This is a story that I’m sure my Dad told dozens of times throughout his life. His good friend Rick Paashaus wrote down the story and posted it on Facebook just days after my Father’s passing.
In the upstate Pennsylvania town of Gordon, Wolfgang’s Sporting Goods Store was the place for buddies to gather and make world-changing decisions. Retired “coal crackers,” the old boys came daily for conversation and lingered over a cup of coffee and kibitzing with the neighbors. Life was good in the postwar era when miners could make a decent living and retire to live out their days in their clapboard houses along Main Street.
Jim loved the old store. Tommy Wolfgang welcomed not just the retired guys but also the young boys with their dreams. The 10-year-old would stop anytime he could to browse and listen to the old guys share their stories, their Monday morning quarterbacking, stories of the big one that got away.
But Jim usually had one thing in mind.
A baseball lover, one mitt caught his eye. Wouldn’t it be the cat’s meow to own such a beauty? But the $12.00 price tag was far too steep in the 1950s. He tried it on, punched his hand in it, looked at the price tag, and carefully replaced it on the shelf at least once a week for months. The old boys looked on with their own memories glistening in their eyes.
One Saturday, when Jim tried on that glove again, the owner pulled him aside. “Jim, you should enter our raffle. Tickets are only a quarter each, and at the end of this month, we’re picking one. The winner gets a $10.00 gift certificate. Do you have a quarter?”
Jim shook his head, but smiled…knowing just what to do. He headed home and, for the next week, gathered up as many pennies and nickels as he could find. He picked up a bottle of milk from the grocer for his Uncle, who lived nearby, and smiled when the kind-hearted man said, “Keep the change.” Another dime. Finally, he had enough for the raffle! Racing to the Sporting Goods Store, he handed over the quarter in exchange for what he hoped would be the winning ticket. Ticket #154.
“When is the drawing?” the little boy asked.
“Next Saturday morning at 10:00. Make sure you’re here!” Tommy Wolfgang said with a grin.
Saturday finally came, and at 9:30 am, Jimmy was there, ticket #154 in his hand. The gang that usually gathered for gossip and coffee was there as well. When 10:00 came, each of them expectantly held their own ticket in hand. The owner shook the box with a flourish, dragging out the event, then finally reached deep inside and pulled out a single ticket.
He squinted as Jim waited anxiously, and the old men held their tickets up to the light. “The winner is… #154!” The men all groaned and acted disappointed, but each had a strange smile on their face.
“Jim! You win!” Tommy announced. Then he added, “You know, that glove you’ve been eying up is just a bit more than the $10.00, but I’d be willing to have you take it as your prize if you choose!”
With a huge grin, the 10-year-old said, “Yes, Sir!” sliding that oversized mitt on his hand. He was the winner! The men congratulated him, gently slapping him on the back, punching his arm. “Good Job, Jim! Enjoy!”
It wasn’t until years later, as Jim reminisced about that day, that he thought: “Hmmm. I wonder why only those old men had tickets? I wonder why so few were sold? I wonder why there was no poster or flyer on the cash register inviting others to participate?” He finally realized that, between Tommy Wolfgang and the guys standing around the hunting gear and fishing poles, not only was the “raffle” concocted, but also the coins and bills gathered by those old Coal Crackers were all prearranged to make one little baseball player’s dreams come true.
Yes, this story is true… and yes, the little boy grew up to be my friend, Jim Trommetter. Jim passed away late last week. Just a few days before his death, he shared the story with me (again), and I share it with you in his honor. It may not be a “devotional,” but I thought it was worth repeating.
Rest in peace, my friend.
