COMMENTARY
A beautiful song from a terrible moment
By JOE POSNANSKI
The Kansas City Star
There’s a sweet song on Jim Cosgrove’s new album “Upside Down,” which he will release online Tuesday. The song is called “Let’s Stick Together.” It’s not complicated. You know, they say that it took Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys more than two months and six different recording studios to record and mix “Good Vibrations.”
“Let’s Stick Together,” well, it came from a different place. It has a few other lyrics, sure. Mostly though, it is Jim and his 3-year-old daughter, Lyda, singing those three words “Let’s Stick Together” again and again.
There’s a little baseball in this story, a few terrifying moments, a happy ending.
•••
You may know Jim Cosgrove by his other name, which is Mr. Stinky Feet. He’s 43, and he has been performing for kids and families for 10 years now. He grew up in Kansas City — he used to mow George Brett’s lawn when he was young — and he was one of those people who worked hard to find out what he wanted to do with his life. He had what he called grown-up jobs. But he first learned to strum a guitar when he worked as a volunteer on a Navajo Indian Reservation. He recorded his first children’s album on the $1,000 his Godmother left him back when he taught business writing classes.
And, after a while, he found his speed. He loved performing for kids. He seemed to speak their language. He sang songs with names like “Ooey Gooey” and “Bop, Bop Dinosaur” and, of course, “Stinky Feet.” He never quite viewed himself as a musician, but the gigs kept coming in, and the kids kept singing along, and one day he realized that, yes, he had become a musician.
“I wake up every day and think, ‘This is my life?’ ” he says. “Wow, I’m lucky.”
•••
Jim took his family on tour with him to Wichita last year. The family was his wife, Jeni, daughter Lyda and baby daughter Willa, just 8 weeks old. They stayed at a hotel that was a walk from the ballpark. Lyda saw the lights through the window.
“What are they doing there?” she asked.
“It’s a baseball game,” Jim said.
“Baseball!” Lyda said. “Can we go?”
Jim had grown up around baseball. His father was a real fan, the sort to keep score during games, the kind to remind his kids again and again to quit horsing around, to watch the game, to keep their eyes on the ball. Once a screaming line drive rushed at Jim, and his father grabbed him and pulled him down. The ball blurred by and hit an older man nearby. It drew blood. The man was fine. But Jim never forgot it.
The family found a seat pretty far back. Jim relaxed — this was fatherhood as he imagined it. It was the first time he had taken his daughters to a baseball game. Jeni was nursing the baby. Lyda was looking around in wonder. The place smelled like popcorn.
And then … Jim noticed a left-handed batter at the plate. He had the strangest feeling. He would remember hearing his father’s voice before the pitch … “Be alive, Jim, keep your eye on the ball.”
The batter swung. He hit a hard foul ball. And it came at them. Jim grabbed Lyda and covered her up. Jeni covered Willa as best she could. The ball hit Jeni in the arm and glanced off. People rushed over to make sure everyone was all right. Everyone seemed all right. The baby was crying, but everyone said that was a good thing. Then she became lethargic. That wasn’t good. Jim noticed what appeared to be a bruise on the back of her head.
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To reach Joe Posnanski, call 816-234-4361 or send e-mail to jposnanski@kcstar.com. For previous columns, go to KansasCity.com.
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