One of the things that kills me in literature is the joining of two antithetical ideals, usually embodied in characters sharing a strong bond such as friends, siblings or lovers. Think of the ending of the Grand Inquisitor chapter of Dostoyevsky’s Brothers Karamazov. After the intellectual Ivan’s apocalyptic and tragic story of the second coming of Christ, the spiritual Alyosha kisses him, just as Jesus had done to the Grand Inquisitor who intended to execute him. Two things that shouldn’t be close, but have to be.
Okay, so this pertains, not coincidentally, to one of my favorite short stories, a story that happens to involve classical music. The Captive Outfielder, written by Leonard Wibberly, was first published by the Saturday Evening Post on March 25th, 1961. You can read it here. One of Wibberly’s biggest claims to fame was his 1959 satirical Cold War novel, The Mouse That Roared, which was later made into a film comedy starring Peter Sellers, Peter Sellers, and Peter Sellers.
So, in The Captive Outfielder, a boy is taking violin lessons when he’d rather be playing baseball–or, really, he’d rather be failing at baseball than at the violin, since he’s getting nowhere with either but is at least less awful at baseball. And his teacher being old and from Eastern Europe isn’t making things any easier. You see, the old man understands nothing about American culture, and therefore knows nothing about the boy.
All this teacher has are these portraits of dead composers like Johann Sebastian Bach glowering at the boy like they’ll flog him if he keeps making mistakes. And the old man keeps talking about time. Time! What’s so important about the stupid time anyway? It’s not like time is going to help him hit the baseball in the big game this weekend. Let’s try this a different way. A violin teacher who witnessed countless tragedies as he escaped from Russia after the Revolution, an old man who’s impoverished family gave everything they had for him to study music as boy, a teacher who knows the meaning and beauty of music in the face of horrible privations is now stuck trying to figure out why this vapid American youth can’t tell the difference between a quarter note and five-sixteenths. He even transposed the boy’s homework from A major to C major to make it easier for him. He loves the boy.
The boy is a good boy with a good ear. The teacher is left asking dear Johann Sebastian hanging on the wall how he, an grizzled old foreigner, can get this fresh-faced American kid to experience the wonder of music. Two people who don’t belong together, yet have to. From this central conflict, the story produces one of the most wonderful resolutions I have ever read. Truly, it is magical. Just a few pages, and you experience the intersection of old and new, youth and adulthood, and music and (believe it or not) baseball. Through baseball, the boy finds his moment of clarity, the very moment after which his appreciation of music will never be the same. My appreciation of short fiction was never the same after reading this wonderful story.