A Quiet Man, and a Love of the Game...

My grandfather was an interesting man. He passed when I was 18, so I really never got to relate to him on a "man to man" level. As a child, I spent many a night at my grandparents house. He would sit in his chair, watch the news and smoke his pipe. Rarely did he speak inside the house.

They lived on a few acres of land close to the intersection of I-70 and I-435 by Royals Stadium (Kauffman). He kept horses in a make shift barn. If I was lucky I would get to ride them. If I was unlucky, they bit me. They had a wood burning stove. So, every once in awhile I would have to help chop wood. I hated it. I still hate it. I would rather buy it from 7-11 then chop it myself.

One of these times, while chopping wood, I missed hitting the piece of wood with the ax head. I hit the handle on the wood just below the head. I was terrified that I would get in trouble. Not that he ever yelled at me. I was just used to getting in trouble for things like that with my step-father, and my perception was that my grandfather and step-father were close, and I would receive a similar outcome from him (later I realized my perception was wrong. They were nothing alike). So, I called for my grandfather, preparing for doom. He strolled over to me in his dark blue down filled coat and his work hat, pipe hanging from his mouth and asked me what was the matter. I told him I had broke the ax. I cringed a little waiting for his response. He looked at me. He looked at the ax. He looked back at me, this time right square in the eye, tiny little smile in his eyes and said, "You show me someone that never broke nothin' in his life, I'll show you someone who never worked in his life. There's another ax in the shed. Go get it." He turned around and walked off. I stood there stunned. Then I went and got the ax.

The best memories I have of Buford Parsons were the ones that happened at night in the summer time. My grandparents had separate bedrooms. And, I swear in my heart, my grandfather was grateful for it. But, in the summer, in the evening was Royals baseball on the radio. He had two twin beds in his room. One he slept in and another. Every evening in the summer I stayed there, after all the chores were done, and dinner was done, we would go into his room and turn on the radio. I laid in one bed, he in the other. The radio sat in the open window. The cool summer nights breeze would come through swirled with the sounds of Fred White (RIP) and Denny Mathews describing the baseball antics of George Brett, Amos Otis and Frank White. We would just listen. And if the Royals were home, and something great happened, you could faintly hear the crowd in the distance.

When I was young I loved baseball. I lived and breathed it. I knew the all the Royals stats to the day. I read baseball history books like I was eating cake. And, you know what, until this very moment, I don't think I realized why this love appeared in my heart. It was because of my grandfather. He didn't talk much.

But, I sure learned a lot.

Thanks grampa.

Music is life,

Albert