The following tributes to Freddy Barger, Ricky Lescalleet, and Mike Lovas (all class of '65) were written by Jody Williams (class of '65).


We called it “tagging up,” out of school and free.

The first to write his name behind the plate, at home,

Would be the first to hit when all the rest had come,

eager and ready.

And though every boy among us loved the game,

waking to play,

Living near the field, most often it was Freddy—

Mostly the same three: first Freddy, then Ricky or me.

On any summer’s day, you could guess,

A devoted group of six—the baseball guys—our critical mass—

With bats and gloves showed up to play. Others, drawn in

while passing by,

Now and then arrived. These we absorbed into our games

of Home Run Derby and scrub, of grounders

and flies.

Or, given sufficient numbers, we’d choose up sides,

Keeping score (though playing still for fun).

Fred was always first among the Chosen, then,

one by one,

The rest would follow in our simple draft,

In descending order of dexterity and craft.

Baseball, it turned out, was the perfect sphere

For a kid like me, set adrift on a second-hand Schwinn

in a new neighborhood—

I must have been nine that year—

Bereft already of old haunts and friends—for good of family,

It was understood—loosely fated by numerology and chance

Lucky to find myself at home with room to grow

In this new circumstance—

And, as well, being shy, to find myself on that first day

A new best friend nearby and a schoolyard sandlot

not far away.

Now, looking back some 45 years hence,

and still a boy at heart,

Despite having read the classics and dabbled in the arts,

Advanced perhaps in reason and good sense,

More than ever I find myself entranced by visions

of those high, arching flies

Launched in such profusion against the Texas sky

Toward and then beyond imagination’s fence—

Like the long trajectory of a lifetime, foreshortened,

The rise and disappearance of that boyhood friend,

his soul in flight,

Among the first of us chosen to haunt

the diamond-studded night.




Years now – ten, it seems—since he died.

Unexpectedly, of course. Still, he stood alongside

Only last night, in a dream, he was there

In place neither space nor time.


Yes, we were young, yet aged enough and wise

Not kids, constant companions, baseball guys…

Uncertain, clumsy dancers at the hop, soda sippers, daredevil

Riders pedaling beneath those vast suburban skies.


Older instead, as I recall—in between demise

And warm days spent in serious pay tracing Freddy’s flies

In outfield pastures overgrown…on dusty diamonds,

hitting balls

Till mothers called or till our eyes

Could barely see to hit at all.


Now—in the dream, I mean—each appear to be the man

He would become in life, so far as we can understand,

At least, the fiction of identity, persistence, and romance

Of self and soul through changes—we children, educated, grown

Pass as solid citizens, two as one, with kids, though really

quite alone.


Then , unsurprised at meeting, how easily we talk--rare

Old friends in worlds apart, familiar, who share

Commonplace interests in casual pursuits—who care

For immaterial things (music, singers, players, scores)—

Disregard art of the deal, futures, stocks, retirement plans,

securities and bores.


Spectral figures, here among possibilities was our chance

Once and for all perhaps to tell what we know will pass:

How little, how much, how lucky we were, how well

aware at last

Of love and loss, of happiness, diminishment and death,

The cost of business as usual, do what we will—

curse, deny, or bless.


And how can I, bewildered infidel, invest a faith in schemes…

Among the swirl of gods and gurus, or someone

else’s dream?

I have no market ability where wonder leads to dread.

No sales pitch can alleviate the weight for me, the fool,

Remotely comprehending just what the thunder said.


What then do we consider when heavy turns to light?

The memory of the games we playedbefore the darkened night.

And how to hit the inside pitch, swinging left or right—

To counteract the tailing sphere, the dark, the

spinning ball

That threatens now to break your bat, now to crack your skull.


Put fear aside, expect the worst, think balance, and stay tall…

Breathe, relax, stay back, stay back—await the speeding ball.

A moment comes, Prince Hamlet said, when timing dictates all

The readiness, the action, the tragic hero’s fall.

I try to seize some metaphor—to grasp what it may mean—

As if one could at all account for the strangeness of a dream.



When Michael J. stepped up to the board,

Everyone stopped to watch and wonder

At the ease and coordination of his show—

The way he stepped up to the place he more or less owned.

He’d do a little trot, already so free and loose-jointed.

You’d have thought such artistry would require

a more studied approach,

More caution and care in preparation for that

leap and float.

He must have been coached, we tried to explain,

In order to achieve such form, to fold, then open

With such balance, such grace,

Adding a last split-second twist to the flight and descent.

With such perfect knowledge of time and space.

At fourteen, it seemed almost unfair.

But missing him now, I recall the scorching days on end

At the neighborhood pool, where friends, liberated

from chores,

Gathered in hordes for purposes of exposure, to compare

flesh and limb,

To cool and chat, crowded exhibit in the welcoming air.

Still, in all that fullness, even without asking,

You couldn’t help but notice—

The place was never quite the same, even a little empty,

When Lovas wasn’t there.