Bubblegum
by michael egenolf

My name is Max, though I wouldn’t expect you to know that. Not sure there’s a soul still alive would know that. I haven’t been Max in a very long time.
I used to lie in bed at night and dream of hearing my name, like thunder from God, coming through the speakers. I’d lay there and smile. I’d hear the chants, Max, Max, Max!
Never heard it once though. Not once, in all these years.
I was eleven when it happened. That’s over a thousand and fifty full moons ago if you’re keeping score. I woke up like any other eleven year old. It was eight in the morning in the middle of July and the Mississippi sun was already scorching the devil out of the dust. And we were already on the diamond.

Billy Joe, everybody called him aces, was up to bat. Kenny No-legs reared back and threw him a spitter. Aces swung with all his might and missed the ball by a foot and a half. That was one of his better swings. The boys all blasted their cat calls. The thing about Aces is he couldn’t hit a lick, but his smile never dimmed and he kinda liked the attention.

And that’s when it happened.
Aces had swung with all his might, like he always does, but this time, the bat was no longer in his hands. It was hurtling end over end directly towards my face.

I never saw it coming.

I had a certain affinity for this new chewing stuff they were packing in with the baseball cards. I’d shove six or seven pieces at a time in my mouth and when it got nice and soft, I’d blow the biggest bubbles this side of the mighty Mississippi. That’s why I didn’t see the bat coming. The bubble coming out of my mouth was bigger’n my head.
The bat hit the bubble full on and there were two loud pops! One was the bubble bursting, and the other was my nose shattering and being rammed into my brain.

I pretty much slept the rest of the summer. Doctors said I was lucky. Had the bone fragment traveled another quarter inch, I may have been dead, not just in a coma. That huge pink balloon of deliciousness coming outta my mouth probably saved my life.
I’ve been Bubblegum ever since.

Played pro ball for almost 20 years. Had my face with my crooked nose on many baseballs cards squeezed in between many sticks of that pink delight. But every single one of them said Bubblegum. Bubblegum Magee. That’s me.

Well, I’m 99 years old. That broken nose and coma were a long, long time ago. I still get invited to speak at a sports banquet or baseball card convention now and again. I still go when I can. I’ll still sign an autograph if for some reason someone has the notion to ask for it.  I’ve had a good life. Played the game I love, made a lot of friends and a lot of good memories. Even got one of those bronze busts sitting in Canton.

I’m about to turn 100. That’s a long time to walk this mortal coil. I think it’s time to give bubblegum a rest.

“Hey Bubblegum, you’re on!”

Well, got another convention crowd to say hello to. Been a good life. I walk up to the man running the show and offer my outstretched hand. He takes it. I flash my smile, “call me Max,” I said.

And stepped through the curtain.