tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72071192945362438672024-03-18T05:17:34.224-04:00Hardball HeartA passionate baseball fan stops to play catch every now and again.Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01018766363216670681noreply@blogger.comBlogger88125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-88624723313452251292020-04-08T00:00:00.000-04:002020-04-08T00:00:09.311-04:00Hold on to the Roof: 10 Out-of-the-Park Baseball Moments <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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What a long, strange journey it’s been, folks.<br />
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And I’m not talking about publishing two novels (glance over to the right), <a href="http://www.writersbone.com/" target="_blank">founding a literary podcast</a>, getting married, <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/11/a-connecticut-yankee-in-david-ortizs.html">moving to Boston</a>, and doing adult things like starting a savings account. No, I mean it took me weeks to rescue this domain from whatever sketchy third-party website past-Daniel Ford used to stitch this operation together way back when. After multiple chats, calls, and prayers to the domain gods, HardballHeart.com is ready to scan your ticket and let you into the ballpark once again.<br />
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Sadly, for all involved, I have only just begun to empty my baseball clichés bag.<br />
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There are myriad reasons why this blog is special to me (and not solely because I spent money to renew the URL). I started posting in 2011, desperately craving a creative outlet. That need to share some of my favorite baseball stories led to <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/07/lords-prayer.html" target="_blank">writing about my family</a>, sharing early drafts of <i>Sid Sanford Lives! </i>(seriously, the link to my books are on the right), and, eventually, starting <i>Writer’s Bone</i> with my good friend Sean.<br />
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Like much of the world, I’ve found myself with a little extra time on my hands. I also have an urgent desire to relive my all-time favorite baseball moments. I remain a cynical optimist, so I’m eyeing that day when we can mindlessly and joyously root, root, root for the home team. In the meantime, enjoy these unforgettable, out-of-the-park memories.<br />
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1. Donnie Baseball Goes Yard in the Playoffs</h2>
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The Yankees may have experienced World Series success the following year and beyond, but they’ve never had a better, harder-earned homerun or call.<br />
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2. Mariana Rivera Says Goodbye to Fenway Park </h2>
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Thanks to my father-in-law, I got to attend this game. I don’t think I had even officially moved to Boston at this point. I tried real hard not to tear up in front of him.<br />
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3. “A Judge-ian Blast” </h2>
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Having sat in those bleachers, I can tell you this is an unthinkably far tater. Oh, I didn’t tell you this was mainly going to be about the Yankees? Too bad.<br />
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4. Holy Sh#&, What a Throw</h2>
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I could watch Jesse Barfield throw runners out all day. What a bazooka of a right arm.<br />
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5. Flippin’ the Bat</h2>
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I know this one angers some baseball purists, but, come on. Buck Showalter’s suspect managing deserved every glorious moment of José Bautista’s bat flip.<br />
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6. Bat Day</h2>
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Sums up my inner emotions at the moment.<br />
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7. *Thumbs Down Emoji</h2>
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*Yankee fans will <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEjps-tqEaO8LhpeD4VtyOzsNsyioe0F0Su0MdnxdqvdsTgmaQexzS0WWVzNHzkFr_Nowl7W7P-cgXxc91HeXPF2cnrZ1XKx-3WM-t3b6aXCRJStvyR-Awla9zDXIHI8UNQfKPhFyGZ88HFFK3pdcLu3RLjMK9cK2slYLw-9VWDdfPb6M1xKJ-nE=" target="_blank">get that reference</a>. Loved following this Little League World Series team. Watched all the 1998 games in between backyard Wiffle ball games.<br />
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8. Father-Son Game</h2>
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I love Ken Griffey Jr.’s swing as much as I do the Mariners' past and present uniforms.<br />
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9. Angels in the Outfield</h2>
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Listen, I’m not good at headlines or headers. Got to grab the easy ones when I can.<br />
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Also, confession, I love that Angels logo. Going to lose some friends over that.<br />
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10. Big Daddy Bomb</h2>
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Had Cecil Fielder connected on that 2-0 pitch, it might have landed in Canada.Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01018766363216670681noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-10914242954951574912014-09-15T11:00:00.000-04:002014-09-15T11:20:38.477-04:00100 Baseball Cards From My Youth: Part 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As I mentioned in <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2014/08/100-baseball-cards-from-my-youth-part-1.html" target="_blank">Part 1 of this series</a>, I ended 2013 by sharing 50 of my favorite pictures from my life in baseball, so I figured it would be appropriate to end the summer by sharing 100 of my favorite baseball cards. Part 2 features 50 of from the National League.
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Feel free to share your own favorites in the comments section or tweet me at <a href="https://twitter.com/danielfford" target="_blank">@danielfford</a>!
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1. Al Oliver
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I have a strange love for the Montreal Expos, which only grew after reading Jonah Keri’s excellent <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0307361357/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0307361357&linkCode=as2&tag=jonahkericom-20" target="_blank"><i>Up, Up, and Away: The Kid, the Hawk, Rock, Vladi, Pedro, le Grand Orange, Youppi!, the Crazy Business of Baseball, and the Ill-fated but Unforgettable Montreal Expos</i></a>. Oliver only played two years in Montreal, but won the National League batting and RBI titles in 1982 by hitting .331 (which included 204 hits!) and driving in 109 runs. He finished his career with 2,743 hits and a .303 lifetime batting average. His mug in this baseball card clearly states, “I’m a hitter.”
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2. Dennis Martinez </h3>
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Martinez arguably has one of the greatest nicknames in baseball history: "El Presidente." The defining moment of his presidency was his perfect game against the Los Angeles Dodgers on July 28, 1991.
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3. Pedro Martinez </h3>
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Sadly, this is not the last time you’ll see Pedro on this list. If it weren’t for his time on the Boston Red Sox, Pedro would have been one of my favorite players. It was hard not to admire what he did on the mound no matter what uniform he was wearing (I’ll never forget him mowing down the National League’s steroid-enhanced behemoths during the All-Star game in 1999 at Fenway Park). Personally, he looks the best in an Expos jersey.
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4. Spike Owen</h3>
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It is my sincere hope that Owen is pointing and laughing at something wholly inappropriate.
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5. Andruw Jones</h3>
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I’ll remember the 1996 World Series for several reasons. One is seeing my father jump off the couch when Charlies Hayes caught the final out, giving my favorite team its first World Series victory since 1978. The other is getting to stay up past my bedtime to watch Game 1. Jones’ two home runs (as a 19-year-old!) were my first real experiences with a gut-wrenching sports moments. But it was hard to hate him too much because of the mega-watt smile he flashed after each one.
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I enjoyed following his subsequent career, even his fat, out-of-shape, paycheck-cashing final years with the Yankees.
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6. Tom Glavine</h3>
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If you were a baseball fan in the 1990s, it was hard not to respect the Atlanta Braves dominance of the decade. It started with the team’s pitching staff, Glavine, Greg Maddux, and John Smoltz. Out of the three, Glavine probably had the best steely look in his eyes while on the mound (although Smoltz does give him a run for the money).
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7. John Smoltz</h3>
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Speaking of Smoltz, I’ll never forget him saying after the 1996 World Series that his Game 5 loss to Andy Pettitte was one of the best games he ever pitched. Because of my earlier bedtime, I was forced to listen to that game on the radio. I think I held my breath right up to the moment a gimpy Paul O’Neill tracked down the final out.
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8. Otis Nixon
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One of the ugliest men to ever play baseball.
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9. Bobby Cox </h3>
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Twenty-nine years as a manager with 2,504 wins kind of says it all doesn’t it?
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10. Chipper Jones</h3>
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Another one of my “Big Show” cards. I liked Chipper Jones for two reasons: 1. He tortured the New York Mets; and 2. He wore his socks high earlier in his career.
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11. Mike LaValliere</h3>
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It’s <i>Hardball Heart </i>policy to include any baseball card that features fat, smiling catchers.
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<h3>
12. Bobby Bonilla</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx3-WtaQaPSuJm5-oEFzKShRXo6mVWT1wh7UyRp2XTrdAQxKMtYNDYYRNNrZUDts9D-MkRf6qvU6VRaiSviOsXJhX7oBI_kSy75H2kLTgRGugYCHOB7ibavnrqVPK84WENOl8JeFYREJTl/s1600/12.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx3-WtaQaPSuJm5-oEFzKShRXo6mVWT1wh7UyRp2XTrdAQxKMtYNDYYRNNrZUDts9D-MkRf6qvU6VRaiSviOsXJhX7oBI_kSy75H2kLTgRGugYCHOB7ibavnrqVPK84WENOl8JeFYREJTl/s1600/12.png" height="400" width="281" /></a></div>
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I’m pretty sure that this baseball card is still collecting checks from some Major League team.
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<h3>
13. Denny Neagle</h3>
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Not the best New York Yankee…
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<h3>
14. Steve Finley
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I remember Finley more for his play on the Padres and Angels, but I love these Houston Astros throwback uniforms.
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<h3>
15. Craig Biggio</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvKveOA07Ubk5bYsJqind6wyQIjyPobhkI2cblQbLHhUKYRaytTMRBmPF8qulP6MU7oluop7mIn1SeFWZ1OPygpuaKChFhMiTRwVp9WNTanqJctDlDDqa9Xz4sExVqOaq4o9TR0dUc21DQ/s1600/15..png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvKveOA07Ubk5bYsJqind6wyQIjyPobhkI2cblQbLHhUKYRaytTMRBmPF8qulP6MU7oluop7mIn1SeFWZ1OPygpuaKChFhMiTRwVp9WNTanqJctDlDDqa9Xz4sExVqOaq4o9TR0dUc21DQ/s1600/15..png" height="400" width="271" /></a></div>
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The Astros were big in the 1990s and early 2000s thanks in large part to The Killer B’s (Biggio, Derek Bell, and the upcoming Jeff Bagwell). I also have an affinity for Biggio because he played for <a href="http://www.redstormsports.com/sports/m-basebl/mtt/blankmeyer_ed01.html" target="_blank">St. John’s University Baseball coach Ed Blankmeyer</a> at Seton Hall.
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<h3>
16. Jeff Bagwell</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_RFMhaRE9Hkku3pGABzK8ZtoKQHEw8UOXRR8Kj0pcx7fOMwA_RPFl6fPuVHuhwn802b08oNvIeiq5t-y1Ti41AkQkvA7LWbWqJYNXR-O5hes2BAyKIj0zXvyN6_7wE-cnfltqYTfBzmq/s1600/16..png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_RFMhaRE9Hkku3pGABzK8ZtoKQHEw8UOXRR8Kj0pcx7fOMwA_RPFl6fPuVHuhwn802b08oNvIeiq5t-y1Ti41AkQkvA7LWbWqJYNXR-O5hes2BAyKIj0zXvyN6_7wE-cnfltqYTfBzmq/s1600/16..png" height="296" width="400" /></a></div>
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Put this man in the Hall of Fame. Ridiculous he’s had to wait this long. I could watch him hit a baseball all day.
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<h3>
17. Fred McGriff</h3>
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I saw McGriff in person once during one of my trips with St. John’s Baseball (might have been an NCAA tournament game, but I honestly can’t remember). As you might expect, he is a large human being.
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<h3>
18. Gary Sheffield</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwg1LAFrTNziV6WROMd_pcaSQtrJaobx6-KCTuJoKbYYYgFAwv4dwhpqYWzEy1ERinwMwHsoQkBHnxCZVMU0RnG1tC7PFvRJr3LKYYdgTxv1M92mXxEo_WylK_vgNIl94Fz93rJGKH13p4/s1600/18..png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwg1LAFrTNziV6WROMd_pcaSQtrJaobx6-KCTuJoKbYYYgFAwv4dwhpqYWzEy1ERinwMwHsoQkBHnxCZVMU0RnG1tC7PFvRJr3LKYYdgTxv1M92mXxEo_WylK_vgNIl94Fz93rJGKH13p4/s1600/18..png" height="400" width="283" /></a></div>
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No one swung with more ferocity than Sheffield.
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<h3>
19. Mike Maddux</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYljP8Cw5D0C6y0-Ytz8x28VzdNgc5yMhV8XuP7IiFKlJb6tJEd6IAEwseH7D3JMVAirrod0FKV6I27fpLo9eVh6qocCVhg2PmCBmfO7WY1bgMxgIlqqED5w-7a4CWVQWY06ZEMVfooLG7/s1600/19..png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYljP8Cw5D0C6y0-Ytz8x28VzdNgc5yMhV8XuP7IiFKlJb6tJEd6IAEwseH7D3JMVAirrod0FKV6I27fpLo9eVh6qocCVhg2PmCBmfO7WY1bgMxgIlqqED5w-7a4CWVQWY06ZEMVfooLG7/s1600/19..png" height="400" width="277" /></a></div>
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May not have been as good as his brother Greg, but Mike Maddux had a Hall of Fame-caliber mustache.
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<h3>
20./21. Tony Gwynn
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You can never have enough Tony Gwynn baseball cards in my opinion. Gone much, much too soon.
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<h3>
22. Raul Mondesi</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfvQMiU0P2apmL3XGQ8egaCgWmsUduof1z14X5gaPTkIekOHCwig9EHuA547ukJI13b0QhehVvToN3JLR6VBo2FfkhVRcx6OyI_6l2hVnSxpearN_EBENBOJFWkz_pVv_tr2XoCh8tRbn4/s1600/22..png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfvQMiU0P2apmL3XGQ8egaCgWmsUduof1z14X5gaPTkIekOHCwig9EHuA547ukJI13b0QhehVvToN3JLR6VBo2FfkhVRcx6OyI_6l2hVnSxpearN_EBENBOJFWkz_pVv_tr2XoCh8tRbn4/s1600/22..png" height="288" width="400" /></a></div>
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Raul…Monnnnnnndesi!
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<h3>
23. Mike Piazza</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiChwA_7dVQdix8DCayau73Gfu0N53CC3uxAIyZv8khwQ2C1OsNUExqfvWQYzT2tafsAoQX5K01rjBXr7U3G440YZAItV4hntyA_wMrBYArs9QElet5hszw-i2-nyfAsYgVuE_-76NEKmir/s1600/23..png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiChwA_7dVQdix8DCayau73Gfu0N53CC3uxAIyZv8khwQ2C1OsNUExqfvWQYzT2tafsAoQX5K01rjBXr7U3G440YZAItV4hntyA_wMrBYArs9QElet5hszw-i2-nyfAsYgVuE_-76NEKmir/s1600/23..png" height="400" width="281" /></a></div>
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My favorite New York Met. This may be the most important home run in New York baseball history.
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<h3>
24. Pedro Martinez</h3>
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Pedro looks all wrong in Dodger blue. However, he did win 10 games for Los Angeles in 1993 (his second year in the big leagues).
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<h3>
25. Darryl Strawberry</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgo2zRxjq4yxqWDfxGky1DuPY5MQQvX8N6O5wEV7umMNi5HwUQVmYIlj94NG3Dz2XL5NoK02Rggk6_y4CvxdP_l6bMKSfJhk41d1WQ_Z-ubs4qW8BUk0F1vr4L_kVkA_aKC2rNSHex4zgV/s1600/25..png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgo2zRxjq4yxqWDfxGky1DuPY5MQQvX8N6O5wEV7umMNi5HwUQVmYIlj94NG3Dz2XL5NoK02Rggk6_y4CvxdP_l6bMKSfJhk41d1WQ_Z-ubs4qW8BUk0F1vr4L_kVkA_aKC2rNSHex4zgV/s1600/25..png" height="400" width="282" /></a></div>
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Strawberry looks even more out of place in a Dodgers uniform. Despite his more than 300 career home runs, Strawberry is probably best known for his cameo on “The Simpsons.”<br />
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<h3>
26. Orel Hershiser </h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgciAjzyuSHCb3fFVywWTuFQXt-UoIiXWmpZH34e9ttZQDi-4nu1Quych7GozqWpXOJ4GlN32GOsFAskP2F2zUk0BhmYl-t8vTtnmRv7Acs5mL8h8AEvR-FHWcN4NYNHS-pjM67HTj6mSBx/s1600/26..png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgciAjzyuSHCb3fFVywWTuFQXt-UoIiXWmpZH34e9ttZQDi-4nu1Quych7GozqWpXOJ4GlN32GOsFAskP2F2zUk0BhmYl-t8vTtnmRv7Acs5mL8h8AEvR-FHWcN4NYNHS-pjM67HTj6mSBx/s1600/26..png" height="400" width="282" /></a></div>
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He may have looked awkward and gangly, but this guy was a winner.
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<h3>
27. Jackie Robinson </h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYFaeYNl8PmHe0cdafSlSpmyuQsVdU3JU9j71DuPs9dIi-C_K8f3e4K31CsBxFZ5hb6nsg8IRzQMK1DK770oZBYwBKAFKCJUVfY5mhTXadhG1xZ9NRYpuHilq51aJk0rLt6inFwqHIhKHF/s1600/27..png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYFaeYNl8PmHe0cdafSlSpmyuQsVdU3JU9j71DuPs9dIi-C_K8f3e4K31CsBxFZ5hb6nsg8IRzQMK1DK770oZBYwBKAFKCJUVfY5mhTXadhG1xZ9NRYpuHilq51aJk0rLt6inFwqHIhKHF/s1600/27..png" height="400" width="281" /></a></div>
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The definition of strength, class, and courage.
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<h3>
28. Ozzie Canseco </h3>
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Heh, Ozzie Canseco was a baseball player (but only for 65 at-bats).
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<h3>
29. Ozzie Smith </h3>
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“Ozzie Smith is ready for the flip!”<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/R6-BgGHQt24?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<h3>
30. Ray Lankford </h3>
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I have three or four cards of Ray Lankford. I’m not sure why. But here he is.
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<h3>
31. Bud Black </h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUni5gU7EzXnN-lh_6Bnk5dxoKfgxwoIKpxb3osSCvxx2XIujyZnw736sX8QdEJG5OJOFNvjSZr_O7nTk_N_St4RgBkKHbZ-Y-CaBAe7vuN5n884RRbYcawTV55VHkc_pa4arax0z0qbY4/s1600/31..png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUni5gU7EzXnN-lh_6Bnk5dxoKfgxwoIKpxb3osSCvxx2XIujyZnw736sX8QdEJG5OJOFNvjSZr_O7nTk_N_St4RgBkKHbZ-Y-CaBAe7vuN5n884RRbYcawTV55VHkc_pa4arax0z0qbY4/s1600/31..png" height="400" width="285" /></a></div>
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Black is wearing a terrific throwback New York Giants uniform.<br />
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<h3>
32. Dave Righetti </h3>
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Pretty sure my mother would still leave my father for present day Righetti. And I think he would understand.
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<h3>
33. Matt Williams </h3>
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<br />
This man may be the most serious guy in the game, but he could hit back in the day and we’re finding out he can manage. I look forward to see Williams’ scowl <b>lead</b> the Washington Nationals into the playoffs.
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<h3>
34. Barry Larkin </h3>
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Larkin’s 1995 National League MVP stats are pretty damn good. He batted .319, with 158 hits, 51 steals, and only <i>49</i> strikeouts.
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<h3>
35. Bip Roberts </h3>
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One of my all-time favorite baseball names.
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<h3>
36. Paul O’Neill </h3>
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It’s shame I don’t have a card of favorite New York Yankee in pinstripes. I can’t tell you how much I enjoy O’Neill’s commentary in the television booth (which is usually at Michael Kay’s expense).
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<h3>
37. Lou Piniella </h3>
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Louuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!
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<h3>
38. Curt Schilling </h3>
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Can’t run a company, but he could sure throw a baseball (2004 still hurts).
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<h3>
39. Mike Schmidt </h3>
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Dark maroon and baby blue shouldn’t work so well on a uniform. But it does and I love it.
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<h3>
40. Lenny Dykstra </h3>
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I will refrain from jokes now that Dykstra is out of prison.
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<h3>
41. Jay Baller </h3>
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I think it’s a law that anyone with the last name “Baller” has to wear a mullet.
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<h3>
42. Vinny Castillo
</h3>
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Getting a Colorado Rockies card as a kid was so cool. I was a big fan of all their big hitters.
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<h3>
43. Dante Bichette </h3>
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What can I say, the early 1990s were a simpler time.
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<h3>
44. Edgar Renteria </h3>
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I really liked the way Renteria played the game. I was an even bigger fan of the Florida Marlins’ past uniform.
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<h3>
45. Robb Nen </h3>
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<br />
Nen looks like he is about to throw than baseball through a 18-wheeler.
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<h3>
46. Joe Girardi </h3>
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<br />
I feel for Girardi after being handed these recent subpar New York Yankees teams. The players play hard for him though and he squeezes every ounce of talent out of them. His triple in the 1996 World Series caused my father to hit his head on the ceiling (not really, but he was pretty excited). And I think Joe might be in better shape now than he was in this picture.<br />
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<h3>
47. Sammy Sosa </h3>
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Bet you didn’t think you’d ever see a baseball card featuring Sammy Sosa laying down a bunt, huh?
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<h3>
48. George Bell </h3>
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Can you imagine George Bell barreling into you at third base? Me either. Frightening.
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<h3>
49. Ryne Sandberg </h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRKNWwZQc_mgFreYiwXTDG2n0JzOqpe1Wkk7cLpBsz-OgF2m0UX3ioFFtlu0_dkk1z2LzPEyZ83yaIeZtfR85do1GslrUH4wgeCPnPUOUA-aeRaKxnT8sP2YcU_YK2vEdq8jn6PBNpu47h/s1600/49..png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRKNWwZQc_mgFreYiwXTDG2n0JzOqpe1Wkk7cLpBsz-OgF2m0UX3ioFFtlu0_dkk1z2LzPEyZ83yaIeZtfR85do1GslrUH4wgeCPnPUOUA-aeRaKxnT8sP2YcU_YK2vEdq8jn6PBNpu47h/s1600/49..png" height="400" width="285" /></a></div>
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Sandberg made this list because he was the National League MVP the year I was born (1984)! Some highlights: 200 hits, 114 runs, .314 batting average, and 19 triples.
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<h3>
50. Greg Maddux </h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTA4_a5jSZrcTh-FXcjvYp_Y6pz6ztK0MJxtGh6LR0JJISHyhzIXMKvizBZ_Sq6jtmZc0XwTzyWMxlk_KN6VYBVxEmso7YmbuhV9ct3Q4b4ddi6Uk-_XUEZ-mln_pK6wPs6wxkk6zCRlKD/s1600/50..png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTA4_a5jSZrcTh-FXcjvYp_Y6pz6ztK0MJxtGh6LR0JJISHyhzIXMKvizBZ_Sq6jtmZc0XwTzyWMxlk_KN6VYBVxEmso7YmbuhV9ct3Q4b4ddi6Uk-_XUEZ-mln_pK6wPs6wxkk6zCRlKD/s1600/50..png" height="400" width="277" /></a></div>
<br />
Not your best smile Greg.
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<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><b>Also check out:
</b></i><br />
<ul>
<li><i><b><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2014/08/100-baseball-cards-from-my-youth-part-1.html" target="_blank">100 Baseball Cards From My Youth: Part 1 </a></b></i></li>
</ul>
</blockquote>
</div>
Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-57510042512900981862014-08-31T11:00:00.000-04:002014-08-31T11:16:17.757-04:00100 Baseball Cards From My Youth: Part 1 <div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEzYfPmdy8ihzOtC7xoL0t2QfbEH4OkhxKTHai9wtk6Vv4Y7-D96aZ9tAKV3pn671a91u8b7-8RU6Rfqh6jIOilHfnl_C981V8P0CildBUhL_NB0Mz8OSG6S-3n9VW3tapWOOlI_dJroep/s1600/2040.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEzYfPmdy8ihzOtC7xoL0t2QfbEH4OkhxKTHai9wtk6Vv4Y7-D96aZ9tAKV3pn671a91u8b7-8RU6Rfqh6jIOilHfnl_C981V8P0CildBUhL_NB0Mz8OSG6S-3n9VW3tapWOOlI_dJroep/s1600/2040.png" height="320" width="312" /></a></div>
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<br />
I lost most of my treasured childhood belongings when my parent’s basement flooded a couple of years ago. “Jurassic Park” dinosaurs, “Power Rangers” action figures, miniature “Star Wars” figurines, and an entire civilization of stuffed animals ended up in the town dump rather than in my future kid’s playroom.
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<br />
While doing laundry during a weekend home recently, I noticed two yellow binders hiding behind twenty-year-old cobwebs. My fingers darkened as I picked them up, instantly stained by dirt so black it would have been at home in a coal miner’s lungs. Any other germ-fearing person would have dumped a vat of hand sanitizer into their hands, but I couldn’t wait another moment to see if the binders’ content had survived the storm.
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<br />
“No shit,” I said.
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<br />
The baseball cards I had collected and meticulously curated were in pristine condition inside the cellar-beaten books. Arranged by team and league, the cards represented a time when my only responsibilities included memorizing batting averages and negotiating a later bedtime. They also showcase a wonderfully weird time in baseball—late 1980s, early 1990s—that seems so much more innocent than it really was.
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<br />
I ended last year by sharing <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/12/50-pictures-from-my-life-in-baseball.html">50 of my favorite pictures from my life in baseball</a>. I figured it would be appropriate to end the summer by sharing 100 of my favorite baseball cards. Part 1 will feature 50 cards from the American League (which will be New York Yankees heavy for obvious reasons) and Part 2, which will go live next Sunday, will feature another 50 from the National League.
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<br />
Feel free to share your own favorites in the comments section or tweet me at <a href="https://twitter.com/danielfford">@danielfford</a>!
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">The American League</span><br />
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<h3>
<i>1. <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/07/baseball-beginnings-on-derek-jeter.html" target="_blank">Derek Jeter </a></i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWwSsBF6Cj0qs5e373UeN0iHHy4LHB5aZvEaKwcVxhj5un6ZhThhz7weOoBBRjPNdPYx1m0AUig6mAHwAztdT2seM5p5VHmEXcyVF4OeCYChWoU2amekExHKLV_lRzCqIrZAf8QoMEcxsF/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+4.37.38+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWwSsBF6Cj0qs5e373UeN0iHHy4LHB5aZvEaKwcVxhj5un6ZhThhz7weOoBBRjPNdPYx1m0AUig6mAHwAztdT2seM5p5VHmEXcyVF4OeCYChWoU2amekExHKLV_lRzCqIrZAf8QoMEcxsF/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+4.37.38+PM.png" height="400" width="282" /></a></div>
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<br />
Who else would I lead off with? I’m going to miss <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/07/baseball-beginnings-on-derek-jeter.html" target="_blank">watching him play</a>.
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<h3>
<i>2. Mariana Rivera</i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNH6i7x_C0nk5jQW5mAGRLqvnR2TIF8OJwak1F1s5LEDkNYbLzdTVjTV01G4AJ5-BeEwIeIjIjet_1DXoiG3LpNce-FCOIPi8dg_ltlcMFrEUKTMT7VAYdjlFg_8Po2dVxxsk4vKIf_nBm/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+4.37.29+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNH6i7x_C0nk5jQW5mAGRLqvnR2TIF8OJwak1F1s5LEDkNYbLzdTVjTV01G4AJ5-BeEwIeIjIjet_1DXoiG3LpNce-FCOIPi8dg_ltlcMFrEUKTMT7VAYdjlFg_8Po2dVxxsk4vKIf_nBm/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+4.37.29+PM.png" height="400" width="285" /></a></div>
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<br />
According to this rookie card, Rivera started 10 games for the 1995 Yankees. He also isn’t wearing his trademark “42” in this picture.
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<h3>
<i>3. Tim Raines</i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvtbO1QuX9YuMNYH54EwVjbWKYABt3ahh0lbTAU-EjyIQoJ3FSL9nAEfP_9JmP_yjAuPHSgTDD7GyYKMg9KhG9qC5k6-DFiAXvxTixalaM_CGBCqciDBcBL3mBzmtJmbMRF9eiK35qAUTb/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+4.37.48+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvtbO1QuX9YuMNYH54EwVjbWKYABt3ahh0lbTAU-EjyIQoJ3FSL9nAEfP_9JmP_yjAuPHSgTDD7GyYKMg9KhG9qC5k6-DFiAXvxTixalaM_CGBCqciDBcBL3mBzmtJmbMRF9eiK35qAUTb/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+4.37.48+PM.png" height="400" width="281" /></a></div>
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Please, put this man in the Hall of Fame.
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<h3>
<i>4. Don Mattingly</i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJd9lm9MaZYvgXdIL5QRvA7-hAY7zJYF8PPg5VhVzZ59b2jWxRrYbbwhoOnregirddjboGVuGXHrbwe7o260Mp-cIlpCZLrsZuR8NGa8pMpLFjZdyDOGnj7do6YJ3OnFpowdQ4PiW-Vhk_/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+4.36.30+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJd9lm9MaZYvgXdIL5QRvA7-hAY7zJYF8PPg5VhVzZ59b2jWxRrYbbwhoOnregirddjboGVuGXHrbwe7o260Mp-cIlpCZLrsZuR8NGa8pMpLFjZdyDOGnj7do6YJ3OnFpowdQ4PiW-Vhk_/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+4.36.30+PM.png" height="400" width="277" /></a></div>
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Mattingly was my older brother’s favorite player, so I knew I couldn’t adopt him as my own. His retirement and Derek Jeter and Paul O’Neill’s time in the Bronx solved that childish problem, but that didn’t stop me from loving “23” in my own way. My favorite Donnie Baseball moment was when he stole popcorn from a young fan after chasing after a foul ball that made the stands.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/OvSmfyRc3pM?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<h3>
<i>5. Tino Martinez</i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT0euDWTBPnv8X5nJep4kHqnoQ0wMgMb5uiyStwHm8YI2riCvo6_3LyuU_taTJzPyLzXIineAO6A5j0uMP75xOzVmkmJoV8RJ8xKZER43Nf_i9VxvtkYMhvEATRgDurVEzlOCQYRx5g_au/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+4.55.21+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT0euDWTBPnv8X5nJep4kHqnoQ0wMgMb5uiyStwHm8YI2riCvo6_3LyuU_taTJzPyLzXIineAO6A5j0uMP75xOzVmkmJoV8RJ8xKZER43Nf_i9VxvtkYMhvEATRgDurVEzlOCQYRx5g_au/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+4.55.21+PM.png" height="400" width="282" /></a></div>
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<br />
Martinez once slapped me in the chest after I had dropped off a jug of water to the South Florida team he was volunteering with in 2006. It hurt. A lot.
