing a baseball uniform and apparently contacts.  A year into his retirement, Rick was still tall and athletic but now sported glasses in additional to Tiger Woods’ traditional Sunday attire: a short-sleeve red shirt with a collar and black slacks.

His wife Jenny had greeted me at the door and offered me a quick tour of the living area of their home when we passed through.  There was a large television mounted on a wall; good sight lines to the white marble kitchen; and loads of photographs – of ball players and of family - on the walls and any flat piece of furniture.

The former college softball pitcher showed a little age after raising two children and taking in more than the recommended amount of sun but, with biceps bigger than mine, still seemed capable of whipping a ball past a majority of batters, men and women alike.  The proud parent pointed at a couple of the photos and told me in a not-obnoxious way that her children were now college athletes in their own right – the son a lacrosse player and the daughter a member of a soccer team – before she slid open the glass door that led to the family’s pool.

“Can I get you some iced tea or water?”

“Either would be great.”

“Do you need a refill, Dear?”

“No, but can you take Tenny inside?  I’m sure he’s hot.”

Hearing his name, a Golden Retriever emerged from the shade of a deck chair to come close enough for a quick whiff before heading inside with his mother.

“Are you a dog lover?” Rick asked.

“I can’t have one because I travel quite a bit.”

“We’ve got a Corgi as well.”

“What’s its name?”

“His name is Simmons, named after Ted Simmons.  You met Tenny, named after Gene Tenace.”

Rick paused to see if I recognized the former ball players.  “I was a catcher back in the day.”

“I know.  I’m surprised you didn’t name either Bench or Fisk.”

“Everyone knew those guys were good.  I learned how good Simmons and Tenace were by playing Strat-o-Matic.  Did you ever play the game?”

I shook my head.  “More of a card player myself.”

“Strat’s a board game with physical cards and dice.  They probably have a computer version these days, but when I was young you had things to touch.  My brother and I played all the time.  Especially when we made All-Star teams, I learned the value of players who got on base a lot.”

“By walking?”

“At the time, it seemed like those who got the most hits received much more attention than those who got on base any other way.”

“Did you walk a lot when you played?”

“Not enough.”

Jenny returned with both tea and water for me.  I watched as husband and wife silently communicated a secret message before she went inside.  Maybe Jenny had heard her husband tell his tale before.

“Back then, you impressed people more with your bat than with your eye.  But even had I wanted to walk more, I wouldn’t have succeeded.  My eyesight just wasn’t that great, and if you can’t hit the pitches in the strike zone, the pitcher has little reason to try to get you to go fishing.”

I must have stared at what I now realized were transition bifocals a little too long.

“There’s the eyesight you need to be a manager or a writer and there’s the eyesight you need to be a Major League hitter.”

“How about an umpire?”

“No vision requirement whatsoever.”

“So I guess what you learned from the game stayed in the back of your mind when you became a manager?”

“Crazy to think about it now.  I was just looking for a competitive edge.  I taught my players to take as many pitches as possible – to get walks but also to tire out the other team’s starters.”

“And you succeeded.”

“Until everyone caught on.”

“Is that why you retired?”

“No, I retired because the game wasn’t as much fun anymore.”

“Because of what you did to it?”

Rick took a deep breath, then exhaled.  “There’s too many pitches, not enough action.”

Jenny returned with a box that I saw contained an old Strat-o-Matic game.  She removed the playing field, which was a worn, thin strip of cardboard with a baseball diamond on it.  There were pegs for runners and two white dice and one red die.  Rick showed me two-sided pitcher and hitters cards.  I examined a Nolan Ryan card with loads of strikeouts and walks on it.

Rick grabbed Wille Stargell and rolled the dice.  He told me to look at Ryan’s card because the red came up as a 5.  “What’s 5, 4 say?”

“Walk.”

“Figures.  Ryan was an outlier back then.  Too many like him now, though just for an inning or two.  Nobody could do it for nine like Nolan.”

He placed a runner at first and rolled for Cesar Cedeno.  The red 1 meant he looked at the hitter’s card.  “Strike out.  You see?”

I tried to look at Cedeno’s card.

