Category Archives: Baseball

Appreciating Gifts: It’s a Gift

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Recently, I’ve been informed by social media that children are now registering for birthday gifts much like future married couples and later divorcees have done for decades.  Some people may think this is a reasonable and efficient idea, but other than vomiting, I don’t have much to say about this issue.  Personally, I don’t have a problem with gift giving and receiving, but I do have a bit of a problem with certain celebrations of birthdays at young ages.  When countless friends and relatives are invited, the birthday Prince or Princess doesn’t always seem too appreciative of the gifts showered upon his or her royal crowns, thus creating a sense of entitled greed.

Perhaps, I’m just too old fashioned.  When I was child, I remember annually receiving gifts from my parents at very modest parties. Once in a while, a neighbor might show up for a piece of cake, but I knew my parents frowned on inviting many friends over, because they didn’t want them to feel obligated to bring anything for me.   Or, perhaps I just didn’t have many friends.

I once received a gift from a friend at school on my birthday, and the outcome was bitter sweet.   I still feel awful about my lack of appreciation for the gesture of kindness to this very day.   It was my saddest and most memorable of gifts.

In the eighth grade, I befriended a girl, and we eventually, according to others, became the school’s most conceited couple.  She found out that my birthday was coming soon and wished to purchase me a gift.  I begged her not to buy me anything.  Since I didn’t receive an allowance, I knew when her birthday came knocking on my wallet, other than a student body identification card, the only items filling it might be a couple of baseball cards.  So, unless she liked baseball cards, she would have to settle for a dandelion I could pick in our backyard.

Continuing to pester me, shrewdly, I announced to her what I wanted for my birthday: A new car.  Most thirteen year olds can’t afford this, so I thought it ended the discussion.  Indeed, it did.  And, of course, on my birthday, she still presented to me a gift at the lunch table we had been sitting at together for the previous five months.  In front of all our other friends, I opened it, and it was a car.  It was a remote controlled car.  Actually, I had never had one, and all my guy friends were impressed and a little envious.  So, we all took it out to the pavement outside the lunchroom and I let them all play around with it.  I then told her how much I liked it and gave her a hug.  For me, this was a display of sincere gratitude.  Usually, she couldn’t even get me to hold her hand.

A few months later, she presented me with another surprise at lunch. She broke up with me.  When you’re that young, breakups shouldn’t mean that much to you, but this one did.  For years, all I really cared about was sports.  Now, I found myself really liking this girl, so you could say I was a bit heartbroken.  What was wrong with me? Additionally, since she couldn’t provide a proper reason for the breakup, you could say I was a bit PISSED.  Nevertheless, I took it in stride, said goodbye, and did what any mature thirteen year old would do in this situation.  After baseball practice, I went home, walked into my room and looked at the car and my baseball bat.   Grabbing them both, I strolled out the backdoor, and I remember mother asking me, “Where are you going with that bat and car?”  Calmly, I told her I was heading out to the field beyond our backyard.  She just looked at me strangely.  When I made it to the field, I beat the holy hell out of that car into a thousand little plastic and rubber pieces.  Moments after I did it, I think I felt shame, but at the same time, closure.  Years after I did it, I’d matured slightly and sometimes thought about her and the car and what a horribly rotten thing I’d done.  The car was long gone, and it could never be replaced, along with my lack of appreciation for it.

Although she and I went to the same high school, we never spoke once to one another.  However, twenty five years later after that incident, somehow, the girl and I met again.   Being very contrite about what I’d done all those years ago, with a chuckle, she provided proper forgiveness.  Six months later, we were married.  We share that story with many of the same friends we had long ago, because they remember the car but never properly knew the reason for its demise.  It always makes them laugh or get angry wondering why I just didn’t give it to one of them.

Now, I tell her each day how much I appreciate her, and she says thank you and reciprocates the notion.  Now that’s a gift I can appreciate and won’t beat the hell out of with a bat.

Stocks and Barry Bonds

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One hundred and sixty two games and then some.  That’s baseball.  It’s a long term investment for those who love it.  And, keenly similar to the stock market, you may be devastated, demoralized, not to mention emotionally or financially crushed, by its outcome.  On the other side of the field, you may be uplifted, elated and proud you persevered such a long season of painful losses and meaningful gains, just to ultimately see your team or stock on top.

