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Buster’s Gift

Buster sits in the kitchen of his family’s bakery, wearing his baseball uniform. He wonders at the lights that buzz and blink; they begin to take on a mystical significance for him. He thinks of blinking, and wonders if everything can blink like eyes and lights. He begins to think of eyes as lights. He wonders if lights have memories.

His memory extends to exactly one half his current age of 11 (his birthday passed yesterday) to a day exactly like this day; he is all that has changed.

Edna shakes the measuring cup full of flour over the worn industrial mixer; the flour falls in clumps, and creates a cloud of dust. That’s exactly what she was doing when Buster’s consciousness decided to push the record button, five and a half years ago. The thought he recalls as first—the thought that he refers to as the first, only to himself, of course—one of flour, became a chain of thoughts seeping into the recesses of brain in search of a solution to the horrible problem of flour dust. The dust, of course, was not a problem, but how could it become bread if it were floating in the air. Buster, being an astute boy, realizes now that that first thought needed previous thoughts to have come into existence at all. For instance, how would he have thought that it was a horrible thing that flour was escaping bread without first having an idea of bread? That is why the flour-dust thought is so important to him; that is why he insists on retaining it in its position as first; through that thought he endeavors to search out all previous thoughts in his existence. He’s come quite far in this task. Because of it, he has fixed in his mind the majority of what has happened from his first day of Kindergarten, on. There have also been leaps back to the dog he played with when he was three, and watching his mother turn the crank on the ice-cream maker when he was four. Buster is patient; he’s sure to recollect the entirety of his life as far as humanly possible. His friend Kiara says that she can remember things from when she was one year old; his other friend Chris has memories of being three. There are, of course memories of Buster’s that get misplaced, even memories from after the first thought. He wonders about methods of organizing his memories in order to have quick access to everything that he’s ever experienced. He’s sure that this would be valuable.

—What are you dreaming about, Buster?

Edna tries her best to keep Buster from drifting off into his day-dreams. She has worked for the family for 34 years, in their bakery. It’s the best job she could have imagined for herself—the job itself is nice, but the feeling of having a real place that comes from working closely with a family is what makes it worthwhile. She takes credit for having a hand in raising Buster and his four older siblings. The others have all grown up with level heads and become successful adults. She worries about Buster. It’s obvious from his grades, after five years in school, that he doesn’t have much intelligence. All he has going for him is Baseball, and he can’t even keep his head on that.

—How was your practice today?

Buster holds a rolling pin, rolling it across the table toward a ball of dough. He moves the pin somewhat like a baseball bat, weighing the effect of the lack of the influence of gravity, as it goes careening into the dough ball.

—Homerun.

—Why don’t you think about the game when you’re supposed to be playing it? Your daddy’s going to thump you if you don’t start paying attention out on that field. Boy, you sit around here all afternoon talking about that ball, and what if it spins this way, and what if it spins the other way—and then you go out there and stick your head in the clouds.

—You know how dad says to keep my eye on the ball?

—That’s exactly what you need to do. Don’t think of nothin’ else.

—Well, what does that mean, to keep my eye on the ball? Doesn’t it mean to focus my eye on the light that’s coming off the ball? How fast do you think my eye can see the light from the ball?

Edna, concerned for the consistency of the dough that she’s mixing, shrugs her shoulder, perhaps only reflecting on her own questions of baking.

—What happens when my eye sees the light? Does it make my arms move? Could it make my arms move as fast as the light moves? Mrs. Creen said that light moves very fast. If I swung at the ball as fast as light, do you think it would turn to dust?

—I don’t know anything about what a baseball would do.

—If it didn’t turn to dust, do you think it would fly into space? That would be a world record.

—You and your records. Well, I’m sure if you practice like you’re supposed to, you’ll hit that ball into a world record someday. How about if you wash your hands and separate some eggs for me?

—Mr. Willard asked us today, “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” Have you ever heard of such a question?

—Boy, that’s the oldest question there is. Careful not to get any shell.

—I can’t answer that question. There’s too much to think about.

—You just have to train yourself to think properly; then you can answer any question.

—What about this question? Which do you like better, the chicken or the egg?

