Seeing by Hearing – The Blind Man Above Home Plate

It was a glorious Sunday afternoon in August.  A rarity for DC – low humidity, a gentle Summer breeze and we had plenty of shade covering us.   The air was filled with the smell of grilled onions, burgers and hickory smoked barbecue while shouts of “Beer man here!  Beer here!” came from guys hauling ice filled chests of Bud, Heineken and Stella.  My family and I and some friends were at the Nationals Stadium off of the Anacostia waterfront to watch our beloved home town team take on the San Francisco Giants.

Secured in our seats in Section 416, we sat shaded in the upper deck taking in the view of the quickly changing Washington skyline.  An area of DC that at one time could be best described as a “rough section” of town was now home to a first place baseball team and new gleaming development at every corner.  Immediately below our seats rolled out before us was a perfectly manicured baseball diamond.  As field attendants put their final sweeps and edging trims to it, ballplayers finished their warm up runs and went to their respective dugouts or field positions.  It was picture postcard perfect.  Even Norman Rockwell couldn’t argue about the Americana glow that my family and friends found ourselves awash in.

Almost immediately after we took our seats, an older thin man, sporting a floppy hat, a full beer and a long white cane started to make his way to the row before us.  While answering the questions of my youngest child about the names and numbers on the ring of honor, I watched him tap his way up the steps.  Holding his printed ticket, he asked the man at the end of the row where he stopped what row it was.  Hearing the answer, the blind man took one more step up to the row he was supposed to be in and gently tapped his way four seats over, bent over to place his cane on the concrete floor, folded the seat down and plopped himself down, never once spilling a drop of his beer.  I sat there in quiet awe of this man.

I couldn’t help but think of my own family’s rush to our seats moments before the National Anthem was performed.  There were five us, with full power of sight and motion, zipping our way around the stadium trying to figure out how to get to the upper section.  Seeing an usher he told us what to do and we got there in time, finding our friends already in their seats waving to us to join them. 

But here was this man who came in by himself and gently tapped his way through the metal detectors at the front gate, through the mass of Nationals and Giants fans that flooded the concourse decks to buy their food and drinks; through the beer line to get suds of his choice and then up to Section 416, Row C, Seat 16, in complete darkness. 

I have enough trouble making my way to the bathroom in the middle of the night bleary eyed and zombie like without knocking over a dresser and waking the entire house up.  This man made it through a maze of circles, ramps, escalators, stairs and rows with people constantly milling about, yelling and talking in all manner of direction… and his beer was as full as if had just been poured and set on a bar counter for him to consume.

Not wanting to be rude even though I know he couldn’t see me, I didn’t want to stare at him so I turned my attention to the field where the game was about to get underway.  But I couldn’t help but be drawn to him.  I hoped a friend might be joining him but he sat there by himself for some time seeming to soak in everything around him.

As the announcer gave the name of each batter over the blaring walk up music that each of them had, I watched the blind man sip his beer, put it in the cup holder of the seat that rested towards his feet from the seat the row in front of him. He then dug both of his hands deep into the pockets of his khaki slacks.  From one side pocket he took out a bag of roasted peanuts and from the other he pulled out a small transistor radio. Shelling peanuts with one hand and holding the radio up to his ear, he proceeded to listen to the radio play-by-play announcers describe every movement of the game.  Like a sponge you could see him soaking in all of the crowd cheers, ballpark smells and energy around him.  He had his own virtual reality experience courtesy of the seat, smells and energy and the truth was he was probably getting more out of the game than anyone else with perfect vision and a score book.

As guilty as I felt about watching him, I have to admit I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.   His ears were his eyes, his nose took in all of the aromas that baseball fans covet, and the gentle summer breeze kept him comfortable enough as he was surrounded by the energy of the fans in the stands around him. 

In watching him take everything in I couldn’t help but remember my old college boss James Farmer who I used to drive to school.  Like the man seated in front of me, Farmer too was blind and would use a cane from time to time to maneuver his way around but he depended more on the kindness of others or student aides like me to get him from one place to the next. 

When it was time to go class, or across campus for a meeting or even to my car, Farmer would take your arm with a gentle grip and say something like, “We can go now dear…” and then laugh with this rich booming baritone voice of his while rolling his head back emitting an electric smile that could mesmerize the crowd around him.