It’s easy to make comparisons and contrasts between following baseball and playing the stock market.  One day, you may wake up to find out your stock has plummeted 100 points.  Do you give up on that stock and sell the rest before you can’t afford to buy a new pair of tickets to the ballgame for you and your son or daughter, or do you maintain faith and hope it will rise again?  How do you react when you find out, at the water cooler on a Monday break from corporate chaos, that your team was beaten ten to nothing with their  best pitcher on the mound?  Do you go home at quitting time and burn all the hats, t-shirts, sun glasses, turtle necks, wrist bands, plastic helmets, crowns, coffee mugs, boxers, balls, bats and bow ties with your team’s logo on them?  You may even go hardcore insanity fan on your team’s ass and fabricate voodoo dolls out of your once sacred bobble head doll collection.  Or, do you say to yourself and other LOYAL followers, “Relax.  It’s a long season.  Tomorrow, our team may win by ten runs with our worst pitcher.  If you give up now, you foul mouthed, fair weather freak, we’ll deem you as traitor to your city.  We’ll have you tarred, feathered, and run out on a rail to some city like Seattle where baseball fans don’t really care about winning.  They’d prefer eating sushi and clogging their pretentious pores with garlic fries.  How does that sound?  NOT TOO GOOD.”

For the long term, baseball can be boring just like the market.  There’s 162 meaningful games in a season, each lasting three hours a sitting.  Don’t watch them all.  Take two minutes to read the box score in the daily news right after you take the same amount of time to see pork bellies reach their monthly high.  Do you think Dandy Donald Trump hangs out with his homies, Dirty Dow Jones and Nasty Nasdaq all day? No.  He’s too busy working on his weave, so he just has a beverage with them after the closing bell.

Martha Stewart and Barry Bonds or Mark McGwire :  You don’t see any resemblances?  They play their games dirtier than a Halloween Harlot competing in a bobbing for bananas contest.  Stewart’s insider trading scandal landed her, and her reputation, in prison for a delightful amount of canceled television time.  (Rather than prison time, it was more like merely being sent to the adult version of “Television Timeout”.)  Bond’s and McGuire’s lust for long balls, and even longer needles, placed the two of them, and their reputations, in baseball’s rendition of perdition.  The steroids injected into their behinds also left them with some parting gifts such as back acne and testicular shrinkage.  Martha Stewart’s purse just got a little smaller.  Thus, those who play the market or follow a baseball team must take caution when rooting for either to succeed.

Whether you play the stock market or religiously follow the game of baseball, in both, there will be ups and downs, hots and colds, rushes and depressions, prison times and puckered constitutions.  But, if you gamble on one and merely try to enjoy the other, prepare yourself for an emotional conclusion.

My team didn’t make it to the playoffs this year.  In fact, since the time I started investing in this team, (about forty years) they haven’t won, nor made it to The World Series.   This is not as depressing as it may appear on paper, your television set, laptop, I-Phone, I-Pad, or I-Didn’tWin App.  At the end of the baseball season, however, even when your team takes a vacation until next Spring, you can enjoy the playoffs without your nerves being rattled.  You can watch from an outsider’s perspective and witness the home town fans cheering their team to a victory, and for three hours, enjoy the possibility that their team might win.  It provides hope for your next season.  You want to be next to them in the bleachers.

The Stock Market breeds imminent danger and the possibility of severe consequences.   Much like Vegas, the odds are against you.  Baseball breeds hope.  Remember, there’s always another season in baseball.

 

 

 

 

Jeter’s Choice

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With Derek Jeter’s spiritual passing from the New York Yankees, he will be resurrected in Boston’s Fenway Park on Saturday to play the Red Sox but refuses to play his once chosen position of shortstop out respect for his twenty year spot at sacred Yankee Stadium.  Instead, he has chosen to be their pitcher.  With his moxy and flavor for the dramatic, he will probably throw a no hitter.

I’ve never liked the Yankees, but in the world of baseball, and the way it’s meant to be played, you couldn’t help but like and respect him.  He did it the right way.

