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Product Details

• Published on: 1996-06
• Binding: Hardcover
• 384 pages
• ISBN 0-9649756-0-2
  

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Editorial Reviews

From Publishers Weekly

Copyright Reed Business Information, Inc.

From the Publisher
I Never Played Catch with My Father is an emotional, intimate story about life that passes all too quickly; about family, baseball, and moments gone forever.

Gene aims straight for the heart, revealing intimate truths about the relationship between a father and his sons, a mother and her daughter. We learn parents often overlook seemingly insignificant events in their children's lives. Years into adulthood, the emotional baggage remains. The truth is, there are no insignificant events in the life of a child.

James Phalen, one of the wealthiest men in America, is worth billions, but his billions cannot buy memories of moments that never were. In Jim's own words:

"I cannot recall a single playful moment spent with father. It is the one thing that defines my lasting disappointment and quantifies my poverty."

Suddenly, uncontrollable events consume him. Jim is being torn from the woman he loves; facing a tragedy he could never have imagined and on a fateful journey he cannot avoid. He must now decide what is most important-searching for answers to lingering questions-or maintaining the public persona his wealth and fame have inflicted upon him.

You too, will be compelled to remember your own childhood, and a time when this world seemed a kinder place.

Excerpted from I Never Played Catch with My Father by Gene Cartwright

MY FATHER'S SON (Poem)

WHO AM I?
I am my mother's child,
plucked from her womb, bathed in her blood,
wrapped in her warm love, unending.
I am the tree planted by the river's edge.
I am a jewel in the crown of all creation.
I am my mother's child.But, I am my father's son.

WHO AM I?
I am my mother's child,
nurtured from her breasts, cloaked with her care,
soothed by her sweet voice, unfailing.
I am a seed sown deep in rich, black sod.
I am the rich harvest of past generations.
I am my mother's child.
But, I am my father's son.

When I have walked in dark, foreboding places
and stood in danger's path, my mother's calming voice
comes to me on the wings of the wind and I am at peace.

WHO AM I?
I am my father's hope,
born in his shadow, held in his grip,
heir to his iron will, unbending.
I am either a force for good or a tool for evil.
I will regale in praise or suffer damnation
I am my mother's child.
But, I am my father's son.

WHO AM I?
I am my father's hope,
keeper of dreams he yet dreams,
imbued with his faith, affirming.
I am the rainbow arching over green meadows.
I am day unmasked by the sun's revelation.
I am my mother's child.
But, I am my father's son.

When I have walked in dark, foreboding places
and stood in harms way, father's silent strength
comes to me like quiet thunder-and I am not afraid.

WHO AM I?
I am my mother's child.
But, I am my father's son.
Yes, I am my mother's child.
But, I am my father's son.

On the day I turned seven, instead of making wishes, I closed my eyes and made two solemn vows. One was to someday become a major league baseball player; the other was to never be poor. Even then, I knew have was better than have not . While my first vow was the stuff of every boy's dream, my second was born of a tragedy I still wish I could forget.

During the night before, a transient family, apparently seeking shelter, trespassed onto the abandoned Devereaux farm, about four miles from ours. In the early morning hours, an oil lamp fire raced through the dilapidated structure, burning it to it's frame. Everyone perished in the inferno.

Authorities reported finding the charred remains of a man, woman and three children huddled inside only five feet from the front door. They came so close to getting out. Tragically, it appeared thick, choking smoke had obscured the main escape route and overtaken them.

The stunning news was delivered to us by a neighbor, Mr. Jules Stimpe, about 8am that morning. Our family of five had just finished downing a Texas-sized breakfast of ham, eggs, grits, hash browns and homemade biscuits. I was looking forward to later opening gifts, blowing out candles and stuffing myself on five-layer, double-chocolate, birthday cake.

Normally, we Phalen kids would have been ushered from the room, before grown-ups began serious talking. But, everything happened so quickly. An emotional Mr. Stimpe, winded and wild-eyed, blurted out the jarring words, the minute he bolted through the front door.

"Y'all heard yet?" He yelled out. "Y'all heard?"

We all gazed at each other with wonderment. None of us had any idea what he was squawking about. Before anyone could ask what he meant, Mr. Stimpe continued apace, gesturing frantically. His plate-glass thick eyeglasses tumbled from his bearded face, saved only by his ample midsection. He seemed about to burst with whatever it was he was trying to say.

Further in Chapter One...

I am not sure when I found my voice or was able to stir from where I stood. I do know I instantly lost my appetite and could not eat at all the rest of the day. Mother just stood there in the middle of the living room. I can still see her, especially her eyes. Tears streamed down her face. She shook her head from side to side, mumbling something I could not quite make out. Whatever it was, she kept saying it over and over again-some mournful mantra, as I recall.

I found it impossible to imagine the terrible thing we had heard described. My big brother, Carter, and I wondered aloud how something so awful could happen to real people. I trembled, just thinking how much this poor family, especially the children, must have suffered. Carter and my sister, Rosie, tried to comfort me as best they could. Truth is, we are all awash in tears.

