phillip gillis 
A bat (lightly used) waiting on the next batter. By phillip gillis
I’m 44 years old…
The Pete Rose Little League All Star baseball bat is propped in the corner of the bedroom between the bookcase with my Flannery O’Connor collection and the table beside my bed. Light through the window bounces off the glossy sheen on the dark Adirondack logo above the handle, but the “e” in Rose on the barrel and the “08” on the knob are almost completely faded.
The bat moves around the house from time to time – beside the sink in the bathroom, next to the side door at the carport, and once in a while, it makes its way to my son’s room.
Did you use to play baseball when you were a kid? Where’d that come from? You ever used it in a rasslin’ match? I think Pete Rose should be in the Hall of Fame. Gambling ain’t as bad as what some folks do. That your burglar deterrent?
I pick it up and run my hand over the lifetime of nicks and marks and notches and remember how much heavier it used to feel in my hand.
***
I’m 35 years old…
My two oldest children wrestle in the middle of my grandparents’ living room over the bat.
“Give it to me,” Darby says.
“No!” Jack tugs it away.
“Give it to ME!”
“No!”
“Hey. Hey. Hey,” my grandpa says with that half-hearted Deda reprimand look on his face.. “Be careful before you break something.”
“Now, George,” my grandma says. “There ain’t nothing in this house them sweet babies can break that we can’t fix.” I smile. “And when y’all leave, I think you can take that bat with you. I got my great-grandbabies, and besides, that’s what your uncle would want.”
And I did.
***
I’m 26 years old…
We finish the lunch of stew, salted ham, and biscuits, and I start shuffling the Rook cards.
“I’ve been meaning to give this to you,” my grandmother says as she pulls a baseball bat out from behind the cupboard in her dining room.
My mom stops clearing the table and her expression changes.
“Was that –”
Grandma replaces it back behind the cupboard.
“But –”
I stop shuffling the cards.
“He –”
I put the deck of cards back in the box and lean over to my mom.
“How about I leave it here for a few more years? Who knows? You might have a grandbaby one day.” She smiles. “And Mema might get a great-grandbaby who needs to play with it.”
“Now you think I’m gonna get a great-grandbaby some day?”
“Maybe one day, Mema.”
***
I’m 19 years old…
Across the driveway beside my grandparents’ house, the green grass stretches from the gravel to the garden with rows of newly planted green beans. Tin sheds holding lawnmowers and an antique tractor, patched together barns, a collection of rusted cars from from the 1950s and 1960s, and the dense woods border the yard, and in the middle of the field, Deda made a basketball goal out of a rough-hewn telephone pole, rusted rim, and a piece of plywood with a few lines painted on it.
My two little cousins use it for a game they made up that is a combination of baseball and basketball with a version of Tag. They use frisbees for first, second, and third base but use the basketball pole as homebase.
“So tell me the rules again.”
They blurt out their version of the rules: Since nobody else wanted to play we had to come up with this and it is like baseball because you stand at the pole, toss the ball up in the air, hit it, and run the bases while the other person runs after that ball and you run the bases and if you get back home before they do you get one point but if you can get back home and make a shot on the basketball goal then you get an extra point.
Propped against the pole is the Pete Rose bat.
“Where did you find that old thing?” I ask them. They shrug. “Why don’t I go inside and get all our parents to come out and play softball or kickball or something.”
“OK. Whatever.” And they run off.
***
I’m eight years old…
“Mema, can I play with this bat?” I ask.
She puts the lid back on the pot of string beans on the stove.
“Where did you find that?” Mema asks without turning around. I jump up the two stairs separating the kitchen from the living room.
“It was way back there behind all that stuff over there in that corner. Can I have it?”
She looks at me with a look that makes me want to run over and grab her and tell her I love her.
“It was your uncle’s.”
“Uncle Donnie?”
“No.”
“Uncle John?” She shakes her head side to side. I look up at the faded picture on the wall beside the steps – a 16-year-old high school student with shoulder length hair and that Phillips family smirk.
My Uncle Darrell.
***
I’m almost six months old…
It is Christmas Eve.
A phone call.
The report says my uncle fell asleep while driving.
He was 16.
The Pete Rose bat he just bought his nephew rests on the back seat of his car.
***
I’m five months old…
My uncle looks down at me and rubs his hand over my curly hair. “Wilma, you and Urel sure do make handsome babies. Now you gotta let him have long hair like his uncle.” He looks over at his oldest sister – my mom. She smiles at her baby brother.
“You also gonna make him wear those shirts with the little alligators on them?”
With his free hand, my uncle straightens the collar of his white polo. “Well I just might have to get him his first Izod shirt sooner rather than later.”
“OK. I’m glad you got to come down and spend the day with us.”
“Me, too,” he says. “Besides, he’s my first nephew. And who knows? Maybe one day he’ll be like his uncle and play baseball.”
“Maybe.” My dad hugs my mom. “Or he could play softball like his mama or his aunt.”
“Well then I guess somebody better get him a baseball bat soon.” He kisses the top of my head. “And you know Pete Rose is my favorite player.”
***
I’m 44 years old again…
Our family has increased by two – the twins have arrived. The six of us and two dogs, Duchess and Luna, are in the living room.
Jack sits on the rust-colored loveseat listening to When You Were Young as Duchess sleeps beside him. Darby flops down on one end of the sofa with Luna in her arms. Candace is on the other end with Elodie curled up on her chest. I recline in my chair and hold Rosalie, who snuggles down between my forearm and stomach.
The Pete Rose Little League All Star baseball bat leans against the closet door next to me.
“Hey! I remember that bat. Where’d it come from?”