 

1060 West Addison

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Chicago’s Wrigley Field: I don’t care if the account of this magnificent venue has been documented one thousand times, one hundred years ago, last week or yesterday.  For one day, I visited Wrigley Field, home of the hapless Cubs, and I soaked up every inning inside and outside the field.  Along with all the other visitors to Wrigley, I was a guest of honor.  That’s how it feels.

When my dad retired, after fathering 13 children (with his angel of a wife) and after fighting the war in Korea, someone asked him if there was anything specific he’d like to do in retirement.  (I believe he thought he’d pretty much done everything a very humble man could do.) Initially, I believed he merely wished to eat cheese and crackers with our mother while doing a crossword puzzle.  That, and take a much deserved nap followed by watching a game of baseball or “Murder She Wrote” on television.  But, when pressed, he answered, “I’d like to see Wrigley Field.”  Well, even suffering from severe scoliosis, he took the train to 1060 West Addison in Chicago Illinois, (home of the Chicago Cubs) from Spokane, Washington (home of several taverns).  Upon his return, he described it simply and beautifully.  “It was just what I’d hope to see, yet better.”

Years later, while celebrating Wrigley Field’s 100th year of baseball, I made this same journey, but by plane instead.  This stadium took me on a line drive time machine heading to baseball’s past. I remembered the stories my father would tell of Ernie Banks, Adrian “Cap” Anson, and Fergie Jenkins (all historically great Cubs baseball players). Back when I was a child, those names meant something to me, but I only thought of them as fictional characters you’d find in a storybook.  Before I even entered Wrigley, these characters came to life.  I would see their sculptures and remember how dad showed me how they swung the bat or fielded a ball.  It all made sense to me.  These ballplayers and this stadium didn’t provide wins, but they provided happiness in an era where perhaps anyone else in America wanted to be one of those ballplayers.

Even if you don’t like or love the game of baseball, attending this area when the Cubs are in town to play becomes more than a stadium.  Rather, it becomes an experience.  Before soaking up any beer, I soaked up its beauty.  Before eating a sausage, prior to entering the park, I ate up the personalities surrounding it.  Those outside the park could spot those who had never been in Wrigley.  It would be the most affable introduction from the most random of pedestrians.  “Hey, you ever been here before?”  “No.”  “Oh, you gotta go to this place over here before the first pitch.  You’ll love it, and you’ll love the stadium.  Go Cubbies!”  It was the finest thing I’ve known, because, commonly, we don’t believe people are sincere without selling something.  He genuinely wasn’t selling anything but his beloved city and the Cubs.

When finally entering the stadium, I felt like I was at the most affable coliseum in Rome.  It was also the closest seat to the bat wielding gladiators only wishing to bash a ball instead of a skull.  Quite honestly, I felt as if I were at a triple A stadium watching major league players.   Everyone is that close to this beautifully manicured park……so close, you can smell the pine tar on the players’ bats and get sick to your stomach while watching them cram chewing tobacco into their mouths.  Three rows below, you look at the hotdogs or mouth savoring sausages as though they are Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and the day after dinner.  The broken nutshells at your shoes make them look like ruby brown slippers.   The Ivy outfield walls make you feel as though you are in your backyard, but with thousands of people cheering for you instead of  your mother yelling at you to come in for supper.  For one day, one was better.  Sorry, mom.

Wrigley-BenandBrittPeople refer to Wrigley Field as The Friendly Confines.   They could not be more correct. A wise woman I picked up along the way to watch the game with me and enjoy the experience told me, “This is not just a date…..it is a date with history and baseball.”  Indeed.

If you ever go to Chicago, go to 1060 West Addison.  You may just get lucky.

 

It’s NOT about the Dodgers!

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My father began this story, a couple of my brothers interrupted, and, beautifully, my father finished it.

“There’s no crying in baseball.” Sadly, for me, there was crying in baseball; I just had to do it in my bedroom.   Additionally embarrassing, as a youngster, I wore a plastic blue helmet to bed representing my favorite team, the Los Angeles Dodgers, a team currently facing extinction in the 2013 playoffs.

1970 Spokane Indians (Triple A team for the Dodgers)

Growing up in my hometown far far away from the city of Los Angeles, California, I lived and cried for the Los Angeles Dodgers.  My father simply described Dodger history; The Brooklyn Dodgers packed their bags one day and flew to L.A….by way of Spokane, Washington.  Dad spoke of the ball players gracing our city in the minors, for only a moment, and he told me I should pay attention to when they made it to the Major Leagues, because it would be something special.  It was. Baseball was and still remains my favorite sport.