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<h3>
<i>6. Matt Nokes</i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDtki5Ne5qW5K7FIzgrc3T7IOCbGKEIZ4oR_gCRFATVMOLQvxeN4tx6vfrloTcJnAO_ShH6pjs_HejlhgD5i6veg1e96JKQGqkUEwSc8wtWa3MYYf3HMPdjjCAkYbSKCm4SWS-xdBAYzpY/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+4.37.01+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDtki5Ne5qW5K7FIzgrc3T7IOCbGKEIZ4oR_gCRFATVMOLQvxeN4tx6vfrloTcJnAO_ShH6pjs_HejlhgD5i6veg1e96JKQGqkUEwSc8wtWa3MYYf3HMPdjjCAkYbSKCm4SWS-xdBAYzpY/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+4.37.01+PM.png" height="400" width="283" /></a></div>
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<br />
I would take Nokes’ .268, 24 homeruns, and 77 RBIs in 1991 after watching the 2014 Yankees this summer. He even stole three bases!
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<h3>
<i>7. Andy Stankiewicz
</i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Eo1xJ2_AS_DXZZsWBDlOyLzHJambbfl2RxfGlBi_4MPlhhwDNLfxALCfWTsh248ngAlqX-sNxc5d6f-XNfRgH5VH1ic60Z20OUUE1dlzLvT9oReCdK8dvTK8Fkda-sBR_2KqG_vxwQ0P/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+4.36.53+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Eo1xJ2_AS_DXZZsWBDlOyLzHJambbfl2RxfGlBi_4MPlhhwDNLfxALCfWTsh248ngAlqX-sNxc5d6f-XNfRgH5VH1ic60Z20OUUE1dlzLvT9oReCdK8dvTK8Fkda-sBR_2KqG_vxwQ0P/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+4.36.53+PM.png" height="400" width="285" /></a></div>
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<br />
I have a lot of Andy Stankiewicz cards. I remember really liking him as a kid, but I have no memory of his time as a Yankee.
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<h3>
<i>8. Mariano Duncan</i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQXXn-B8o3N7Prbf6Kt_TIzNsNbI80V6-EgfuSJO_a4hRIr0_pDANoBsEXar3Mc8QpRDiw7LoCJPFAMrsPcX_A_FQI4AipYl1dyWjjjYGwBnkT8CpW5Cvh3MzD2HRd4wKvroCdNoBTuDl/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+4.37.09+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQXXn-B8o3N7Prbf6Kt_TIzNsNbI80V6-EgfuSJO_a4hRIr0_pDANoBsEXar3Mc8QpRDiw7LoCJPFAMrsPcX_A_FQI4AipYl1dyWjjjYGwBnkT8CpW5Cvh3MzD2HRd4wKvroCdNoBTuDl/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+4.37.09+PM.png" height="400" width="287" /></a></div>
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“We play today. We win today. Das it!”
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<h3>
<i>9. Kevin Maas </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqqn1t7UgsiZSP_7aH8cjXP9S6Bmpae6z5_kEIEPKfhn456mpW8DELNxGqKRT0z2GqHNc95xb7smQGzOJmdgjSCcpOb52PczktWEed9b1J2mfcBE_t2OcPhbClvFW3uWt3szmfZmC3IIjt/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+4.36.45+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqqn1t7UgsiZSP_7aH8cjXP9S6Bmpae6z5_kEIEPKfhn456mpW8DELNxGqKRT0z2GqHNc95xb7smQGzOJmdgjSCcpOb52PczktWEed9b1J2mfcBE_t2OcPhbClvFW3uWt3szmfZmC3IIjt/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+4.36.45+PM.png" height="400" width="280" /></a></div>
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<br />
Terrific baseball name. Wonderful start to his career. That’s about it.
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<br />
<h3>
<i>10. Charlie Hayes </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Y6Ca3tSOkmY72s0MfziEb-AkGJQqPkCvNLXHWN5KrMoHP3U6QsLcXZXkQBNnOJYuQzqthdouEfT38-ODjROYgq_mw7eIDnMKIMs3tBGYHUluTkaY7mmQUfYwG2SOkjdvLjOx-5tTBggz/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+4.37.21+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Y6Ca3tSOkmY72s0MfziEb-AkGJQqPkCvNLXHWN5KrMoHP3U6QsLcXZXkQBNnOJYuQzqthdouEfT38-ODjROYgq_mw7eIDnMKIMs3tBGYHUluTkaY7mmQUfYwG2SOkjdvLjOx-5tTBggz/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+4.37.21+PM.png" height="400" width="291" /></a></div>
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<br />
Who didn’t love Charlie Hayes?
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<br />
<h3>
<i>11. Ricky Henderson </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0uUYZAV_8jm0J-WQ5t7-vrVoFpZrXmaw8OKgQQbRfUVnhEEiRIaEBP-fDs4dLt4Er3Nvn3WpjlYzzXlbVcg_6zPOopg4uJj0K_hTYPALIIPsP6lVx87Zp5lvWu0E-dbopCZRXEeXNH-5C/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.00.36+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0uUYZAV_8jm0J-WQ5t7-vrVoFpZrXmaw8OKgQQbRfUVnhEEiRIaEBP-fDs4dLt4Er3Nvn3WpjlYzzXlbVcg_6zPOopg4uJj0K_hTYPALIIPsP6lVx87Zp5lvWu0E-dbopCZRXEeXNH-5C/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.00.36+PM.png" height="400" width="277" /></a></div>
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<br />
“Ricky wants to take this picture in his underwear.” “Ricky wants to show off his muscles.” “Ricky’s hair could be used as an aircraft carrier.”
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<h3>
<i>12. Dennis Eckersley </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzgLO3MCctAu2iXNknUK-cX7ppbsXlmQ1MRJ9JJ6-HvUDZP-9xMWBHr58NqmOJDpDFsCv-83yWNTjIoxdYqiFe2YXqb1QqNBlH8H84RxIV1bWvJWZdGsqY4W-qGyfY6yW15INhAd5j3Y8g/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.00.29+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzgLO3MCctAu2iXNknUK-cX7ppbsXlmQ1MRJ9JJ6-HvUDZP-9xMWBHr58NqmOJDpDFsCv-83yWNTjIoxdYqiFe2YXqb1QqNBlH8H84RxIV1bWvJWZdGsqY4W-qGyfY6yW15INhAd5j3Y8g/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.00.29+PM.png" height="400" width="283" /></a></div>
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<br />
Eckersley still has a Hall of Fame caliber mullet.
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<h3>
<i>13. Terry Steinbeck </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIJo_nfip-AMNDUO3HTOn3x64NilIHk-qfzO5-GudMqqnFXms5PNWW3f01wFVxNdLA3QfvwabZsPzGLSEtirWgU43mIopbg6jyJqzAuzHid612YNxT3RNKYy5lET6zfbaLGMbclG-sZ48j/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.00.19+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIJo_nfip-AMNDUO3HTOn3x64NilIHk-qfzO5-GudMqqnFXms5PNWW3f01wFVxNdLA3QfvwabZsPzGLSEtirWgU43mIopbg6jyJqzAuzHid612YNxT3RNKYy5lET6zfbaLGMbclG-sZ48j/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.00.19+PM.png" height="400" width="283" /></a></div>
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A baseball card that makes my head look normal-sized in comparison!
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<h3>
<i>14. Frank Thomas </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiChU2pcPVef6rJDx_fHWZt9JD7fe_nrn4a1Y_4EX0sQVVJ7HQ8SjLpz_vnhhBBJao5iji2obAMHWHUeUgo-0PYt-LAvfiyRN-9_vGWTaPhPSot062T-BM1s2aCuVcMyyvvEKQwj9WxbDUF/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.10.25+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiChU2pcPVef6rJDx_fHWZt9JD7fe_nrn4a1Y_4EX0sQVVJ7HQ8SjLpz_vnhhBBJao5iji2obAMHWHUeUgo-0PYt-LAvfiyRN-9_vGWTaPhPSot062T-BM1s2aCuVcMyyvvEKQwj9WxbDUF/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.10.25+PM.png" height="276" width="400" /></a></div>
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I was one of those kids that was in awe of “The Big Hurt.” I loved watching him play the game.
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<h3>
<i>15. Steve Sax </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpoWXWAM2ZHFJAE0L6sRcQ0rEnPpJ6pIiA0rRwYwS9mtIHwFQ9yXLZ5SvtAiVEZIfLMvbHvyCzBFH_ze8qrDJOpB7DS2bK6Z7el3QXuBnxEqpQaoYkYZWvstDdfsB-nio9zF0TUKYnJi9-/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.00.04+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpoWXWAM2ZHFJAE0L6sRcQ0rEnPpJ6pIiA0rRwYwS9mtIHwFQ9yXLZ5SvtAiVEZIfLMvbHvyCzBFH_ze8qrDJOpB7DS2bK6Z7el3QXuBnxEqpQaoYkYZWvstDdfsB-nio9zF0TUKYnJi9-/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.00.04+PM.png" height="400" width="277" /></a></div>
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I have one of him as a Yankee (and possibly as a Dodger), but making cracks about his throwing is lazy writing. I prefer to think of him as having one of the all-time great baseball names.
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<h3>
<i>16. Ron Karkovice </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWQsv5r6nOGchyphenhyphenl_iMVItffsZKe4bgJoD0TuE8s0o13rxI5eq58LLyqbHBvFndvsuwdt4nT-X1iVsAWjb_5w0QBEaUT1-827BgAZ0cFSFZdNJ9byulU7DhQy8en6r0edhgCsbdC6jUdQwd/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.01.23+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWQsv5r6nOGchyphenhyphenl_iMVItffsZKe4bgJoD0TuE8s0o13rxI5eq58LLyqbHBvFndvsuwdt4nT-X1iVsAWjb_5w0QBEaUT1-827BgAZ0cFSFZdNJ9byulU7DhQy8en6r0edhgCsbdC6jUdQwd/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.01.23+PM.png" height="400" width="283" /></a></div>
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This has to be up there for world’s ugliest baseball cards, right? I know Karkovice was a catcher, but geez, snap an action shot with his mask on for the poor guy.
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<h3>
<i>17. Carlton Fisk </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmWjf51ngg0S3omMBFanBtu9AmxGYJCJijPHdRidT50XHSczxGPI4YxfnaB-Lz6NutCK1xoWVUnuipmXiim4Cf1OSKorknTAH5rQm_gb07IIOcyddpRbhuLHIe3PyFs6zl-wdnOsuwI6jJ/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.01.17+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmWjf51ngg0S3omMBFanBtu9AmxGYJCJijPHdRidT50XHSczxGPI4YxfnaB-Lz6NutCK1xoWVUnuipmXiim4Cf1OSKorknTAH5rQm_gb07IIOcyddpRbhuLHIe3PyFs6zl-wdnOsuwI6jJ/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.01.17+PM.png" height="400" width="275" /></a></div>
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I think I have one of him as a Boston Red Sox, but fuck them.
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<h3>
<i>18. Harold Baines </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSJS5UuyQWLJ5JEVnbEK58-0oizhXpS3OH0pQudlCHn7oO5kUv717VsC4osB_q_DNq4fC85CvV7DbSLEWj25LLw_Sc7wKnDEGoMfo0OqZRpQqKYuG_a1gDZKRhNAWf2Bt9d3x1HhJ650me/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.00.11+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSJS5UuyQWLJ5JEVnbEK58-0oizhXpS3OH0pQudlCHn7oO5kUv717VsC4osB_q_DNq4fC85CvV7DbSLEWj25LLw_Sc7wKnDEGoMfo0OqZRpQqKYuG_a1gDZKRhNAWf2Bt9d3x1HhJ650me/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.00.11+PM.png" height="400" width="282" /></a></div>
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<br />
Baines ended up with 2,866 hits. That’s a lot of goddamn hits.
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<h3>
<i>19. Charlie Hough </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVSyBQje-NJ9zA3sw4KIs7r636ObHR4LxJK4dHcGfOuKfg1Tl4PDGPGOdZ2zsKrHfm1DcKzKqdFbtLDJBVTQBFDrcjcQEtIl2x3HydQg6rwi1fRp3gtTPVI4T5nbgIS4SpwuhjkK2L0pJ-/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.01.03+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVSyBQje-NJ9zA3sw4KIs7r636ObHR4LxJK4dHcGfOuKfg1Tl4PDGPGOdZ2zsKrHfm1DcKzKqdFbtLDJBVTQBFDrcjcQEtIl2x3HydQg6rwi1fRp3gtTPVI4T5nbgIS4SpwuhjkK2L0pJ-/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.01.03+PM.png" height="400" width="273" /></a></div>
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<br />
Technically this is Hough’s first card as a member of the Florida Marlins. Look at that mug.
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<h3>
<i>20. John Olerud </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggJjq_9u-1ZolUBwRQzL88S5gVASwqSXIx_yQEaBuqCjmDF8-JNp29Q_tlkofuY0YcB6lLHwNiasEiuafk6Zr2Uaz9MohGxUfO_G4H7o_3vKLXBYzoyi_5_Kvpbby7eJeTzwc2hxQuRo7e/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.00.54+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggJjq_9u-1ZolUBwRQzL88S5gVASwqSXIx_yQEaBuqCjmDF8-JNp29Q_tlkofuY0YcB6lLHwNiasEiuafk6Zr2Uaz9MohGxUfO_G4H7o_3vKLXBYzoyi_5_Kvpbby7eJeTzwc2hxQuRo7e/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.00.54+PM.png" height="400" width="288" /></a></div>
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I wish the Yankees had traded for Olerud well before he put on the pinstripes in 2004.
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<h3>
<i>21. Joe Carter </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgldc_Fc-hAyAaLhjNe-KuaYIqbEQhCWY6SPixarKLsjzjDs9s15sxoVajeEWvfjvyIVELXDADshvpVO_2PBIzcZU1QEW-R5P5BhVsNIxNVhh09xdbu7yS6VhZh5h8SBNMgUQeQzAswjfYk/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.00.47+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgldc_Fc-hAyAaLhjNe-KuaYIqbEQhCWY6SPixarKLsjzjDs9s15sxoVajeEWvfjvyIVELXDADshvpVO_2PBIzcZU1QEW-R5P5BhVsNIxNVhh09xdbu7yS6VhZh5h8SBNMgUQeQzAswjfYk/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.00.47+PM.png" height="400" width="286" /></a></div>
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Every baseball player should be this happy playing the game.<i> </i>And this never gets old:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/-F5HwiGm7lg?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<h3>
<i>22. Roberto Alomar </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOB0-9gqz1ktMbcPPeUXIuJ7oM-ZlaTcfM4XcEC5niXZQ1glm8CkmNYR-7S0hd93yTJAloR7_oUW1mle7LKfPKXDfMmzZ2vGEsJKiJCvmgJ52G5eq7MFiUiaDWGBcRLmQL9hCa95706Qjn/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.09.35+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOB0-9gqz1ktMbcPPeUXIuJ7oM-ZlaTcfM4XcEC5niXZQ1glm8CkmNYR-7S0hd93yTJAloR7_oUW1mle7LKfPKXDfMmzZ2vGEsJKiJCvmgJ52G5eq7MFiUiaDWGBcRLmQL9hCa95706Qjn/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.09.35+PM.png" height="282" width="400" /> </a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwHynjuGCyjP_jNAsXCL0eI05EMJ97lJVWZXGoAByK8PB2wqT_uy4KExAWqPGQbNQ3arnyZCizYjhTz3sCs-2l9BZc416KtSG29FtQm5e-5EmIfe3dtgrCLNwYdyGp19Qs99wAZq7PtnFX/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.09.12+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwHynjuGCyjP_jNAsXCL0eI05EMJ97lJVWZXGoAByK8PB2wqT_uy4KExAWqPGQbNQ3arnyZCizYjhTz3sCs-2l9BZc416KtSG29FtQm5e-5EmIfe3dtgrCLNwYdyGp19Qs99wAZq7PtnFX/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.09.12+PM.png" height="281" width="400" /></a></div>
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Action card pre-GIF!
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<h3>
<i>23/24. Jim Thome </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCPIYT-XjlU6fkwXhEKr1mPHAZqg2RF9CsvbgiCixYzEXpBU1qkCDmKSqpe-JrxWunkN-yAvD_BtThVpdMQmZcPJX9fNoFr2oUbGQ-WrIR2fuwZ64UCRY2ArqffpIUNKuLKI3rjyOUrfiu/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.13.16+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCPIYT-XjlU6fkwXhEKr1mPHAZqg2RF9CsvbgiCixYzEXpBU1qkCDmKSqpe-JrxWunkN-yAvD_BtThVpdMQmZcPJX9fNoFr2oUbGQ-WrIR2fuwZ64UCRY2ArqffpIUNKuLKI3rjyOUrfiu/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.13.16+PM.png" height="400" width="265" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBwEuVO-F8wbRHuYXRUIA_AAGGs1xDcUITDF1pV-2eJwJqDhfAYfJwdxdRe8B0JbYMDohYNjkgGue7gP92Vsh6FZVkwv3kkam57Xw5YxTXcyR-FV7mWicsDYhEfRozLBVpQYolZ_MiBzZL/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.13.30+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBwEuVO-F8wbRHuYXRUIA_AAGGs1xDcUITDF1pV-2eJwJqDhfAYfJwdxdRe8B0JbYMDohYNjkgGue7gP92Vsh6FZVkwv3kkam57Xw5YxTXcyR-FV7mWicsDYhEfRozLBVpQYolZ_MiBzZL/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.13.30+PM.png" height="400" width="280" /></a></div>
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<br />
Even as a young player, Thome looks gentlemanly and wise. Feared every at-bat he had against the Yankees. My generation’s Frank Howard or Harmon Killebrew.
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<h3>
<i>25. Manny Ramirez </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP5aL0RHtwW1Hg5Eq1EJvl557r4Co9LCF_PjYYZqRRk0gJdfnRqw5Wb8gBbwnaNO-X8PsG7mPcNStzpIaIoEJFOjI4jYdhSkt-RVBEbAdXugU0rDsp517DyMUPEDTGxMSOpEj_Kw_zu14R/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.13.38+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP5aL0RHtwW1Hg5Eq1EJvl557r4Co9LCF_PjYYZqRRk0gJdfnRqw5Wb8gBbwnaNO-X8PsG7mPcNStzpIaIoEJFOjI4jYdhSkt-RVBEbAdXugU0rDsp517DyMUPEDTGxMSOpEj_Kw_zu14R/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.13.38+PM.png" height="400" width="276" /></a></div>
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<br />
I hate you.
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<br />
<h3>
<i>26. Danny Tartabull </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrDIT9hyOy59ok1gO41ruIR92G4CAewcsN1MW1OY9nmemgBdVy0j4qWVyDEUo48IXsHs2HAMM_oL5S8TPA0qni3CbTlFOfCG5O_gtV7Gth1_MDwj72HUVS39_FnD8MSG1GJVeA6QKauJ0P/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.13.52+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrDIT9hyOy59ok1gO41ruIR92G4CAewcsN1MW1OY9nmemgBdVy0j4qWVyDEUo48IXsHs2HAMM_oL5S8TPA0qni3CbTlFOfCG5O_gtV7Gth1_MDwj72HUVS39_FnD8MSG1GJVeA6QKauJ0P/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.13.52+PM.png" height="400" width="282" /></a></div>
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<br />
Tartabull wearing the Kansas City Royals’ baby blue uniforms. Perfection.
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<br />
<h3>
<i>27. George Brett </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj15bB7OLPcoXImOgRvBgEzYKdtnd6YX7YytN_Q85fcPQ36bSr90MSqFCFMHIasAUt_hJjP0jANzZvXevjed-GV-gEgtt8neyvHUOxLV-W68HQ9KuAlkvsubUY9bslRelkXStgAuO42geUn/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.13.46+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj15bB7OLPcoXImOgRvBgEzYKdtnd6YX7YytN_Q85fcPQ36bSr90MSqFCFMHIasAUt_hJjP0jANzZvXevjed-GV-gEgtt8neyvHUOxLV-W68HQ9KuAlkvsubUY9bslRelkXStgAuO42geUn/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.13.46+PM.png" height="400" width="282" /></a></div>
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<br />
I remember my father cracking up when Brett got picked off first base after picking up his 3,000th. I don’t remember a lot about Brett’s playing days, but I could watch his tirade during the “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gbEHAsZxRYo" target="_blank">Pine Tar Game</a>” endlessly.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/J4xhpzFm-sM?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<h3>
<i>28. Nolan Ryan </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilBpLzgVeKewjl1HKIYWKiYO2s4Y-pE2W-o4taknSESLc_nc6lykLF1mPiI0U0iMIsfF8zD7mSPcSb7I6HGFVYzXtrN-FBpe1uQ4jXeGYIbR9itUcvzQOtuNZ_xFPUAAY_bXRQ4aDCVDdf/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.12.35+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilBpLzgVeKewjl1HKIYWKiYO2s4Y-pE2W-o4taknSESLc_nc6lykLF1mPiI0U0iMIsfF8zD7mSPcSb7I6HGFVYzXtrN-FBpe1uQ4jXeGYIbR9itUcvzQOtuNZ_xFPUAAY_bXRQ4aDCVDdf/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.12.35+PM.png" height="400" width="281" /></a></div>
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<br />
Ryan still looks like he could throw no-hitters. And I’m pretty sure he believes that as well.
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<br />
<h3>
<i>29. Julio Franco </i></h3>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuTRGgYOaWwk4eoEek2H9gw2Z9bEjfgLnj_QC9nPHyepWzxsqtraIY_DTUtEr9OQiAlmBXs6KzzPBfkY07Qg-AOtD_IpUZBWmDwJUHJrmN7rbftou35Cbig2N6s9s5qX4NL2iUCiCKOyqt/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.12.43+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuTRGgYOaWwk4eoEek2H9gw2Z9bEjfgLnj_QC9nPHyepWzxsqtraIY_DTUtEr9OQiAlmBXs6KzzPBfkY07Qg-AOtD_IpUZBWmDwJUHJrmN7rbftou35Cbig2N6s9s5qX4NL2iUCiCKOyqt/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.12.43+PM.png" height="400" width="282" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
This card is from 1990. Franco would play another 17 years.
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<br />
<h3>
<i>30. Ken Griffey Jr. </i></h3>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjETys5RPPwxjk2pE0caCOL6wrxRsDvhrb1HRIe7OXQ11waxOrCQqyDiZ9sB5jZ3gijmkIDGrNb6o8ulPSMTgb-ljjqZwomDZO2IS8bpnEFyCniVHBVY2ia1EFj41Fi3peNiNSAgErUnMeD/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.12.49+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjETys5RPPwxjk2pE0caCOL6wrxRsDvhrb1HRIe7OXQ11waxOrCQqyDiZ9sB5jZ3gijmkIDGrNb6o8ulPSMTgb-ljjqZwomDZO2IS8bpnEFyCniVHBVY2ia1EFj41Fi3peNiNSAgErUnMeD/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.12.49+PM.png" height="400" width="282" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I used to be able to duplicate Ken Griffey Jr.’s swing pretty well. So what if I wasn’t a lefty and possessed no baseball skills? It’s still true!
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<h3>
<i>31. Jay Buhner </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIPYfmQ5D_6HD-LHju57a0zhXypZy1ckjc7XlT36-azQxF4Ia36nsAvOwcUse-v7WaBjy0XQ5lNYBX4ZeZRRz-Sfs4ztewoqflDY2dKJ6rf8O1lYesSxttJ3Wh3ut7u1e0wdBU9m-nXwRa/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.13.00+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIPYfmQ5D_6HD-LHju57a0zhXypZy1ckjc7XlT36-azQxF4Ia36nsAvOwcUse-v7WaBjy0XQ5lNYBX4ZeZRRz-Sfs4ztewoqflDY2dKJ6rf8O1lYesSxttJ3Wh3ut7u1e0wdBU9m-nXwRa/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.13.00+PM.png" height="400" width="283" /></a></div>
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<br />
Yankee killer. Let’s keep moving.
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<br />
<h3>
<i>32. Tom Kelly </i></h3>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoXnEmXzj_f_Hf6Mf5mdmi32IT4KveKetVnjJNffnF6qYVwe2CxDracIsx8mW3h0bMkbMiUk96QukpX4OHxBWPwJzPckyYil7YLp9VovOnKCNUlnOin-WN-uUoXlSzS0nZjLD0rfy4CjkM/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.13.07+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoXnEmXzj_f_Hf6Mf5mdmi32IT4KveKetVnjJNffnF6qYVwe2CxDracIsx8mW3h0bMkbMiUk96QukpX4OHxBWPwJzPckyYil7YLp9VovOnKCNUlnOin-WN-uUoXlSzS0nZjLD0rfy4CjkM/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.13.07+PM.png" height="400" width="282" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I have quite a few managers in my baseball card collection. It came down to included this Tom Kelly card or one of Bobby Valentine when he was managing the Texas Rangers. I think I made the right choice.
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<br />
<h3>
<i>33. Kirby Puckett </i></h3>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMARKAtrc-T6jhYdxPQ9aFiAGrHKJ0YrMq3ptSEqMsBPU7QDzZ_uG4UX5_XUd92axiXBtzjh3FxjPA4zIFgA6_Tzpmwm5-5xgcYOpNggUdoCZKfBY870T0T4La0CKCJzniVL2YvTMrBAHq/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.31.40+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMARKAtrc-T6jhYdxPQ9aFiAGrHKJ0YrMq3ptSEqMsBPU7QDzZ_uG4UX5_XUd92axiXBtzjh3FxjPA4zIFgA6_Tzpmwm5-5xgcYOpNggUdoCZKfBY870T0T4La0CKCJzniVL2YvTMrBAHq/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.31.40+PM.png" height="400" width="280" /></a></div>
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<br />
Another great baseball smile.
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<br />
<h3>
<i>34. Chili Davis </i></h3>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGPUyqRG4tbpufKSs3UhZ5zRPL52HiRtF_N6UWv8xS5DJT1w9c_setUF6wAqXPkkFRUFEuIlvGv4KDm-t77h72QUyB0v9EroZ69TT3XSiWnLGXLr9zmgWg7heJKthA_sfV3_xoK65AGmlO/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.25.18+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGPUyqRG4tbpufKSs3UhZ5zRPL52HiRtF_N6UWv8xS5DJT1w9c_setUF6wAqXPkkFRUFEuIlvGv4KDm-t77h72QUyB0v9EroZ69TT3XSiWnLGXLr9zmgWg7heJKthA_sfV3_xoK65AGmlO/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.25.18+PM.png" height="400" width="281" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Chili looking intimidating!
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<br />
<h3>
<i>35. Al Newman </i></h3>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNfWpnq2KEnUK3DkPyI18flrhuyHat4erjLskqC1davsEqDUC1rWFBWvpfDwkPihmxMJR47jVTclrm-w0FhxEisV6YxkEVeDk40YX9M5VEDwOSp7Vh_dl35zDC1VJFqVOOBvoVGJ3kClap/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.25.27+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNfWpnq2KEnUK3DkPyI18flrhuyHat4erjLskqC1davsEqDUC1rWFBWvpfDwkPihmxMJR47jVTclrm-w0FhxEisV6YxkEVeDk40YX9M5VEDwOSp7Vh_dl35zDC1VJFqVOOBvoVGJ3kClap/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.25.27+PM.png" height="400" width="275" /></a></div>
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<br />
Newman would eventually coach the New Britain (soon to be Hartford) Rockcats.
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<br />
<h3>
<i>36. Paul Molitor </i></h3>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha27VtUgsO6bdANRr6YLikhEwYiFAFiKxlbuQHQCzw_7VyEDmjQN90DSkHyAAPRkC2eHUEtHazP9kbKqUnGTK3ZWUXCvkIasW3BZ4yVUvTMYRcCIVYtI96Ljp7hNW2a2WY2xiTFQNo9XSR/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.25.36+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha27VtUgsO6bdANRr6YLikhEwYiFAFiKxlbuQHQCzw_7VyEDmjQN90DSkHyAAPRkC2eHUEtHazP9kbKqUnGTK3ZWUXCvkIasW3BZ4yVUvTMYRcCIVYtI96Ljp7hNW2a2WY2xiTFQNo9XSR/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.25.36+PM.png" height="400" width="276" /></a></div>
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<br />
The Milwaukee Brewers need to go back to these uniforms full-time.
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<br />
<h3>
<i>37. Brady Anderson </i></h3>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXOy5h1Mkuwz-9S2u9D0KvT3I5MN2v_s5ukdafoUMd4dda9E-J48ePdxfpz-K1RJ-5Y_ev6d6-JQznJF6U_jI4k4QW3Someqat6JsSSVlOOGSG6s-_sc1LraMrELYtLiQJv8Ytc39DevfR/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.24.30+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXOy5h1Mkuwz-9S2u9D0KvT3I5MN2v_s5ukdafoUMd4dda9E-J48ePdxfpz-K1RJ-5Y_ev6d6-JQznJF6U_jI4k4QW3Someqat6JsSSVlOOGSG6s-_sc1LraMrELYtLiQJv8Ytc39DevfR/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.24.30+PM.png" height="400" width="272" /></a></div>
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<br />
This card hit 50 homeruns while I was writing this caption.
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<br />
<h3>
<i>38. Billy Ripken </i></h3>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_rgkCadu47CfkTN4wGDAG00zuxAsnWol4s05QVbFuL0mPqycLVQGiM0sFZk4pjWdGMD7yDZrGjWtSS5-vw0uZZhjuNEWU4HXw3ClWsq7CgX95Cm-2sIEspSKOUm33jspnuXgFoi0teb5a/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.24.46+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_rgkCadu47CfkTN4wGDAG00zuxAsnWol4s05QVbFuL0mPqycLVQGiM0sFZk4pjWdGMD7yDZrGjWtSS5-vw0uZZhjuNEWU4HXw3ClWsq7CgX95Cm-2sIEspSKOUm33jspnuXgFoi0teb5a/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.24.46+PM.png" height="400" width="282" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I’m including Billy Ripken because I think his commentary on MLBTV is fantastic. He broke down a bunt play one night a couple of seasons ago that I still think about.