“No, what I mean is did you see how long that took?  In real life, it’s at least seven pitches, probably a lot more, to have a strikeout and walk.  Here, it was mere seconds.  My brother and I could get through a nine-inning game in less than a half hour even with constant smack talk throughout.”

“Is that why you apologized?”

“Did I?”

“I thought so.”

“Maybe I did.  I just wanted to say the game needs to change.  It was the best for a very long time.”

“And now it’s not?”

“Not to watch.  Not at the Major League level.  The ball needs to be in play more often and much more quickly.”

“What would you do?”

“Require two infielders on each side of the diamond.  That will create more hits, which hopefully will incentivize fewer walks.”

“Which you brought to the game.”

The expression on Rick’s face changed from that of a manger with a 4-2 lead to one who just saw his reliever give up a three-run homer.  Jenny, who had kept her hand on her husband’s shoulder, retreated to her home.  Tenny, who had remained beside the glass door, took her place.

“I didn’t mandate 12-man pitching staffs, starters only going five innings before a parade of relievers, or long play reviews.”

“But you used those things to your advantage when you managed.”

Rick leaned back in his chair and grabbed the back of his neck.  “I’d like to see the game get back to what it once was.”

“Is that even possible?”

Rick got to his feet and his Golden immediately barked as if it knew its owner was in need of assistance.  Petting the tail-wagging pooch and tapping its side a couple of times seemed to relieve everyone’s anxiety.

“I don’t know what more I can do, I’m sorry.”

I remained seated, quiet.  I wasn’t sure if Rick intended our interview to be over without saying so. 

Rick’s phone rang.  His outlook brightened when he looked at it.  He showed it to me and smiled.  “My daughter.  Are we done?”

“If you said everything you wanted to say.”

“I think so, yes.  Jenny can show you out.”

Rick answered his phone.  His tone lightened as he asked his daughter to describe her latest game.  I heard him laugh as I tapped on the glass door so as not to surprise Jenny.

Hugh asked me to meet him in his condo in Miami, where he’d been spending most of his time since he decided to step away from politics.  His place was 4000 square feet scores of stories into the sky.  The wraparound windows offered a 360-degree view of the city and the surrounding area. 

Divorced for a decade, Hugh shared his home with a Spanish model who only recently had turned thirty.  A gray cat did figure eights around her tiny ankles when she silently greeted me at the door.  She pointed in the direction I would find Hugh in comprehension of my words or purpose, but her failure to utter a sound left me wondering whether this was due to an inability to speak English or simply indifference.

 Hugh wore gray suit pants and a white dress shirt with the top button unbuttoned.  He was seated in one of the two leather chairs in a corner of the room between which sat a small granite table.  He held out his palms to me.

“You’ve spoken with my father and brother already, I take it.”  Hugh smiled the family smile when I told him I had.  “That’s the way it always is.”

After a couple of questions, Hugh sought to wrest control of the interview.  “Let’s do it this way since you already have a lot of information.”

“Whether I do or don’t, it’s generally best to get an individual’s direct account.”

“Sure, sure, but let’s cut to the chase.  I wanted to make more money than them and I did.  I wanted to do something more important than them and I did.  I wanted to fix a problem, and I did.  And then Rick took the opportunity to do so as well and got attention because, you know, baseball.”

“You think you fixed the problem by walking away?”

Hugh took his right leg off of his left knee and reversed his position away from me.  “I did more than that.  I called them out.”

“You said it was a mistake to have sought to elect people solely to obstruct, right?”

“It was a mistake to conclude doing nothing was better than doing some comparative good.  I also said it was wrong to get voters to hate the other side.  Opposing views not an enemy make.”

“Especially not in a democracy.”

“I called out those in my party who were trashing our democratic system.  And those who lied to control how people think.”

“Did you lie to voters when you were playing to win?”

Hugh leaned his forearms into his quads.  “There are lies and there’s constant lying.  There are factual embellishments and there is alternative reality.”

Hugh’s companion entered the room carrying a black French Bulldog that looked like it did not enjoy being treated like a stuffed animal.  She passed me without saying a word and whispered something into Hugh’s ear.  He opened his wallet and handed her three hundred dollar bills.