My brothers liked baseball, but they didn’t love it like me.  That presented a problem when the Dodgers were in town on our television set, minus a remote control.  I was always hoping the bottom of the ninth inning would arrive before they did.  Sometimes, that didn’t always happen.

In the bottom of the ninth inning, with the Dodgers winning a meaningless game (to some) by three runs, the Braves had the bases loaded with two outs.  As usual, clutching a bat during a ballgame, I thought the Dodgers had it won.  That’s exactly the moment my brothers entered the game.  Just like extraordinary relief pitchers, they ruined my day.  Sweaty from football practice, they walked into the living room wanting to change the channel while I was squeezing my bat and wearing my plastic helmet.  Manually, they turned the channel to some popular cinema classic such as “Creature Feature”.     Enraged, that’s when I turned Dodger Blue and was fortunate enough to be carrying a Louisville Slugger.  Using my bat, I changed the channel back.  The channel by channel slugfest began.  Almost precisely at that moment, I watched a man playing for the Atlanta Braves hit a Grand Slam against my Dodgers to win the game.  My brothers couldn’t have been more pleased, and I couldn’t have been more pissed.  Turning the channel to anything, such as the news, my two brothers, laughing, turned the channel back to the ballgame.  Even with a bat, I was overmatched.  They were excited about the grand slam, and I didn’t wish to see all the replays.  Retreating to my bedroom, I remember wailing about this silly game which seemingly meant nothing to anyone but me.

Soon, my father would be arriving…….just on time.  He entered the house after working for many hours and could smell mom’s cooking, hear me crying, and sense my brothers and baseball had something to do with this mess.  With a discerning look on my father’s face, he simply asked, “What’s going on?”

Snickering, my brothers responded with a less than convincing response, “Nothing.”

Dad, not convinced by their response, asked, “Nothing, huh?  Then, why is Ben crying?”

My brothers, Tom and Greg, could not mask their grins.

Knowing me well, my dad inquired, hoping to avoid further controversy, “Did the Dodgers lose today”?

I could hear their response, even from my bedroom with tears streaming from my face, “Yes.”

That’s the point where your dad eases your suffering.  Walking into my room, I didn’t allow him to ask any questions.  I formidably screamed, “IT’S NOT ABOUT THE DODGERS!”  He responded with such compassion and convincing fashion to an eight or maybe nine year old child.  “I know it’s not about the Dodgers…..are you ok?”  Wiping away tears, I could only respond with a simple, “Yeah.”

Looking back, I was expecting my father to give me a lecture about it just being a game.  He didn’t.  He knew it was more than a game to me.  For some reason, the way he put out the fire made me feel safe from the embarrassment I was anticipating at the dinner table that evening.

I still like the Dodgers, but I don’t cry about games anymore.  I just throw remote controls and listen to my wife’s profanity.  And, now I can admit, it was about the Dodgers.

 

 

 

 

Bad Timing (an awkward day of remembrance)

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Today, I celebrate.  Why?  For many reasons.  I am alive. I have a terrific family, wonderful friends and I am happily married.  I can celebrate the 50th anniversary of MLK’s “I have a dream” speech meaning so much to so many, and, I have the opportunity to enjoy the sunshine following the deluge in Seattle last night.  Listening to baseball play by play on the radio, the Seattle Mariners are hosting the Texas Rangers.  Seattle’s pitching ace, or “King” is on the mound, so why wouldn’t I celebrate?  Yet, for a recognition of hatred still existing to this day, if I may, it seems a little awkward, and sadly ironic hearing the Mariner fans chanting “KKKKKKK” while King Felix Hernandez pitches on this day of fond remembrance.  Of course, there is no racial intention, the fans are only using the chant as a reference to a strike out.  I can also be positive and celebrate a teaching moment.  Most would ask why a strike out is called a “K”.  Don’t ask me, ask Google. I did.  The letter “K” was used in the baseball scorecard representing the last letter of the the word “struck” out. The man developing the scorecard, Henry Chadwick, couldn’t use the letter “S” because Stolen Base was already taken.  Therefore, he used the letter “K” for the last man to record an out in that inning, often times resulting in a strike out.  You could argue that it could have been a “U” or a “C”, but does it really matter?  I believe those letters could be used to describe fan emotions.  Upset and Crying would describe how I feel after a team I’m rooting for pitifully loses. People could also use those letters to form scrabble words such as “Uncle” or “Cracker”.   As a pearly white caucasian growing up in the seventies with modest suburban roots, it was sad that all those letters made me think how despicable parts of this country were before I was born, and sadly, how ignorance still exists.  Irony was working at its best or worst on this day.