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<br />
<h3>
<i>39. David Wells </i></h3>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoNhQM4672NpKNSw7IuCdaN7DE13miEeqUg9UiaTH0Tr-krhe_eNqRewkOsS2bkHXsNzRMn5Yne2Ou9tjkTSTQW-rNtHarVvSVmCG6rn7h9qPnlsnKR4OtSbUbk8FoyOXxzPOM4gBPSCrB/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.24.54+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoNhQM4672NpKNSw7IuCdaN7DE13miEeqUg9UiaTH0Tr-krhe_eNqRewkOsS2bkHXsNzRMn5Yne2Ou9tjkTSTQW-rNtHarVvSVmCG6rn7h9qPnlsnKR4OtSbUbk8FoyOXxzPOM4gBPSCrB/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.24.54+PM.png" height="400" width="285" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
This is a great throwback look for David Wells.
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<br />
<h3>
<i>40. Cecil Fielder </i></h3>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj93HpVr8-NnFRQpEoe77I18rvlaFClzNRdz1wEWfjZzsAuCXrHVoa5dGdZsrLAiveHPApJ1Ps-Cs4qCeR3UBsOqd64Lm8H6Z_qKyMYdEGziDHTLYQrAn0LCG9k2LvdAC_9kv1pMXwL5wsT/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.25.02+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj93HpVr8-NnFRQpEoe77I18rvlaFClzNRdz1wEWfjZzsAuCXrHVoa5dGdZsrLAiveHPApJ1Ps-Cs4qCeR3UBsOqd64Lm8H6Z_qKyMYdEGziDHTLYQrAn0LCG9k2LvdAC_9kv1pMXwL5wsT/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.25.02+PM.png" height="400" width="281" /></a></div>
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<br />
I have a soft spot for the oil painting look. I was ecstatic when Fielder became a Yankee in 1996. He made it a playoff run to remember.
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<br />
<h3>
<i>41. Jim Abbott </i></h3>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOiW5K5JbYaXldpCJdPXknipqvwLvHpiq_SvV2I3OfMyZwTP36y2MBhXbd_Mo2nycxgAPRS5NMQAzY4l8RzOHM_BGFajCqP1Hx3inZXGOjcV2euN-GBVdNhFEC3Eq1kESZuD7F7cmqGj7T/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.25.10+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOiW5K5JbYaXldpCJdPXknipqvwLvHpiq_SvV2I3OfMyZwTP36y2MBhXbd_Mo2nycxgAPRS5NMQAzY4l8RzOHM_BGFajCqP1Hx3inZXGOjcV2euN-GBVdNhFEC3Eq1kESZuD7F7cmqGj7T/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.25.10+PM.png" height="400" width="278" /></a></div>
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<br />
A former coworker snagged me an autograph from Jim Abbott at a promotional event a couple of years ago. I still remember jumping up and down at my uncle’s house when he nailed down his no-hitter.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/s-11R0f7I0g?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<br />
<h3>
<i>42. Dave Winfield </i></h3>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMyGMGH_SXJNG7ca1wi-tSRXNSPy-BeTmNo-s76BOQpxsHgU4PE7J46yUKiyJtNA0PzvAFK-Q1R4vJ0setsDJrF3YfQ8MHTu_cMp3dThBfE1Jgji9cNyD_2mlieY1uMK2ZTrEvQAl7tpjD/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.37.11+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMyGMGH_SXJNG7ca1wi-tSRXNSPy-BeTmNo-s76BOQpxsHgU4PE7J46yUKiyJtNA0PzvAFK-Q1R4vJ0setsDJrF3YfQ8MHTu_cMp3dThBfE1Jgji9cNyD_2mlieY1uMK2ZTrEvQAl7tpjD/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.37.11+PM.png" height="400" width="278" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The Angels’ old uniforms did Winfield no favors.
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<br />
<h3>
<i>43. Chad Curtis </i></h3>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjhqxoCGPKhckZ89HSZKulmdkg1X1lbMKADuYw8Lx3U8Gj29I9o27Ne0Aeq6HMMkz9RZzPK5eNG8U2RdiV91QZJyaUozboo4zMA9-12OpvnkpgGdplFjYbpq4SH_8iJADSLR7Dq6SboHpl/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.37.02+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjhqxoCGPKhckZ89HSZKulmdkg1X1lbMKADuYw8Lx3U8Gj29I9o27Ne0Aeq6HMMkz9RZzPK5eNG8U2RdiV91QZJyaUozboo4zMA9-12OpvnkpgGdplFjYbpq4SH_8iJADSLR7Dq6SboHpl/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.37.02+PM.png" height="400" width="276" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Chad Curtis! One of the most serious flat tops in recorded history.
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<br />
<h3>
<i>44. Luis Sojo
</i></h3>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXAYKA9sHcho1NqJ2bHJ0SM_We1V51kBOsbQUH77nb3SU2O2fvpCSLmzJLTxCjQmLivB0NhluuTk3eoVRNSblbz0N82_VfkLoAVmxkotrXICD1uOQODBigOoffuptQTPCFyCCFEBD2xlMX/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.36.55+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXAYKA9sHcho1NqJ2bHJ0SM_We1V51kBOsbQUH77nb3SU2O2fvpCSLmzJLTxCjQmLivB0NhluuTk3eoVRNSblbz0N82_VfkLoAVmxkotrXICD1uOQODBigOoffuptQTPCFyCCFEBD2xlMX/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.36.55+PM.png" height="400" width="282" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Sojo gave my brothers and I a ball at our first game together at Fenway Park. He’s one of my favorite bench players ever. Look at that little Luis Sojo go!
<br />
<br />
<h3>
<i>45. Wade Boggs </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1GddLUKEYNjK7yDKxZUUCdUDsBXaVe0bjoyUZaY8M9WCfpJMU6NWFpJ2mziBg8bbjlHcVpbCRocGdEVc1RKByeOdu1n23V1dea_9Y4GbsWLTLzYAEJoBf3tH-xk3CFNCUJBqX7eU2NFsM/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.36.49+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1GddLUKEYNjK7yDKxZUUCdUDsBXaVe0bjoyUZaY8M9WCfpJMU6NWFpJ2mziBg8bbjlHcVpbCRocGdEVc1RKByeOdu1n23V1dea_9Y4GbsWLTLzYAEJoBf3tH-xk3CFNCUJBqX7eU2NFsM/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.36.49+PM.png" height="400" width="290" /></a></div>
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<br />
A great New York Yankee.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/VX4HHO4L0Vc?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<br />
<h3>
<i>46. Jack Clark </i></h3>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdI9TyGFP5I-PAjlq2RW-Di47Le-_hQvKFSOPF6XCSDHPAQpR_1iCr74qUEpaMDaUCSKFK9zsIvek95rWNhs1WsIx2XL3jbHciEdCDrS-tjcLdOwt5Vi0aILxYx65mY7PrIErWUiyCnou/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.36.34+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdI9TyGFP5I-PAjlq2RW-Di47Le-_hQvKFSOPF6XCSDHPAQpR_1iCr74qUEpaMDaUCSKFK9zsIvek95rWNhs1WsIx2XL3jbHciEdCDrS-tjcLdOwt5Vi0aILxYx65mY7PrIErWUiyCnou/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.36.34+PM.png" height="281" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I like this card because you get a nice look at the Green Monster before the ads took over.
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<br />
<h3>
<i>47. Mike Stanley </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEget1BBtD-6lxziHGk6cUq4OJcpI8xwmNVoEKH0L8dIUQTOTIpjzUYhq1_zLbxFTeLhvOhHFd67W_psj3yZZCTexOFK3mjd8uawnc_dCl6rqlV589-xZucJT5bgsG-79rLNQCwaEu3e9aM3/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.37.55+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEget1BBtD-6lxziHGk6cUq4OJcpI8xwmNVoEKH0L8dIUQTOTIpjzUYhq1_zLbxFTeLhvOhHFd67W_psj3yZZCTexOFK3mjd8uawnc_dCl6rqlV589-xZucJT5bgsG-79rLNQCwaEu3e9aM3/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.37.55+PM.png" height="400" width="283" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Another great Yankee.
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<br />
<h3>
<i>48. Jose Conseco </i></h3>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1zbGtDai8x18EJmmhn_ualKn_eQ5bRks792A5MiNqIB5eMXdPi99WWzW2lX7HMLri_pFNBCjUKG8QGbABIzAPqHks5m9MpbLvdaYakKJYocDAWIW6NcAv7n1Ul6yAmzzJ5QJXvHDqjB15/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.37.43+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1zbGtDai8x18EJmmhn_ualKn_eQ5bRks792A5MiNqIB5eMXdPi99WWzW2lX7HMLri_pFNBCjUKG8QGbABIzAPqHks5m9MpbLvdaYakKJYocDAWIW6NcAv7n1Ul6yAmzzJ5QJXvHDqjB15/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.37.43+PM.png" height="400" width="283" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Trying to come up with a David Ortiz steroid joke…it’ll come to me…
<br />
<br />
<h3>
<i>49. Mo Vaughn </i></h3>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizi138FPQ1DZcypQ0pMtUKljC8gnM9X2ZGL9OTTQ7VTXtiMTpbI09lBmM5bmrOOUjFC9W0AIzA9dasGx2324CZHEGztCg7GI2aVM8_A4CETuClu5l9uWbSrkqO47auSUbp_9VttVWiyhO_/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.38.07+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizi138FPQ1DZcypQ0pMtUKljC8gnM9X2ZGL9OTTQ7VTXtiMTpbI09lBmM5bmrOOUjFC9W0AIzA9dasGx2324CZHEGztCg7GI2aVM8_A4CETuClu5l9uWbSrkqO47auSUbp_9VttVWiyhO_/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.38.07+PM.png" height="283" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I can’t think of a better picture to sum up Mo Vaughn’s career.
<br />
<br />
<h3>
<i>50. Dennis Lamp </i></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Cyl8pSCwemRPYc86yDyJFel-gDPx0aQSOuTea6CJw-wpWhsLxC1YaGzmIxjC_DbICF6T9mHHZIku4wO6QqXyIdeB-AucRS0zQc7etFKUqfpwZ4Zg_dJqPDr0QrUI8NZN97ELMpSIvwa8/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.37.32+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Cyl8pSCwemRPYc86yDyJFel-gDPx0aQSOuTea6CJw-wpWhsLxC1YaGzmIxjC_DbICF6T9mHHZIku4wO6QqXyIdeB-AucRS0zQc7etFKUqfpwZ4Zg_dJqPDr0QrUI8NZN97ELMpSIvwa8/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-29+at+5.37.32+PM.png" height="400" width="275" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Who?????
</div>
Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-30383429370193152872014-07-30T11:52:00.004-04:002014-07-30T11:52:54.622-04:00An Ordinary Hero: My Cousin Judy<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7mYg327X2c1Zxd0MvgBLs3_MUKhjZHlNeIoWvEMz8FFVNEZmGADbYwK4mrJk6hdMrraZ2h7Wm0hdKkeMprlea4RkYILb7TT4PT7CDZbjIh1W9hfLEuTvpuy40AlX4eKxbHqf3F9If4QWB/s1600/danandjudy.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7mYg327X2c1Zxd0MvgBLs3_MUKhjZHlNeIoWvEMz8FFVNEZmGADbYwK4mrJk6hdMrraZ2h7Wm0hdKkeMprlea4RkYILb7TT4PT7CDZbjIh1W9hfLEuTvpuy40AlX4eKxbHqf3F9If4QWB/s1600/danandjudy.png" height="320" width="296" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Judy and I hanging out back in the day.</i></td></tr>
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I had assignment back in high school to write about an ordinary hero in my life. I chose my cousin Judy who has the biggest heart I know despite the fact that she’s missing part of it.<br />
<br />
I’m headed home for the weekend to help my parents paint their house (which I’m sure will yield plenty of excellent blog material), so I figured I’d start kissing up now and share this for everyone.
In all seriousness, I’m still lucky to have someone like Judy in my life. It’s been really special watching her raise her son Kevin with her hubby Michael. Her banter with Kevin reminds me a lot of ours back in the day and you can tell how much the two love each other.<br />
<br />
So thank you once again Judy for being awesome and I’ll see you soon!*<br />
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<i>*I’m well aware that this post will not prevent you from making fun of me…nor should it!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3V41nE-yzGaSKyg8hqvx-F0VPkXPww5ZBQxC4tL8PoguAnGv5d_fXpXviJtGhMuZ-CBPoZQHy20r0Q3HtEEOGnQxqyzoXFN_K8703W4cwBFs1di1uwbKTzix0w2EVVF3Bu0cHH8jXI6Dx/s1600/danandjudyold.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3V41nE-yzGaSKyg8hqvx-F0VPkXPww5ZBQxC4tL8PoguAnGv5d_fXpXviJtGhMuZ-CBPoZQHy20r0Q3HtEEOGnQxqyzoXFN_K8703W4cwBFs1di1uwbKTzix0w2EVVF3Bu0cHH8jXI6Dx/s1600/danandjudyold.jpg" height="232" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I never left Judy's side (even to blow out my birthday candles).</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">My Ordinary Hero</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"><br /></span>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
Of all the ordinary and unsung heroes that I know, my cousin Judith deserves to be in the Hall of Fame. Judith has overcome incredible odds to become the kind, warm-hearted person she is today.<br />
<br />
At birth, Judith was faced with an uncertain future. A section of her heart was missing and she had to have a pacemaker put in. It didn’t stop her from always being there for me when I needed her.<br />
<br />
After Grandma Cassidy passed away, Judith started babysitting us after school fulltime. She’s generally an incredible person, but she really shines when she’s taking care of children. She never complains and seems oblivious to how important she is to other people.<br />
<br />
Judith does a lot of volunteer work while balancing a schedule that includes school, work, and spending time with her family. She always puts her needs behind her families’ and the children she takes care of. I’m pretty sure that she’d do her job for free if she didn’t have to pay bills.<br />
<br />
So that’s why my cousin Judith is an exceptional example of an ordinary hero. I wish everyone could be acquainted with her in some way.
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<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAsOrxr3mxGvtDxfNeWjkZ-hPIo3f148RboB3cgweb9Dp5m4lGlkyZ1dGl_n0x6P4B34xoRXaPyt41gQ0n_3UDTnBfXWMZptg24EJmmGCavd0CkNC8HmVh4a6V1N1KYlkMmffJXDxnimzg/s1600/IMG_1021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAsOrxr3mxGvtDxfNeWjkZ-hPIo3f148RboB3cgweb9Dp5m4lGlkyZ1dGl_n0x6P4B34xoRXaPyt41gQ0n_3UDTnBfXWMZptg24EJmmGCavd0CkNC8HmVh4a6V1N1KYlkMmffJXDxnimzg/s1600/IMG_1021.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Judy and I more recently.</i></td></tr>
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Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-56777360531087743212014-05-25T11:45:00.002-04:002014-05-25T11:45:18.384-04:00From the Archives: Baseball Spring Break in Florida<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSwoKEOGGPcY1LsfvBvOLW3LxG9BGm1KhUvrCGaBVlxwnu-G1ZalArRaLg30vjnv83x2ASUeIvtC-MQASTDPq4Ug3AvS7UFqYDIg96Vj6K1R8f_t8BIVflRdM89-d2-zxQs0b4GERSdZlL/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSwoKEOGGPcY1LsfvBvOLW3LxG9BGm1KhUvrCGaBVlxwnu-G1ZalArRaLg30vjnv83x2ASUeIvtC-MQASTDPq4Ug3AvS7UFqYDIg96Vj6K1R8f_t8BIVflRdM89-d2-zxQs0b4GERSdZlL/s1600/photo.JPG" height="253" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>With former St. John's baseball catcher Joe Burke (the subject of one of the <a href="http://www.redstormsports.com/sports/m-basebl/spec-rel/031805aab.html" target="_blank">features I wrote for the team website</a>) right before he got me drunk</i></td></tr>
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<br />
Looking through my archives recently, I stumbled upon an assignment I had to write for one of my journalism classes.
It was an easy assignment.<br />
<br />
All I had to do was talk about what I did on my spring break that year. It was an exercise just to shake the rust out and talk about whatever we did in a captivating and entertaining way (even if your week included playing video games or mowing the lawn).<br />
<br />
I can’t say any of my spring breaks were boring. My job with St. John’s baseball ensured arduous plane/bus rides, long hours punctuated by midnight peanut butter and jelly making, and meals provided by such high-regarded restaurants as Golden Corral and Shoney’s. I dropped into my first class back from the break infinitely more exhausted than when I last left it a week before.<br />
<br />
But I loved every minute of it. There was a top step at the end of the dugout reserved for me every game, I got to see parts of the country I would have never seen otherwise (i.e. Fayetteville, Ark., and Corvallis, Ore.), and I was as close to the game I’ve loved since birth as I was ever going to get.<br />
<br />
However, that doesn’t make for a good story, especially not for a cranky, older journalism teacher. There has to be some angst, some repression of urges, and some admission of torture to justify being an aspiring writer. So this pieces comes off more irritable and self-deprecating than reality.<br />
<br />
Plus, I was 21. I didn’t know shit.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVjbNIbSHr7NAaL_-Fsu44grNQ3ak7XnlKXEbR0_4wtWjrHIyS8rfcXgPOsXpxvEOmWHbHrK1tCgk_a2otjDDI9ERCEkRiNh8Sqv4vXEKZ_NiC51-HHI4bqPQdGVaLk1TsLb_Y-2BP-X8p/s1600/15..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVjbNIbSHr7NAaL_-Fsu44grNQ3ak7XnlKXEbR0_4wtWjrHIyS8rfcXgPOsXpxvEOmWHbHrK1tCgk_a2otjDDI9ERCEkRiNh8Sqv4vXEKZ_NiC51-HHI4bqPQdGVaLk1TsLb_Y-2BP-X8p/s1600/15..JPG" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>2005 St. John's Baseball</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">On the Couch in Florida</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"> </span>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
Some college students spent their spring break being rubbed down by exotic, tanned goddesses on some remote, tropical slice of heaven. Others could be found erasing memories of class by engaging in elaborate drinking games on some sandy beach. This writer chose to enjoy his spring break in a much different manner.<br />
<br />
I spent one week…on a couch.
It was a couch in sunny Florida, but still…a couch.<br />
<br />
And I did so willingly and was completely sober.<br />
<br />
Now, I know the questions that must be swirling around in your head. Why would a junior in college with a precious week off from papers and tests be spending every night sleeping on a couch? What would possess a newly christened 21-year-old to do so without the company of Sam Adams or The Silver Bullet?<br />
<br />
It so happens that I am the head baseball manager for the St. John’s Red Storm baseball.<br />
<br />
Okay, I made it sound a lot cooler and prestigious than it actually is. I am essentially, for lack of a better description, the team mother.<br />
<br />
There are numerous perks that come with this job, including free trips to places such as Florida, Louisiana, and Minnesota. I get some cool NIKE gear free of charge and get a sizable grant for my tuition.
However, there are times such as these (i.e. rooming with two coaches in a suite better suited for two and being forced onto the couch made for little people) that make me question what I do for a living.<br />
<br />
My week consisted of ensuring that each room got a wake-up call, usually at some ungodly hour of the morning; setting up post-game meals, which received harsher criticisms than those handed out by <i>The New York Times </i>to first-time authors; and doing laundry, consisting of three different uniforms, laundry bags, and jock straps.<br />
<br />
And sleeping on the couch.<br />
<br />
Sober.<br />
<br />
I did get to watch 10 entertaining baseball games in 80-degree weather, while most of New York City suffered through February’s winter doldrums. I did get to bond with some of the country’s best collegiate athletes, many of whom may very well end up in (or close enough) to the major leagues.
Of course, that entailed trucking back to the hotel to retrieve a forgotten jersey before game time, engaging in a prank war that consisted of baby powder and two buckets of water, and getting thrown into the pool, despite my embarrassing confession that I couldn’t swim.
And sleeping on the couch.
Sober.<br />
<br />
You may be asking yourself, “What is this guy doing with his life?” Or my personal favorite, “Why is this educated, mature adult choosing to spend half his life doing laundry and cleaning up after a team full of knuckleheads and jocks?”<br />
<br />
I really didn’t have an answer to either question until the last day of our trip. One of the coaches came up to me and in an unprecedented show of gratitude said,<br />
<br />
“Outstanding job this week, Ford,” he said, while putting my hand in a vise grip. “We couldn’t have gotten through this week without you.”<br />
<br />
To say I was taken aback would be the understatement of the century. In two years as the manager, I only heard feedback from the coaches if I royally screwed up (i.e. like the time I forgot to set my clock ahead and was an hour late getting the team breakfast).<br />
<br />
I now felt like I belonged; like I was an equal part in our quest for glory. As we were winging back to the cold skyline of New York City, I gave myself an “A” for spring break 2005.<br />
<br />
Even though I slept on the couch for a week.<br />
<br />
Sober.<br />
<br />
But happy.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIFYcR0GobeHxpifavcoOD7hMkRbX1kEvMhgdLpxRo6JvRadt50dvtbWd7IDyk835wJZ0HY1uR4KiN84k-lFe-psXwBBkBEEdjI213ueUqPChNmDeKk5njNPX-FRXc8oFH3Z-sFYhLsrfk/s1600/925E3564.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIFYcR0GobeHxpifavcoOD7hMkRbX1kEvMhgdLpxRo6JvRadt50dvtbWd7IDyk835wJZ0HY1uR4KiN84k-lFe-psXwBBkBEEdjI213ueUqPChNmDeKk5njNPX-FRXc8oFH3Z-sFYhLsrfk/s1600/925E3564.JPG" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>You can see a fraction of my face in the back of this photo. Head Coach Ed Blankmeyer had just won his 300th game at Hofstra. </i></td></tr>
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<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>Also check out: </b><br />
<ul>
<li><b><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/12/50-pictures-from-my-life-in-baseball.html" target="_blank">50 Pictures From My Life in Baseball </a></b></li>
<li><b><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/05/texas-nightmare-frank-viola-and-mom.html" target="_blank">Texas Nightmare, Frank Viola and Mom </a></b></li>
<li><b><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/04/end-game-baseball-brouthers-and-patrick.html" target="_blank">End Game and Baseball Brothers </a></b></li>
</ul>
</blockquote>
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Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-81929841843397509792014-05-04T18:30:00.001-04:002014-05-05T15:17:09.021-04:00Family History: 16 More Family Photos I Couldn’t Live Without<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBiDQnKEyODMks5bollUoN6UhmpJTZ4iYKSg2iPnjVgANLVbI2tNBH_6jCK2UM9sSq0jWc3CbBH_wVF11VO9HZ860Qchy6f0wxZuGj1Ee9YCiSoZD21c8VoEzUG273m2l73b3xKk-7ng8X/s1600/JimmyandMaurice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBiDQnKEyODMks5bollUoN6UhmpJTZ4iYKSg2iPnjVgANLVbI2tNBH_6jCK2UM9sSq0jWc3CbBH_wVF11VO9HZ860Qchy6f0wxZuGj1Ee9YCiSoZD21c8VoEzUG273m2l73b3xKk-7ng8X/s1600/JimmyandMaurice.jpg" height="400" width="275" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My Uncle Jimmy and friend Maurice in New York City</i></td></tr>
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“Find any more pictures?”
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My mother’s eyes lit up.
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“Yes! I found that one of Jimmy I’ve been hunting around for. He’s on top of the Empire State Building!”
Sure enough, she had found a picture of my Uncle Jimmy and his friend Maurice in the city I called home for 11 years. The best part of it is (aside from the hairdos) is that the east side of the city is behind them. One can make out the Chrysler Building, UN Headquarters, and the 59th Bridge going into Queens (and Roosevelt Island underneath it).
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“He’s in my city!”
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“It’s not your city anymore,” my mother said.
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“She’ll always be my city. Even though she bled me dry and nearly sucked the life out of me.”
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After eating a Whoopie pie—okay, fine, two Whoppie pies—I started scanning in some of the other treasures my mother had found since our last photo project. After adding the new ones to our collection, we realized our tally had reached nearly 400 family photos.
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That’s a lot of Fords and Blanchettes.