“So what are you going to do now?”

“I’m stepping away from politics for a while so I can try to make a living.”

I looked about the room for a hint of irony but didn’t find any, only quite the collection of artwork, both paintings and sculptures.

“How about the world you left behind?”

“What about it?”

“Are you going to try to fix the mess you’ve left?”

“That’s not my fault.”

“I didn’t say it was, but you’ve stated that you made mistakes, right?”

“Mistakes were made.”

“So you don’t feel a responsibility to do more?”

Hugh shook his head in a way that told me we were done.  He got to his feet, and I slowly got to mine.  We walked towards the door.

“I’m surprised you’re like this,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Like the rest of them.  Dad said you’d be different.”

“How do you mean?”

“You don’t let anyone acknowledge their shortcomings.  You keep pushing.  That’s why most people just keep their mouths shut, you know.  You’re all so judgmental.”

I called El when I found myself with time to kill at the airport.

“How’d it go with my boys?”

“I think fairly well but I’m not sure they’d agree.”

“You throw a couple of heaters beneath their chins?”

“I’m still processing.”

“Me too and I’ve got 50 some odd years on you.”

“They acknowledged their missteps.”

“Let me tell you: You’re better off not starting down such paths to start.”

There was a lot of noise in the terminal, so El asked if we could finish the conversation in the morning.  I told him that would be fine.

“5:00 okay with you?”

“For a call?”

“To go fishing.”

“Fishing?  Where?”

“Here.  You’re flying to see me, right?”

“That wasn’t the plan.”

“Mine was we’d talk while fishing.”

“I’m a vegetarian.”

“Then I take it hunting’s out as well?”

“You’d be right.”

“Does it matter knowing I eat whatever I catch and kill?”

“Better, but it’s still not my thing.”

“You eat plants?”

“That’s what a vegetarian does.”

“Plants are living things too, aren’t they?”

“It’s not the same.”

“No, nothing’s the same.”

I waited to see if El would explain but understood El wasn’t the sort of person to fill in details.  You either got it right away or not at all.

I was trying to figure out if it would be possible to speak with El from my apartment instead of the lake when El asked: “Would it offend you to be on a boat with me while I fish?  On a lake early in the morning with a line overboard is a good place to talk.  Hell, maybe if you’ve got good questions, I won’t even need to cast.  Be at my place by 5.”

El hung up without waiting for an answer, presumably figuring the only appointment I could have at that hour was with a pillow, which was absolutely the case.  I went to the gate agent and told her I needed to change my flight. 

I saw El and Carol in my headlights as my rental car rattled through the gravely driveway.  El opened my door.  “4:59.  Good man.”

“I thought time was one of the least concerns for someone living out here by himself.”

“Time doesn’t matter.  What matters is doing what you tell other people you’re going to do.”

“Or doing what they tell you to do?”

El ignored my comment, and Carol led the way through the darkness, apparently by smell, as I heard it constantly sniffing at the ground.  El kept up, by memory, I imagine.  I struggled to keep the pace and my footing and relied mostly on sound.  We reached a small lake, and El dragged a canoe closer to shore.  I offered to help, but El told me he’d tell me when he needed it.       

He told me to get in first.  Carol boarded second without the need for a command.  El launched the canoe and got in last.  Only then did I realize he hadn’t even brought a pole, only a wooden oar.

El only paddled three or four strokes before allowing the canoe to proceed on its own.  Carol rested its head against the side of the canoe.  I wondered if it were looking into the water for fish. 

I became aware of the near silence.  I opened my mouth but shut it before speaking.  I sensed it would have been inappropriate to disturb the peace for some time.  With the lack of light and a baseball hat pulled down on his head, it was difficult to see El’s eyes but I felt him staring. 

A fish jumped and splashed at the exact moment the first bit of sun emerged on the horizon.  El lifted his hat slightly and sat back.  Carol wagged its tail, occasionally tapping the canoe.  El paddled us away from the one other canoe, with two poles in the water, lest our presence become a disturbance.

