How Albert Pujols's improbable year reminds me of my late grandmother's final words
She knew little about baseball, but she knew I loved it. That was enough.
The last words my late grandmother, Henrietta Bulus, ever said to me came over a voicemail.
“It’ll be okay without Albert Pujoles, Daniel. Don’t worry. I love you.”
Henrietta, who we called Meme (May-May), didn’t know much about Pujols or the baseball team he played for, but she knew how much her grandson lived and died by it. When she said his name, it sounded like she added an “e” to the last one. That was my Meme. She made her own rules in life.
That’s the great thing about grandparents. What they don’t know of or much about, they adapt in order to remain synced up with the younger generations.
Meme may not have known much about Pujols, but she could have held a whole conversation with him in his first language, Spanish. She could speak so many languages and entertain people from all across the world, an ability that I once referred to as a gift. Her gift was connectivity with the human species, no matter their past or future. She could find the fault line in their lives and crack it down, breaking through with conversation, fresh bread, and a bottle of red wine.
On many nights, I would dream about Pujols having dinner with Meme in her Brentwood Forest condo. Bottles of wine, lots of laughs, and maybe an unlikely friendship. A meeting that would still be fictional due to life playing out its uncomfortable alliance with fate.
The call from Meme came after Pujols had signed a long-term deal with the Los Angeles Angels. Three nights later, Meme joined a different set of angels, the same ones she prayed to and believed in for her entire life. While her body may have officially expired two weeks later on Christmas Eve-the same day she got married to my late grandfather, Larry, decades earlier-I know that she was gone the minute her head hit the concrete floor at the bottom of the stairs.
You see, she loved to talk to EVERYONE at a party. The people in the lobby, on the elevator, and in her path for the duration of that get-together. She went up and down flights of stairs at these parties. Since she taught French in a great neighborhood and community, those wealthy people invited her to those parties. Meme set the benchmark for being a people’s person. She was the party.
As she made her way from one group of people to the other, Meme traveled down some steps, but she lost her footing and fell. If it had been any other material at the bottom than cold concrete, I think she would be alive today. She was the healthiest person in our family, walking several miles a day and eating extremely healthy. The closest thing to naughty food consumption with her was a giant tub of popcorn at a movie theater. If anyone went to Plaza Frontenac in the 90s, there’s a good chance they heard the Meme commentary track somewhere in the theater.
One time, she went to a baseball game and was shocked when the Cardinals hit a home run and everybody in the stadium went nuts. She probably thought the Pope had walked out onto the field with a bat in his hand, but it was merely a guy in a jersey who hit the ball over the wall. Perplexed, she still smiled and cheered loud.
So, as Pujols reclaims a piece of lost St. Louis legend this summer and climbs towards 700 home runs, I think of Meme. The last time he was playing like this in a Cardinal uniform, she was alive and well. As AP was building a legend in this town, Meme was building her own legend in Brentwood Forest as a people’s person. Their lives aren’t exactly connected, but I don’t care. Every time he smokes a baseball over the wall, I think of her whispering, “You see, Daniel? It was alright. He came back.”
I really wish she would come back, even for a day. If a piper told me Pujols couldn’t reach 700 homers but Meme could return for a day to quiz me about life and what I’ve been up to lately, I would take the trade. In a second. I could tell her about the amazing grandson who sounds like a freshman in high school at the age of 11. I could tell her all about this new job I got, and how it’s going to be the most money I’ve ever made at a job.
You see, Henrietta didn’t know a lot about baseball but she must have transferred something to my mom, who was a big baseball fan. It’s my mother Beth’s love of the game that more than likely commenced my fascination with it. She adored Lou Brock and Willie McGee, and I would find out and discover all there was to know about those two players.
Today, McGee is an outfielders coach with the Cards and Pujols is thriving again. It feels a lot like 2011, especially with the way the team is pulling an improbable march to the postseason as they did eleven years ago. It feels like 2011. I only wish Meme could be here to see it too.
You don’t get to choose what the last words you hear from a person are, but I would like to think they still mean something in fateful weight. Without thinking about it, knowing her 29-year-old grandson was angry and sad about it, Meme finished off her voicemail that December 2011 day with a plea to make feel better.
Thanks for everything, Henrietta Bulus. It turned out to be alright. Pujols is back, but you’re not. Life isn’t fair, but it stillleaves wonderous things behind.
Hug you grandparents, friends. Thanks for reading.