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Here are some of the other pictures I decided to share with the world (even though some of them might get me killed).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG0VKuixOfRCEiN-VBSPjjnBxSKJdxE2l-FirpdWXMtYM9SfqfBY5yCxyJLqTuzVqgGE3kKXfnv2C_wenPCLTIOZ-G1BRnKy3eJo3sS_3M2ZyDZWem4B8YwFm-mUNxi2aB-joWEoNyS2Wt/s1600/ford2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG0VKuixOfRCEiN-VBSPjjnBxSKJdxE2l-FirpdWXMtYM9SfqfBY5yCxyJLqTuzVqgGE3kKXfnv2C_wenPCLTIOZ-G1BRnKy3eJo3sS_3M2ZyDZWem4B8YwFm-mUNxi2aB-joWEoNyS2Wt/s1600/ford2.jpg" height="310" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2012/02/baseball-bloodlines-grandma-ford-and.html" target="_blank">Grandma</a> and <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2014/01/from-archives-soldiers-tale.html" target="_blank">Grandpa Ford </a>looking young and in love. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivvMgRemSy1DdJ8xcCDvZNKfygVOt5TKRcbLCC_SKKLrr0b-FbPeu3kTPAjAgLsWTwYBzwtidUd8fM9m1zN2OqM7FQeIwSiZm7LzFpynB-GqHstYQuCScJoLNRK98LZ_duoX0edhFxsRed/s1600/45th1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivvMgRemSy1DdJ8xcCDvZNKfygVOt5TKRcbLCC_SKKLrr0b-FbPeu3kTPAjAgLsWTwYBzwtidUd8fM9m1zN2OqM7FQeIwSiZm7LzFpynB-GqHstYQuCScJoLNRK98LZ_duoX0edhFxsRed/s1600/45th1.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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Here they are at their 45th anniversary party. Still pretty frisky. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFiAhcICP-1gBYY8dcWIBMoEr4UZky9HXidEmQ_bbp53bDRBAmnZToA1oRufunRfNOndnNMDygonJhIk0ZR-Rc9A7OeYPePXMCHZy8gQ-fkDBu8cYNY7o_hriQjXzhyAvUpcr-4NWFiIGZ/s1600/melissaanddaniel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFiAhcICP-1gBYY8dcWIBMoEr4UZky9HXidEmQ_bbp53bDRBAmnZToA1oRufunRfNOndnNMDygonJhIk0ZR-Rc9A7OeYPePXMCHZy8gQ-fkDBu8cYNY7o_hriQjXzhyAvUpcr-4NWFiIGZ/s1600/melissaanddaniel.jpg" height="271" width="400" /></a></div>
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My cousin Melissa and I dancing at said party. That was the last time Daniel Ford pulled off wearing white pants. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbQXqDnN3XfGPVF_q7dFgk1l5ZmSmarhMvz2rR15hbUZ2No5JTlvwgYJdE9i90gdqh3gA-YnlMIEoXUE6qwVRcHI-4C43USXNzNEXiDTbVLaDK1Cqki6nBq7ajdGRXd7RHYOIxDn0jWhXM/s1600/DonandRolande.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbQXqDnN3XfGPVF_q7dFgk1l5ZmSmarhMvz2rR15hbUZ2No5JTlvwgYJdE9i90gdqh3gA-YnlMIEoXUE6qwVRcHI-4C43USXNzNEXiDTbVLaDK1Cqki6nBq7ajdGRXd7RHYOIxDn0jWhXM/s1600/DonandRolande.jpg" height="273" width="400" /></a></div>
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My mother’s sister Rolande and her husband Don (on right) with an unidentified couple. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf9Z_kf_eOsqa2_isAVzUbFa1riBdmqWQ7AKl9WrpoMObT3BGHfqJEa-3D1vQnikgvjKVbWThbAZwCD0tGivZZxhkjCzQgz8ay5uKCkAohldnUcfWKldM2pa-kLGjo7N6HIc7jCPT0Mib2/s1600/artheline1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf9Z_kf_eOsqa2_isAVzUbFa1riBdmqWQ7AKl9WrpoMObT3BGHfqJEa-3D1vQnikgvjKVbWThbAZwCD0tGivZZxhkjCzQgz8ay5uKCkAohldnUcfWKldM2pa-kLGjo7N6HIc7jCPT0Mib2/s1600/artheline1.jpg" height="400" width="290" /></a></div>
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Another great photo of my mother’s sister Artheline. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf5ClM2eKpz8u0qHrYOwc5GyIuZjo80POSWLE7XhoZX9zMcNecKrb7Kk3DiFyKuPTHoEMaJf31XY05ewek83y7Jf8ZFQpqfVdggGR22ETBSl88QYRNkulNvACZgoybfPX7ulHr0JmMWa7x/s1600/pitandlucille.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf5ClM2eKpz8u0qHrYOwc5GyIuZjo80POSWLE7XhoZX9zMcNecKrb7Kk3DiFyKuPTHoEMaJf31XY05ewek83y7Jf8ZFQpqfVdggGR22ETBSl88QYRNkulNvACZgoybfPX7ulHr0JmMWa7x/s1600/pitandlucille.jpg" height="400" width="267" /></a></div>
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These compilations wouldn’t be complete without my <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/01/baseball-bloodlines-laugh-ill-never.html" target="_blank">Uncle Pit</a> and his truly awesome hair. Here he is with my Tante Lucille. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFfXIyKa8jjGmkYbMoLWUN71wc6K9YY_-Tgz94KVgo_o-fYYTAVJGbwQFZO04yJglT_X_vmIou_eNisOunc0eGi9-sHnmqSSKvjbebSGk8HQZiWXOZFrQYeFLGV3hDpUYbb0-RcYB5F8eZ/s1600/ken4.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFfXIyKa8jjGmkYbMoLWUN71wc6K9YY_-Tgz94KVgo_o-fYYTAVJGbwQFZO04yJglT_X_vmIou_eNisOunc0eGi9-sHnmqSSKvjbebSGk8HQZiWXOZFrQYeFLGV3hDpUYbb0-RcYB5F8eZ/s1600/ken4.png" height="400" width="393" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/07/lords-prayer.html" target="_blank">Uncle Stephen</a>, Aunt Kathy, and my father hanging out. So far, we’ve only found one picture that includes my Aunt Ellen. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghVDeqdy-dhVBfJVXAeOEI5A34fuDWDffH4sSei16yJ9jRs51D3pR0m4hVQvzYKJ3obtG814K3EpfVA0ZEJefKzQSSpCX_BlyTSeDsEKRw9IBa_JNEifVTLBn_avc7auE3WBtAnH88UC69/s1600/gailandbobby.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghVDeqdy-dhVBfJVXAeOEI5A34fuDWDffH4sSei16yJ9jRs51D3pR0m4hVQvzYKJ3obtG814K3EpfVA0ZEJefKzQSSpCX_BlyTSeDsEKRw9IBa_JNEifVTLBn_avc7auE3WBtAnH88UC69/s1600/gailandbobby.png" height="267" width="400" /></a></div>
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My Uncle Bobby looks thrilled with my mother in this picture. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXo006qwgj25im7lUPi1MGBV16d6ayiKCNnOc29uHyWbq1o2zdGursejiSc7Vbj1IsFq_ulrQAJszW6Qtt9bXx-n18sj7bLLKpqzNqBwOMWP3iCgurvCq9hS5QkruYz9fRS1mix_Ul8_N6/s1600/Photo+Dec+09,+7+20+10+PM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXo006qwgj25im7lUPi1MGBV16d6ayiKCNnOc29uHyWbq1o2zdGursejiSc7Vbj1IsFq_ulrQAJszW6Qtt9bXx-n18sj7bLLKpqzNqBwOMWP3iCgurvCq9hS5QkruYz9fRS1mix_Ul8_N6/s1600/Photo+Dec+09,+7+20+10+PM.jpg" height="305" width="400" /></a></div>
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These Mainers are up to no good. My mother is the second from the left. My cousin Ivan is in the cage. No one knows why... </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixunyUUQfWeNj5yc8nJWe_mZkmvxK3vCbNcAoNIpih7Gq2MbTJXyVE9HMNiKTVnOITugkM1xnBSZN0Axf0-obk7HjNtJmE3EhXDZbBEx7wgdE2JgUKhP2gZykBe_i3IiaInJN6Lec9ZUum/s1600/14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixunyUUQfWeNj5yc8nJWe_mZkmvxK3vCbNcAoNIpih7Gq2MbTJXyVE9HMNiKTVnOITugkM1xnBSZN0Axf0-obk7HjNtJmE3EhXDZbBEx7wgdE2JgUKhP2gZykBe_i3IiaInJN6Lec9ZUum/s1600/14.jpg" height="400" width="396" /></a></div>
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No one looked cooler than my Uncle Jimmy out and about. He always looked like he was about to get into trouble and enjoy doing so. During one of the last conversations we had, I told him not to get into too much trouble in the hospital. "Don't worry, if there's trouble here, I'll find it," he said. He was pretty sick, but he still had plenty of humor left. As you can see in the following picture, I can't quite pull off the same look (although I did manage to convince a beautiful woman to sit next to me):</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGpugpbjkBjLwELtM4Ezt4zVcapdQOB-pW0qG1IKKcjfvIjCI2_XibGZTx3p6rCGC9dAbaWB1i3Hd54ALzGD3-XGdGFKSIJgxB3xUAuHW6WA0gVkWWVnwqa7gYu1uNqYmct6oOS4Z_ug7P/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-05-04+at+6.18.08+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGpugpbjkBjLwELtM4Ezt4zVcapdQOB-pW0qG1IKKcjfvIjCI2_XibGZTx3p6rCGC9dAbaWB1i3Hd54ALzGD3-XGdGFKSIJgxB3xUAuHW6WA0gVkWWVnwqa7gYu1uNqYmct6oOS4Z_ug7P/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-05-04+at+6.18.08+PM.png" height="395" width="400" /></a></div>
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(That sound you hear is my mother screaming, "Oh my god! You look just like him!)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeiGi13jhuGu5SjsTiN3S2R9_Z2miFwXmkkD2liZmbNJZAaMD3CQxOtgTSn9HQgjYZisO8rAfeWww2Nogn5seLbiMOxHg5KjcKUxUqwNSeE5cZsVpS8PaVtlZVeyOy_7tivRD2Dbe_A-xN/s1600/clifford11.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeiGi13jhuGu5SjsTiN3S2R9_Z2miFwXmkkD2liZmbNJZAaMD3CQxOtgTSn9HQgjYZisO8rAfeWww2Nogn5seLbiMOxHg5KjcKUxUqwNSeE5cZsVpS8PaVtlZVeyOy_7tivRD2Dbe_A-xN/s1600/clifford11.png" height="387" width="400" /></a></div>
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Speaking of uncles I look like: my Uncle Clifford’s wedding. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlLuCqo0Nf3rthXUA-QkgzaahHh9lep-cW-ouR-yc56OE_iPXXCAeU1r2P7ENn_P3LL3Q2Zlpo1GbSQiZJBCXTh-lJD0dxscFMilJL5ily_Mprxwsf9Q31HOMt_lK6ETRsp9yx_O7ClGGZ/s1600/Photo+Jan+17,+4+38+56+PM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlLuCqo0Nf3rthXUA-QkgzaahHh9lep-cW-ouR-yc56OE_iPXXCAeU1r2P7ENn_P3LL3Q2Zlpo1GbSQiZJBCXTh-lJD0dxscFMilJL5ily_Mprxwsf9Q31HOMt_lK6ETRsp9yx_O7ClGGZ/s1600/Photo+Jan+17,+4+38+56+PM.jpg" height="326" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2014/02/baseball-bloodlines-ashes-under-radiator.html" target="_blank">My Pépère</a> is unimpressed with being surrounded by several young girls. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhueJJfvNlVqCmOqLmqW1UQtcS00emMModuadVScwxTsrQeJytMl1LPIeBwTPzT4jKm0BGYT0xJMkgCnYIA2TFn4Vi5QqHGCgIwPQMe0RgT6mml82vwoFL8je1dWz6bKtzVo9oxIfq-5VfG/s1600/judywithsuperman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhueJJfvNlVqCmOqLmqW1UQtcS00emMModuadVScwxTsrQeJytMl1LPIeBwTPzT4jKm0BGYT0xJMkgCnYIA2TFn4Vi5QqHGCgIwPQMe0RgT6mml82vwoFL8je1dWz6bKtzVo9oxIfq-5VfG/s1600/judywithsuperman.jpg" height="283" width="400" /></a></div>
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To keep things fair, here is one of me wearing <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/06/the-boy-in-red-superman-cape.html" target="_blank">a Superman outfit</a>. My cousin Judy—who I followed around like a shadow—is helping me tie my cape. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrgNIchz3c8y5nuO-PVaSSoxMYMIc0rGFobY3RFWRZacTrNLpaGm6BS70CMECtJ-fXTBZHHZc2ZKbTYmXd8gyiKECaKSP15Hw7KP_NkryYLEjEntvxbeIKO7dcjBvQyZ3MQ4xNBtkST4L8/s1600/abbyandgrandmaford.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrgNIchz3c8y5nuO-PVaSSoxMYMIc0rGFobY3RFWRZacTrNLpaGm6BS70CMECtJ-fXTBZHHZc2ZKbTYmXd8gyiKECaKSP15Hw7KP_NkryYLEjEntvxbeIKO7dcjBvQyZ3MQ4xNBtkST4L8/s1600/abbyandgrandmaford.jpg" height="320" width="400" /></a></div>
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My Aunt Avie (who my father calls "a peach") with my grandmother. I’m going to let my Aunt Kathy write the rest of this caption: “How beautiful can any woman be! You can see by these pictures that her sweetness has always been there (except when she talked about that girl's basketball coach that she couldn't stand or the Red Sox!).”
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<blockquote>
<b>Also check out:
</b><br />
<ul>
<li><b><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/10/15-more-family-photos-i-couldnt-live.html">15 More Family Photos I Couldn’t Live Without</a></b>
</li>
<li><b><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/04/15-family-photos-i-couldnt-live-without.html">15 Family Photos I Couldn’t Live Without</a></b></li>
</ul>
</blockquote>
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Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-45356210389301202012014-04-20T10:00:00.002-04:002014-04-20T10:00:28.445-04:00Brothers, Baseball, and Beer: My Baseball Career Part 1<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
When I first started rereading a story that I wrote in high school about a <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2014/01/the-great-little-league-home-run-race.html" target="_blank">fictional baseball hero</a> named Dante Cimadamore, I found pages upon pages of what I envisioned my baseball career would have looked like had my father forced me to play Little League.
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<br />
The novel runs a couple hundred handwritten pages, and features <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2014/01/the-great-little-league-home-run-race.html" target="_blank">homerun heroics</a>, <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2014/02/brothers-baseball-and-beer-perfect-pat.html" target="_blank">perfect games</a>, and a romance birthed in a backyard baseball field (that would eventually become the <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2012/01/preview-of-sid-sanford-lives-chapter_08.html" target="_blank">foundation of my novel</a>).
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A quarter of the way through it though, I make my main character live through my own short-lived baseball career. My older brother was my first Scott League coach and endured a lot of my strikeouts and general offensive ineptitude. By my third and final year, I managed to become a serviceable outfielder and even hit more than .300.
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<br />
I’ve always tried to be an honest writer, but even I’m surprised on how honestly I dealt with my brief, recreational baseball career (although I do allude to the main character’s future greatness).
The next few posts on this blog will include the full story of Dante Cimadamore’s summer league trials and Daniel Ford’s Major League Baseball aspirations.
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After you read this, go outside and have a catch, or play some pepper!
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">Part 1: Tryouts</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqz0xp2HAzbewZi3joVdJ8CudCeNJn6dQspQWkyy8daZF9W8wA9swMZt4WjSUL7Yd7fzwHbX2zfOZ27QlJ-jCa8AR5jKGaslEGQeutIspp4Tsiu1twR_XOhk-yVRwyEvxVUZx_fn9hZ-Jd/s1600/7..png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqz0xp2HAzbewZi3joVdJ8CudCeNJn6dQspQWkyy8daZF9W8wA9swMZt4WjSUL7Yd7fzwHbX2zfOZ27QlJ-jCa8AR5jKGaslEGQeutIspp4Tsiu1twR_XOhk-yVRwyEvxVUZx_fn9hZ-Jd/s1600/7..png" height="400" width="280" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I believe this was taken right before my first Pony League game.</i></td></tr>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“It’s a good thing the tryout only lasted a few hours. Had it been longer, Dante would have needed a year’s worth of physical therapy to recover from it.”—Scott League director Jeff Jay
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Upon returning to their hometown, Dante, Tim, and Patrick were instant celebrities (editor’s note: This takes place after Dante’s Little League wins the Little League World Series).
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Parades were held, articles were written, and city awards were given out. Patrick Russell was bestowed the greatest gift of all. His Little League number was retired and he was given the key to the city. The rest of the team wasn’t so lucky.
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“We got a commemorative hat and certificate, both of which I lost in the first week I had it.”—Tim George
The winter months passed by, allowing the craze over the young athletes to dissipate to the point where they could live normal lives again. However, when warmer weather finally arrived, so did the fan’s hunger for the game.
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Thanks to those boys, this town became baseball crazy.”—Parent
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The coming of spring also brought new challenges to the boys of summer who had reigned supreme the year before. A new league beckoned and called for all those who thought they were worthy to move on from their Little League roots. Only a handful of Destiny’s Team—the nickname immortalized on their commemorative hats—answered the call. The rest sought other interests.
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“I would have felt like I was under pressure all the time, and that’s no way to play the game.”—John Machado
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“I found out I was a much actor than a second baseman.”—Malcolm Miller
</blockquote>
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A hundred and forty baseball players registered that year for the town’s recreational Scott League. Half that number would be put through the stress of a tryout. Dante Cimadamore stepped onto a full-size baseball diamond for the first time, armed with his talent and trusty glove.
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Just me and Rosebud. If I had known what was going to happen, I would have brought body armor.”—Dante Cimadamore
</blockquote>
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That day, Dante had been inspired (by what, only God knows) to try to broaden his horizons. He opted to leave the confines of the outfield to tryout as an infielder. He got in line behind the other first basemen and waited for the tryout to start. Dante wanted to show people he was versatile and could do more than hit and chase after lazy fly balls.
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“I saw Dante trot out to first base and the first thought that went through my mind was ‘He’s going to kill himself.’”—Tim Nix
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From his Little League experience, Dante thought he knew how and where to hit the cutoffs. However, he moved left when he was supposed to move right, and dropped every throw that came in from the outfield. Standing outside the foul line, Dante pictured the coaches crossing his name off their list, which made him more determined. Sadly, his determination would not overcome his lack of talent playing first base.
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As the infield/outfield session moved into the infield, the real horror began. Surprisingly, Dante handled throws from the third basemen and short stops easily, but bobbled several of the second basemen’s throws to first. As his waited for his turn to complete a few double plays, Dante glanced longingly toward the outfielders. He saw the catching fly balls and fielding easy line drives—things he was capable of doing without thinking about it. He brushed the thoughts away and stepped back onto the dusty infield.
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The third baseman started the double play off perfectly by getting off a crisp throw to the shortstop standing at second base. The fielder took a moment to collect the ball and pivot. Dante saw the throw head for the dirt and knew he was in trouble. The ball skipped in the dirt and struck Dante’s knee.
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“I saw him miss the ball and then saw him jumping around in pain. I wanted to go over and make sure he was okay, but I didn’t do anything wrong, so I just let him be.”—Shortstop
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The pain soon subsided to a sharp tingle. Dante eagerly stepped back onto the field, determined to show the coaches he could make the scoop on a bad throw. Once again, the same shortstop fired a low throw Dante’s way. Dante kept his eye on it the whole way. However, Dante stabbed at the ball instead of letting it come to him. The ball glanced off his glove and headed like a missile for his big toe on his right foot.
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Hands down, the worst pain I’ve ever felt.”—Dante Cimadamore
</blockquote>
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The blow to his foot knocked Dante to the ground. Slowly, he raised himself into a kneeling position and crawled into foul territory. He faced the fact that his days as a first baseman were numbered.
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Of course, the coaches wanted to end the tryout with base running. Dante tried to mentally push the pain away, but it was too much for him. After gimping around first base, he fell on the way to second. He pulled himself up and forced his legs to walk briskly to the second base bag.
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“I couldn’t believe it. It was the first time he hadn’t blown away the competition. He fell down! I’m pretty sure that was the last time anyone saw Dante not do something spectacular on a baseball field.”—Patrick Russell
Dante didn’t even acknowledge the chuckling players standing on the edge of the outfield grass. He fell into the green grass of left field thoroughly exhausted. Jeff Jay, the league’s director, said a few words on how this was the best tryout they had had in year.
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Best tryouts, my ass.”—Dante Cimadamore
</blockquote>
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The draft was the following day. Dante wasn’t looking forward to it. Although every player made a team, he was sure he was going to end up with a coach who would make him ride the bench all year. For the first time in his life, Dante limped off the field not proud of what he’d done on it.
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<div style="text-align: center;">
***
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An evening later, Dante was interrupted from his catnap by a ringing phone. He had been icing his swollen knee and his even more swollen big toe. He knew what kind of news was on the other end of the line, so he took his time answering the phone.
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“Hello?”
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“Is this Dante Cimadamore?”
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“Yes.”
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“I’m Ty Russell, a coach from the Scott League. Got a little beat up the other day, huh?”
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“Yeah…” Dante said. “Russell. You wouldn’t be…”
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“Patrick Russell’s brother. Yes. I taught hum everything he knows,” Ty said.
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“Well, last year’s Little League squad thanks you for that.”
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“I bet. Okay, I drafted you. You’re on the Phantoms. I saw a lot of heart in that tryout despite what happened. You kept getting back up. You played the outfield last year right?”
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“Yup,” Dante said. “I tried something new and it backfired on me.”
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“Well, I’ll put you in right field and we’ll forget you ever tried to play the infield. How’s that sound?”
“How can I say no?” Dante said. He felt relieved.
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The pain stopped instantly. His flame for the game burned brighter than ever. Dante Cimadamore was a Phantom and he vowed that the Scott League would never be the same.
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<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“I knew what I was getting myself into. If I was going to have emotion from my team, I need that kid. He ended up giving us a lot more than that.”—Ty Russell
</blockquote>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>Also check out:
</b><br />
<ul>
<li><b><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2014/02/brothers-baseball-and-beer-perfect-pat.html">Brothers, Baseball, and Beer: Perfect Pat</a>
</b></li>
<li><b><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2014/01/the-great-little-league-home-run-race.html">The Great Little League Homerun Race</a></b>
</li>
</ul>
</blockquote>
Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-90399795515125093152014-03-28T22:52:00.002-04:002014-04-04T10:07:43.582-04:00What I Want To Do With the Rest of My Life…And the Great Stuff That’s Happened So Far<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs_ibYza_B2QY-Qb3-0Mn5A0BwM0fB92zNnz5EunbPjBuiKvz_PEled0-c73w7IX9abDLMGXr2r3mJFlUr9UhRi2qYy7YgDkj0EPY7uKoxaiDJTE2y6Z9UeCgSd7LOelhm7XbTaGCo2NaG/s3200/danfordediting.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs_ibYza_B2QY-Qb3-0Mn5A0BwM0fB92zNnz5EunbPjBuiKvz_PEled0-c73w7IX9abDLMGXr2r3mJFlUr9UhRi2qYy7YgDkj0EPY7uKoxaiDJTE2y6Z9UeCgSd7LOelhm7XbTaGCo2NaG/s3200/danfordediting.jpeg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Editor mode engaged! (Photo credit: Stephanie Schaefer)</i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<br />
“Did you just discover the meaning of your life?”<br />
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This question was poised to me by a <a href="http://www.writersbone.com/" target="_blank"><i>Writer’s Bone</i></a> contributor on Friday. This was in response to me saying, “I think I'm here to find cool writers and give them confidence so they can find their voices.”<br />
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I majored in modesty at St. John’s University.<br />
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But I wasn’t kidding. There’s nothing I love more than editing and working with young writers to get the best out of them. It took me a long time to <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/04/why-i-still-want-to-be-writer-when-i.html" target="_blank">find my voice</a> and I feel like I have some worthwhile advice to offer the next generation of up-and-comers.
I just didn’t have a venue to do it in before recently.<br />
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I’ve spent the last couple months building a sound foundation for a <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/writers-bone/id807963512?mt=2" target="_blank">podcast</a> with my fantastic partner Sean Tuohy. We got into it to talk about the things we had in common and discuss our approaches to the writing craft—to be huge writer nerds essentially. We thought it would be smart to start a blog along with it to drive traffic to the podcast and give us a place to write about anything we found interesting.<br />
<br />
Our earlier posts included our <a href="http://www.writersbone.com/2014/01/daniel-fords-best-moments-as-writer_22.html" target="_blank">best moments as writers</a>, <a href="http://www.writersbone.com/2014/01/seans-take-harlan-ellison-is-asshole-i.html" target="_blank">calling well-known writers assholes</a> in a complimentary way, favorite moments from <a href="http://www.writersbone.com/2014/01/dans-take-why-west-wings-leo-mcgarry-is.html" target="_blank">"The West Wing</a>," and reminiscing about how Nelson DeMille popped our cherries by having <a href="http://www.writersbone.com/2014/01/dans-take-how-clive-cusslers-dirk-pitt.html" target="_blank">Dirk Pitt shoot a guy’s dick off</a>. Sean and I could have kept on that track—and our posts in large part have stayed true to those themes—but our shtick on the blog might have grown to be overkill when combined with our podcast.<br />
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Plus, I’ve had this desire to build a website that featured all the creative types I’ve come in contact with over the years. Some of them were still in the writing game, but I know more than a few that were hesitant or scared to write more than just a weekly grocery list. I was also lucky enough to meet a bunch of young writers <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/11/a-connecticut-yankee-in-david-ortizs.html" target="_blank">when I moved to Boston</a> that inspired me to send Sean this email:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br />
“You said something great last night that's been in my head for a little bit. You said something like, "I hate hearing the word no as a writer." I emailed a writer friend earlier that day telling him we want to make <a href="http://www.writersbone.com/" target="_blank"><i>Writer's Bone</i></a> a place where writers don't have to hear the word no. They can let their freak flag fly so to speak. That should be our mission statement. Writers tired of restrictions, limits, and censorship will always have a home with us.”</blockquote>
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We both worked full-time, so really it was no brainer to look for content that we didn’t have to think about creating. But it meant more than that to us. I think both of us have struggled at times to accept being a writer and here was a chance for us to ease the suffering of others. Author <a href="http://www.writersbone.com/2014/02/mystery-writer-rebecca-cantrell-on-why.html" target="_blank">Rebecca Cantrell</a>, one of our favorite early interviews, also inspired us:<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Writers must suffer for their art. Every time I hear that it drives me crazy. If writing isn’t fun, why do it? I have lots of fun writing and so do most other writers I know. It doesn’t have to be about suffering.” </blockquote>
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The future Mrs. Hardball Heart and Sean’s girlfriend started contributing in the beginning and we started collecting thoughts and essays from a wide range of young writers. My girlfriend made a good point early on that we shouldn’t say they were working for us. Every writer essentially has to write for himself or herself, so she made me realize we were writing with each other. We’ve had that mentality ever since.<br />
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When we <a href="http://www.writersbone.com/2014/02/quentin-tarantino-likes-his-orange.html" target="_blank">published an essay</a> by a guy I work with ay my day job, I put a $1 bill on his desk and said, “Thanks!” He picked up the dollar, looked at it, and pinned it to his bulletin board. “That’s the first time I’ve ever been published anywhere!” He said. “Thank you!” It was one of the proudest moments of my professional career.<br />
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Someone asked me once what I would do if I was handed the keys to an established website and social media following. My answer remains the same. I would blow my brains out from boredom. I’m meant to build things and experiment, not toe the line and not screw up someone else’s brainchild. I’m meant to do what I’m doing with <a href="http://www.writersbone.com/" target="_blank"><i>Writer’s Bone</i></a>.<br />
<br />
Now, the best part of my day—other than those moments when I’m in the presence of my spectacular future wife—has become when one of our contributors emails or texts me and says, “Hey, I have this idea…”<br />
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I’m bringing all this up because one of those young writers wrote a post (which you can read <a href="http://www.writersbone.com/2014/03/refilling-treasure-chest-how-i-moved-on.html" target="_blank">here</a>) about how she moved on after her laptop and jump drive were stolen—two things that held all of her digital archives. That got me thinking about my own archives and how I’ve made an effort the last couple of years to document mine on this blog.<br />
<br />
Below are a few things I found at my parent’s house in Connecticut a couple weeks ago that I want to live in perpetuity in some form or another. After you’re done here, I encourage you to head over to <i><a href="http://www.writersbone.com/">www.writersbone.com</a></i> and check out <a href="http://www.writersbone.com/p/writers-bone-contributors.html" target="_blank">our writers</a> who are absolutely killing it right now.<br />
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I’m awfully proud of all of them.<br />
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">Friday Night Archives</span><br />
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<i>The rough draft of <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/08/a-look-back-life-of-daniel-f-ford-lost.html" target="_blank">my seventh grade autobiography</a>. My handwriting has not improved (click to enlarge). </i></div>
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<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpULlH3gmZS3dLq8QqvfIUKQTTUTE1K3yR0kUe77rekdsvT6i-pyC37zYnUL88SIFtEsiywFGpC6f2z6GI7MhLEAZHHbGM_5FUigUzuHSZgDn3_9-IpL3w6YVL4u6QHb1T4I4tBjWgBB_A/s3200/Scan+Mar+28,+2014,+8.48+PM-page13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpULlH3gmZS3dLq8QqvfIUKQTTUTE1K3yR0kUe77rekdsvT6i-pyC37zYnUL88SIFtEsiywFGpC6f2z6GI7MhLEAZHHbGM_5FUigUzuHSZgDn3_9-IpL3w6YVL4u6QHb1T4I4tBjWgBB_A/s3200/Scan+Mar+28,+2014,+8.48+PM-page13.jpg" height="640" width="492" /></a></i></div>
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<i>I had an illustrator at one point. This is my favorite cover he produced. It also happens to be the only one I still have. </i></div>
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<i>This might have been the first time I was ever published. The poem that Teen Ink ran was one I wrote for one of my high school band director’s who was semi-retiring. </i></div>
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<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcvGeeYJJ_lbnLrvA0G0bDaALuacOsGgoPkE3KoLSAUsD7DJxyTMSDfVknrN24mpxl2GOSRTSC2Kyh4cAbIuziDvuZbhNIP07rlTJDChXM2E136AKAgfs2Kpt893eXoue10CHvmujm_Vpl/s3200/upclose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcvGeeYJJ_lbnLrvA0G0bDaALuacOsGgoPkE3KoLSAUsD7DJxyTMSDfVknrN24mpxl2GOSRTSC2Kyh4cAbIuziDvuZbhNIP07rlTJDChXM2E136AKAgfs2Kpt893eXoue10CHvmujm_Vpl/s3200/upclose.jpg" height="400" width="263" /></a></i></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Speaking of <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2014/03/7-happy-poems-to-welcome-spring.html" target="_blank">poetry</a>, check out the above article that was published in my local newspaper that includes a quote from yours truly. </i><i>Hey, if you're going to be quoted about your <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/09/nothing-says-friday-like-high-school.html" target="_blank">weepy high school poetry</a>, you better make sure it's a good one. </i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmGk9DmoxknaKzkq6mN4nUI8dVn61f-lxOCK0KWKmVklwgVMu-fEVcLEiLbfsrWUkXJ_jNdv45ywHD4swLxk1SIcqKO3UqZPpvTHEoVLXCd3qoMfEaFjg_dXx0EpsbZbftO8FXgBJFipwQ/s3200/backontop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmGk9DmoxknaKzkq6mN4nUI8dVn61f-lxOCK0KWKmVklwgVMu-fEVcLEiLbfsrWUkXJ_jNdv45ywHD4swLxk1SIcqKO3UqZPpvTHEoVLXCd3qoMfEaFjg_dXx0EpsbZbftO8FXgBJFipwQ/s3200/backontop.jpg" height="400" width="357" /></a></div>
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<i>A short story I started in high school. I'll be revisiting this in a future post. </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGH249SuuMaioYuVJhI2ia4gsZwUtm8IietBun7RcWkK1mangtAmNhqw5Wue3HPpHpPOGMJ0EYI4HBQhqKZZXKxF2o8tgr-0sdkQ31wocfOLh9r1lRZtSAOQFu9l87RgZTcx7iTAMA1Bo9/s3200/Scan+Mar+28%252C+2014%252C+8.48+PM-page1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGH249SuuMaioYuVJhI2ia4gsZwUtm8IietBun7RcWkK1mangtAmNhqw5Wue3HPpHpPOGMJ0EYI4HBQhqKZZXKxF2o8tgr-0sdkQ31wocfOLh9r1lRZtSAOQFu9l87RgZTcx7iTAMA1Bo9/s3200/Scan+Mar+28%252C+2014%252C+8.48+PM-page1.jpg" height="400" width="281" /></a></div>
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<i>Teen Ink also sponsored one of the awards I received in high school! That should say “badass writer” by the way. They sadly never got around to fixing that typo. </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM50fs7rxEYvNjccFrazZkIFrHN5EziV966GH0ZtCCEIjKWd3h5Yq3TRgt1lnDXeTGd1agKkPRCJoL1Ur_rttIPbCmPHXd7e7K_KLhj35Ew3TaF6p4yVp95GHLrRmYa8JD4THHFwwJa_wg/s3200/baseballplayer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM50fs7rxEYvNjccFrazZkIFrHN5EziV966GH0ZtCCEIjKWd3h5Yq3TRgt1lnDXeTGd1agKkPRCJoL1Ur_rttIPbCmPHXd7e7K_KLhj35Ew3TaF6p4yVp95GHLrRmYa8JD4THHFwwJa_wg/s3200/baseballplayer.jpg" height="640" width="339" /></a></div>
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<i>More proof <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/04/baseball-beginnings-why-im-not-baseball.html" target="_blank">I actually played baseball</a>. That’s not me sliding into home plate or the catcher about to make the tag. I’m mentioned at the very end of the article for winning the league’s most improved player award. </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpoip7gjSw0epbbzYA5SyazRJNBqV0Q5RNT3AOnEnlWoxY4mfLUDQN-d86Vma3DFgZTWHVfOIej5HQKZvVA56uTaDwgJLsZ9iMrT6vPqMjCk_TJfO0nVSiIFxpcLjznKniTwlmNcklc4Rt/s3200/Scan+Mar+28%252C+2014%252C+8.48+PM-page10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpoip7gjSw0epbbzYA5SyazRJNBqV0Q5RNT3AOnEnlWoxY4mfLUDQN-d86Vma3DFgZTWHVfOIej5HQKZvVA56uTaDwgJLsZ9iMrT6vPqMjCk_TJfO0nVSiIFxpcLjznKniTwlmNcklc4Rt/s3200/Scan+Mar+28%252C+2014%252C+8.48+PM-page10.jpg" height="283" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i> </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>My only other acting gig following <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/08/from-archives-northeast-middle-school.html" target="_blank">my performance in The Wizard of Oz </a>was as a cab driver in a play called “Funny Money.” I got to fire a fake gun (which didn’t work the second night)! </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGSOEGj8EYQ-XGDgMZeFdO3wVQySb4BloEfjMV2Y6J_0epA1vrxEfbfdI68588spwOgZD4nmBmBft99dBWXyIjnaSmrkX08jbICS0LaVVZHDAbZb262M_f36lYbXyjMW4xOhNKBi4MSa0_/s3200/upclose2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGSOEGj8EYQ-XGDgMZeFdO3wVQySb4BloEfjMV2Y6J_0epA1vrxEfbfdI68588spwOgZD4nmBmBft99dBWXyIjnaSmrkX08jbICS0LaVVZHDAbZb262M_f36lYbXyjMW4xOhNKBi4MSa0_/s3200/upclose2.jpg" height="235" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>What the local paper had to say about me. </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRxgee5okDUDRnZh9FlJHMPHxTuqIlWK4WkikY-VvtiwN1zbg9LZ2Ud5DwX5DC0AgqQGMxbSom7OsHzzQSk3xrVkhl2LbiTdHawIpLlakPDC5VvemJovat8PO2DxzTrDTaCWLo-9H2w1Kd/s3200/Scan+Mar+28%252C+2014%252C+8.48+PM-page12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRxgee5okDUDRnZh9FlJHMPHxTuqIlWK4WkikY-VvtiwN1zbg9LZ2Ud5DwX5DC0AgqQGMxbSom7OsHzzQSk3xrVkhl2LbiTdHawIpLlakPDC5VvemJovat8PO2DxzTrDTaCWLo-9H2w1Kd/s3200/Scan+Mar+28%252C+2014%252C+8.48+PM-page12.jpg" height="258" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>My friend Paul’s top hat was the best thing that ever happened to a lot of lives. The locals only caught a fraction of its majesty. My mom and I are photobombing in the middle. </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9g5TN7_0h4B5XpklszoBudHJshYgInjKkc9isFbCTI2XPryeHnbWEP8vmzKNQSA8_z221y29L7l6xOYmLKL3ilm5R21gQXsjW7o8w6C68VOB5Y4qLzrCWDDrJbcIxSaXWNMIhkN1UgBS/s3200/graduates.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9g5TN7_0h4B5XpklszoBudHJshYgInjKkc9isFbCTI2XPryeHnbWEP8vmzKNQSA8_z221y29L7l6xOYmLKL3ilm5R21gQXsjW7o8w6C68VOB5Y4qLzrCWDDrJbcIxSaXWNMIhkN1UgBS/s3200/graduates.jpg" height="312" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Some local ink about my <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2012/10/high-school-graduation-speech-10-years.html" target="_blank">high school graduation speech</a>. I wasn’t a dramatic quote at all…(click to enlarge) </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Euracq3ocg9CLPOlTAABIgfPNhCbPZR7J8kxLTiEhnF4t_YHwMG1IAxrB1chvdNAaAEvDyzxrnAxzu2nafLJlzJ8tz-kqkPQbugf0B9vGIp3oD1oV6thBGtcsamZsZMNWhRcPdRL3Wo-/s3200/Scan+Mar+28%252C+2014%252C+8.48+PM-page17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Euracq3ocg9CLPOlTAABIgfPNhCbPZR7J8kxLTiEhnF4t_YHwMG1IAxrB1chvdNAaAEvDyzxrnAxzu2nafLJlzJ8tz-kqkPQbugf0B9vGIp3oD1oV6thBGtcsamZsZMNWhRcPdRL3Wo-/s3200/Scan+Mar+28%252C+2014%252C+8.48+PM-page17.jpg" height="640" width="452" /></a></div>
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<i>The beginning of my internship with the Sanford Mainers. </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6TGlcQj6sukymqjjKXHjKBN7kJwC4WABsH7ZDF3skYo-0TRNWAiSthtaaXua18Bpgsn65xD5uW3HZMqWT3_MXWqJnRu6udZxSq25U2F39i9Ufga-Rvj25Q82rA-NCmw7KxN8e_y8Shv-m/s3200/baseballmanager.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6TGlcQj6sukymqjjKXHjKBN7kJwC4WABsH7ZDF3skYo-0TRNWAiSthtaaXua18Bpgsn65xD5uW3HZMqWT3_MXWqJnRu6udZxSq25U2F39i9Ufga-Rvj25Q82rA-NCmw7KxN8e_y8Shv-m/s3200/baseballmanager.jpg" height="285" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i> </i></div>
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<i>See, I have other skills! </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5VMPg3nh6Dc7BVK3Rj-zR5tcF2QmrPz9doqq7JpYvcUSqETpjpdcouK4rLTs3N9owpfzl-uI6h_mGsOg9k9l0zbSTDcCL2VoX9RhKGXLvoMJzS-jKYANq1dxjqXaGby9yK5wPhKHKn5oU/s3200/Scan+Mar+28%252C+2014%252C+8.48+PM-page14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5VMPg3nh6Dc7BVK3Rj-zR5tcF2QmrPz9doqq7JpYvcUSqETpjpdcouK4rLTs3N9owpfzl-uI6h_mGsOg9k9l0zbSTDcCL2VoX9RhKGXLvoMJzS-jKYANq1dxjqXaGby9yK5wPhKHKn5oU/s3200/Scan+Mar+28%252C+2014%252C+8.48+PM-page14.jpg" height="640" width="452" /></a></div>
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<i>I wrote out the last chapter of my novel <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/03/the-birth-of-sid-sanford-and-art-of.html" target="_blank">Sid Sanford LIVES!</a> One of the best writing decisions I ever made.
