Pitching the Ball

I got a call from one of my brothers, Pete, this morning. If you're keeping score, he's number four in line if you count from back (where I'm standing) to front. At one point Pete said: "Did you know that Jim was in Houston last week?"

Jim is in position number three in this 1974 picture.

We could be here all day if I decided to tell you about Jim so let me cut to the chase and say that none of his siblings have seen Jim since 2001. When Mom died, Jim said he was planning to be in the states in December when his daughter graduated from college and he would be up then to "visit the gravesites."

Though I didn't take a survey, I'm pretty sure none of his siblings believed him.

Sure enough, he came to the states for his daughter's graduation but left without contacting any of us.

Jim and my Mom had a difficult relationship. I was too young when he was born to remember the roots of it. But we all acknowledge that as he grew up, Jim's distinguishing characteristics became anger and impatience (which is really anger at the world for not making us the center of the universe, when you come to think about it).

So back to my conversation with Pete. After commenting on Jim's non-travel plans, Pete said "What do you suppose he's angry about this time?"

My reply was that Jim's anger, which he feeds and keeps well, always seems misdirected, that if X happens, he's sure to get angry about Y when Z is actually the cause. Then Pete told me this story that really summed Jim up.

We were young, and my three oldest brothers—Don, Jim and Pete—were playing ball in the yard. Pete was pitching, Don batting, Jim catching. Pete threw, Don swung and caught a piece of the ball. It hopped up—and hit Jim in the face.

Jim, enraged, stood up and lit off after Pete. "What are you hitting me for?" Pete asked. "I didn't hit you with the ball."

"But you pitched it," Jim roared.

So Jim sits in Peru, nursing an anger no one in his family understands but him. What an impractical—and sad—way to live a life.