Bob, who was courting my sister at the time, strode through the door that evening and entered my life, in which he remained as a large force for the next 53 years. He had recently mustered out of the Navy after seeing action in Korea. I didn’t know that then. I was not yet ten years old. I knew a few things though: I knew the Indians were going to clobber the Giants. I knew this because my fifth-grade teacher, Mr. Heckerman, from Columbus, Ohio had told us all about his Indians. If Mr. Heckerman was going to root for the Indians, so was I.
The Wager
”Oh, you quite sure about that?” Bob asked.“Yeah.”
“Hmm . . . you must follow baseball closely. Why are you so sure the Indians are going to win?”
“They’ve got Mike Garcia and Al Rosen and Larry Dolby. They’re gonna clobber ‘em.”
“Hmmm . . .. Maybe. But the Giants have Willie Mays and Sal Maglie and Alvin Dark. Have you heard about them?” he asked.
“No.”
“You’re sure about the Indians winning, though?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure enough to bet a dime on it?”
“Yeah.”
“Shall we shake on that then, for a dime?”
My hand disappeared. I was relieved to get it back. I had clutched the most massive hand in my experience at the time. Upon coming into contact with it, I believed that hand could move any object, stop any harm, accomplish any feat called for by its attached body. That hand was bigger than my brother’s, bigger even than my dad’s. This guy is special, I thought. I like him.
How was I going to pay him if I lost? I didn’t have a dime. My prospects for acquiring a dime weren’t that good. Still, Mr. Heckerman was real sure. It didn’t matter. I was going to join with this impressive fellow regardless of the outcome.
We Double-up (not)
I saw Bob again one evening when the Giants had a two-game lead. We shook hands again. I was somewhat more certain about the return of my hand, but still impressed with the indomitable strength contained in such a hand as his.“Still supporting your team, the Indians?” he said.
“Uh, well it hasn’t started out so good. Maybe we ought to cancel the bet.”
“Can’t cancel a bet once you’ve made it. Aren’t you loyal to your team? Don’t you support them no matter what?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Well, then, you’ve got to stay with them, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“You still have a chance. It’s the best of seven, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“So, are you confident once again?”
“Yeah.”
“And you believe in your team?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you confident enough to double-up on the bet?”
“What’s that mean?”
“We double the bet. Instead of a dime, we raise the bet to two dimes, 20 cents.”
“No!”
He laughed.
“That was probably a good decision.”
He might have patted me on the shoulder; I’m not sure. Somehow, even though my Indians were down two games, I really wanted to be involved with this guy in this contest or any other thing that might be important to him. Excluding my family and Mr. Heckerman, Bob was one of the few adults in my life at the time who talked to me as though my responses would actually matter to him. He didn’t talk to me as though I were an adult, but he did talk to me as though what I said had weight.
Bob Affects Neighborhood Behavior
While the Giants were sweeping the Indians in four straight, I had seen Bob at least once, maybe twice. Finally, at the end of the series he walked through that front door and again gave me what had become the most desired handshake in my world. Concerns about losing my hand were completely gone now. Instead, that solid hand on that man gave me confidence.My friends, at first, displayed puzzlement at my determination to shake hands with every living human around me. I would shake hands upon first seeing a friend in the morning and then shake hands an hour later. I shook hands all around at the start and at the conclusion of pick-up baseball games in our neighborhood park. I think a trend had started; some of my friends picked up the habit with others.
“Guess I owe you a dime,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t have it.”
“You’re not a welcher are you?”
“What’s that?”
“A guy who makes a bet, looses and then doesn’t pay up. You’re not one of those, are you?”
“No.”
“Well, then what are we going to do about this dime?”
“I’ll have to pay you when I get it.”
“Are you a man of your word? Can I count on you to pay me my dime?”
“Yeah.”
“Good enough, then. Let me know when you’ve got it.”
At times when I was a boy, I thought Bob to be one of the strongest, smartest, and funniest man on the planet. As a boy and a young man, he was a gage of what would be the wisest path with the most likely positive outcome for any decision I faced. I sounded him out on many occasions and benefited from it. On more than one occasion, I deeply regretted not following his advice.
I cannot recount all the incidents that demonstrate Bob’s many kindnesses, generosity, and encouragement over the years during which he was a part of my life. He has been gone for nearly one year now, the victim of ill health for much of the last 30 of those years with us. He fought heart disease and debilitating, disfiguring, cruel melanoma to the end as courageously as he fought for our country as a sailor.
A few days before he died, I was sitting with Bob and my sister in their living room. At this time, we needed two people to get him out of bed and into his chair in the living room. Getting him back in bed took significant planning. It was nauseatingly painful for him, yet he would not give into confinement in bed. Although, the pain was obvious and constant, somehow, so were the laughs. He made sure of that.
I recounted the story of our first meeting and the dime that we wagered on the outcome of the series. I acknowledged that to this day, I had not paid him that dime.
“I always wondered why my accounts would never balance,” he said.
We got him to a hospice house for his final two days. We surrounded him with the presence of wife, daughter, son-in-law, two of his four grand daughters, and me, his brother-in-law. We were in and out of his room as he declined further. We would take breaks and gather in the courtyard to recount stories of some of Bob’s funniest moments, his clowning, teasing, and practical jokes. We felt better doing so.
These two incidents occurred while I was out of the room. My sister recounted them for me:
Upon admitting him, while he was feeling pain even through a morphine haze, with the self-knowledge that he would die within hours, a hospice nurse greeted him at his bedside.
“Mr. Van Hosen, is it okay if I call you Bob?”
“Sure, as long as you pronounce it with just one ‘o’,” he said.
Later, another hospice nurse at his bedside asked:
“Bob, are you thirsty? Would you like something, a soda or an iced-tea, maybe some water?”
"Yes, a gin and tonic would be nice," he said.
“Oh, I’m afraid we can’t provide you with that,” she laughed.
“Okay, just a beer then, I guess,” he said.
I don’t know if those were his last words, I wasn’t at his bedside the entire time. He lapsed into his final coma and died shortly after that. It is a wonder, though, that he had such humor through such pain. Bob had always enjoyed humor for humor’s sake. He entertained quite naturally and successfully within his world of family and friends. He put strangers at ease quickly with his handshake and his humor. I saw him do that several times. I came to believe, as Bob’s pain must have been at its most intense, that he intended the humor to distract us, to comfort us and cushion us from the pending blow.
The handshake that gave me such confidence as a boy and started a behavior trend among my young pals weakened and finally faltered as the once strong, handsome body declined. That was the physical failing. The humor never failed, nor the wisdom, and certainly, not the love of family.
“Oh, I’m afraid we can’t provide you with that,” she laughed.
“Okay, just a beer then, I guess,” he said.
I don’t know if those were his last words, I wasn’t at his bedside the entire time. He lapsed into his final coma and died shortly after that. It is a wonder, though, that he had such humor through such pain. Bob had always enjoyed humor for humor’s sake. He entertained quite naturally and successfully within his world of family and friends. He put strangers at ease quickly with his handshake and his humor. I saw him do that several times. I came to believe, as Bob’s pain must have been at its most intense, that he intended the humor to distract us, to comfort us and cushion us from the pending blow.
The handshake that gave me such confidence as a boy and started a behavior trend among my young pals weakened and finally faltered as the once strong, handsome body declined. That was the physical failing. The humor never failed, nor the wisdom, and certainly, not the love of family.