</i></div>
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Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-18476340904328951212014-03-16T13:56:00.001-04:002014-03-16T13:56:11.831-04:00Baseball Bloodlines: Frenchville, Maine's Dewey School Reunion<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
“Stop touching me,” I said.<br />
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“Did you just tell me to stop touching you?” My father said.<br />
<br />
“Yes.”<br />
<br />
“Geez, someone is grumpy.”<br />
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The sun hadn’t come up. I was sleeping on the couch while my girlfriend slept soundly in the room I occupied during my high school years.
He went back to carrying on a conversation with Whitey the Cat and I turned over my pillow eager to sneak in another half hour of sleep.<br />
<br />
Moments later, a pair of arms wrapped around me. <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2012/05/mothers-day-tribute-may-13-2012.html" target="_blank">My mother</a> squeezed tightly and then started to tickle me. I couldn’t do anything but take it.<br />
<br />
“I’ve got to get this in now,” she said. “I can’t do this in front of your girrrrrrrrlfriend.”<br />
<br />
“Sure you can,” I muttered.<br />
<br />
Like many of the <a href="http://www.writersbone.com/2014/03/the-2014-academy-awards-telecast-shows.html" target="_blank">Oscar nominees this year</a>, I play for #teammommasboy.<br />
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“Wake up, I have to show you something.”<br />
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One of my eyes opened. It still wasn’t light outside. My mother took care of that problem by turning on a light right next to my sleepy face.<br />
<br />
A white book with “Dewey School Reunion” and “Frenchville, Maine” in heavy black typeface landed in my hands. My mother explained that it was a yearbook for the school’s reunion in 1999 and it featured a good number of Blanchettes.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI-J2LozTxDYA6fRiuLkqE-50FtWUVQYQqRDa2EYL0DLjHC0HfqMDHam2G3OeA0crnazsouJ8yboGGvUAtCbut6-qphLYx541PVjdt8vf8_zJQxjF0WyNoLIOCjLj5fZC2r0D_Txjrycm_/s1600/dewey1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI-J2LozTxDYA6fRiuLkqE-50FtWUVQYQqRDa2EYL0DLjHC0HfqMDHam2G3OeA0crnazsouJ8yboGGvUAtCbut6-qphLYx541PVjdt8vf8_zJQxjF0WyNoLIOCjLj5fZC2r0D_Txjrycm_/s1600/dewey1.png" height="400" width="306" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Dewey School Reunion Yearbook Cover</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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“Cool,” I said.<br />
<br />
Family history is never a bad thing to wake up to.<br />
<br />
“You need to do your thing and scan them,” she said. “I’ll mark the pages. What time is it? Shit, I need to get ready!”<br />
<br />
It was ten minutes to 7 a.m.<br />
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After watching my nephew Jack score a goal during his hockey games, I came home to find bookmarks throughout the reunion book. I started scanning them like a good son and, like always, reveled in the old photos of Uncle Jimmy, Uncle Roland, Tante Peewee, Artheline, and others.<br />
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Here are some of my favorites from this batch of family photos:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-yC-D92sv9IFw6dH2j1Jp3t2Ppi9eYKb-oCu5sBFxE7EEvWsDYykoog69dUEeF2AG8Y9rl8NZ_Uu1F7WxLba4y3rjpoyW4Eweh2Y5jVUVvxoEJqvTHELjKxp8OiQae0wNnQgwhILHDpkR/s1600/Church+in+FV.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-yC-D92sv9IFw6dH2j1Jp3t2Ppi9eYKb-oCu5sBFxE7EEvWsDYykoog69dUEeF2AG8Y9rl8NZ_Uu1F7WxLba4y3rjpoyW4Eweh2Y5jVUVvxoEJqvTHELjKxp8OiQae0wNnQgwhILHDpkR/s1600/Church+in+FV.png" height="234" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Church in Frenchville, Maine</i></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirO8cndAAF2mrbAosWGW2He-oM7sbaQaZTVHTikw2obTsTup8eDKSxmz7RcUTY-3XhprlWVl1-G3H2-iyCuxiHZDAfbUMJEH9HrDQUPso1sBNrKUlssnWSFUcilhv4-dzQwQ4X1Zh6aPOS/s1600/Artheline+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirO8cndAAF2mrbAosWGW2He-oM7sbaQaZTVHTikw2obTsTup8eDKSxmz7RcUTY-3XhprlWVl1-G3H2-iyCuxiHZDAfbUMJEH9HrDQUPso1sBNrKUlssnWSFUcilhv4-dzQwQ4X1Zh6aPOS/s1600/Artheline+2.png" height="400" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artheline Blanchette</i> (on right)</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWX_vF8UWtRRi5YGKDzyrodzlkvbYRNL8Eoawb7FtgzXIxagzUDEegXKhqjx8ks9XrOohyphenhyphenHNln_aO3A0mZTnm2-1XmTVOAPoSX3WnDI1YsGeUKCSdso8VsdYtuRK6WoYKgcIKNsjnP_N9I/s1600/House+in+FV.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWX_vF8UWtRRi5YGKDzyrodzlkvbYRNL8Eoawb7FtgzXIxagzUDEegXKhqjx8ks9XrOohyphenhyphenHNln_aO3A0mZTnm2-1XmTVOAPoSX3WnDI1YsGeUKCSdso8VsdYtuRK6WoYKgcIKNsjnP_N9I/s1600/House+in+FV.png" height="268" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>House in Frenchville, Maine</i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3XyFJzDyfQgOmZTVKQPwlu5_vIABmzOpHP8f6OyUyJdVlgIL9dUyrqKMM5G-IJ3Owlch5yYKNs9nHUIBF9jGAPKXDm0WS7rg40N9Eycj8miTBJb8uclS2LotThExHWuBXs9InBWpal06p/s1600/Ivan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3XyFJzDyfQgOmZTVKQPwlu5_vIABmzOpHP8f6OyUyJdVlgIL9dUyrqKMM5G-IJ3Owlch5yYKNs9nHUIBF9jGAPKXDm0WS7rg40N9Eycj8miTBJb8uclS2LotThExHWuBXs9InBWpal06p/s1600/Ivan.jpg" height="400" width="361" /> </a></td><td style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ivan Blanchette</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZzl6wtSTxHYufJy4Aw8u73bicEuIp1K1TOyYr1kuhV3NXS8H97pv_RGX1I8R3PnOFhKy2EHXIxzoRv2DlOtWgf2cGkbln02anWGD3XF2jkb4ksMZtqpcsOFmH9HpaNp7Gah7VuUYUnns/s1600/Jimmy+and+Bert.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZzl6wtSTxHYufJy4Aw8u73bicEuIp1K1TOyYr1kuhV3NXS8H97pv_RGX1I8R3PnOFhKy2EHXIxzoRv2DlOtWgf2cGkbln02anWGD3XF2jkb4ksMZtqpcsOFmH9HpaNp7Gah7VuUYUnns/s1600/Jimmy+and+Bert.png" height="400" width="323" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Left to right: Jimmy Blanchette and Bert</i> <i>Albert</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd5HypRScdVPMj4rC4Ce4HUbg6pU1OlSVmeJaz3hurX0J43vm4NOMZaiy03WZsfiwo1GRl4mUTyD_FDFg2iqlZaEIkY47_ZSfsvlbBEjZVfuD2tLhvi1GWK-Oi_Il-AZ5yOclDtabnxE0e/s1600/Josephat.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd5HypRScdVPMj4rC4Ce4HUbg6pU1OlSVmeJaz3hurX0J43vm4NOMZaiy03WZsfiwo1GRl4mUTyD_FDFg2iqlZaEIkY47_ZSfsvlbBEjZVfuD2tLhvi1GWK-Oi_Il-AZ5yOclDtabnxE0e/s1600/Josephat.png" height="400" width="210" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOO_vnAseoCZVqqCe7nI4pOGQK0Np-rMRVcePdPy7zRcTTuvYk33A8DfeAAl8ouLlSW2VPSWMJ8MzR7jNLN58ZxGlJAgCd8FzseM2PxeIQIuXWLcag3QIV_BbXrp1MmmhJQ-A2gYPjalO5/s1600/Main+Street+Frenchville.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOO_vnAseoCZVqqCe7nI4pOGQK0Np-rMRVcePdPy7zRcTTuvYk33A8DfeAAl8ouLlSW2VPSWMJ8MzR7jNLN58ZxGlJAgCd8FzseM2PxeIQIuXWLcag3QIV_BbXrp1MmmhJQ-A2gYPjalO5/s1600/Main+Street+Frenchville.png" height="247" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Main Street, Frenchville, Maine</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Te4yQ5E25iJCWaxG2-Luz31Pxbd56yLqTPAH2k35MveNEcA3wjAiobDAomI1s9hdGTB-Jh7t-po5-W4n7eEhGwOmjP9PLvo0hA3HoVYzZthwapKI0UXOUNoN34fPJ1BHp_L95NGj4rWk/s1600/Roland.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Te4yQ5E25iJCWaxG2-Luz31Pxbd56yLqTPAH2k35MveNEcA3wjAiobDAomI1s9hdGTB-Jh7t-po5-W4n7eEhGwOmjP9PLvo0hA3HoVYzZthwapKI0UXOUNoN34fPJ1BHp_L95NGj4rWk/s1600/Roland.png" height="400" width="251" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAX-sV3wGCaiJn4MtYSwaANZV0hAk_WZZSB8p-4RqxMojbWiSNvgABYUIQEh7z3W5u_7pTWFKDOV7VdUrjC4MzUg-78l-ZMlC2ThkOX-Wsa_AjsEm1mwlCuzUbDh5kR1pED_XQbauE9QmN/s1600/Ligori.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAX-sV3wGCaiJn4MtYSwaANZV0hAk_WZZSB8p-4RqxMojbWiSNvgABYUIQEh7z3W5u_7pTWFKDOV7VdUrjC4MzUg-78l-ZMlC2ThkOX-Wsa_AjsEm1mwlCuzUbDh5kR1pED_XQbauE9QmN/s1600/Ligori.jpg" height="372" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ligouri Blanchette and Sophie Roy</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_k29z6CUDj4CVXekkfTbuf5uHIzn8UC6zvWF18nclw-cR3YF_FLItYp4Wa0wXlb5Fc4iQjDpkRXGtDRn_97QIDNZK7VyRQ-t84z9ur5ZFz4D80VPkeT2FFxGyYwJF5zJ0-N_l7jb-hnTI/s1600/Tante+Peewee.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_k29z6CUDj4CVXekkfTbuf5uHIzn8UC6zvWF18nclw-cR3YF_FLItYp4Wa0wXlb5Fc4iQjDpkRXGtDRn_97QIDNZK7VyRQ-t84z9ur5ZFz4D80VPkeT2FFxGyYwJF5zJ0-N_l7jb-hnTI/s1600/Tante+Peewee.png" height="400" width="365" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>That sound you hear is my Tante Pee Wee coming to murder me.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>Also check out:</b><br />
<ul>
<li><b><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/04/15-family-photos-i-couldnt-live-without.html" target="_blank">15 Family Photos I Couldn't Live Without</a></b></li>
<li><b><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/10/15-more-family-photos-i-couldnt-live.html" target="_blank">15 More Family Photos I Couldn't Live Without </a></b></li>
</ul>
</blockquote>
</div>
Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com53tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-63973795329742774872014-03-02T11:39:00.001-05:002014-03-02T11:39:13.792-05:007 Happy Poems to Welcome Spring<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaqrhZrzY0pI1aedrAmROqn_zFtV2zcs1xvuRGjeFhyphenhyphenaC-Bu4m9LVwzMMCXOt-MhEmpwmPOW-X_JlYzNYz11Y-SYw_0_x6gE6AdRam6QymyxBNI1oryLSf8KgqMjq1ejkWfopYfjXH6qHe/s1600/IMG_0346.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaqrhZrzY0pI1aedrAmROqn_zFtV2zcs1xvuRGjeFhyphenhyphenaC-Bu4m9LVwzMMCXOt-MhEmpwmPOW-X_JlYzNYz11Y-SYw_0_x6gE6AdRam6QymyxBNI1oryLSf8KgqMjq1ejkWfopYfjXH6qHe/s1600/IMG_0346.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Spring!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I don’t care what the thermometer says. I don’t care how much snow is in the forecast. There is baseball being played somewhere.<br />
<br />
I’m declaring spring!<br />
<br />
And is there a better way to celebrate spring than reading some high school poetry? I think not.
Poetry in general can be kind of morose, grim, and down right depressing. That’s not what we need right now.<br />
<br />
We need happy, inspiring poetry that makes us think warmer and better days are ahead. And guess what? They are.<br />
<br />
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">Here Comes the Sun</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"> </span>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
While I love The Beatles version of this song, I may love this live version performed by Richie Havens. I’ve been playing this song frequently since his <a href="http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/richie-havens-folk-icon-dead-at-72-20130422" target="_blank">death in 2013</a>, so it was an easy decision to make on which one would be the soundtrack to this blog post.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/VBbXKsKXyNU?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe> </div>
<br />
Havens sings with an earnestness and hopefulness that is infectious. Here’s hoping it gets the warmer sun here a little faster.<br />
<br />
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">little one </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"> </span>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<i>for Elizabeth</i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqnT0wqY54DroC461SUo1coKFuOz5gn6gGM6qBf0XJ5XKBAKz1wa6YYMvQdlFE4bAY7z9kI3hdX_IqjGJtDvNuJcXKRXx8bUjxZVcUomha4JtlWAUVbygtBt7yBH0uRGCxpQmP3yzNeDJn/s1600/IMG_1121.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqnT0wqY54DroC461SUo1coKFuOz5gn6gGM6qBf0XJ5XKBAKz1wa6YYMvQdlFE4bAY7z9kI3hdX_IqjGJtDvNuJcXKRXx8bUjxZVcUomha4JtlWAUVbygtBt7yBH0uRGCxpQmP3yzNeDJn/s1600/IMG_1121.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Elizabeth and I at <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/07/brothers-baseball-and-beer-airman-and.html" target="_blank">S'onk Patrick's wedding</a></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Summer winds brought<br />
you into this big world, little one,<br />
and you became our big angel.<br />
<br />
You quickly captured big hearts,<br />
dazzling with your big wondering eyes<br />
and big open mouth smiles.<br />
<br />
You were an instant big celebrity,<br />
the center of the big stage, just like mommy,<br />
even though you looked like your big daddy.<br />
<br />
Six months into your little stay,<br />
you face a big fight, little one,<br />
more than just a big tummy ache.<br />
<br />
It’s too soon, I know,<br />
but you have to be a big girl now,<br />
little one.<br />
<br />
Your big friends and big s’onks<br />
are saying big prayers,<br />
so fear not little one, you’re not alone.<br />
<br />
You have big life to live<br />
and big love to give, little one;<br />
this big world needs your big dreams and big hopes.<br />
<br />
Winter winds are not here to stay,<br />
but your big smiles and big laughs are, little one,<br />
so weather the big storm and we’ll keep you safe and sound.<br />
<br />
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">Saturday Morning With Dad</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYUo9OHX9tDgiBL8RC11nCK4hEjJH8ufnF0_ZFY5TnUwAipigmOUZ1npGAgpyLgVd3WO9wUiLKHLzJapnF8phQApeC5RaI7od-9TAgfU53Ge4O_def_jeI7ryOMsMmpfYOz1wDsNLAzbKL/s1600/IMG_0904.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYUo9OHX9tDgiBL8RC11nCK4hEjJH8ufnF0_ZFY5TnUwAipigmOUZ1npGAgpyLgVd3WO9wUiLKHLzJapnF8phQApeC5RaI7od-9TAgfU53Ge4O_def_jeI7ryOMsMmpfYOz1wDsNLAzbKL/s1600/IMG_0904.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Raking the backyard with Pops</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Back and forth
does the rusty blade sway,<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
sweeping the rest of<br />
the tall grass away.<br />
<br />
The mower strays behind me,<br />
with good ol’ Dad,<br />
who wants to do nothing more<br />
than run and flee.<br />
<br />
We trudge silently along<br />
with the sound of<br />
the mower and the blade<br />
as our only song.<br />
<br />
Our muscles begin to fade<br />
and we pause to<br />
stare out on<br />
what
has become the Everglades.<br />
<br />
After a stout cough<br />
and a little chat,<br />
we bravely set up our plan of attack<br />
to finish it off.
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">Milk</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHQ-mqz8DjtiQ96uA7qz_3RR1XdPrqh0a13p6sVfbmO8kdMseDPZT5x9Qn3Uvoji16UmJ73LwVPEOcp60_GnoNBVXNln9A_CxWbsDeOpAxvX2IvOIWLh5wE7mLS_ofskDwI25VrWff0Qac/s1600/IMG_3337.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHQ-mqz8DjtiQ96uA7qz_3RR1XdPrqh0a13p6sVfbmO8kdMseDPZT5x9Qn3Uvoji16UmJ73LwVPEOcp60_GnoNBVXNln9A_CxWbsDeOpAxvX2IvOIWLh5wE7mLS_ofskDwI25VrWff0Qac/s1600/IMG_3337.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Did you drink my milk????</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The milk is gone… </div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
because of me.<br />
<br />
The milk you were to pour<br />
on your strawberry covered cereal.<br />
<br />
At one point or another,<br />
someone was bound to drink it.<br />
<br />
To be totally honest,<br />
I’m not sorry it was me!<br />
<br />
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">An Angel on the Bridge</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizD7qXCAvWRdINSbbW5s96fTlwOuQ6O4HB1JRzMZCi2vc1ZT_OVHeCzDDS9xGFJWgYqtOsFbDab45EbiAuEBEuPv8o731ewjJWDUTnB8NM4_KDpJPrCfTfE1TyvsjY_jCSt6C1Qf_e6Zx7/s1600/IMG_1388.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizD7qXCAvWRdINSbbW5s96fTlwOuQ6O4HB1JRzMZCi2vc1ZT_OVHeCzDDS9xGFJWgYqtOsFbDab45EbiAuEBEuPv8o731ewjJWDUTnB8NM4_KDpJPrCfTfE1TyvsjY_jCSt6C1Qf_e6Zx7/s1600/IMG_1388.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The angel protecting the next generation</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
She waits with angelic patience<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
upon her arched wooden perch,<br />
high above the harmful waters below.<br />
<br />
All who proceed along the protected bridge<br />
are helped along by her selfless, caring wings<br />
and her watchful, caring eyes of sapphire.<br />
<br />
She diligently prays each day and night<br />
for her dark-haired prince to come<br />
give her peace of mind and fill her heart with joy.<br />
<br />
Her countenance brightens as he appears,<br />
making his way unto her safe haven.<br />
Before her answers are fulfilled at last,<br />
he slips upon the slippery planks<br />
and tumbles towards the menacing waters.<br />
<br />
Without a thought of hesitation,<br />
she extends her affectionate wings<br />
and catches his falling form.<br />
She smiles as she lifts him back unto her bridge,<br />
guiding him to her patient heart.<br />
<br />
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">Take Hold of My Heart</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"> </span>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<i>Written for Judy and Michael on their wedding day January 13th, 2001 </i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyHU7P6QBTewgsSkRz-U3TRvKSV91c1upedWcFNNx_NHaN9NeSbh0qMWmY7GjOVcvRLmfzBviMpXPvNLD7c7TEiBw9hbF1eU1gljGgGdKb-nhDx2JaoN7vHM6tM77u2WpCC5dTI_MX0CXv/s1600/IMG_3339.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyHU7P6QBTewgsSkRz-U3TRvKSV91c1upedWcFNNx_NHaN9NeSbh0qMWmY7GjOVcvRLmfzBviMpXPvNLD7c7TEiBw9hbF1eU1gljGgGdKb-nhDx2JaoN7vHM6tM77u2WpCC5dTI_MX0CXv/s1600/IMG_3339.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Judy and Michael</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
From strangers from distant lands<br />
to lovers not so far away,<br />
a new and special love has been brought to life.<br />
<br />
The beginning found them faceless on<br />
opposite ends of a computer screen,<br />
seeing each other only in daydreams.<br />
<br />
Time wore on and soon friendship grew to love<br />
and those daydream images became realities<br />
as each braved the skies and marveled at the worlds they found.<br />
<br />
He came from a world that<br />
had shrugged off the bitter cold of separation,<br />
bringing pieces of a fallen wall and a flag of black, red, and gold.<br />
<br />
She came to him from a world<br />
that
was filled with power and might,<br />
bringing a flag of red, white, and blue with her love.<br />
<br />
Together they braved the dangers of disapproval<br />
and together they conquered the scare of<br />
losing her heart to the indifferent beings of fate.<br />
<br />
Today, with a ring and tender kiss<br />
she takes hold of his heart as he takes hold of hers<br />
and a higher power leads them into bliss,<br />
where they’ll stay now and forever more.<br />
<br />
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">Family Man</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Bgbi4yH_1TEDq35kmiMocw68cYF_CREe23mHHZq4cq1dJ1ho-2Pdrbc6A73Rx2Nf01VhUJRUInEtsmtG-bk4kiM1w_PsM7FJx4OeoM8_srGUSQNNGd1CIC0eAvrJzcf3Tj43H9F9GIzL/s1600/DSC08824.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Bgbi4yH_1TEDq35kmiMocw68cYF_CREe23mHHZq4cq1dJ1ho-2Pdrbc6A73Rx2Nf01VhUJRUInEtsmtG-bk4kiM1w_PsM7FJx4OeoM8_srGUSQNNGd1CIC0eAvrJzcf3Tj43H9F9GIzL/s1600/DSC08824.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pops and I at the Alamo</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
He looks his best in early morning light,<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
trying to rub his eye’s awake, barely able to walk straight,<br />
preparing to work all day surrounded by unknown faces.<br />
<br />
His shirts come home with stains galore from his toil,<br />
that are added to should mom be making spaghetti<br />
and his eyes look more tired than in that morning light.<br />
<br />
He still manages to smile proudly,<br />
now surrounded by those who love him most,<br />
even the dog who isn’t the same when he’s away.<br />
<br />
His arms are sore beyond belief from years of labor,<br />
but yet he never declines an invitation to roughhouse,<br />
even when mom tells him to stop before he gets hurt.<br />
<br />
He’s always good for a conversation,<br />
even when he has no idea what you’re talking about,<br />
and is always good for a laugh, even if it’s at his own expense.<br />
<br />
He waits up patiently late into the night,<br />
so that his son can sweet-talk his girl<br />
and can’t help dropping a line or two of his own, just to show off.<br />
<br />
He asks nothing in return for anything he does,<br />
except a kiss from mom and tons of hugs from his boys<br />
and falls asleep easy each night, despite the aches and pains,<br />
knowing that his family loves him just as much as he loves them.<br />
<br />
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">The Mouser</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"> </span>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<i>Written with Momma Ford and Patrick </i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj79RkUEsT6vw2_YqT97dBvDhTnUDu9u0X5P7ytZAxUTa0HacXMxgacV4o-jniJbQxwtU6YGpUdVaBMKtCftTJyS8fhRQujqLt-JXBtauhCZP2jlD9u_lZ4_-IggiwHy3ctxU6zsgikJrZi/s1600/IMG_0086+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj79RkUEsT6vw2_YqT97dBvDhTnUDu9u0X5P7ytZAxUTa0HacXMxgacV4o-jniJbQxwtU6YGpUdVaBMKtCftTJyS8fhRQujqLt-JXBtauhCZP2jlD9u_lZ4_-IggiwHy3ctxU6zsgikJrZi/s1600/IMG_0086+2.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Since I don't have a picture on me of the cat in this poem, here's one of my favorite tree in Madison Square Park!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The little mouser rocks to and fro,<br />
keeping her distance, along with her patience…<br />
waiting…..waiting….till the time is right…..<br />
TO POUNCE!!!<br />
<br />
Her tail proudly swayed,<br />
her keen eyes looked for praise and a friendly pat,<br />
as she displayed her catch the day.<br />
<br />
Her best views came from the<br />
roof top of master’s domain,<br />
where she watched the cautious movements of her timid prey.<br />
After a sun bath and a little nap,<br />
the bathroom window was her entrance to warmth<br />
and a tired <i>hrmph</i> from master.<br />
She raced him to bed where she slept and<br />
had knitted her way into his heart.<br />
<br />
Heavy scratches upon her front door scratching post<br />
announced to all her appetite was back.<br />
Her demands were quickly met,<br />
not before the battle of who’s turn it was.<br />
As quickly as it came, her appetite left her system<br />
and with just two bites of the same ol’ chicken,<br />
away she went to dig her face in a half- eaten ice cream cup.<br />
<br />
She choose her quarters carefully at night’s end.<br />
The cool cellar, upon that broken old work bench<br />
in days of summer heat.<br />
A window sill on a rainy spring day,<br />
or the warmth of a car hood on a lonely winter day.<br />
Of course, master’s bed was comfy on any occasion.<br />
Wherever she lied her head to rest,<br />
the little mouser clenched her eyes tightly,<br />
let go a content purr<br />
and feel fast asleep.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>When you’re done snapping your fingers, check out: </b><br />
<ul>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/12/cafe-rouge-5-poems-to-enjoy-drink-over_4077.html" target="_blank">Cafe Rouge: 5 Poems to Enjoy a Drink With at the Hotel Pennsylvania</a> </li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/09/nothing-says-friday-like-high-school.html" target="_blank">Good Friday: Take 5 Poems to Bed With You This Weekend </a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2012/10/birth-of-cool-3-poems-you-can-rest-your.html" target="_blank">Birth of the Cool: 3 Poems You Can Rest Your Moon Dreams </a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/07/from-archives-summer-poetry.html" target="_blank">From the Archives: Summer Poetry </a></li>
</ul>
</blockquote>
</div>
Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com344tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-49857569539555672632014-02-20T12:32:00.001-05:002015-03-17T11:06:20.905-04:00Baseball Bloodlines: Ashes Under the Radiator<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
My fascination with my mother’s father—my Pépère—started with moving his <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/11/blanchette-blood-moving-uncle-bobby.html" target="_blank">toolbox for my Uncle Bobby</a> a couple of years ago. My mother then <a href="http://www.jckonline.com/blogs/louped-in/2012/08/25/my-peperes-pocket-watch" target="_blank">entrusted me with his pocket watch</a>, providing yet another link to the man I never met.<br />
<br />
Not too long ago she <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/04/15-family-photos-i-couldnt-live-without.html" target="_blank">unearthed a trove of family photos</a>, many of them featuring the Frenchman I resemble in body and spirit. My mother filled my head with stories of her father. The more time I spent looking at those old photos, the more new tales started forming in my imagination. So what if I didn’t get the chance to meet my Pépère in real life? As a writer, I could bring him back to life on the page!<br />
<br />
This is the first new chapter in a much more <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2014/01/from-archives-soldiers-tale.html" target="_blank">complex and rich tale</a> about both of my grandfathers. I hope by the end of 2014 I'll have a story ready to sold in bookstores or downloaded on your Kindle or Nook.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, enjoy Arthur’s first appearance.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfhgDpgIhxck-YzGiLSnBGhlEbhRVhwHtSHJV7S8SsHNOP-2h-BJNJe6dZYZbnbGeOhDipPKbnuIhVFwFFdXWDZWybIHO0950FgHHgPD21Z0hAIZq14L0wJn7Z8B30Qicw95YxC0HvwRTF/s1600/pepere.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfhgDpgIhxck-YzGiLSnBGhlEbhRVhwHtSHJV7S8SsHNOP-2h-BJNJe6dZYZbnbGeOhDipPKbnuIhVFwFFdXWDZWybIHO0950FgHHgPD21Z0hAIZq14L0wJn7Z8B30Qicw95YxC0HvwRTF/s1600/pepere.jpg" height="400" width="284" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arthur Blanchette</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">Arthur</span>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<br />
<i>Frenchville, Maine 1960s</i><br />
<br />
Arthur eased into his rocking chair.<br />
<br />
He knew his movements would be limited given the early hour, but his French-Canadian blood didn’t allow him to stay stationary while sitting down. He didn’t want to wake his wife or young ones who wouldn’t be up for another hour or so. At least, he hoped those were the only people still asleep in his house. Two of his older sons better be down at the potato farm getting ready for a hard day’s work. If they weren’t, hellfire would pale in comparison to what Arthur was prepared to unleash.<br />
<br />
He took his pack of Winstons out of his front shirt pocket. He slowly and quietly lifted the closest window and the screen behind it. The chill of early October whistled into the house.<br />
<br />
Arthur scowled. <br />
<br />
He didn’t want the first noise of the morning to arouse suspicion. He tapped a cigarette on his wrist and brought it to lips. His first drag of the day was heavenly. He couldn’t help himself from rocking back and forth completely. The old wood floor beneath him creaked.<br />
<br />
He sighed. <br />
<br />
He was sure to hear it from his wife now. He sat very still and waited for her to thunder down the stairs and point an accusatory finger his way. She always preferred catching him in the act rather than grumble about circumstantial evidence. However, the moment of crisis passed silently.<br />
<br />
Arthur gripped his cigarette with his lips as he straightened his black tie. As the head of the farmhands, he had to look professional. It didn’t matter that by the end of the day his white, starched shirt was as dark as his tie. The men respected he brought class to the job and could still get dirty like the rest of them. He pulled the cigarette away for a moment and watched as a clump of ashes fell to the floor. He’d have to remember to sweep them under the radiator before he left.<br />
<br />
He felt around his front pants pocket. He angled past his tangle of keys and removed his pocket watch. It wouldn’t be long now before Al pulled into his driveway. Arthur risked one more ride in his chair before finishing his smoke. The floor didn’t creak this time. His house was on his side for once. He took one last deep, satisfying, soul-enhancing puff and tossed the stub out the window. He stealthily closed the screen and the window. He made sure the rocking chair was at a standstill before rising. He then walked the short distance to the kitchen.<br />
<br />
He put the coffee pot on the burner and waited patiently. He had his thermos ready. His sandwich and apple were in a sack in the refrigerator. A turkey sandwich and a Granny Smith was all Arthur needed to get through a day during harvest time. In the off-season, he usually just had the apple. The faint smell of baked goods invaded his nostrils. His wife didn’t like when he overdid it on sweets, but she kept making them. He’d find them tonight. Steam rose from the pot and he heard bubbling. He waited another heartbeat before filling up his travel mug.<br />
<br />
Al hadn’t shown up yet, so his first taste of coffee happened at his kitchen counter. It mingled pleasantly with the tobacco still lingering in his mouth. His eyes rose toward the ceiling as he heard his wife get out of bed. He didn’t blink until he heard the bathroom door close.<br />
<br />
Arthur sprung into action. He marched back to his rocking chair. He removed his hat from the stand nearby and swept his forgotten ashes under the radiator. He pulled his hand away in pain as the flesh on his right hand made contact with the hot metal. He put his hat on his head and again looked toward the second level of the house. He sure wasn’t the one that turned the heat on this early in the fall. His wife could have every blanket she owned on her and she’d still insist on the house being 90 degrees. Arthur wore short sleeves indoors year-round.<br />
<br />
The couple normally didn’t see each other this early in the day. He was usually out the door well before this hour. Yesterday had been a grueling day of harvest, so he gave his crew an extra half hour of sleep to recover. There were thousands of potatoes to yank from the ground, and he couldn’t afford to lose any of his men to exhaustion. Arthur didn’t leave anything he could directly control to chance. He was even alternating his son’s shifts to keep them fresh. God help them if they took advantage of him being more generous than his old man ever was.<br />
<br />
Al honked his horn. Arthur would have to wait to see his wife later that evening. She was making her way down the stairs as he retrieved his coffee and lunch. He was already in the truck’s passenger seat when his wife appeared at the screen door.<br />
<br />
“Moitzee!” She screamed. “Avez-vous balayez les cendres maudites sous mon radiateur de nouveau?”<br />
<br />
Arthur shrugged.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigjvYwfnU7o_HTbMJuCJmkB8bM10duzqaP69nUejFK2R2OsYYYZnRruGMGGRwT9r7wcOs-6DlOs5Ecp2TGeVe6DqG7jFlz_nbcS9sElsx3zBYHLnBjb78EJVL5cmd8bonQBYloKYSyA970/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigjvYwfnU7o_HTbMJuCJmkB8bM10duzqaP69nUejFK2R2OsYYYZnRruGMGGRwT9r7wcOs-6DlOs5Ecp2TGeVe6DqG7jFlz_nbcS9sElsx3zBYHLnBjb78EJVL5cmd8bonQBYloKYSyA970/s1600/1.jpg" height="397" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arthur on top of a snowbank with my mother and Uncle Bobby</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
“She’s going to light your clothes on fire in the yard one of these days if you keep smoking in her house,” Al said. “A big ol’ pile of flaming flannel. Hell, half the neighborhood will show up to keep warm and roast marshmallows. That fire will last so long, the town might cut its heating expenses in half.”<br />
<br />
Highway 1 was empty. The countryside was a blur. Al liked to drive fast.<br />
<br />
“Got some new boys starting today. I know, I know, I’m a soft touch,” Al said. “They aren’t criminals or anything. Just some good boys helping their families. If they go bad you can throw me out too.”<br />
<br />
Arthur nodded.<br />
<br />
“Weather is going to get cold fast,” Al said. “It may not seem that way since its been balls hot during the day, but my feet just won’t keep warm at night. You know I tried to sleep with my slippers on the other day? My goddamn slippers. You figure my feet would have sweated through the yarn, right? Nope. My feet were blocks of ice all night. That means we’re going to have a bad winter. But then again, I suppose we haven’t seen a good winter in more than five years. The only warm thing that happened during the recent winters was your baby girl Gail. What a peach that kid is. She cried for everyone when she was born that February, but not me. You remember that? She liked me best for a while there. I think her brothers scared the hell out of her for a little bit. You can’t blame her. If it weren’t for you and your wife raising them right, boy, I don’t know.”<br />
<br />
Signals flashed in front of them.<br />
<br />
“Dammit,” Al said.<br />
<br />
The two couldn’t see the logging train yet, but they could hear and feel it. They were stopped just before the tracks that cut through the middle of town.<br />
<br />
“We’re not five minutes away from where we need to be,” Al said. “Good thing I got the boss with me, so I don’t get in trouble for being late.”