There was a very personal reason for the depth of my sadness. Purely by chance, I had seen that family the day before, while in town with father. They were riding in a clanking, smoking, 1954 Desoto bearing Oklahoma license plates. The old car was the only possession to survive the flames, unscathed.

I recalled the soiled faces of three children; two girls and a boy, peering out of the car at ogling townspeople, including me. We glared back at them, as they chugged through town, The young boy appeared to be about my age. He seemed saddest of all. In spite of only a fleeting glimpse, there was something about his eyes that struck me; they were distant, yet piercing. His stiletto gaze seemed to slice right through me. My connection with him was instant and eternal.

I stood in front of Stoddard's Five & Dime, staring as they limped out of town. Nauseating smoke spewed from the rickety old car's dangling exhausts. It made an awful noise, drawing derisive laughter from some. I was sure they did not feel welcome to stop. If only I had smiled, I later thought, or given a friendly wave.

Further in Chapter One...

My name is James Theodore Phalen. To this day, thirty-five years later, the vivid memory of July 6, 1960 haunts me. Every single birthday I have had since has reminded me of that fateful morning. Saddest of all, no one ever claimed the remains or reported such a family missing. Dental records were never located. How was it possible a family of five could perish and not be missed by someone? It was as if they never existed.

Three weeks later, it was discovered the car the family was driving had been abandoned a year earlier by its Tulsa owner. Exactly one month after the fire, all were buried together in a single, Crawford County pauper's grave. Father read a brief passage of scripture. Elder Johannsen prayed. Mother and Mrs. Stimpe placed flowers next to the simple marker which read: A FAMILY THAT LIVED AND DIED TOGETHER. JULY 6, 1960.

Two paragraphs from Chapter Two... Understand one thing. I truly loved father. John Quincy Phalen was unlike any man I have known. Nothing about him was the least bit ordinary. His stature was imposing; his countenance fear-inspiring; his voice like thunder summoned on command. Adults forget what it is like to be three feet tall, straining to peer up at someone more than twice as tall and upset by something you have done. The word intimidating comes to

Father's eyebrows were so thick they sometimes cast their own shadow on his stoic face. This produced an even darker and more brooding expression than customary, at least it seemed so to me then. I would not say I was afraid of him, but on the rare occasion when he smiled at me, I felt great relief and wondered what I had done right, so I could do it again in exactly the same manner...

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Customer Reviews

Dear Daddy...

As we get older and mature, sometimes we come to a crossroad in our lives. This is when we start to examine all aspects of our existence. Some may call it a midlife crisis but for others it is the search for the missing puzzle piece of life. James Phalen is at that point in his life and the one thing that nags him is the fact he never played catch with his father. I NEVER PLAYED CATCH WITH MY FATHER is a loving tribute to a father who was not always able to convey his feelings with embraces and words, but who loved his children.

James Phalen is one of the richest white men in the United States. He is a savvy businessman who came from poverty and has had major monetary success. However, when his father becomes ill, he decides that all the money and material things in the world will not settle the restlessness within him until he can spend time with his father. He journeys home in hopes of understanding his father but what he discovers is more about himself.

James' father is a religious man with strong convictions who desired only the best for his three children and that meant working very hard on their farm to provide them with the necessities. However, he was a man of few words and even fewer physical demonstrations of affection, he was always serious and James doesn't remember a playful time with his father. Now it is too late to understand and rectify the situation, or is it? What James discovers while home with his ailing father is that love can be shown in many ways and we have to learn to accept it anyway it is given. He also realizes childhood perceptions can be reinterpreted when we become mature adults.

Gene Cartwright has written a very touching story of how important love is for children. I NEVER PLAYED CATCH WITH MY FATHER was not just about a moment of play, it was the epitome of what children want more than anything from their fathers; love. The story is a pleasant ride through James' life and it comes to a beautiful and emotional end. Although the author is African-American, his main character is white, which I found very unique and intriguing. Honestly, it would not have mattered what race the characters were, because the story crosses all color barriers. Even though the pace was a little slow in the beginning, the character development, the imagery and the plot will keep readers interested. The novel will appeal to everyone no matter what race or sex because it is truly a timeless story.

Reviewed by Cashana Seals
of The RAWSISTAZ Reviewers

An emotional story that will touch every heart.
In all my fifty years, I have read no other novel that touched my heart and stirred me to action as did this emotional, inspiring novel. It forced me to audit my life, my relationship with my children.So often adults forget what it's like to be a child. We get caught up in the drive for success and forget that what children need, and most want, is our time and our love. In this wonderful novel, James Phalen, a very wealthy man, discovers his own poverty. Owing to a tragic family event, he realizes his money is unable to make things right. What he most wants and cannot buy are memories of a close, loving relationship with his father. The book is as much a story about mothers and daughters as it is about fathers and sons. Cartwright weaves a powerful story that seems more non-fiction than fiction. I loved it. It's a must read for everyone.
—Sylvia Walters