—No, now. You can’t just twist a question around to get out of answering. That’s like quitting. What if your daddy heard you saying something that sounded like quitting?

—But I like eggs better than chicken. You should like eggs better too. You can’t make bread out of a chicken. Do you like eggs better?

Edna does not like answering silly questions. She has always tried to make that clear to Buster by changing the subject—or rather, bringing the discussion back around to its original topic.

—How many laps around the field did you run today?

—About eight hundred thousand. I wasn’t counting. I started running at 1:00, and finished running at 1:30. If I knew how fast I was going, I bet there’s a way to tell how many times I ran around the field. I’d also have to know how far the field is around, huh? Maybe if I went out and timed my self at my usual speed for one lap, then I could always guess how many laps I ran just by the time. Do you think I should do that? Then I wouldn’t have to think about counting the laps while I’m running.

—Buster, you should do something about clearing up that head of yours. You’ll never get anywhere if you let yourself think up confusion upon confusion. Your daddy should be home to work on your pitching soon.

—I’m going to show him a new pitch that I learned today. It’s sideways. Isn’t it weird that your shoulder can turn all around and throw from different angles?

—I’m sure you’ll learn a lot more techniques than that before you get to the majors.

—Mrs. Creen said that the odds of a person getting into the major league were not good enough to expect to actually get there. She said that a person would be better off to hold their breath until they won the lottery.

—Well, your daddy says that you have talent, one in a million talent. That teacher of yours just doesn’t know talent when she sees it.

—Do you think it’s best to start off believing that I have talent? Or do you think I should doubt it first, and put it to the test?

Edna lifts the towel over the bread that she’s raising. She presses two fingers halfway into the soft mass, hoping that her impression will remain.

—I don’t know what difference that would make. You should just know that you can do whatever you set out to do.

—Do you think there’s a difference between what a person believes and what a person knows? Mr. Willard said that knowing something is more important than believing something. I don’t think that’s right. He said that he could prove it by saying first that he believes that he left his keys in his car, and then saying that he knows he left his keys in his car. He said that the knowing one was more important.

—Well, boy, you have to have faith.

—But isn’t faith something totally different from both of them? Isn’t faith something that goes along with knowing? Don’t you have to have faith in what you know? Mrs. Creen said that all human knowledge is only theory waiting to be disproved. But belief should come from what has happened to you, so you shouldn’t need faith if you believe.

—Shouldn’t need faith? That sounds like blasphemy. You better watch yourself son.

—Isn’t blasphemy taking the Lord’s name in vain? Wouldn’t what I said be more like sacrilege?

—Is this what you’re doing out on that field when that ball goes whizzing by you all the time? Are you out there thinking yourself in circles, thinking up more and more confusion for yourself?

Buster’s mom, a middle-aged, almost haggard woman with thick and lustrous silver hair, comes into the kitchen, knowing exactly where to find her son: seated beside the enormous table, where he has worn a smooth spot in the wood surface from years of playing with the rolling pin. She has told her husband several times that Buster has a real interest in baking, but he has always maintained that the boy’s thoughts are on baseball, even in the kitchen.

—Your dad’ll be here in a minute, Buster. Are you ready for your practice? Have you had anything to eat lately?

—I had some milk and a sandwich after practice. But I think I’m too busy to practice.

His father enters the kitchen as this is being pronounced.

—What ‘n hell do you mean, too busy? It’s Saturday! I left work early to keep you on track with your pitching. If you have homework, you can get to that later.

—Oh, I was just joking, Buster says with a start. Did you get that new mitt?

Buster’s father volunteers as an assistant coach for Buster’s team. A photograph of his high-school senior year baseball team is displayed on the living-room mantle, as though an icon for Buster. He’s a man with an exact amount of body-fat, which could be measured with the precision machined instrument of his jaw-line, or the color scale of his silver to black hair. He pushes his son hardest of all the team members, feeling a sense of camaraderie with the fathers of past baseball greats; he’s sure that his son is to become one, and knows that it will take a great deal of sacrifice on his part.

The park is only two blocks from the bakery, which is on the street behind their house. Buster tries to count the steps that it takes to get there. He wonders why there is such a big difference in the number of steps between different trips. He doesn’t always get very far in counting; his father usually recounts the current baseball statistics to him on the way to the park.