Arthur instinctively checked his pocket watch.<br />
<br />
“Now don’t get ornery on me,” Al said. “We’ve got more than enough time. Besides, those boys have been working hard the past week. A few more minutes of rest won’t lose us anything.”<br />
<br />
Arthur chose not to disagree with that statement at the present time.<br />
<br />
“See, look it wasn’t even a full train,” Al said. “Not a good sign those loads have gotten smaller and smaller. Plenty of trees out here, but not many people demanding lumber I suppose. Or maybe I’m just remembering the past years wrong. I can’t keep all these harvests straight.”<br />
<br />
They arrived at the farm. Arthur rushed out of the truck. He walked into main barn and took his clipboard off his tidy desk. He didn’t linger and went back outside. He watched the men head out in to the field. He made a small check mark beside each man’s name. He noticed many of the men had been here a while, ignoring his orders to get more rest. He liked that. He liked the sight of his son-in-law Onias even more.<br />
<br />
Onias, who was married to his daughter Lucille, gave Arthur a quick wave before continuing his work on the old tractor. He wouldn’t have been surprised that Arthur hadn’t given him a return reply. The two hadn’t talked much since Arthur caught wind of the job offer Onias had from a carpentry company in Connecticut. Arthur knew his oldest son Roland had arranged it, which didn’t make him any happier. Half of his family was already in that state, so he wasn’t thrilled with the thought of another daughter joining them. Besides, Onias was a good worker and a good card player. Arthur knew how much the brothers and sisters hated being apart. It wouldn’t be long before everyone moved down there. He was lucky Bobby and Gail were both young enough to be dependent on him and his wife hated the thought of moving away from where she was born. They weren’t going anywhere without him, that was for damn sure.<br />
<br />
Arthur wrote in the names of the two men Al had hired the night before when they arrived and checked them off as well. He starred both so he could remember to keep an eye on them. By the time the last man present made it into the field, only two names remained unchecked. And they were both Blanchettes.<br />
<br />
He didn’t try to stifle his anger. He wouldn’t need any more coffee to get his heart rate up. He was thinking of which son’s head he was going to dump the rest of it on whenever they decided to show up. He took his pocket watch out and balanced it on his clipboard. Every time he watched the second hand passed 12, he felt his blood pressure spike. He knew he was going to be at full boil when his sons were standing in front of him.
Arthur’s son Clifford practically walked willingly into his open hand. As Clifford recoiled, Arthur grabbed the collar of Jimmy’s shirt and pulled his face close.<br />
<br />
“A man needs to live his life on time! There’s nothing more important in his life! Be ass early, be on the dot, but sure as shit don’t be goddamn late! You lose a helluva lot more than time when you’re late!”<br />
<br />
Arthur pushed Jimmy away and walked a few paces away from the boys. It did nothing to calm his anger. Seeing that Clifford’s face red with frustration and hurt made the pot boil over again.<br />
<br />
“I’d send you back to your Momma, but she’d goddamn die of embarrassment and shame at the boys she raised!” Arthur shouted. “You let me down. You disappointed me. You lost my respect. Get your asses to work and goddamn earn it back.”<br />
<br />
His sons ran by him with their heads down.<br />
<br />
“Keep those heads up, goddamn it,” Arthur shouted after them. “You break a leg after being late and I’m cutting it off myself and throwing you back to work.”<br />
<br />
He put his hand up to discourage Al from saying a word. Al ignored him like usual.<br />
<br />
“A little harsh don’t you think?” Al asked.<br />
<br />
Arthur didn’t reply.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4b4lW1iy3__jpqdZeWZJinVW0UFfNvWjGDurPF1fpi7PTSjTL8gQ1DMyVY9p1GpYHpMixmVaWqxpngd1837gVrMkTOHGbpXcCJhBFWGEQXgtmy5Vh8NOOggom7-IjpbaG1MebBA6OpcAf/s1600/pepere2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4b4lW1iy3__jpqdZeWZJinVW0UFfNvWjGDurPF1fpi7PTSjTL8gQ1DMyVY9p1GpYHpMixmVaWqxpngd1837gVrMkTOHGbpXcCJhBFWGEQXgtmy5Vh8NOOggom7-IjpbaG1MebBA6OpcAf/s1600/pepere2.jpg" height="400" width="286" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arthur attending a wedding.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>Also check out: </b><br />
<ul>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2014/01/how-my-15-year-old-self-viewed-worldand.html" target="_blank"><b>How My 15-Year-Old Self Viewed the World...and How It Looks at 30 </b></a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2014/01/from-archives-soldiers-tale.html" target="_blank"><b>From the Archives: A Soldier’s Tale</b></a></li>
</ul>
</blockquote>
</div>
Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-35992303511907003492014-02-08T14:01:00.002-05:002014-02-08T14:01:46.298-05:00Brothers, Baseball, and Beer: Perfect Pat<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
When half your life is hanging out with your younger brother in the <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/12/50-pictures-from-my-life-in-baseball.html" target="_blank">backyard playing Wiffle ball,</a> why wouldn’t you make him a central character in your novel about baseball?<br />
<br />
My brother Patrick was a pretty <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/07/brothers-baseball-and-beer-airman-and.html" target="_blank">damn good pitcher in Little League</a>, and I had the privilege of being his assistant coach throughout his career. When I started writing <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2014/01/the-great-little-league-home-run-race.html" target="_blank"><i>Pastime</i></a> in high school, I knew I was going to base a character on him and make him do something memorable (my older brother Tom makes an appearance later in the novel as Dante’s Pony League coach).<br />
<br />
So enjoy the tale of “Perfect Pat” while you wait for <a href="http://mlb.mlb.com/springtraining/" target="_blank">Spring Training</a> to start. And I don’t care how cold it is, I’m going to find a way to have a <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/04/brothers-baseball-and-beer-art-of.html" target="_blank">catch with my brothers</a>.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicgdmocWer5PcAARoJbwI2683BVV3nlRUyISINYgvfBsxfBRJGXLQ4F8qehvWQO-BeK5nO2xII9OJBaC0dDj9r2atsl0yJWa53ON005wx-z1h4IFdTYFwe5UxW8BZSo9a9k1bmpeyu9Z5C/s1600/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicgdmocWer5PcAARoJbwI2683BVV3nlRUyISINYgvfBsxfBRJGXLQ4F8qehvWQO-BeK5nO2xII9OJBaC0dDj9r2atsl0yJWa53ON005wx-z1h4IFdTYFwe5UxW8BZSo9a9k1bmpeyu9Z5C/s1600/photo.jpg" height="320" width="230" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My brother Patrick during his last year on the Phillies</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">Little League World Series: International Championship</span></div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
Italy is known for food, wine, and beautiful women, but not its baseball. That’s because their Little League team in recent years hasn’t played much better than a tee-ball team.<br />
<br />
However, this year, the Italian team had been struck by the destiny bug and had swept their way unto the Little League World Series’ biggest stage. Two teams of destiny in one game? Which team would the baseball gods’ favor, and which would be tormented by baseball demons?<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“All the hoopla crap going into that game was totally bogus. Don’t get me wrong, I’m Italian and I love Italians, but there was no way they were going to even try to beat Patrick Russell.”—Dante Cimadamore </blockquote>
Both teams had more than each other to contend with. When Russell took the mound, the temperature had risen to a sweltering 97 degrees. There was a slight breeze that had, but it scalded rather than soothed. Russell showed no signs of being affected by the heat.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“I had a job to do and I wasn’t going to let a little hot weather keep me from doing it right.”—Patrick Russell </blockquote>
Italy’s first batter grounded out weakly to second baseman Simon Capodi who easily scooped up the ball and threw to first base in plenty of time to get the out. The second batter whiffed on three straight pitches. The last batter of the inning hit a lazy fly ball that Tim Nix tucked away in his glove for the final out.
Russell had thrown five pitches.<br />
<br />
Italy’s pitcher Franco Vennero was no slouch. He hadn’t given up a run in the two games he’d pitched in Williamsport, and at the start of the tournament he pitched a one-hitter against powerhouse Japan. He looked to put the U.S. team of destiny to sleep from the start.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“I never saw the first three pitches he throw at me. He had to be throwing 85 m.p.h.”—John Machado </blockquote>
Jeff Prince willed a bloop single down the right field line with two outs. Capodi followed with another to left. It was time for Vennero to meet Dante.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Everyone who watched ESPN knew the kind of season he was having. I pretty much wanted to wet myself when he stepped to the plate with runners on.”—Franco Vennero </blockquote>
He handled the slugger with ease. Dante hit a weak liner to the Italian shortstop who stepped on second base to double up Prince who had strayed too far off the bag. The first inning was in the books.<br />
<br />
Russell went back to work. The heart of Italy’s lineup had done damage throughout the tournament, but left the plate with broken hearts after their first at-bats. The third batter of the inning tried to bunt one by the American pitcher, but Russell darted off the mound and made a strong through to first base. Italy had nothing to show for their six weak at-bats.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Looking back it was tough to say who had the upper hand early on. It was a pitcher’s duel from the word go.”—U.S. coach Tom Doyle </blockquote>
Vennero didn’t give the next three batters in the U.S. lineup any chances. Two strikeouts and a fly out later and the Italians were back in their dugout.
The pitchers weren’t letting up and neither was the weather.<br />
<br />
The temperature at the top half of the third inning was nearing 100 degrees. Tournament officials debated on whether to let the kids keep playing or have them take a break from the heat. Russell was on the mound throwing warm up pitches before they could rule one way or the other. The game continued and so did Russell’s dominance.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“There is no other way to put it folks, this kid from Connecticut is the real deal.”—ESPN television announcer </blockquote>
Russell actually threw three balls to the first batter he faced in the third. He quickly found his focus again and blazed three straight fastballs by him. It would turn out to be the only three-ball count from either pitcher. Another strikeout followed. Dante and company headed back to their dugout after Russell left the last batter in Italy’s lineup crying for pasta.<br />
<br />
All of the American parents thought Vennero was finally going to falter in the bottom half of the inning. All they got was three groundballs and a smile from the Italian pitcher.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“This guy, what’s his name, Franco? He wasn’t making things any easier for me.”—Patrick Russell </blockquote>
Italy’s first batter the next inning became Russell’s sixth strikeout victim, and his fourth in a row. The next batter fouled out to catcher Kurt Saucier, affectionately known as Pig Pen. The last batter of the inning upped Russell’s strikeout total to seven.
Vennero got Dante to hit into a nifty double play to end the bottom of the inning. It seemed the game had lasted mere minutes.<br />
<br />
As the U.S. team trotted out the field once again, it began to dawn on them that their pitcher was unscathed. With only six more outs left in the game, the players behind Russell were 100 times more focused and serious about winning. And they didn’t say another word to Russell. Well, with one exception.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“After the fifth, I was the only one who could get away with talking to him.”—Jocelyn Nocera </blockquote>
The heart of Italy’s lineup gave Russell his first scare. The crowd held its breath as it heard the high-pitched ping! emanate from the bat of Italy’s cleanup hitter. Tim Nix dove for the ball headed for the outfield, snared it in his glove, and stepped on first base.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Let’s just say, whenever we play poker and we go up against each other on a hand, Russell always folds.”—Tim Nix </blockquote>
Another Italian batter tried to bunt his way on base. Russell once again made an easy play to get the out. Three strikes latter the last batter of the inning was wearing his glove again.<br />
<br />
Vennero was too busy trying to get outs that he didn’t realize at first what was going on. It wasn’t until the bottom of the fifth inning that he felt the electricity of the crowd reach another level. Instead of being intimidated, Vennero used the crowd noise as fuel to strike out the next two batters.
Russell and Vennero exchanged smiles as Russell made his way to the batter’s box. He was a great hitter, but up to that point hadn’t done anything worth remembering with a bat that day. The crowd buzzed with anticipation that the game was about to be decided by the two kids who had so far defined it.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Yeah, no would believe this story if it hadn’t actually happened. There’s video footage, and I still have trouble believing it.”—Dante Cimadamore </blockquote>
The young competitors showed no sign of fear. Russell fouled off two pitches and eyeballed two others out of the strike zone. Russell knocked the dirt off of his cleats with his bat and stepped in to face Vennero’s next pitch.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Here’s the pitch from young Franco Vennero…Russel takes a swing and launches one to deep center…the fielder is drifting back…the outfielder just hunched over…that ball is gone! On the verge of pitching a perfect game, Patrick Russell just gave his team a one-run lead with a monster homerun! The only thing hotter on this field is this kid from Connecticut!”—ESPN television announcer </blockquote>
The entire stadium was shaking. No one was sitting down, not even Italy’s cheering section. Russell stepped on home plate and was out of breath because he had run the bases so fast. Everyone low-keyed the celebration at home plate because there was still work to be done. Russell looked back to the mound and Vennero was still smiling at him. The two pitchers tipped their caps to each other and Vennero finished his near-perfect outing with a strikeout. He didn’t feel anything but pride in himself and his country as he walked off the mound to a hearty applause.<br />
<br />
The temperature at the start of the top of the sixth pushed past 100 degrees. It seemed everyone in the crowd was pounding Gatorade. Russell looked unperturbed as always, and finished up his warm up pitches. He wasn’t afraid, he wasn’t anxious, and he wasn’t unfocused. He was ready.
The first batter struck out. The crowd gasped as Russell lost his grip on a pitch and it came close to hitting the next batter. Once the batter recovered from the accidental brush back, he saw Russell mouth a silent “sorry.” Three pitches later, the batter was headed to the dugout. The next batter stepped to the plate eager to put an end to perfection.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“He had our number all day and I felt like I was going to be the one to steal his glory.”—Italian Little Leaguer </blockquote>
Confidence would get the young Italian nowhere this day. Russell fired a quick strike. The next pitch beautifully caught the outside corner for strike two. If anyone was still sitting in the state of Pennsylvania, they were deaf, blind, and dumb.
Russell didn’t hear any of that. His focus was on Pig Pen’ glove. It looked as big as a beanbag chair. He went into his pitching motion and fluidly threw the ball toward the plate. The batter put his head down and ripped the ball to the gap in right center.<br />
<br />
Neither Dante nor Tim heard the other call for the ball because the crowd was so loud. The two boys collided. Dante was about to spring up and chase after the ball that undoubtedly skipped past the two outfielders when he heard Tim whisper,<br />
<br />
“Sorry, pal. You got the homerun record, but I caught the ball that won us the Little League World Series.”<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Bastard.”—Dante Cimadamore </blockquote>
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Dante replied. “Oh, you might want to show the umpire you caught the ball so we can start celebrating.”
Tim smiled and shoved his hand in the air. The pure white baseball was clutched in his dirty hand.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“I really could have used all the Gatorade in the park at that point. My teammates pig-piled on top of me instead.”—Patrick Russell </blockquote>
The U.S. team that year started out as underdogs and ended up perfect American heroes. The players stayed on that field for as long as they could before worried officials and parents made them return to the shade. However, they would always stand in the summer sunshine of glory and their story became baseball legend. <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>For more from <i>Pastime</i>, check out: </b><br />
<ul>
<li><b><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2014/01/the-great-little-league-home-run-race.html" target="_blank">The Great Little League Homerun Race </a></b></li>
</ul>
</blockquote>
</div>
Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-44796613790663837952014-01-17T12:38:00.001-05:002014-01-17T12:45:05.064-05:00How My 15-Year-Old Self Viewed the World...and How It Looks at 30 <div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
Being a writer has certain advantages. <br />
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For one thing, as a writer, you get to fully appreciate how terrifically awful Aaron Sorkin’s Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip was.
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<br />
That’s some deliciously, chewy stuff.
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<br />
The best advantage to being a writer however is having heaps of past material to reflect on. Odds are good that most writers have been doing it since the moment they realized their hands were meant for more than just a pacifier. I know writers who have kept archives going back to grade school. I am no exception. I have a wealth of material from my younger days including <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/12/cafe-rouge-5-poems-to-enjoy-drink-over_4077.html" target="_blank">poetry</a>, <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/09/from-archives-tree-christmas-to.html" target="_blank">short stories</a>, and even an <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2012/04/look-back-life-of-daniel-f-ford-chapter.html" target="_blank">autobiography</a>.
<br />
<br />
This past Sunday, I posted <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2014/01/from-archives-soldiers-tale.html" target="_blank">excerpts</a> from a handwritten re-write of my first completed novel. The edited tome included a section that wasn’t in the original. It was titled “Interlude: Daniel’s Tale.” I inserted seven pages based on myself to round out the character who shared my name. The pages offer the perfect vehicle in which to blare <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=79BYHkgTmH8" target="_blank">Bruce Springsteen</a> on the radio, roll all the windows down, fall into a thousand yard stare while holding a lit cigar in between two fingers, and contemplate how the hell 30 years went by so quickly.
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<br />
I revived the idea for an interlude for my novel <em><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/08/baseball-sunday-special-preview-of-sid.html" target="_blank">Sid Sanford LIVES!</a></em> It has a slight twist (which I’m not going to tell you about because I want you to buy the book one day soon. Buy in bulk people), but I imagine it will provide 60-year-old Daniel Ford the same kind of insights that the 30-year-old Daniel Ford found in reading the 15-year-old Daniel Ford’s work.
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<br />
My full glass of single malt scotch tonight will be raised to Daniel Fords of all ages and times, and to the men and women who ensured he didn’t end up in a raging dumpster fire.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoS_uOyoWmDSF2gt4P5YhVGQa5rTT-tVWVQ99p2NBQwi1jmb_puKo3MnrGd4dS3EpE4xpw3LkOmeJXZUN2NhZaaEsxJqMHojZO_s-bjDFM1BDgiFMqJidHp8PcC61wcyPKhMIMTzoqVq1X/s1600/15yoDanielFord.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoS_uOyoWmDSF2gt4P5YhVGQa5rTT-tVWVQ99p2NBQwi1jmb_puKo3MnrGd4dS3EpE4xpw3LkOmeJXZUN2NhZaaEsxJqMHojZO_s-bjDFM1BDgiFMqJidHp8PcC61wcyPKhMIMTzoqVq1X/s1600/15yoDanielFord.jpg" height="400" width="272" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">15-year-old-ish Daniel Ford</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"><em>A Soldier’s Tale </em></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"><em>Interlude: </em></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"><em>Daniel’s Tale</em></span>
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<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
Every turbulent instance in my existence, every bump in the road, every obstacle paled in comparison’s to my grandfather’s take of being heaved into the cold, unloved by his parents; war, man’s only true enemy; and being disunited with the person he loved most in the world. The predicaments that have crossed my path through my 15 years are those that confront every young human being.
Similar to my grandfather, I have tried to live my life without regret. All the mistakes I’ve made, and I’ve made my fair share, haven’t weighed one ounce more on my mind since their occurrences. Each one has shaped and molded me in an improved person. I’m someone who can enjoy the blessed moments that life has to offer. <em>Mistakes belong in the past.</em> However, I would be a hypocrite is I said all mistakes stayed there permanently. There are a select few that momentarily suspended my belief that better days were ahead.
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<br />
<em>I was born with a reckless heart. I’ve been more than willing to give my affections to the opposite sex on a whim.</em> The two “loves of my life” left me everything but unscathed.
I met Audry my freshman year of high school. <br />
<br />
I was totally unaware of the causalities I would endure in the months ahead when I pursued this eager senior girl. The first few weeks of the relationship were some of the greatest moments of my young life. I perceived things with her by my side that I had never considered real. I was on this impregnable pedestal. However, once again, a pretty face devastated me. To put it lightly, she began to feed at other troughs. With the assistance of a few divine companions, I managed to salvage the remainder of my dignity and peace of mind when I ended the relationship. <br />
<br />
I think about her every now and again. I actually think more about the poor bastards she’s currently manipulating with her charms. Outside my grandparent’s house, I gazed up at the twinkling beings of light and contemplated that romantic mistake. I knew it wouldn’t haunt me forever.
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<br />
Melissa didn’t walk into my life. She exploded into it. She was also a senior and we met at a school dance. I was convinced this was my time to find peace and happiness with a member of the opposite sex. However, like most romantics adventures in my young life, everything went terribly awry. Rapidly.
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<br />
We hadn’t spoken a word to each other in two days. A fight over something trivial caused us to stop communicating. I summoned all my courage and vanquished all my pride to the bottom of the ocean, and went to her house. When I arrived something felt different. There was a different air surrounding her home…it was almost hostile. I will always shiver when I remember her mother’s voice.
<br />
<br />
“Melissa is gone.” <br />
<br />
I didn’t cry. I was too filled with guilt at that moment. It was selfish, but I couldn’t help it. She had unlocked her father’s liquor cabinet and drank as much alcohol as she could. She decided to get into her car and drive through her neighbor’s living room. I piece of the engine pierced her heart. Her mother aged years in the couple of minutes I standing in front of the screen door. My mind and body felt 50 years old.
I couldn’t shake the belief that I was the cause of it all. It was a stupid fight that one of us should have been able to forgive and forget about. What I didn’t know then was that Melissa was an alcoholic. When I found out, I couldn’t believe it. I thought I knew everything about her. She was an expert at hiding it. The guilt dissipated, but I was left with the cold realization I hadn’t been able to clear the air or clear the air the way I wanted to.<br />
<br />
I shook myself from the reverie. That was enough living in the past. There were certain times though when I felt the wind blow through my hair and imagined it was her hand running through it. I think in this moment she was nearby, like she promised she would be always. I believed she wouldn’t let me make the same mistakes over and over again, which is comforting to someone who makes a lot of them.
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<br />
A year after Melissa's death, I attended a poetry slam. I left that event with a friend for life and partner in love. Ashley was patient with me because I was hesitant to begin a new relationship. She was willing to wait and take things slow. It wasn’t until I stumbled across a note Melissa had wrote me at the beginning of our relationship. She wrote that if anything happened to either one of us, the other had to promise to live life to the fullest. It stopped being difficult to enjoy my time with Ashley after that. I’ve been having the time of my life ever since.
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<br />
Since Ashley and I have been a couple, I’ve become a more outgoing and caring person. I was creating new friendships and memories every day it seems and the hole Melissa left was beginning to fill in. I started writing again. My family took notice.
“Seems to me he finally dug himself out of whatever hole he was in,” I overheard my father tell my mother one day.
Maybe. I wasn’t out of it completely, but that’s the whole purpose of friends. Without my steadfast buddies, who always set aside their own dilemmas to come to my aid, I’d never come close to removing myself from a depressing abyss. I have been blessed with the most caring friends a young man could ask for. Old friends I’ll trust forever and new friends I’ll be thankful for forever have given me new confidence. And of course, I always have my ultimate confidant ; an ally so enduring that not even the grim reaper would dare toil with her. She’s a friend that not every human being is as fortunate as I am to have.