“Got more questions?” he asked once we’d resumed gliding.

“You ever get lonely out here by yourself?”

“I’m not lonely and I’m not by myself.  Listen.”

I tried to hear what El wanted me to hear.  He gave me some time.  I heard nothing for what seemed like minutes, then some insects, a bird, a frog, something scamper across the water, finally Carol’s breathing.

“Life’s more than human beings.”

“Sure.”

“Yeah, sure.  Most don’t know that or don’t care.”

We sat quietly for some time before a question I hadn’t thought of in advance came out of my mouth.  “How come I never see a car or truck at your place?”

“You know the answer.”

“You don’t have one.  And you don’t have a boat with a motor either.  How’d you make your living, El?”

El chuckled and pet Carol, who turned its head and appeared to smile.  “You’re starting to figure things out now, huh?  All of us Campbells are the same.  We all eventually come clean on the bad things we’ve done.”

“What did you do?”

“I worked in oil and gas.”

“Were you an executive?”

“No, not close.  I wasn’t important; I didn’t set policy.”

“But you still feel bad about your role?”

El gave some consideration to my question.  “I suppose there’s a place for guilt and remorse.  If you’ve done something, anything, that has an unfortunate consequence, you shouldn’t feel happy about it.  Or nothing at all.  But guilt and remorse aren’t enough.  And they shouldn’t take a person over.  They drag you down and don’t do anything to right whatever wrong has been done.  That requires action.”

“So you live out in the woods now by yourself.  No car, no motorboat.  Is that why you don’t go see your sons?”

El grabbed the paddle and set us in motion once more.  “I’m not a hermit or recluse.  And I’m certainly not a saint.  I still take more than I should.  But I’m doing something so I’m okay with that.”

“Your sons aren’t?”

“I don’t know.  You saw them, spoke to them.  What do you think?”

“I think they’re searching for answers.”

“I hope they find them.  It would give them more peace.  But yours truly can tell you, there’s a long road to recovery.”

We sat in silence for some time before El paddled us towards shore.  When we were a couple hundred feet away, Carol jumped out and swam beside the canoe.

“You got your story now?”

“I think so.”

“Good.  Now comes the hard part.”

El got out of the canoe and looked at me.  I thought maybe he would tell me what I needed to know but he just waved his palm up as a signal for me to get up and out.

“What do you mean?”

“You know.”

“Not this time.”

“That’s too bad.  Did your grandpa tell you about me?”

I hadn’t expected the question, so I paused before answering.  “Some.  He said you were in the Army together.”

“That’s right.  I owed him one.”

El and I stared at one another.  We both seemed to realize the other knew more than they were letting on.

My grandfather didn’t achieve much, not compared to the Campbells, but he managed to buy a house and raise a family after he came home from Vietnam.  His son, my father, was less successful.  He even spent some time in jail for a drug offense.  It was during the time when my father was away that my grandfather told me he’d done something for the father of two famous individuals.  He called it his duty but in light of his son’s predicament, he might have considered it his greatest accomplishment.  

I was just ten at the time and without any ambition or purpose, but for whatever reason, I made a mental note of the episode that was never mentioned again.  I never intended to ask for a favor, but I didn’t have the advantages of my co-workers who’d gone to school and gotten their jobs because of their connections. 

“I got it.”  

That’s the message I left for my editor as I drove away from El’s cabin.  She returned my call about an hour later, just as I reached the airport.

“When can I see it?”

I planned to tell her I’d start working on it on the flight home but was suddenly confused, distracted, by the road signs and vehicles indiscriminately crossing lanes.  I’d found the car rental return easy enough the first time I left El’s place but couldn’t do so when required to hold a conversation at the same time.  With two tasks competing for my attention, I found myself unable to concentrate on either.  Speechless and fearful as horns blared around me, I ended the call because driving safely seemed more important at that moment.   Even when I regained focus, I repeatedly twisted my neck and checked the mirrors, uncertain whether the road I was traveling would take me where I needed to be headed.   

Kevin Finnerty's stories have appeared in Eclectica Magazine, Newfound, Portage Magazine, Variety Pack, The Westchester Review, and other journals.