Rest In Peace (the baseball nursery rhymeless)

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One of my five year old nieces was staying the night with us, and before bedtime, I was requested to tell her a story.  I didn’t know it would give her nightmares.

Here was my thoughtful introduction.  (her name is Lucy)

Me:  Lucy, do you know anything about baseball?

Lucy:  A little.

Me:  Do you know anything about a magical place in the Emerald City (known as Seattle) called Safeco Field?

Lucy:  (apprehensively) No.

Me:  It’s where baseball players go to die.  There is nothing safe about this place!  And, many others suffer from their lack of ability and additional lack of knowledge of what should be a mentally simple game.

Lucy:  What do you mean by others?  Team mates?

Me:  Not just team mates, but those in the stands witnessing them dig their own graves, primarily in left field and center field.

Lucy: Keep telling the story.

Me: Ok, but it doesn’t have a happy ending like World War Two. Are you cool with that?

Lucy: Yes.

Me: Good, because tomorrow night, we’re going to talk about Korea.

Lucy: Ok.

Me:  I’m getting tired, but here’s the brief story.  When very talented baseball players lose their desire to play, yet don’t lose the desire to make money, figuratively speaking, they come to a home where they are safe, just not at home plate.  Are you following me?

Lucy:  Not at home?  Who feeds them?

Me:  Good question.  The owners.

Lucy:  Do the owners live with them?

Me: Nobody lives with them!  The owners can afford to pay people to take care of them, but the owners and players must sign contracts, much like making a deal with the devil.  Do you anything about him?

Lucy: No.

Me: Yeah, let’s leave that one alone for tonight, and get back to the fun part of the story.

Lucy:  But, uncle Ben, you haven’t told me about the worst part of this story.  The owners don’t live with them, but shouldn’t they, out of principle?

Me:  Another good question.  No, sadly the owners live thousands of miles away but provide vast amounts of money so these ballplayers can eat, drink, chew on bubble gum and other things like women, but let’s not get into that.

Lucy:  Tell me more.

Me: Before I put you to sleep with negative energy, let’s speak of a man named Santa Clause.  Are you familiar with this guy?

Lucy:  Yes!  He is jolly and brings me gifts my parents can’t afford!  He also has a beard and……..

Me:  That’s enough.  Do you know anyone else who has a beard?

Lucy:  Yes, but no one who shows up with presents.

Me:  Ok, let’s just get this Santa Clause crap out of the way, because he doesn’t exist, get it?

Lucy: Ok.

Me:  Do you love your dad and your mom?

Lucy:  Yes!

Me: They are much like managers of a baseball team.

Lucy: What does that mean?

Me: Good Lord, they are the ones helping you make proper decisions, when in fact, they should be kicking you in the ass.

Lucy:  You’re scaring me…….this is not a fun story, and where are you going with this?

Me:  The manager of the Emerald City Seattle Mariners is fat and wears a beard, but doesn’t bring any gifts!  He is the exact opposite of Santa!

Lucy:  I think I want to go to sleep.

Me:  Ok.   Goodnight and God Bless you.

 

Illustration courtesy of Lucy Gannon

Drawing courtesy of Lucy Gannon

 

 

The Yard That Aaron Left

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Our backyard  stadium was built by love and mystery.  The love was not a mystery, but the mystery was built by my brother who existed only on paper; not in pictures.  As a ghostly like character, our brother, Aaron, happily haunted his six brothers and six sisters from time to time.

The mystery of my brother, Aaron, goes on and on, much like the furthest ball I’ve ever witnessed hit in our backyard, winding up in our front yard. Perhaps, like the house in New York that Ruth built, this was the house that Aaron left, and he did it with great style.  There were no apologies necessary, no diseases to deem him as the luckiest man on the face of the earth like Lou Gehrig; this character just ran his own way.

