As you got to know him, it became easier to tell when Walter Sinkers had ordered more than a few glasses of bourbon. He would stand up from the bar slowly, clinking the ice cubes in his glass, and dig through all of the pockets of his overcoat before lifting his chin up and saying something under his breath like “they stole my got-damn lighter.” Next, he would look around the bar and sigh, as if hoping to find the thief, before returning his unlit cigarette back to the corner of his mouth and gently placing himself back on his barstool. If you sat for long enough in one of the many poorly lit bars Walt frequented you could see him do his stand-up-and-sit-back-down ballet thirty or forty times.

I met Walter on the night before my 29th birthday at a bar in the north end of post alley called The Alibi Room. The Alibi Room is one of those special places that allows for a mixed crowd; it is not uncommon to find wealthy, rocks-for-brains singles with too much makeup on and never-was musicians sitting shoulder to shoulder in a dark corner at the end of the long mahogany bar. Though it is typically not in my nature to strike up a conversation with a stranger, something about Walter drew me to him immediately. He was well kempt without looking out of place, older without seeming frail, smart without being a dick, (which is rare in my experience) and he had this overwhelming quality of sadness to him that was hard to put your finger on because he laughed like the most honestly happy man that had ever lived. Looking back, I suppose I found the sadness in his eyes. You can never hide sadness, really, and if you have the same eyes Walter Sinkers has you are shit out of luck.

Our conversation started off innocuous enough, with the standard where-are-you-froms and what-do-you-dos, that I could have easily been distracted by an attractive woman had I been talking to someone I found less intriguing. About ten minutes after he did his stand up/sit down routine for the first time (yes, I offered him my lighter. He declined.) he leaned in close to me as if to whisper something in my ear.

“So tell me, son, tell me what you think of baseball.” He said. He wavered a little, clearly drunk. There were long pauses between each word.

“Baseball?” I said, more than a little uncomfortable with how close he was. He smelled like sandalwood and licorice; the way only older men with money can smell.

“Yes. Baseball.”

“It hard to say,” I said, “it certainly seems like it’s on the outs. It seems like we just don’t have the patience for it anymore.”

“I didn’t ask you what your generation thinks of baseball, young man, I am asking what you think. Do you feel like you should be clumped in with that Johnny-come-whenever over there?” He said, pointing to no one in particular.

“Well I think a lot of people feel defined by their generation, Walt” I said, still uncomfortable, “but if you want my honest opinion, I think it’s a tragedy. I think baseball is designed for the thinking-man and the fact that it is becoming less popular is a direct correlation to how my generation has come to exist in and react to the rest of the world. There will never be enough instant gratification in baseball for them.”

I knew I sounded like a pretentious prick putting myself above my own generation like that, but I couldn’t help it. I distinctly remember feeling relieved that he didn’t ask me to clarify my opinion. He looked pleased.

“Good” he said, “Now how’s about you and me go have that smoke. Can I use your lighter?”

By the time Walter and I actually made it outside of the Alibi Room and into the alley to have a smoke, we had already drank more than our share of the bar’s bottle of Blantons than I care to admit. We felt like old chums. We talked about women and youth; we argued about authors that we loved. We got along incredibly well and I was impressed by him. Genuinely impressed.

As soon as we crossed into the alley, Walt started in about baseball again.

“Baseball, son. Baseball is so important. There is nothing more beautiful than Willie Mays making an over-the-shoulder basket catch to win the pennant, or Kurt Gibson braving injury to hit a homerun with two outs in the bottom of the ninth in game six. Nothing at all, and I mean that. Think about a perfectly executed hit-and-run or the finesse in an unhittable knuckleball…It is so important and beautiful that I could go home and blow my head off I am so sad for it.” He said as he exhaled smoke roughly, looked down at his shoes, and visibly examined the contents of his own brain.

“I agree, to an extent, Walt, that it’s important. And sometimes beautiful, yes. Is it life and death? Is it more important than whatever it is we are doing here on earth as individuals? I’m not so sure.” I said, definitely feeling more willing to start an argument than usual because of the bourbon.

“Is it more important than politics, or god, or money, or love?” I said.

“Yes, you sonnofabitch. Of course it is.” He said, “It’s late. I think I’ll head home. Goodnight.”

“Well wait, Walt. Tell me why. Tell me why baseball is so goddamned important.”

“If you don’t know, you don’t know. There’s not a whole helluva lot I can tell you.” He said, as he stumbled back into the bar to settle his tab.

I took a second to finish my smoke and by the time I got back to my stool, Walt was gone. He had paid my tab (which was great because I didn’t have anywhere close to enough money) and left me a note in blue ink on a Rainier beer coaster that read:

You’ll get it. One day. –WS

The next time I saw Walter Sinkers was several weeks later, in December, at The Old Ironsides Pub near Fisherman’s Terminal. I had been walking in the park all-day and decided to pop into the pub for a bowl of chowder and a drink to warm my bones. As soon as I got inside, I noticed Walt immediately. He looked exactly the same: he ordered the same drink, wore the same overcoat, had a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and was standing/sitting just like that night at the Alibi Room. As I ate, I had a lengthy internal debate about whether to approach him or not, but the drink helped with my courage. Bourbon always helps with courage.

I walked towards the end of the bar where he was sitting and pulled up a chair. He didn’t notice me. I cleared my throat loudly before I ordered my second drink. Still nothing. As I got toward the bottom of my glass, I resigned myself to the inevitable.

“Hello there, Mr. Sinkers, how have you been doing?” I blurted.

“Oh! Ahh, hello there.” He said, startled, pulling earbuds from his ears.

“I am sorry to bother you, sir, I did not realize you were listening to something.” I said.

“That’s right young man, I was listening to something.” He said. “Something very important.”

“I am truly sorry if I have disturbed you” I said, realizing that he did not remember me, “but do you happen to be listening to a baseball game?”

(Yes, I realize that was a slightly manipulative thing to do. Please forgive me, but I absolutely had to know more about Walter Sinkers and his love of baseball. I had to.)

“I sure am, son” He said “but it’s break between innings. Tell me, what do you think of baseball?” He glared deeply into my eyes.

“I think its both beautiful and important, Walter” I said.

“Well, I absolutely do too, young man. I absolutely do. Have we met before? You seem to know a few things about me as I am certain that I had yet to tell you my name.”

“Yes we have met before Walter,” I said, kicking myself for ruining my cover, “weeks ago at a bar just like this one.”

“Forgive me that I do not remember. Truth be told I have been waiting for someone to see eye to eye with me about baseball for sometime, though it is impossible to think two people can ever truly feel exactly the same about something”

I remember thinking how much more well spoken Walt was than our previous meeting. He was less drunk, sure, but the sadness was gone from his eyes. It was like an invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders; truly sea change from the man I had met before.

“I can probably agree with that.” I said “If not only because the chances of two people experiencing the exact same things and perceiving them the exact same way are so thin. That’s an awfully bleak way to look at things, though, because that leaves us with little or no chance to experience love, right?”

“That may be true, young man, but we can’t afford to look at it like that. Love is not in the space between all parallels. It can’t be. At the end of the day if love is possible than I have had it, and I can live with that.” He said, preparing to put his headphones back in.

“My love is baseball, son. Because it is so important. And so beautiful. If you have known me before I surely would have told you that. Especially if I thought you were not some Johnny-come-whenever and worth spending an evening with…Especially then.”

“OK, Walt, fair enough.” I said, dejected. “What game are you listening to anyhow? What’s the score?”

Walter’s eyes were already lost in the game before I got an answer. I stood up, put my hat on, and pushed out into the winter evening feeling more alone than I ever had.