While he was a popular professor, Farmer was a living icon from the Civil Rights movement.  He was the last living member of the Big 4 of the Civil Rights movement leadership. He was the founder of CORE – the Congress of Racial Equality and the architect and organizer of the famous Freedom Rides that further helped shock a nation into realizing the evils of segregation.  While Martin Luther King, Jr. was the primary face, leader and voice to the Civil Rights movement, Farmer was the tactician, the chess player and strategist operating many times behind the scenes ready to counter any move the movement’s opponents would make. 

And here he was a blind man, on my arm walking through campus, or sitting in the front seat of my 1980 Chevy Citation singing a song or talking about the events of the day.

One of my fondest memories of Dr. Farmer was talking about boxing.  Farmer would long bellow on and on about the fighters of yesteryear.  They had names like Joe Louis, Muhammed Ali, Joe Frazier and George Foreman.  Farmer knew all of them personally in some shape or form.  He had even watched some of them train and fight in person.  In countering his memories of the Mount Rushmore crowd of the boxing ring that he knew firsthand, I had been watching a young fighter out of Brooklyn that was starting to rocket through the heavyweight ranks that I thought could hold his own with that crowd.  It was a late teens fighter who was taking his opponents out in seconds, not rounds. His name was Mike Tyson. 

I practically cringe in writing that name now especially given all of the less than impressive history Tyson would bring upon himself but I will never forget what Farmer had to say about him. 

While sitting at a stop light on Route 3 outside of Fredericksburg, Farmer turned and looked at me and said, “Rich the man can’t take a punch.  He doesn’t train to take a punch.  He can deliver one but if you can’t take one, you are one blow away from sweet dreams in front of a crowd of thousands.  Just you watch…”

In hearing him make this assessment of a fighter I know he had never seen fight I couldn’t hold back anymore.  “Okay, I have to ask you because you are blowing my mind.  How can you say that about a fighter you’ve never seen fight? I mean, you’re blind right?”

As the light changed green, I continued the drive towards campus and Farmer did his classic head roll back, roared in laughter and clapped his hands, “Rich I can see more with my ears than most people with perfect version!”

He then proceeded to explain that when his son-in-law had the boxing matches on TV he would not only listen to sportscaster’s description of the fight but listen to the timing and cadence of the punches the fighters would deliver in the ring. 

Trying to keep my eyes on the road and not looking at him in utter disbelief I asked, “But how do you know who is punching who when you hear the blows going back and forth?”

“Well that’s where the sportscaster helps me out.  He’s telling me who’s pounding who and I take it from there,” and then he would laugh again.

“And I’m telling you Rich, Tyson can’t take a punch.  And if he ever fights George Foreman it’s SWEET DREAMS for Mikey!”

In watching this blind man shell the peanuts from his bag, listen to his transistor radio and soak in the game, I thought of my old boss and friend and the lesson he taught me about seeing with my ears when my eyes wouldn’t let me take in what was around me.

As innocuous as what he was doing might be, the example of the man seated in the row in front of me is testament to the human spirit of belonging.  While it probably would have been much easier for him to have pulled a beer from his fridge, grabbed a bag of peanuts from his pantry and turned on the radio at his home and slide back into an easy chair, he was out, about and taking in all of the hustle and bustle of an energetic sports stadium.

The truth is for as good as the Nationals may have played on the field that day (and throughout much of this season), I found his play-by-play to be even more inspiring.

As the game went on, I started to watch him less and less and before I knew it I looked over and he was gone.

Somewhere in the midst of the game, he had gotten up and left.

Maybe it was because he wanted to avoid the postgame crush of fans rushing to the exits.  Or maybe he just had enough and wanted to go home.  Whatever his reason was, I found another inspiration to my life in a quiet blind man, sipping a beer, shelling peanuts and watching a baseball game with his ears and other senses.

My biggest regret of the day is not going over to say hello to him and taking in the game alongside of him since no one had joined him.   

Maybe he wouldn’t have wanted the company but I could not help but marvel at the spirit of independence he put on display for me and others to observe.  He was out enjoying one of the finer things in life – a gorgeous August day at a vibrant ballpark with America’s past time unfolding before him.

I hope I get to see him again at the ballpark either this season or next.

But next time I won’t be so shy in not saying Hello to him.  I’d love to know how he does what he does and in the process never spill a drop of beer and still soak everything in around him.  Something tells me he’s seen a lot more in life than I have and I’d like to learn how to see even more.

And I think I’ll buy him a beer too…