At that time, he was the most mysterious man on my earth, and remains to this very day.  There will be no picture of a man named, Aaron.  He only existed in the eyes of those admiring him……..and for only a brief moment, those eyes belonged to a boy tossing a ball to him before he left us.

Looking at this picture, I remember a child throwing a ball to Aaron knowing where the ball would reside.  It was with bitter sweetness, because the time you spent with this ghostly and sometimes mythical character was cherished.  There is a reason you don’t see the batter in this picture, just like you can’t find one picture of a leprechaun or a unicorn.  They don’t wish to be captured.  And, they never will.

I’ll never know him as much as I always wished, but I always admired him for being, much like a novel, that chapter you can’t wait to finish reading.  Throwing to him in this brace depicted in the picture, I was tossing a baseball to my brother, knowing that when he hit it, he and the baseball would never return.

The brother I still don’t properly know, but indeed love, was the only man to hit a ball out of Gannon Stadium. To hit it out of our stadium,  it must cross over the Red Monster, (our center field fence) travel further over the house on a red ball flight, and land in our front yard located across from the house many of us occupied from time to time.  Depending on the wind, proper attitude, altitude, matched with skill, cunning, and shear talent, this was quite a feat.  But, with our brother, Aaron, his exit was far more impressive than his God given skills.  It’s difficult to decipher which one I respected more.

Not even rounding the bases, or grass and tree roots, he found the ball in the front yard,  left with the ball and we were all wondering when the ball would come back.  It never did.

Remembering the ball and the man, when that ball left our park, we knew the ball and the man would never return, but that was the magic of my brother, Aaron.

Aaron was one of the two brothers out of seven to hit right handed.  I think he just did it to agitate my father. That was typical Aaron, but ever so intriguing.  Because of the great Mickey Mantle, my father taught five of his seven sons to hit left handed, even though we were born righties.  Our mom was the only lefty in the group, but she wasn’t destined for the big leagues.  Our brother Aaron, with magnificent talent, was on a mission not to make it to the big leagues.  He just wanted to have a good time and happily mess with life.

When Aaron played baseball, he was an enigma.  As a very talented player, he just showed up in time to play, or piss my dad off.  At the age of five, it was the first time I heard my father teach me the term, “lollygagger”.  He was a bored centerfielder only willing to run to a fly ball at the precise instant it was about to touch the ground.  I never witnessed him missing one of those balls, but I did witness my father going into cardiac arrest. It was then, when in high school, Aaron would laugh, ending the inning, knowing he was coming  to the plate and smash a home run.  It was also when dad would shake his head in disbelief, wondering why he deserved such torture.  Aaron would then leave the park after hitting a home run, and nobody knew where the hell he went after hitting it out of the stadium.  He never touched home plate.  Aaron just hit the ball and without properly running the bases, much to his younger brothers’ dismay, simply ran off to Montana, Utah, Idaho, or Missouri with the ball.  He was that fast.

Running into my brother, or as I’d like to characterize him as a “true character”, from time to time over so many years, it is always a gift. In my dreams, he has the same smile, and a glimmer in his eye, making you want to know what he is thinking, but, you will never know.  That is why I think of him often.

Still, to this wonderful sunny day, there are times I don’t want him to exist.  I wish for him to remain that fictional superman I remembered flying out of our yard one day.  Rather than feeling I was cheated by his lack of presence in our lives, I choose to focus on all the tremendous memories.

 

 

An April Fool (opening days)

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Strike Tree!  You’re outside!

Once maintaining the status of being an April Fool, you can see this picture is no joke.

Turning a gun into a bat seems like it should be fictional.  It’s not……..not where I grew up.  Where I grew up, everything I touched turned into a bat.  Brooms, branches, rakes, fence posts, t.v. antennas….. I’m telling you, I was a magician when it came to turning anything into a baseball bat.  Once, I even turned a rabbit into a bat after pulling it out of my frizzy blond locks.  However, one can argue that turning a gun into a bat was my greatest trick when baseball’s opening day was lurking in our backyard midst.

