My great great great grandfather crossed the Atlantic on a freighter made almost entirely of wood. Back then, they basically had indentured servants shoveling coal 14 hours a day to keep the thing running. They shoveled into the giant steam engines that slowly moved the giant sloth, like an enormous floating casket across the most dangerous oceans on the earth. The promise of a better life in America held just enough sway over the grueling labor and almost certain death. My great great grandpa almost certainly laughed in the face of good sense when he signed up to board one of those death traps-  simply so he could set up a humble makeshift wooden stand.

He fashioned it out of broken oars and shattered dreams and pieces of the only life raft on board, and glued it together with a paste he made from whale blubber and tears. He did it to fill a need; concessions. Those guys working in the coal pits got hungry. You don’t question the meats that come off of makeshift wooden stands when you’re that hungry. He cultivated a sense of demand. And so began my lineage.

His son sold concessions to civil war soldiers.

His sons’ son sold snacks and treats during both great wars.

My name is Clark. I am a concessioner. Like my father and his father before him. I’m going to tell you how I changed baseball forever.

It was 1950 in Joplin Missouri. I had my hot dog cart set up and was churning out doggos on Main Street, sometimes moving to spots near the factories. While business was good in the usual spots, I decided to set up somewhere new;  just outside Miners Stadium. I was testing out a few new menu items and if they failed, I didn’t want to upset the regulars. You weren’t just testing for taste in those days; you were testing for toxicity content too.

I was toying around with some hybrid fried steaks and a new corn batter. I had high hopes for this recipe as I was finally able to get it all on a stick without using road-tar (don’t you look at me that way, those were different times). I saw only modest sales for my new fried meat sticks in the beginning. It wasn’t until a young up-and-comer named Mickey started double fisting these things that they really took off. He went crazy for my deep fried tar-free meats. He would sometimes run out to my cart to buy two or three between innings. It was during this time that we became good friends, and I- well, believe it or not, I became a mentor of sorts to the kid.

Mickey was a powerful hitter but not the best fielder. He began having doubts about playing ball. One day as he was sitting at my stand shooting the breeze with me. He paused, took a big bite out of his seven meat fried meat stick (you can never be too repetitive with the word meat, I learned that early on) and looked toward the sky. I saw a tear roll down his eye.

He told me he thought he was done. I knew I had to act quickly. You see, a concessioner’s job is not only hocking low quality and experimental food stuffs, it is also a job of encouragement and discouragement. Sometimes I have to steer people away from their hopes and dreams. It is, on occasion, the right thing to do. Have you ever heard of shortstop Ronnie Fenderson? No, because one day over a soda I told him how awful he was at sports. It took nearly forty five minutes of me hurling insults at him to get the point across. When he was done crying, I told him he had the hands of a luthier and should consider making guitars (as a joke) I will leave you to figure out the rest of that story, though I will say it ended favorably for him. As I knew it would.

Back to Mickey. I knew he had the it factor. I knew he had raw talent. This was where I needed to muster up all that I had in the encouragement department. I pulled up a chair next to him on the other side of the cart- breaking the unspoken barrier between customer and concessioner. It was a rare moment He looked at me, and then back down.

I poured him one of my famous hot gravy cups and slid it his way.
“Thanks Clark.” He quietly said “but I already spent all my money on meat sticks.”

I looked him square in the eye, I did, and told him I don’t come over to this side of the counter to charge for gravy cups. I said “Look kid, I’m going to give you some advice. First, I’ve seen your fielding.” I paused for effect. “ it’s not great. You put some more effort into catching those balls and you'll be ok. Second, I know you bat lefty but next time you go up to that plate I want you to bat righty. I’ll tell you this. I have only sold seven meat fried meat sticks to eight people. Three had heart attacks within a few hours. Two were only able to take a bite before throwing up and one guy passed out just looking at it. You are the only person I have seen that can wield a seven meat fried meat stick with one hand. It is for that reason alone I know you have the power to bat both as a lefty and righty.”

He looked thoughtful. “wait that’s seven, what became of the other guy?”

“You're looking at him kid.”

So you sold yourself the meat stick?”

“yeah, I didn't want my register to be off, but you’re focusing on the wrong thing kid.”

Mickey polished off his gravy cup, thanked me and went on his way.

The next day I went back to the factory circuit in lieu of setting up at the stadium. I later read that Mickey took my advice- they always do. He became a switch hitter. He went on to play for the Yankees and became one of the greatest baseball players off all time. He would come back to Joplin from time to time to see me. He built a Holiday Inn here just to have a reason to come back. He would always try to get me to make him an old number seven. I couldn't though because Joplin had to ban them in 1952 on account of all the… well, nevermind, just... they banned them.

I remember I took my cart to the hotel once when Mickey was back in town. There  was a little kid there that loved my frozen rainbow bacons. His name was William Gates. He was always going on about these things called softwares and hardwares. Nobody knew what the crap he was talking about, didn’t see the potential in him… except for me.

He passed through several times that summer, but hey. Another story for another time.