Bengie
“Mom! I hate beans! I hated beans before I was even born!”
Two big hazel eyes stared back pleadingly at me. There are few food groups Puck turns down, flat, but one of them is definitely beans. Just like his dad. The kid will stuff down any kind of meat, dairy, fruit, veg, or grain. But beans? Nope. I don’t know, I thought the baked beans were pretty good myself. Gloria had prepared them from Oxbear’s half-sister’s recipe. But there were also brats and potato chips and blackberries to go around, so Puck certainly didn’t starve.
It was a cold, gray afternoon. Church was over. Our little family found itself at the Silverspoon home where Izzy took a long nap after lunch, Theodore was in Texas, and Gloria helped us work through the visa nightmare after learning all about our experience in Disney World.
My evening was already reserved. After dropping the boys off back home with a sack of chocolate chip cookies, brisket, salad, and other items Gloria sent back, I picked Carrie-Bri up from the Big House.
Harpo’s. Chesterfield.
“Uh … I didn’t know it was going to be at this place,” Carrie said skeptically. “When I was here years ago, I asked the bar tender for a martini. He gave me a weird look and made one in a plastic cup. A plastic cup.”
It didn’t look promising, but the address was correct on the email ticket. Yadier Molina’s older brother, Bengie, was indeed speaking about his book there tonight.
When we walked in, he was already being filmed with a poster spread of the book. We took a table in the back, ordered tonic water with lime and a quesadilla to split.
It turned out to be a fun evening. Bengie was affable, friendly, talkative, and added in a few gemmy stories about Yadi that he had not included in the book. After a few questions were asked at the end: door prizes, including a few certificates for an hour in the batting cages.
“Can you imagine if we won one of those,” Carrie and I laughed. “We’d look so ridiculous.”
They called my ticket next. As I walked up front to receive the certificate, I realized that I had always wanted to try it out, just to see what it feels like to hit a few baseballs. I saved it with the copy of Bengie’s book, which he signed about half an hour later.
“Thanks for coming,” I said.
“No, thank you. Thank you.”
“Thank you so much,” I said again when he handed the book back.
“No, thank you. Thank you.”
I got to shake his hand as I left. He was a sweetie, sort of easy-going guy. Less super star, more “one of the other dads from church”.