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<br />
My mother.
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<br />
I’ve tended to look outside of my family to get inspiration. Looking back, there wasn’t a moment when she wasn’t giving me her wisdom, guidance, and encouragement. Sure, like all mothers, she sometimes came off as overbearing. However, I now realized she was only like that when I needed a kick in the ass. My mother always had free time to help me with the most trivial problems. She puts up with all the mood swings I inherited from her brothers. She’s lucky now that I’m rarely in an unpleasant mood. I’ll never again take her love for granted. I’m blessed for having been raised by this tough Frenchy. I certainly don’t tell her enough that I love her.
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<br />
A gust of March air stung my face like a hard slap, causing me to return my thoughts to the ailing storyteller. Another source of inspiration was dying like an ordinary man. But I knew better. He wasn’t an ordinary man to me. Ordinary men don’t make you feel like you are on a cloud overlooking the crystal clear images of the past. Ordinary men didn’t hold the emotions of the heart and mind in rapt suspense. No, he was no ordinary man. He was a man of strong beliefs, a man of character, and a man of trust.
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<br />
And he was dying. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr5t7-t_LwaUkJSKc6JVlPm2qPkuRtUHsa4AgwY7MQlh_jt_bQM5Q5zqeZE8rRUKfFi75VLkf2IdpbyNXK5QHPvTsSuK0hGEdVc-Q4V7HUFTR9z82i3cT17ctMlHd8j7DSE_jIQYeobGje/s1600/danfordpresent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr5t7-t_LwaUkJSKc6JVlPm2qPkuRtUHsa4AgwY7MQlh_jt_bQM5Q5zqeZE8rRUKfFi75VLkf2IdpbyNXK5QHPvTsSuK0hGEdVc-Q4V7HUFTR9z82i3cT17ctMlHd8j7DSE_jIQYeobGje/s1600/danfordpresent.jpg" height="282" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Present Day Daniel Ford</td></tr>
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Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-188535446868632422014-01-12T13:34:00.002-05:002014-01-12T13:39:56.482-05:00From the Archives: A Soldier’s Tale<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<b>I finished my first novel on May 20, 1998. I was in the eighth grade. </b><br />
<br />
That may seem impressive, but it was a real struggle for me to finish any <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/08/from-archives-star-wars-fan-fiction.html" target="_blank">short story</a> or <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2014/01/the-great-little-league-home-run-race.html" target="_blank">longform exercise</a>. Aside from the <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2012/04/look-back-life-of-daniel-f-ford-chapter.html" target="_blank">autobiography</a> that I had to complete for school that year, everything in <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/09/from-archives-tree-christmas-to.html" target="_blank">my archives</a> was half-baked and incomplete. I didn’t necessarily give up on things; I just couldn’t keep up with my <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/06/the-boy-in-red-superman-cape.html" target="_blank">overactive imagination</a>. I had so many <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/04/why-i-still-want-to-be-writer-when-i.html" target="_blank">plots and characters running through my head</a> that no pen or notebook would have been able to capture them all.<br />
<br />
That all changed when my grandfather died in March 1996. He was a man I loved and admired completely and losing him left a void that only words would fill. Writing about him made me forget how much I missed him admonishing me for not giving him a kiss hello right after walking in his door, or telling me everything that was happening in my life was “beautiful.” He was right there with me as I fictionalized his life one page at a time, starting with the story of him cutting school to visit the Statue of Liberty as a youth.<br />
<br />
The finished product lives in a black, weathered-looking spiral notebook at my parent’s house. The entire work is nearly 300 pages and is written entirely in cursive. I haven’t seen it in a few years, but I’m sure most of it is totally illegible. <br />
<br />
In high school, I decided my writing skills had improved enough to rewrite the tale. I was still without a computer at that point, so I once again hand-wrote it in its entirety. I completed it on Dec. 11, 1999. The story I developed of Stephen Sanford at that time is much darker than I remember it. It’s uplifting at its core, but the hero’s journey has an angsty edge to it that certifies someone in high school wrote it. For not seeing any of the world up to that point, I sure felt I had a firm mental grasp on it. I want to tell the young Daniel Ford to hold on tight to the innocence that was going to shatter in his grasp after graduation (also to put down the thesaurus).
Between the summer of my junior and senior years of college, I wrote 60 pages of a revamped edition of <i>A Soldier’s Tale</i>.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcdMPn2fUy4ueJUsN1pklQWJpAY2tNxHIG_S9dRY4_yd8CAqDPdx5FkKKDshiGZD96FuOjMMIeD2CXwA3YkTsJRc1FmakFhzKFGBnZbUNoc14FT5SGN_lIUyoyt4YeriQTxHjkWKvCF0Rr/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcdMPn2fUy4ueJUsN1pklQWJpAY2tNxHIG_S9dRY4_yd8CAqDPdx5FkKKDshiGZD96FuOjMMIeD2CXwA3YkTsJRc1FmakFhzKFGBnZbUNoc14FT5SGN_lIUyoyt4YeriQTxHjkWKvCF0Rr/s1600/photo.JPG" height="280" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snapshot of the physical archive.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A busy schedule and <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/03/the-birth-of-sid-sanford-and-art-of.html" target="_blank">the birth of Sid Sanford </a>forced my mind away from the project. However, 2014 is the year I’m going to write my grandfather’s story for the last time. It will be set in the same world as Sid Sanford and tie in my mother’s father’s life as well. The tale will explain life before Sid and why there was a good man hiding in him all along.<br />
<br />
While you wait for excerpts from that project, please enjoy the acknowledgements and the final two chapters of <i>A Soldier’s Tale</i>. Check back later in the week for the interlude section where an embryonic Sid tells his story. Feel free to leave your thoughts and criticisms in the comment section or tweet me <a href="https://twitter.com/danielfford" target="_blank">@danielfford</a>.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJnm9nsXeieKwTuaHyAWukNruXjx-e2EyS3KzEmiO3E3PwnDRn27Pf8sq3qOuuTOFDcq8Gsvv0uMv4d01pjI2LPckX0mL-vJxxOvdp0H36C381OCrnqVIzQuFRXP-Q8OYvJzIgxZ1Fab8c/s1600/ford2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJnm9nsXeieKwTuaHyAWukNruXjx-e2EyS3KzEmiO3E3PwnDRn27Pf8sq3qOuuTOFDcq8Gsvv0uMv4d01pjI2LPckX0mL-vJxxOvdp0H36C381OCrnqVIzQuFRXP-Q8OYvJzIgxZ1Fab8c/s1600/ford2.jpg" height="310" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandma and Grandpa Ford</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">A Soldier’s Tale—Acknowledgements</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"> </span>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<i>Ideas come from very different places. The idea for this story was spawned after visiting my grandfather’s grave one year. Since that time, I’ve been dedicated to keeping his spirit alive. That would have been impossible without the help of certain people. <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2012/02/baseball-bloodlines-grandma-ford-and.html" target="_blank">My grandmother</a> and <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/04/first-principles-mickey-mantle-papa.html" target="_blank">father</a> who put up with my assorted questions, my mother for keeping me sane, and my cousin Judy for inspiring to pick up my pen again and again. I owe all of them big time. Thank you Grandpa Ford for the life you lived that allowed me to create this fictional tale. I miss you and will love you always.” </i><br />
<br />
<i>D.F.F. </i><br />
<i>Dec. 19, 1999 </i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzl8nWKEna53xdjyyhG_5gybtdrtYbRg23mjL-l8Wp4HxOn36E7zZx3-3eNNfKigW8gR5kVaRh2YWdovycK94ZOV1ct9vKBjlxhIM57lCm-TY4ED-CRVT9yP_eg4Ptm41_Ibl-9R077W1e/s1600/ford6.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzl8nWKEna53xdjyyhG_5gybtdrtYbRg23mjL-l8Wp4HxOn36E7zZx3-3eNNfKigW8gR5kVaRh2YWdovycK94ZOV1ct9vKBjlxhIM57lCm-TY4ED-CRVT9yP_eg4Ptm41_Ibl-9R077W1e/s1600/ford6.jpg" height="400" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My grandfather in his uniform.<u><i><br /></i></u></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">A Soldier’s Tale—Final Chapters</span>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<br />
The final thoughts of Stephen Sanford:<br />
<br />
“Life. In my eyes, the human existence is just one obstacle after another. These obstacles have no other intention than to bring you down to their loveless realm. To overcome these wicked hindrances, one must stand mightily and meet them face-to-face. Every obstacle has the appearance of being impregnable and unconquerable. However, through my experiences, I’ve learned not to cowardly fade into the shadows until the anguish and sorrow vanquish my spirit. Without these colossal impediments, our lives would be meaningless. We require them to set our goals, attain out power, and ascertain our riches. Not a solitary human can explain why.<br />
<br />
“However, a person does not deserve to be unaided in their strife against the closing walls of society. For us to mend injustices, we must empower each being with equal regard. I veraciously conceive that the members of this world’s lower class are the mightiest of us all. They are the ones that face the most feared barriers of life with barely anything but the sweat on their brows. They face death, disease, famine, and loneliness. When the people bathed in affluence and power on their perches on top of high society look down upon “the downfall of the human race,” they are really turning up their noses at the saviors of the human race. The time will come when our monarchical hierarchy of society will topple and those looked down upon will inherit those exalted heights.<br />
<br />
“In my life, despite all the heartaches and misfortunes, I have no regrets. If I had the power to live it all over again, there is not a single thing I would alter. Life isn’t here for us to gaze back and contemplate on how we could have done things differently. Life is here to live. This wondrous mystery has to be survived joyously each day so that you can attain the graces of heaven and add hope to the world you live in now. To live life, one must strive for the future, while learning lessons from the past.<br />
<br />
“Although my experience on this grand planet which has sheltered me these 78 years, is coming to an end, I believe I have fulfilled all I could with what I was given. Even if I left a couple of stones unturned or a few dreams left undreamed, I can depart this existence knowing I leave it in capable hands. I part with my fondest farewell and God bless.”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvOib9yGaozagic12KZb-kfl1rMJsGGkxtcqV7BDEfQks_ui8vfnGu5iQY4R59emwAMZJvnPePWQaTe8SVwr7FS7GmT6yMNHLKFwF5aEbGlhcBu9Sae_JwX85txiTMHXExbSZeSxVEzfWM/s1600/ford42.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvOib9yGaozagic12KZb-kfl1rMJsGGkxtcqV7BDEfQks_ui8vfnGu5iQY4R59emwAMZJvnPePWQaTe8SVwr7FS7GmT6yMNHLKFwF5aEbGlhcBu9Sae_JwX85txiTMHXExbSZeSxVEzfWM/s1600/ford42.png" height="393" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My grandparents with my father, <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/07/lords-prayer.html" target="_blank">Uncle Stephen</a>, and Aunt Kathy. <u><br /></u></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My faculties, saturated with a multitude of cogitations, were set at ease with my grandfather’s poetic words. Never in my 17 years had I heard words so moving or uplifting.<br />
<br />
“See if any of that is worth publishing. I want to make sure the world can hear the last thoughts of this bucket of bones. Please, bring in the rest of the family,” my grandfather said, weakening more and more. He was trying violently to hang on just a few minutes longer.<br />
<br />
I quickly rushed into the living room and gathered my family. Walking back toward my grandfather’s room, I gazed out the window at the luminous balls of fire from above. To this day, I can’t decipher if I had imagined this, or if it actually occurred. I swear a voice whispered to me,<br />
<br />
<i>“You’ll always be connected to your grandfather. Just look to the stars whenever you need him.” </i><br />
<br />
I tried convincing myself that all the angels of my grandfather’s past were now with him at the end and they were sending me a message.<br />
<br />
I joined my family around his bed. We were standing in a semi-circle. I had a feeling my grandfather had something extraordinary in store.<br />
<br />
“Please join hands,” He said. “Look around the circle. Each of us has to do our part to keep it connected, no matter how big or small. One member of the circle is leaving you tonight, but that certainly doesn’t mean that the connection between us weakens. The family must function as before. Please make me proud that I was once a living member of this family, and know I’ll always be with you from above. I love each and every one of you very much.”<br />
<br />
This was the end. I leaned over and whispered in his ear a final time.<br />
<br />
“I love you grandfather.”<br />
<br />
He smiled his trademark smile and let out his final breath, putting an end to the soldier’s tale.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx7eE4Cm_TLiLHAZNH9Y2dVA8Hc6OumX794Z5umlIxgj524bSdTWmilQF0Jst6KkYAgCGoOI54psTjyvnTVjX_8m2wziKZxZL4Gu7Nk2tnNdsFDn_FPnGij8nrreJcU1BglNcZd1M93OGW/s1600/Zn.+grandpa+xmas+1990.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx7eE4Cm_TLiLHAZNH9Y2dVA8Hc6OumX794Z5umlIxgj524bSdTWmilQF0Jst6KkYAgCGoOI54psTjyvnTVjX_8m2wziKZxZL4Gu7Nk2tnNdsFDn_FPnGij8nrreJcU1BglNcZd1M93OGW/s1600/Zn.+grandpa+xmas+1990.jpg" height="280" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My grandfather was never happier than when his whole family was together. Here is during on of his last Christmases with us wearing a trademark hat.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-88392764073113648512014-01-03T13:40:00.002-05:002014-01-03T13:40:43.595-05:00The Great Little League Home Run Race<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
In 1999, I was a freshman in high school.<br />
<br />
<b>* Stops typing, stares off into the distance for an hour, sips scotch, resumes typing * </b><br />
<br />
I had a study hall in the band room the first semester of the year where I met a couple of friends that would make an impression on my life. The first was my dear, dear friend Jocelyn, whose name you may remember from my novel <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/08/baseball-sunday-special-preview-of-sid.html" target="_blank"><i>Sid Sanford LIVES! </i></a>She gave up coaxing musical talent out of me and would eventually take me to her senior prom. I’m going to owe her some kind of royalty if my book ever becomes a hit.<br />
<br />
The second was a lanky son of a bitch named Dante Cimadamore who oozed creative charisma. He wrote in my yearbook that if someone asked him to review something I wrote he’d reply with, “it gave me a stiffy.” He’s still a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tbnL7eFW7L8&feature=c4-overview-vl&list=PL40E14F201D691274" target="_blank">pretty badass musician</a>.<br />
<br />
The reason I’m telling you this is that I used both their names in a story I wrote that year about <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/12/50-pictures-from-my-life-in-baseball.html" target="_blank">baseball</a>. The story originally revolved around this <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/04/why-i-still-want-to-be-writer-when-i.html" target="_blank">washed up writer</a> who attempts to interview an old baseball star to revive his career. However, I didn’t get very far with that premise and tried something different.
I ended up writing it like it was a documentary of a <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/04/baseball-beginnings-why-im-not-baseball.html" target="_blank">baseball player</a> so special he changed the game. The plot was broken up by quotes from characters from various periods of the ballplayer’s life. I ended up handwriting a couple hundred pages before eventually abandoning it. If I had had today’s technology, I probably would have created fake Twitter accounts, staged YouTube videos, and posted the whole thing to Tumblr.<br />
<br />
I found the entire novel recently while looking through old files at home during the holidays and I plan to share several of the chapters throughout 2014. Some of them I ended up using in other places, including <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/08/baseball-sunday-special-preview-of-sid.html" target="_blank"><i>Sid Sanford LIVES!</i></a> The first chapter of that novel depicts Sid and Jocelyn meeting in his backyard during a Wiffle ball game. Its structure is more or less the same as the first chapter in this faux documentary. The chapter in Sid also shares this novel’s title: <i>Pastime</i>.<br />
<br />
All the back story you need to know before you read this chapter is that Dante the baseball player is in <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/07/little-leaguers-first-catch.html" target="_blank">Little League</a> and is about to have the season of his life.<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">The Great Little League Home Run Race</span>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“The two things that baseball fans can’t help but watch are Little League baseball and a home run. You put both together, you got dynamite.”—Major League Baseball commissioner Thomas Russell. </blockquote>
<br />
To anyone else, Dante’s first two seasons would have been cause for concern. To Dante, he was right where he wanted to be. His rookie year included a .120 batting average and 15 strikeouts. Jocelyn would never let him live it down. His offensive stats were much like the Phillies’ season: in the gutter.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“The freakin’ Chicago Cubs could have beaten us that year.”—Phillies manager Tom Doyle </blockquote>
<br />
With only seven wins in 21 games, the Phillies weren’t making any postseason plans. However, the end of the season brought with it the end of an era. Five players were graduating, including several that brought about the team’s demise with their poor attitudes. Their departures not only opened the door to more talented players, but also instantly raised the morale of the team.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“With those negative attitudes, we couldn’t make any progress. When they left, there was no way anyone could stop us.”—Phillies outfielder Matt DiVenere </blockquote>
<br />
Of course, the addition of the new rookies didn’t make the team a threat the following season. In rebuilding year, the boys achieved a whopping 11 victories, the highest total in team history. Dante hadn’t exactly broke out like many had expected. However, his average rose to .253 and he was becoming more and more sure handed in the field.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“If anyone was more of a sure out than me at that point, I need to meet him.”—Dante Cimadamore. </blockquote>
<br />
The Phillies made the playoffs by the skin of their teeth. They had one shot to knock off the best team in the league. It was a shot that they missed.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“We were so close. We had that team running into itself. When we eventually lost the game, it only made us more hungry.”—Team mother Morgan Wauhatchee </blockquote>
<br />
The players that steamy summer night tried the best they could to walk off the field with their heads held upright. Even Dante, who later in life would say he enjoyed losing in the right circumstances, felt fate had unfairly punished the team. Unbeknownst to them, fate had other plans.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<u>Dante: 0 Tim: 0 </u></div>
<br />
Opening Day.<br />
<br />
Dante was in supreme command of his team. Something had clicked in his brain during practice making his skills seem limitless. The other players fed off of that.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Coach Doyle taught us the game; Dante taught us heart.”—Phillies teammate Derek Jones. </blockquote>
<br />
However, what was going to be Dante’s season turned out to be a town’s legacy. Another face entered Dante’s life, one that he would never be able to get rid of. It was a presence that nearly snatched away all of Dante’s dreams.<br />
<br />
Timothy Nix had moved into town at age 12 after spending 11 years in Oklahoma. His parents were rich beyond belief. At a young age, Tim had baseball force-fed to him. The game was something that kept him out of his preoccupied parents’ hair. He went to overnight retreats, expensive camps, and indoor batting cages that all manufactured his skills.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“If I hadn’t gone to those camps, I would have driven a school bus.”—Tim Nix </blockquote>
<br />
Tim’s parents Richard and Mona move to Dante’s town in order to see more of the “country.” Really what they did was take over. Richard became the owner of the paper company, while his wife ran the Board of Education with an iron fist. The only family Tim had was baseball.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“In the games he played, not once did his parents show up. If they had, Tim would have been much better than he already was.”—Orioles coach Bruce Rice </blockquote>
<br />
In the opening game of the season, the highly rated Phillies squared up against the mediocre Astros. With the score knotted at three in the third inning, the ninth man in the batting order came to the plate. Dante had struck out in his first at bat with the bases loaded. He was now faced with the same situation. The fans, knowing Dante’s lack of offensive production, were more interested in the fight that had opened up among a group of teenagers. All save one.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“I knew in that moment my boy was going to come through.”—David Cimadamore </blockquote>
<br />
The young, cocky Astros pitcher gave Dante a fastball right down the middle. Dante swung effortlessly and set the ball into orbit.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“I almost pissed my pants when I saw the ball go over the fence.”—Dante Cimadamore </blockquote>
<br />
He would add another home run toward the end of the game, giving the Phillies an easy victory. Game one had gone the Phillies way.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<u>Dante: 10 Tim: 6 </u></div>
<br />
Through five games, the two boys had more home runs than the rest of the league combined for the last several years. Whispers started that Dante had a chance to topple the town’s record of 22.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“This competition with home runs was way bigger in town than Sammy’s and Mark’s chase in 1998.”—Phillies outfielder John Machado </blockquote>
<br />
Dante’s unblemished Phillies and Tim’s balanced Orioles met that afternoon in June. It would be the first clash between these two young heroes. Eager to meet his challenger, Dante approached Tim in the visitor’s dugout.<br />
<br />
“Are you the one who is trying to steal all my thunder?” Dante asked. At the time, Tim was a shy kid, so he just nodded and gave Dante a weak smile. “Well, I’m glad it’s someone who appreciates the game as much as me. Good luck today,” Dante said.<br />
<br />
They were words neither player would ever forget.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“I knew about how Tim’s parents were. I knew he was missing what I had. I made sure he knew someone supported him. Unfortunately for him, that someone was me.”—Dante Cimadamore </blockquote>
<br />
On that day, Tim went on to hit a record breaking four home runs. Dante had a poor showing in comparison, but the Phillies managed to pull out a win with the help of one pitcher’s arm. Patrick Russell limited the Oriole’s damage to Tim’s four homers, and delivered the game winning hit in the end.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“On a team full of winners, you never know who is going to come through for you on a daily basis. It just sort of happens.”—Tom Doyle </blockquote>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<u>Dante: 17 Tim: 15 </u></div>
<br />
Where was Jocelyn in all this, you ask? When her bitterness over not making the team when she was better than all the boys faded, she accepted Coach Doyle’s offer to become the team’s official scorekeeper. She also became the team’s biggest fan.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“I don’t know who yelled louder, my mother or Jocelyn.”—Dante Cimadamore </blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“I yelled the loudest.”—Jocelyn Nocera </blockquote>
<br />
She rarely sat on the bench. She was too busy jumping up and down, pacing the length of the dugout, and pressing her face against the protective screen in nervous anticipation.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“I wasn’t worried about disappointing Coach Doyle as much as I was of letting Jocelyn down.”—Phillies infielder Chris Baxter </blockquote>
<br />
She was there every step of the way with Dante, being his guardian angel and harshest critic in equal measure. He came to her for batting tips and fielding observations before he asked Coach Doyle.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“I went to Coach Doyle when I needed encouragement. I went to Jocelyn when I need the truth.”—Dante Cimadamore </blockquote>
<br />
The Phillies had won all 17 of their games and were just four games away from becoming the first undefeated team in the town’s history. Dante and Tim’s home run race made the season 10 times more exciting.
Every team got to play a game under the lights at the main field. The Phillies opponent was the scrappy Pirates team that had bounced them out of the playoffs a year ago.<br />
<br />
The Pirates were still a team to beat and had a pitcher named Nick Lachance who made Cy Young look like a minor leaguer. With less than a handful of games remaining, the game was a must win for the Pirates if they wanted a first round bye. Dante and his teammates had other plans for them.<br />
<br />
Right away, one could feel the momentum was anchored with the Phillies. John Machado hit a lead off home run off of Lachance’s fastest recorded pitch of the season. The boisterous crowd hushed as the ball clanged loudly against the center field scoreboard.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Let’s just say I couldn’t do that again if I threw it up in the air to myself and hit it from the pitcher’s mound.”—John Machado </blockquote>
<br />
Dante would hit two home runs of his own, leaving him four shy of the record. He watched Tim the next night belt three out of the park. Tim was now only one behind Dante. The stage had been set for a heart-stopping finish.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<u>Dante: 21 Tim: 21 </u></div>
<br />
On the final day of his final Little League season, Dante could have cared less who broke the record. He cared more about having fun and winning than anything else. After all of the pressure coming into the league and disappointment of his first two years, Dante was finally the player he wanted to be.<br />
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“Jocelyn may have lit Dante’s passion for the game, but those three Little League seasons fueled it.”—Lily Cimadamore </blockquote>
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If the two boys had their ways, each would tie and break the record together. They’d go into the books together. However, there were still games to be won, especially for the Phillies who needed just one victory for perfection. Tim’s team had clinched a playoff spot, but was eager to get Tim as many at-bats as possible to come out on top.<br />
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<u>Phillies vs. Yankees: 3rd Inning </u></div>
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Dante stepped to the plate, tapped the rubber with his bat, and dug in. His only thought was to get on base. Everyone wanted him to hit a home run. Dante wanted to do what was best for the team.<br />
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“If Coach Doyle had given me the bunt signal, I would have done it. Whenever I led off an inning, I knew it was my job to get on base so we had a chance at more runs. I was aware everyone wanted me to tie the record. I wanted to be like Tom Selleck at the end of <i>Mr. Baseball </i>and throw everyone off.”—Dante Cimadamore </blockquote>
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After taking two outside pitches, Dante got a pitch he could hit. He concentrated, kept his head down, and swung. The pitch landed over the fence. He had tied the record.<br />
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<u>Orioles vs. Pirates: 1st Inning </u></div>
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Tim’s first at-bat came with the bases loaded and nobody out. All those instructional camps weren’t paying off at the moment. He swung wildly at the first pitch and lunged for the second. He couldn’t get the thought of him trotting around the bases triumphantly out of his head. He had heard the crowd swell after Dante’s first dinger. That didn’t help.<br />
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“You could tell he was pretty anxious. He was dancing around the plate like Michael Flatley.”—Orioles coach Bruce Rice </blockquote>
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Tim would have never gotten over those nerves if something close to a miracle didn’t happen. Taking signs from the third coach, Tim caught a glance of something alien in the crowd. His mother and father were at the game! His father gave him a thumbs up. Tim wasn’t sure how to respond, so he stepped back into the batter’s box.<br />
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A couple of minutes later, Tim and Dante were tied at 22.<br />
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<u>Phillies vs. Yankees: 5th Inning </u></div>
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Huge masses of energetic kids ran from field to field, anxious to see which player would break the record first. They kept parents watching each game updated on what was happening. The town had never experienced such an intense buzz at a Little League game.<br />
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“I had more heart palpitations watching those two games than I had giving birth.”—Mother </blockquote>
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The Phillies entered the fifth inning contently in the lead. Dante was at the plate for what turned out to be his last at-bat. Once again, he was more concerned with getting on base than anything else.<br />
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“There is no such thing as a safe lead in Little League. We only had a 10 run lead. I would have much preferred a 20 run lead.”—Dante Cimadamore </blockquote>
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Calmly, he called time out and motioned for Jocelyn. She looked more nervous than he did.<br />
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“Big moment, huh?” He asked.<br />
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“You could say that,” She replied. “You wanna bet that you won’t break it?”<br />
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“No, because I’m about to. Now kiss my bat for good luck already.”<br />
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She sighed and did just that.<br />
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“See you in a minute,” She said. “Don’t hot dog around the bases.”<br />
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Dante stepped back into the batter’s box and knew instinctively that there was nothing the pitcher could throw he couldn’t hit.
The Yankees’ pitcher released the ball and it began its split second journey to the plate. Dante began his stride and made contact. He was rounding the bases moments later.<br />
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“No yelling, no dancing, no arm raising, nothing. He was all business and class.”—Tom Doyle </blockquote>
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His teammates on the other hand were eager to celebrate at home plate. Once Dante touched the base, they mobbed him. For some reason, one of his teammates took off his helmet and hurled it up the baseline. When he emerged from the pile, he was smiling.<br />
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He knew Tim had one more at-bat.<br />
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<u><b>Orioles vs. Pirates: 6th Inning </b></u></div>
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The Phillies game ended soon after Dante’s feat. The entire congregation of fans lined the fence of the game next door to see if Tim could keep pace.<br />
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Tim would have given anything to be an ant in Africa. He felt every eye on him.<br />
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“Just do your best, son!” His father screamed out. “We’ll be proud either way.”<br />
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For the first time, Tim believed them.<br />
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He tapped home plate with his bat and stared at the pitcher. The tension mounted as the pitcher delivered two pitches outside the strike zone. Tim took the next pitch for a strike. The count was now in his favor. Ball three then skipped past the catcher. Tim swung at the next pitch and sliced it foul. The count was now three balls and two strikes. It was baseball’s greatest stage.<br />
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“I wanted to get up there and hit the ball for him.”—Orioles coach Bruce Rice </blockquote>
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He never saw the next pitch. He was by him before he could get his arms moving. Before Tim could put his head down in defeat, he felt Dante’s arms around him. Dante had hopped the fence the second the umpire called strike three. He wrapped Tim in a brotherly hug.<br />
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“Have you ever had more fun?” Dante asked.<br />
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“Nope, have you?”<br />
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“Not even close. Let’s keep it going during with the All-Star team, shall we?”<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“There are moments in life when you know you’ve accomplished something great. That was the first of many of those types of moments between him and I.”—Tim Nix </blockquote>
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<u><b>Final Season Stats: </b></u></div>
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<u><b>Dante: 23 Tim: 22 </b></u></div>
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<u><b>Phillies: 24-0 Regular Season & Playoff Champions
</b></u></div>
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Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-75121292107021532102013-12-31T11:52:00.004-05:002014-01-17T16:12:28.330-05:0050 Pictures From My Life in Baseball<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<strong>I start missing baseball intensely around this time every year.</strong></div>
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I want nothing more than to grab my glove, hop on a bus home to Connecticut, and have a catch with my brothers and my nephews. That feeling grows every time the temperature drops below freezing or it snows here in Boston…which is all the time.
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Rather than halfheartedly rooting for the New England Patriots’ playoff run to distract myself, I decided to look back at 50 pictures that define my 29 years as a devoted baseball fan (hey, I’m not 30 for another month, so pipe down). My hope is by the time I’m done reminiscing pitchers and catchers will be reporting for spring training.
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As a good friend of mine said one winter, “There is a light at the end of the tunnel…and that light is baseball.” </div>
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1. This list starts in the same place <em>Hardball Heart</em> originated: <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/04/first-principles-mickey-mantle-papa.html" target="_blank">my father</a>. My baseball roots run deep because of him. Here he is with his Little League All-Star team in 1963. 12-year-old Ken Ford is the one wearing glasses. The <em>only</em> one. </div>
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2. My introduction to baseball. I’m three and a half months old in this picture.
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3. My father and I leaning up against a fence watching my younger brother’s Little League All-Star team. </div>
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4. Having a catch with my younger brother Patrick. In those days, he took frequent breaks to eat a Pop-Tart. Now we take breaks for beer (see number 45).
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5. Patrick and I played a lot of Wiffle ball in the backyard growing up. Our uncle made us a clubhouse that we turned into a Hall of Fame. Here I am next to my section. </div>
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6. Photo evidence that I was once a baseball player. I’m the last player in the first row on the right. My first coach—also my life coach/older brother Tom Ford—is standing on the far left.
