When I was a teenager, me and my frie3nds would go to a baseball game in grand rapids Michigan. we cheered for the West Michigan Whitecaps. This story was about the first time we went to a game: enjoy.
Welcome, descendants of the pilgrims, to the world of Wyoming, Michigan; a nice, small town suburb of Grand Rapids, and my hometown. From here comes a tale of epic proportions that lingers in my mind of days of innocence as a preteen so few yet so many years old. Life was different than: simpler without hostility from the enemy called time. Before time could ransack a landmark small business, I was enjoying life going to and fro down the corner of the neighborhood block to a place called Bob’s Foodland. It was a local grocery store ran by an elderly family—whose names I forget. They sold candy, pop, ice cream, meats, and chips to name a few goodies; there were tootsie rolls for 5 cents and blow pops for 10 cents. It was a bargain for any little boy man who hungered for sweets. The store was a local hang out for kids my age, and some occasionally loitered the building before buying something. Any boy would be glad to use their allowance money to buy their favorite candy and RC cola: I was one of them. As I recall, I had a job as a paper boy—I know this was an ancient occupation, but it gave me the money I needed to gain my goodies. Rain, snow, or shine those papers would be at the doors, and Bob’s Foodland would always be at the corner of 36th street and Bryan Center avenue.
Remember this was the late 1990s when Bill Clinton was president, and 9/11 was a nightmare imagined by the devil. Times were pure and full of little joys and friendships, and I had a few friends to hang out with at that time. They were my church friends who were my mom’s friend’s sons: their mother was nicknamed my other mom, and I and her two youngest boys were very close. We hung out all the time in my parent’s neighborhood house as well as my other mother’s house in Grandville. One day as the sun sizzled in the blue sky, and the summer rains were conceived in the mind of God for our good, my friends—Matt and Justin—and I were walking up the street from my parent’s navy blue house. We were talking, walking, and laughing our way to the landmark store on the corner. The sun was high and the afternoon made these good times that much more enjoyable. Having good friends is a blessing for any young boy man. Well, we went up the main street as slow as a turtle, and at one point when we had to cross the road, the opportunity was clear enough to jaywalk across the asphalt desert. I know this was illegal, but boys will be boys, so they say.
Well, we came across the desert without any dangers, and resumed toward paradise with the sweat of our brows and our spirits high. In the meantime, my friends and I made nicknames for ourselves to past the time as though our own creative vanities ruled our human nature. I was known as Bob, Matt was considered the Great Bob, and Justin was called—it escapes me for the moment, but Bob was in his name. We had a good laugh for those ridiculous names that were just boys playing with words: Adam in the Garden of Eden would be proud. Minute by minute we inched our way toward the store unaware of what awaited our boyish minds. We passed colorful houses to the right of us and the cars passed us by on the left; those houses each had a history of their own, but we hadn’t had the time to check them out. When we finally reached the building on the side facing 36th street, we saw advertisements on big poster paper: they all were talking about a sale for meat in the store. We were thrilled by it, but one poster stood out above the rest: it said butt roast. I don’t remember how much it cost, but we all laughed at the poster, and one of us yelled out: “Peanuts, Pop corn, Butt Roast!” We laughed again at the predicament, and strolled our way inside the store. We rewarded ourselves for the long, short journey with a pop and some candy as usual, but the poster was forever written in our minds from that day forward.
After a brief loitering session in paradise, we went back to my parent’s house the way we came. It was a long and tedious journey back home, but it was well worth it for the memories that captivated us that day and the good moments that we would make later on. As though this brief summer excitement wasn’t enough for the short summer skies, we happened to add another good piece of history later on that summer, Matt, Justin, and I as well as my mom and possibly my other mom went to an American pastime: we went to a baseball game. More specifically, we went to a Grand Rapids Whitecaps game; it’s a thrill to enjoy each other’s company and watch America’s game. We had good seats on the bottom of the box seats at the upper rows—I believe they were blue seats. We were very close to the first base line, and saw the bright blue sky smiling on this joyful game. So, we sat and talked as the game was progressing along, and we laughed and enjoyed our conversations. Every now and then we noticed the men and women walking up and down the aisles yelling out for beer or cotton candy or peanuts. One man walked up the stairs saying: “Peanuts!”. My friends and I looked at each other, and one of us yelled out: “Peanuts, Pop Corn, Butt Roast!”, and our laughter echoed across the field—no one heard it but us. It’s possible that the man who was selling the peanuts ran away from a bunch of crazy boys.
Each pitch and throw and hit enraptured the crowd and us, and every steal stole the hearts of their fans. One strike, two strikes, three strikes, and we’re all out of our minds cheering and hoping for a home team victory. I don’t recall the score of the game: it was a short, long time ago, but I was too naive to discover a good team when I see one. However, that didn’t seem to matter to me and my friends, what came to mind was the joy of our friendship and artful talents of good conversations. With each passing pitch, we ate hot dogs and pop: Hot dogs were a dollar at that game—we each had one. We chewed and swallowed a little piece of heaven as the players chewed up the playing field. There were several times when the echoes of our laughter reached to heaven when one of us yelled, “Peanuts, Pop Corn, Butt Roast!” I was surprised that no one tried to shut us up or tried to intimidate us for our fun, but everyone didn’t care about three little humble boys playing around when a good game was being played. Minor league legends walked in and out of that field that day telling us their history and how good they really were, but all that meant nothing to us for we had joy without the game in progress.
The echoes of joy didn’t help the Whitecaps win the game, but that’s a lost willing to take for a good memory—I guess it was in our genes to have a joyful time with each other. After the game was done, we strolled through the stands, out of the arena, and into my mother’s convertible car. The day turned to twilight, and the sky was pink with beauty and God’s love for the inhabitances that sojourner on this fragile rock. It was a slow fast bumper to bumper drive out of the stadium and onto the highway, and I recall that we jammed to good music at the time. The twilight slowly turned to darkness, and the ghosts and goblins of the Whitecaps lose didn’t affect the outcome of our fun. On the highway, we journeyed at the speed of light to make it to my friends and their mom’s house in Grandville; after dropping them off, we returned home passing by Bob’s Foodland still high in majesty with small business glory. The moon appeared when we arrived home, and the thoughts of butt roast tickled my imagination even during my good night sleep—all the nightmares of life went away for a brief moment.
It has been a few many years since that time, and Bob’s Foodland was still alive and well for those years. But, time went on and presidents rose and fell, and this preteen boy man became an adult man with jobs and responsibilities. I wanted to see the old landmark on the corner, but things had changed: the childhood paradise wasn’t there anymore. It became a family video. How the building fell down and turned into a corporate sellout is beyond this soberly drunk mind to comprehend. The memories of the place still remained in my thoughts: times of RC cola and Twizzlers, times of chips and tootsie rolls and blow pops, times of family values and small business loitering. I miss those days. The building maybe gone, but the building in my mind’s eye still remains, and will remain for however long I live. I hope it remains in the minds of my friends who moved on with lives of their own, and my lonely heart grieves the loss.