In the picture, it is unclear whether whatever I was swinging was a toy gun, or a worn down bebe gun, but I do know that I’ve never shot anything in my life, nor had the desire to do so. According to my mother, I was using this gun as a baseball bat while attempting to chop down our cherry tree. She never told a lie.  Since I was only about four, axes were not allowed to be in my hands, nor were they allowed to be in anyone’s hands in our neighborhood, unless you were actually chopping wood.

My mother and I had a wonderful relationship.  After all the siblings were off to school, she did her best to keep me busy.  Keeping me inside the house was not an option.  Playing card games such as “memory” could only last until about noon.  That was usually about an hour before baseball’s opening day began for me.

Cable was not available in those precious days, so my mom made certain her youngest son would live it in our backyard.  If you look closely at Gannon Stadium, you can recognize an old school ball yard.  We had it all.  First base was the root of a tree.  Second base was a thorn bush, which is why mom always kept a first aid kit handy.  Third base was the cherry tree which is depicted in this picture.  Evidently, home plate was anywhere I wished it to be, because if you look at the landscape of our home, there was a centerfield home run fence known as “The Red Monster”.  (It was our west coast version of “the Green Monster” located at Boston’s Fenway Park) Judging from the direction I was swinging the gun, a centerfield homer was not an option, so the scouts in our yard taking this picture had serious doubts about there being anything in between my ears and beneath that ghostly white hair.

I have absolutely no idea why I was trying to chop the cherry tree down with a gun, but I was outside in the spring with a mother who just tried to keep me occupied before the rest of the gang came home for dinner.

My mother, Margaret, loved the game of baseball;  she just had never played it……..until I convinced her that no matter where she threw the ball, I’d swing at it.  I recall running across the yard, fifteen feet out of the gunner’s box attempting to hit her dangerous attempts to toss it across home plate.  Sometimes, I would end up in one of our neighbor’s yards.  That didn’t bother me or my mother because one of the neighbors would always smile while providing me with the carrots she had planted months prior to the ball mom planted in their dirt, knowing my mom needed a bit of a break.  Food, even vegetables at that time, was the only deterrent to baseball, but only on a minor league level.  This neighbor was lucky not to have planted onions.  They are far too similar to a baseball.  The carrots, I could eat.  The onions were far too tempting not to hit, unless of course, they were sautéed.

Last night, I watched a baseball game with my brother, Mike, because mom wasn’t around.  She was too busy sleeping, dreaming about a day where she could balance baseball with “Dancing With the Stars”.

Last Monday, our official opening day, I called my mom and reminded her of those very special days when she displayed such kindness and affection.  The bond remains, and she has definitely earned the right to change the channel from a game to dancing.  Neither of us are April Fools, but we are foolishly in love with this time of year.

 

 

 

The Sweet Spot

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Bats:

There is an end, there is a beginning and then, there is a sweet spot.

It’s not even in the middle.  If you take a wooden bat, stare at it and wonder why it is so strong and weak at the same time, you must analyze it as though it were a patient.  Where  do we start?  What portion of this bat is the strongest?  What part of this is the weakest?  If you really look at the bat, the heart of the bat is the strongest.  It sets comfortably in the ever so soft middle where no one except the ball can find it.

The brain rests on top of the bat as though it is a skyscraper, but it can crumble just as easily as a sand castle on any North Continental beach.  Shards of bat shrapnel will fly out to fielders when you wish no harm to any of them, but sadly, it comes with the territory.

The bottom of the bat is cruel. Your hands, knees and feet ache because they are confused since it should be such an easy science.  It’s not.  It breaks your knuckles when swinging too fast or too slow, especially in cold weather.  Nothing works except the heart of the bat….  that’s the sweet spot.

The sweet spot is when a ball comes off the bat and you can’t feel a thing but success, happiness and pure love, because you only feel it in your heart.  Run your fingers through whipped cream and see if it hurts.  It doesn’t.   I don’t know of a man who can say it does, but that’s the only way I can describe the feeling of when you hit a ball on the sweet spot.

When all other organs aren’t performing properly, you rely on the heart of the bat and find comfort in its rhythm.  You recognize why you don’t always have to swing like a wild man.  Sit down.  Think.  Relax.  Breathe.  But most importantly, rely on your heart for guidance.  The brain is overrated.  So are the legs.  The best part of a bat and an artichoke is the heart.