His father throws the ball to him, and he catches it. He throws the ball back. His father throws the ball to him, and he doesn’t catch it. He runs to get it as it rolls away.

—Goddammit, Buster! What in hell ’s ‘a matter with you? How’re you gonna get where you need to be if you won’t apply the least bit of brain power to catchin’ the goddamn ball? Do you even think about anything you’re doing?

Buster knows that he has not been thinking about catching the ball. He has been thinking about how hard it would be to throw the ball that far if it were made of iron. He has been thinking that it would be just as difficult to throw a paper ball that far, as it would be to throw one of iron. He has been thinking that baseballs are made perfectly for what they have to do. Buster tries to remind himself that his father is always telling him to concentrate, and that although he always means to concentrate, something always gets in the way; he knows that it’s something he has to work on.

As the family is sitting around the television that night, Buster tries to come to grips with his father’s expectations for potential. He decides that he will use his mind for what it’s meant for. He decides that he is smart enough to concentrate on what he needs to concentrate on. He sits pretending to watch the TV, picturing in his mind a ball hurtling toward his catcher’s mitt, picturing his arm placing that mitt exactly in the path of the ball, feeling the ball seating itself securely in the palm of the mitt. He pictures the ball flying toward its immanent and necessary collision with his bat. He feels the crack and zing of the handle with the solid, square hit. He repeats these images to himself over and over.

—What are you thinking about Buster? his mom asks.

He has let his eyes drift away from the TV, and is staring at the nondescript pattern on the wallpaper.

—Baseball, he says, and stands up.

—That’s my boy, his father says. Getting your game plan together, huh?

—Yeah. I’m going to go to bed.

—You get rested up. Tomorrow ‘s Sunday, so we’re gonna do some work on that pitching arm.



He throws the ball as hard as he can. He swings out to the side and feels the blood rush to his hand as he releases the ball. A thought of all of the circles involved in baseball tries to rise up in his mind. He squashes the thought, and tries to imagine the ball being caught by his dad as he releases it. He begins to imagine himself being a robot, programmed only to play this game; he squashes that thought too, realizing that it will distract him.

Slowly, there is a narrowing of allowable thoughts; each thought is checked by Buster for appropriateness and relevance. This list takes several weeks to compile mentally. The difficulty is that being mindful of irrelevant thoughts is itself irrelevant to the thought of baseball, but it will have to be at least partially allowed, for a time. He is sure that after a while thinking nothing but baseball will become natural and easy. He realizes the trouble: Even thoughts relating to baseball can at times be irrelevant to the action of the moment.



Buster sits in the kitchen of his family’s bakery, wearing his baseball uniform. He watches Edna kneading a small batch of specialty dough by hand. It has been weeks since he sat here last.

—Your momma said your school sent home a letter.

—I know. My teachers think I’m not concentrating in class.

—Are you trying to concentrate? Sometimes people can’t keep up. But sometimes they just aren’t trying.

—I know about concentration. I’m concentrating with all my mind. I just don’t have time to think about what the teacher is saying.

This is enough to confirm for Edna her prior conviction, that Buster does not have the mental power to deal with any sort of intellectual pursuit. All of her doubts about his baseball talent are washed in a sea of mercy—overshadowed by conviction. She convinces herself that “this child will become the next Wayne Gretsky of baseball.”

—Tell me what’s happening in professional baseball today. Has anyone made any world records yet this season?

—Not yet. Dad said that world records won’t be invented until I get to the major leagues. That’s true, you know.

—I know.

Edna measures out hot water and yeast, sugar and olive oil, with a spoonful of salt for the next batch of dough. These she pours in succession into the mixer with a feeling of contentment with her life. She waits for a few minutes, watching Buster’s eyes focused on some spot beyond the wall, and dumps a cupful of flour into the industrial mixer.

As the flour-dust spouts out of the bowl of the mixer and fills the room with white, Buster imagines tapping his bat on the home plate. The dust jumps into the air, concealing his view of the direction in which he points his bat.

—I know, she says with relief.


©Neal Page
10/10/2006