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7. Me in my Phantoms uniform. I was number 4 at this point. It’s hard to believe <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/04/baseball-beginnings-why-im-not-baseball.html" target="_blank">I didn’t turn out to be a good baseball player</a>.
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8. Oh wait, no it’s not.
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9. On a cool, clear night at venerable Muzzy Field, I trotted across the field to receive the <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/06/go-daniel-go.html" target="_blank">sportsmanship/most improved player award</a>. The best part was that my older brother was the one to hand me the award. </div>
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10. This is my last moment as a baseball player. I don’t have a lot of regrets, but not playing at least one year at the next level of Pony League might be one of them. I did make $500 a summer for a couple of years keeping score for that league though. </div>
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11. I also stayed close to the game by becoming the assistant coach for Patrick’s Little League team. I almost got thrown out of a game for questioning an umpire who said he called balls and strikes based on the batter’s reaction to the pitch. This <span id="goog_499181663"></span><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/07/every-baseball-has-story.html" target="_blank">baseball<span id="goog_499181664"></span></a> will be cremated with me.</div>
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12. 2004 was my first season as the equipment manager for St. John’s Baseball. I did a lot of <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/05/texas-nightmare-frank-viola-and-mom.html" target="_blank">dopey things</a> that year, including leaving three players at a McDonald’s in Texas, but I got to watch live baseball games in February, experience an NCAA tournament game at Stanford University’s Sunken Diamond, and stand on a table while 25 other guys sang “Happy Birthday” to me at a Golden Corral in Arkansas (it was not my birthday).
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13. The pitching coach at St. John’s at the time was Scott Brown, who also happened to be the head coach of a <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/08/baseball-sunday-guest-hall-of-fame.html" target="_blank">college summer league team in Sanford, Maine</a>. He asked if I wanted to be his media relations intern not too long after I started my tenure as equipment manager. I had two days off between the end of school and the start of the season. By summer’s end, I had seen more than 100 live baseball games in the first eight months of the year. It’s probably the most concentrated amount of baseball I’ve ever experienced. In this picture, my fellow intern Ellis and I are scoping out chicks from the press box. I wore my old Phantoms shirt underneath my Mainers shirt for good luck. </div>
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14. My family drove all the way to New Hampshire to visit me and take in a game. Great photo bombs in this one of me and Patrick.
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15. The best part about non-stop work, constant travel, and a permanent farmer’s tan is winning it all. I’m at the bottom of that dog pile. </div>
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16. Patrick and I in our uniforms. I was the only one of the Brothers Ford not to wear a Bristol Eastern jersey (not for lack of trying). </div>
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17. 2005 St. John’s Baseball. This team garnered 41 wins, won the Big East regular season championship, and beat a Virginia team in the NCAA tournament that featured Ryan Zimmerman. The Boston Red Sox drafted Craig Hansen in the first round that year. I ended up at a bar in Miami some time later and he was pitching. The bartender was impressed that I knew him and gave me a free drink. </div>
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18. #rings
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19. Jack Kaiser Stadium at night. I got to see a lot of college ballparks, and there weren’t too many better than our home park. When they dedicated the field to the legendary coach Jack Kaiser, Bob Sheppard made all of the announcements. My chills still have chills.
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20. Beating Norte Dame on national television. Is there a better feeling in sports?
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21. My senior year at St. John’s. I’ll never forget making a run in the Big East tournament in Florida. We had to beat Norte Dame one more time at night to make it into the championship game, but ran out of arms. I didn’t want to leave that locker room and face the next day when I wouldn’t be the equipment manager any more. </div>
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22. Senior Night 2006. My father was adamant that he wasn’t going to step foot on the field. Yet, there he is standing right next to me in this picture. This moment probably made more of an impression on me than my actual graduation from school. </div>
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23. I’m holding a picture of me receiving the manager of the year award. There’s so much I want to tell this young Daniel, but, alas, I cannot.
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24. Shooting the shit in front of the dugout before the start of the nationally televised game against Norte Dame. Not too many places I miss more.
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25. My older brother Tom’s seats when he had weekend season tickets to the <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/04/old-and-new.html" target="_blank">old Yankee Stadium</a>. </div>
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26. My father and I sitting in said seats. Our heads don’t leave much room for background scenery. </div>
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27. The view of the field from those seats. The best time sitting there was during Dave Winfield day. We sat behind this group of guys that were drunk by the third inning. The unintentional comedy was off the charts, especially when they made fun of this guy who was overly excited to catch a foul ball. None of what they said is printable anywhere in the world.
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28. The Brothers Ford and Pops in front of <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/04/old-and-new.html" target="_blank">new Yankee Stadium</a> during construction. I stopped being sad about the old place when I went to the bathroom at the new one for the first time and didn’t have to wedge myself in between 50 other (typically inebriated) gentlemen. </div>
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29. I started playing softball for the <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/05/meet-noreasters.html" target="_blank">Noreasters in 2007</a>. Not only did the team keep me rooted in the game I love, but it also provided a group of lifelong friends I don’t know what I would do without. </div>
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30. Artsy photo from my friend Scott during one of my first games. That Mainers hat had more wins in it. We went all the way to the championship game before getting beat by the Bobcats.
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31.Randall’s Island, I will miss…nothing, I will miss nothing about you. But I will miss all the winning the Noreasters did there. </div>
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32. Celebrating after <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/07/adventures-of-noreasters-softball-spud.html" target="_blank">hitting a homerun at Roosevelt Island</a>.
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33. Back to Sunken Diamond! This was from a trip to California in 2008. I remembered to take a picture and buy a Stanford hat this time.</div>
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34. Standing in front of the old girl for one of the last times. Sniff.
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35. <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/06/player-spotlight-baseballl-fathers.html" target="_blank">My father</a> in front of his hero Mickey Mantle’s number 7.
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36. My father and I at the new Yankee Stadium. I swear, there is a great view behind those two melons.
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37. Paul o’Neill autographed ball! I need to meet him in person. </div>
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38. Some Noreasters from 2011 in front of Rock Bar. Not long after this picture was taken, we were all extremely plastered. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkIzc4r8zmBH14k3dIRDUy-AJP3gtYWhwLJTmm5n5ZiTUmVOCGLa0svWjm_tVa8gBUXuLt7y-MmQZxoJaULqkmIGoUvVRxIBOVPIlqX2N8VaAnX_jh8zTM0I-BYKfRJhqyEgjjsQfjT2Zi/s1600/35b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkIzc4r8zmBH14k3dIRDUy-AJP3gtYWhwLJTmm5n5ZiTUmVOCGLa0svWjm_tVa8gBUXuLt7y-MmQZxoJaULqkmIGoUvVRxIBOVPIlqX2N8VaAnX_jh8zTM0I-BYKfRJhqyEgjjsQfjT2Zi/s400/35b.jpg" height="290" width="400" /></a>
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39. A very Yankee 90th birthday. No one had the heart to tell my grandmother she was wearing a Mets hat. </div>
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40. Dan Sullivan and I before the <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/07/adventures-of-noreasters-three-in-heat.html" target="_blank">Northeasters championship run</a>. I played shortstop most of the year. Hey, stop laughing! It really happened!
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41. <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/08/adventures-of-noreasters-champs.html" target="_blank">Noreasters for the win!</a>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxtyqYI70wi-LRCoPSLKglKZ8ZCHf6F-Mp5dxOnuwDVwDhchpZHPy96Gk7uNIgHg1iVtUWMR6SS3H-KA2oRPjiKRWuTB_yWDaTaUzVAv8TlYiimCOB28ol8ekTwxIjmcvdb5_MT0ace-Hs/s1600/39.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxtyqYI70wi-LRCoPSLKglKZ8ZCHf6F-Mp5dxOnuwDVwDhchpZHPy96Gk7uNIgHg1iVtUWMR6SS3H-KA2oRPjiKRWuTB_yWDaTaUzVAv8TlYiimCOB28ol8ekTwxIjmcvdb5_MT0ace-Hs/s400/39.jpg" height="400" width="298" /></a></div>
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42. A gay soccer team may or may not have helped me put this belt on. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBCMEbFD-4EzwzEsixvPcljVFTkj801Hu14GJ_zj0TKNPSblcVoWrd7JCHIw-x-pFfSSDIFu_y6CqsIcbGl4DZ_PgCPO2x2iRi2ah7fZ4ZcrQ965SNXhH6Nx5JE1rov0186gHonkokxXFj/s1600/40a.+photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBCMEbFD-4EzwzEsixvPcljVFTkj801Hu14GJ_zj0TKNPSblcVoWrd7JCHIw-x-pFfSSDIFu_y6CqsIcbGl4DZ_PgCPO2x2iRi2ah7fZ4ZcrQ965SNXhH6Nx5JE1rov0186gHonkokxXFj/s400/40a.+photo.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a>
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43. My father grooming the <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/07/little-leaguers-first-catch.html" target="_blank">next generation of baseball Fords</a>. My nephew Jack is about to take a monstrous swing. </div>
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44. Notice my nephew Kevin’s Little League jersey. He plays for the same league my father played for in early 1960s.
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45. <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/04/brothers-baseball-and-beer-art-of.html" target="_blank">Having a catch with my brothers</a> typically involves a few beers. On days we forget to stock up, we have to make adjustments.</div>
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46. At a <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/11/a-connecticut-yankee-in-david-ortizs.html" target="_blank">Red Sox game with the future Mrs. Hardball Heart</a>. I wear my Yankees hat proudly around Boston.
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47. My going away party at <em>JCK Magazine</em> involved a baseball bat. It may have something to do with the bottle of vodka Bill Furman is holding. Yes, it says “Balls.”
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48. Before my last games as a Noreaster I made a bunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I used to make them for St. John’s for in between doubleheaders. I still got it!
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49. Every time I see this picture I start plotting my commute to New York City every weekend from April to August. Then I think about the look on the future Mrs. Hardball Heart’s face. Alas.
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50. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tF81TS6arWY" target="_blank">“What are you thinking about?” “Tomorrow.”</a>
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A Complete Guide to Hardball Heart's Baseball Posts:</div>
<ul>
<li><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/04/first-principles-mickey-mantle-papa.html" target="_blank">First Principles, Mickey Mantle & Papa Ford</a></div>
</li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/04/smells-of-game-rouglas-odor-chris.html" target="_blank">Smells of the Game & Rouglas Odor</a> </li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/04/old-and-new.html" target="_blank">Yankee Stadium: Old and New</a> </li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/04/end-game-baseball-brouthers-and-patrick.html" target="_blank">End Game and Baseball Brothers</a> </li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/05/meet-noreasters.html" target="_blank">Meet the Noreasters!</a> </li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/05/texas-nightmare-frank-viola-and-mom.html" target="_blank">Texas Nightmare, Frank Viola and Mom</a> </li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/06/go-daniel-go.html" target="_blank">Go Daniel Go!</a> </li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/06/lets-go-mets.html" target="_blank">Let's Go Mets!</a> </li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/06/player-spotlight-baseballl-fathers.html" target="_blank">Player Spotlight: Baseball Fathers</a> </li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/07/lords-prayer.html" target="_blank">The Lord's Prayer</a> </li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/07/adventures-of-noreasters-softball-spud.html" target="_blank">The Adventures of the Noreasters: Softball Spud and the Vow of Silence</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/07/every-baseball-has-story.html" target="_blank">Every Baseball Has A Story</a> </li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/08/baseball-sunday-guest-hall-of-fame.html" target="_blank">Hardball Heart Guest: Hall of Fame Trapper & GM of the NECBL Sanford Mainers Neil Olson</a> </li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/08/baseball-sunday-special-preview-of-sid.html" target="_blank">Preview of Sid Sanford Lives Chapter One-Pastime Part 1</a> </li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/04/baseball-beginnings-why-im-not-baseball.html" target="_blank">Baseball Beginnings: Why I’m Not a Baseball Player</a> </li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/04/brothers-baseball-and-beer-art-of.html" target="_blank">Brothers, Baseball, and Beer: The Art of Playing Catch</a> </li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/07/adventures-of-noreasters-three-in-heat.html" target="_blank">The Adventures of the Noreasters: Three in the Heat</a> </li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/07/baseball-beginnings-on-derek-jeter.html" target="_blank">Baseball Beginnings: On Derek Jeter</a> </li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/07/little-leaguers-first-catch.html" target="_blank">Little Leaguers: First Catch</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/08/adventures-of-noreasters-champs.html" target="_blank">The Adventures of the Noreasters: Champs!</a> </li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2012/03/15-cool-photos-from-back-home-in.html" target="_blank">15 Cool Photos From Back Home in Connecticut</a> </li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2012/10/high-school-graduation-speech-10-years.html" target="_blank">High School Graduation Speech: 10 Years Later</a> </li>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/11/a-connecticut-yankee-in-david-ortizs.html" target="_blank">A Connecticut Yankee in David Ortiz’s Court</a> </li>
</ul>
Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-55168343860143025832013-12-16T15:52:00.001-05:002013-12-16T15:52:09.764-05:00Scotch Required Beyond This Point: My Top 12 Favorite Jazz and Big Band Numbers<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<strong>I was a band geek in high school.</strong>
<br />
<br />
I don’t want that fact to imply I had any musical ability. As former Bristol Eastern High School band directors will tell you, I had virtually no inherent talent and no desire to work hard to make the most of the minuscule talent I had. We had to play a piece of music from memory at the beginning of marching band season my freshman year. I may have gotten the first couple of notes right and then I pretty much wept in shame to the senior administering the test.
<br />
<br />
But I loved every minute I was a member of that band. I may have not been any good, but nearly every other musician surrounding me was excellent. The concert band was top notch, but the highlight of our winter and spring concerts was our jazz band. That ensemble was other worldly. I remember hearing them play at the Old U.S. Postal Pavilion in Washington D.C. Thunder and lightning were coming out of those instruments. No musical soul was untouched whenever that jazz band innovatively tore into a piece of music.
<br />
<br />
The big band and jazz genres continue to be a major part of my life. It doesn't get much better than pouring a glass of single malt scotch, sliding on the fedora my good friend Bill Furman gave me, and sitting down at a keyboard and writing something profound and inspiring (at the very least coherent and pleasing). <br />
<br />
I recently went to see <a href="http://www.ratpackisback.com/" target="_blank">The Rat Pack is Back</a> at the Wilbur Theatre in Boston. My girlfriend’s grandmother perfectly summed up my thoughts on why this kind of music still resonates today:
<br />
<br />
“All these guys have been dead and buried for years, but they are still alive today because of the quality of the music.”
<br />
<br />
<em>#Amen.</em>
<br />
<br />
Without further comment, enjoy 10 of my favorite jazz numbers, preferably with a stiff drink, nice suit, and a significant other wearing a red dress.
<br />
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">“I’ll Never Smile Again” by Frank Sinatra & the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/il7DWoLySW8" width="400"></iframe>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">“</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">Birdland” by Maynard Ferguson </span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/idGvKFbYgI4" width="400"></iframe>
</div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">“Rhapsody in Blue” by George Gershwin</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/6H25ocDrqGs" width="400"></iframe>
</div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">“All of Me” by Benny Goodman</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="225" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/1QSsh5HQHj8?list=PLD9CAA39E6DB9CCC3" width="400"></iframe>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">“Sing, Sing, Sing” by Benny Goodman</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/r2S1I_ien6A" width="400"></iframe>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">“Little Brown Jug” by Glenn Miller Orchestra</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/YOG89TrL4Vk" width="400"></iframe>
</div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">“All or Nothing at All” by Frank Sinatra with the Harry James Orchestra</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/u7klm1GS3v8" width="400"></iframe>
</div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">"The Very Thought of You" by Nat King Cole</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/qaYLWSo4fYM" width="400"></iframe>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">“Sleigh Ride” by the Boston Pops</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/OATi34PKNPw" width="400"></iframe>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">“In A Sentimental Mood” Duke Ellington & His Orchestra</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/O44LgJboey0" width="400"></iframe>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">“Better Git It In Your Soul” by Charles Mingus</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/hpZTtaWqxsQ" width="400"></iframe>
</div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">“Spain” by Chick Corea</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="225" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/McXpaIViNHA" width="400"></iframe>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<strong><blockquote class="tr_bq">
<strong>For more music, check out:</strong></blockquote>
</strong></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<strong></strong> </div>
<ul>
<li><strong><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/12/10-songs-my-parents-taught-me-to-love.html" target="_blank">10 Songs My Parent’s Taught Me to Love</a> </strong></li>
<strong></strong>
<li><strong><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/04/10-songs-that-define-me.html" target="_blank">10 Songs That Define Me</a> </strong></li>
</ul>
<br />Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-40685271863412491702013-12-08T12:15:00.001-05:002013-12-08T12:15:11.076-05:0016 Perfect Views for Sunday Afternoon<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<b>I don’t remember why I wrote the piece you’re about to read. I guess that’s appropriate considering the content.
I wasn’t dating anyone at the time. </b><br />
<br />
I hadn’t been dumped recently. I was just a young writer experimenting with his craft.
This was the result.<br />
<br />
In the spirit of this selection's title, also enjoy 15 perfect views during my travels in the United States and Canada. Feel free to share your perfect views in the comments section or tweet <i><a href="https://twitter.com/danielfford" target="_blank">@danielfford</a></i>.
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">A Perfect View of You</span><br />
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
Did I leave you crying?<br />
<br />
I can’t remember that far back, even though, if you think about it, it’s only been a short while. For me, it’s all just one blur. I don’t know if you care or not, but I’m okay now. I promise everything go back to the way things were.<br />
<br />
I broke a lot of those, didn’t I? As many as I think?<br />
<br />
None of you deserved to go through all that, especially you. You’re one of the ones I loved the most and I can barely remember what you sound like. I do remember our last drive together just a couple of days before I left. I was flipping through the radio stations like always. You reached out to hold my hand. I turned to look at you. You looked, well I think you looked, happy. The rest is blurry.<br />
<br />
Why does it get foggier the harder I try to remember? For your sake, I promise to have clear thoughts from now until forever.<br />
<br />
I remember your mother telling me to always do what was right. Why did I forget that? Do you know what the right thing is? Your mother was a great lady, but I guess you already know that. Was she crying too when I…?<br />
<br />
Sorry, another blur; another promise broken.<br />
<br />
I do think about you despite the haze. You tend to be one of the only clear memories. You knew I was wrong. Why didn’t I listen to you? I tried to keep me in line, but I was too much like you.<br />
<br />
Stubborn.<br />
<br />
I hope you didn’t feel any pain. Call me a hypocrite, but I wouldn’t want you to feel pain. I love you. I love you at least 10 times less than you loved me, but I do. You don’t even have to say anything anymore. I know what you’re thinking.<br />
<br />
Do you know what I miss the most?<br />
<br />
I’m not sure how I can miss something when I can’t remember anything. I miss the way I could hear your heartbeat when you were cuddled up next to me. It always sounded jazzy. Maybe I won’t miss it tomorrow, maybe it’ll be something else all together, but it’s what I miss today.<br />
<br />
I have to tell you something before I go.
<br />
<br />
I promise this is the last time. It’s something I didn’t tell you enough.<br />
<br />
Or did I?<br />
<br />
Knowing who I was, I’m sure I didn’t.<br />
<br />
You’re beautiful.<br />
<br />
You really are.
</div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">15 Perfect Views I Love to Share</span><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4dh2uKfMdpZn2THE9XktG8OcMCLociUUWyJD5DZE-bvR3BpCE2okBXDoANCbHDWsvV0y6pvrfFdr5mUaVV30YVi_3B5qk7eKIIOANfBpgUjh48FlSyeOKKZdYGqa506Y0l6RZGr3CKk_K/s1600/1.+My+Aunt%27s+House+in+Connecticut.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4dh2uKfMdpZn2THE9XktG8OcMCLociUUWyJD5DZE-bvR3BpCE2okBXDoANCbHDWsvV0y6pvrfFdr5mUaVV30YVi_3B5qk7eKIIOANfBpgUjh48FlSyeOKKZdYGqa506Y0l6RZGr3CKk_K/s400/1.+My+Aunt%27s+House+in+Connecticut.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">1. A perfect view of the lake at my Aunt Kathy’s house.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0VBwbndREkd-qYHn0nxqrsg_aktRIBH0JXHpFwjh56fjZ8LuxBqp8sn6ueoG9SpTtL4UEEpdnNCkcl7iG7tOdZY-66IYRvAq_qf3hVrDqVfw9rJv5SPL2LkootKVQLXtCQMzkMT7P7IaP/s1600/2.+Yosemite+and+Half+Dome.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0VBwbndREkd-qYHn0nxqrsg_aktRIBH0JXHpFwjh56fjZ8LuxBqp8sn6ueoG9SpTtL4UEEpdnNCkcl7iG7tOdZY-66IYRvAq_qf3hVrDqVfw9rJv5SPL2LkootKVQLXtCQMzkMT7P7IaP/s400/2.+Yosemite+and+Half+Dome.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">2. A perfect view of Yosemite Valley and Half Dome.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp3C8r4KNm3qodscINXut0EZqlsJeN77dvh3dflCPuNqPYOJyznuW6iy-9z43cKRHdflaOVw__XmpAp7LjpYpBywxF-sdgoJnc1hzFwdQEvX8XPrtPMDEQ4BVQe4P2YWVb5o09GY5G9xzW/s1600/3.+Two+Brothers+Ford+at+LIberty+Island.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp3C8r4KNm3qodscINXut0EZqlsJeN77dvh3dflCPuNqPYOJyznuW6iy-9z43cKRHdflaOVw__XmpAp7LjpYpBywxF-sdgoJnc1hzFwdQEvX8XPrtPMDEQ4BVQe4P2YWVb5o09GY5G9xzW/s400/3.+Two+Brothers+Ford+at+LIberty+Island.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">3. A perfect view of New York City from Liberty Island…half-obscured by the big heads of two Brothers Ford.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx3-1JPF-xXPE5jK_ypYO_VF1R8Ic5aFWbmHNsxdX5TOlPtTtYx6GcwL0_vxXLO3idCRsaxwRtGoYMT0vdSQpI0Q2LLdDbkrkEE8aVobVoMO_fuyk-4d6cz7xhfac8glpa7FK2S6ZQhOWT/s1600/4.+RFK+Bridge+From+Apt.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx3-1JPF-xXPE5jK_ypYO_VF1R8Ic5aFWbmHNsxdX5TOlPtTtYx6GcwL0_vxXLO3idCRsaxwRtGoYMT0vdSQpI0Q2LLdDbkrkEE8aVobVoMO_fuyk-4d6cz7xhfac8glpa7FK2S6ZQhOWT/s400/4.+RFK+Bridge+From+Apt.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">4. A perfect view of the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge from my old apartment in Astoria, N.Y.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0CCeyo0N8nW0rqp3zVbzx2gLY_zl6GjgId1MCb9KVVCWQSV7ouLLHwEyEaazDx8wpMI3jggd0zKko3ifkPiP5DxpT2mmNT-NNfhwOclrl-TuNMlcn_fo1L9Mgu-WR94hCNXrkkttWQXEO/s1600/5.+Central+Park.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0CCeyo0N8nW0rqp3zVbzx2gLY_zl6GjgId1MCb9KVVCWQSV7ouLLHwEyEaazDx8wpMI3jggd0zKko3ifkPiP5DxpT2mmNT-NNfhwOclrl-TuNMlcn_fo1L9Mgu-WR94hCNXrkkttWQXEO/s400/5.+Central+Park.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">5. A perfect view of Central Park on a sunny day.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEW3bNOs7nxdgED1JNsNhnilCjrMXnXdA4KA4rEIxsUfpdYWZpLTYQdehsqr9XIPqR-p7c0L4jxbQ0-P4E8Mc2CvFu15dQb8ch436L_-i4mkm5QEqcPwTqPVEJiYcfZCS04B3Eio1QWJlO/s1600/6.+Macedonia+State+Park.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEW3bNOs7nxdgED1JNsNhnilCjrMXnXdA4KA4rEIxsUfpdYWZpLTYQdehsqr9XIPqR-p7c0L4jxbQ0-P4E8Mc2CvFu15dQb8ch436L_-i4mkm5QEqcPwTqPVEJiYcfZCS04B3Eio1QWJlO/s400/6.+Macedonia+State+Park.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">6. A perfect view from a hike at Macedonia State Park in Kent, Conn.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhueTfb4QENmbmAXK-NVyzVaaZ1pmyoN6J_qe7J8Re9HFG3B1sSOaoZCRAfSQOZVsbTcpsD9a_bNDQiY27wjoNyNAFXAKFv4OeqEpt7Q4ukXmtUM5-8qFASkFiAaaMPbpY5HhCDdYb3MT/s1600/7.+Simsbury+Air+Show.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhueTfb4QENmbmAXK-NVyzVaaZ1pmyoN6J_qe7J8Re9HFG3B1sSOaoZCRAfSQOZVsbTcpsD9a_bNDQiY27wjoNyNAFXAKFv4OeqEpt7Q4ukXmtUM5-8qFASkFiAaaMPbpY5HhCDdYb3MT/s400/7.+Simsbury+Air+Show.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">7. A perfect view of the morning sky from the Simsbury Air Show in 2011.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihNbTq690e11H1vVKBB14P1n6Np62hl-XB20XA2Lw37BKurOelI4ypqc9QW30VA0J9mkH7nqL2YK-Oy0kEzRWRpDRxbEMUH2-cGDuGzOYi1hepyEux8mjVF2tHUhcVPjKgK8apOGLhRZ1g/s1600/8.+An+Apple+Orchard+in+Upstate+New+York.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihNbTq690e11H1vVKBB14P1n6Np62hl-XB20XA2Lw37BKurOelI4ypqc9QW30VA0J9mkH7nqL2YK-Oy0kEzRWRpDRxbEMUH2-cGDuGzOYi1hepyEux8mjVF2tHUhcVPjKgK8apOGLhRZ1g/s400/8.+An+Apple+Orchard+in+Upstate+New+York.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">8. A perfect view of an apple orchard in upstate New York.</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3nHPrKj3vrcIKCsiy4t5yv_1k_2W1QCZ4Wyi9MiTYXysDxzpOEUikS1tGHNcAolb6GpTJQwoto1IGqiO_k0bcKR1hyphenhyphenhElDEEq2CCjgvfoolGvZ8ds-BFIVysiFJiN9Vc9wVnIqHaxRh1L/s1600/9.+Astoria+Park.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3nHPrKj3vrcIKCsiy4t5yv_1k_2W1QCZ4Wyi9MiTYXysDxzpOEUikS1tGHNcAolb6GpTJQwoto1IGqiO_k0bcKR1hyphenhyphenhElDEEq2CCjgvfoolGvZ8ds-BFIVysiFJiN9Vc9wVnIqHaxRh1L/s400/9.+Astoria+Park.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">9. A perfect view from my favorite writing spot in Astoria Park.</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY24r7hJzSc5u_GyGaknRqBFcwUvW7InWw7uKJSEG27RBRZ1GmuLw3zKM_hLAvXdCMhOikI6xwaJWoF30cMFXCGfJC63OYyvbJa97qmPPalvCFE0sHJruNaPTx4NXLdh2HFfErGMmTKGc-/s1600/10.+Toronto+During+a+Run.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY24r7hJzSc5u_GyGaknRqBFcwUvW7InWw7uKJSEG27RBRZ1GmuLw3zKM_hLAvXdCMhOikI6xwaJWoF30cMFXCGfJC63OYyvbJa97qmPPalvCFE0sHJruNaPTx4NXLdh2HFfErGMmTKGc-/s400/10.+Toronto+During+a+Run.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">10. A perfect view of the CN Tower in Toronto during a run.</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6N1QVtPEKuT44QLS8S-4GfAkgX0QZLSxKdEtgCBj89SP0EstsNUiIL-kJI2ehLGVEz3WEK0lGl9ELTSgQwpNrPgLzISUK9lTanBkOEAQttcUQPPU7fm3Rbw2tz3lpk57QEUP6vHOHxQVX/s1600/11.+North+Reading.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6N1QVtPEKuT44QLS8S-4GfAkgX0QZLSxKdEtgCBj89SP0EstsNUiIL-kJI2ehLGVEz3WEK0lGl9ELTSgQwpNrPgLzISUK9lTanBkOEAQttcUQPPU7fm3Rbw2tz3lpk57QEUP6vHOHxQVX/s400/11.+North+Reading.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">11. A perfect view of North Reading’s town center.</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqIWVQTBqOiHGnWLaPwM_J_ID2JWhL76B1XgRbDOSR36iHrU8ahIbKTIjYTR7TdZeflEmUkKXfbEOpU_HnyYfx7kP5D_vXrURoJ4v42eps1CzCef8-F-d7D-EjjS5F4Sf-PxgCQ9xAQiq4/s1600/12.+New+York+City+on+a+Balconey.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqIWVQTBqOiHGnWLaPwM_J_ID2JWhL76B1XgRbDOSR36iHrU8ahIbKTIjYTR7TdZeflEmUkKXfbEOpU_HnyYfx7kP5D_vXrURoJ4v42eps1CzCef8-F-d7D-EjjS5F4Sf-PxgCQ9xAQiq4/s400/12.+New+York+City+on+a+Balconey.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">12. A perfect view of New York City from a balcony on the East Side.</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM9xsl7Kkc-HYxfGosHeqfstH98MI19UcZQVmCt2_WoTFGNTxclRgNjXBOD79_0CUO2vTPj-1JZicFHMlsTaLfSzMh7p2VQRWJEg7ht5X3lHH-_YTpTWuFqBx444LNiIb8eZ94WOkt94dO/s1600/13.+Sunset+at+a+Beach+in+New+Hampshire.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM9xsl7Kkc-HYxfGosHeqfstH98MI19UcZQVmCt2_WoTFGNTxclRgNjXBOD79_0CUO2vTPj-1JZicFHMlsTaLfSzMh7p2VQRWJEg7ht5X3lHH-_YTpTWuFqBx444LNiIb8eZ94WOkt94dO/s400/13.+Sunset+at+a+Beach+in+New+Hampshire.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">13. A perfect view of a sunset on a beach in New Hampshire.</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAjT4I1f3gR_ROFhteCiiBQDFgJSDFdV3ZV-0YNINgXL-i05kOCjsiyoiu6K6tRw-V-rsphcbJP5OYQxq4hoFgHvbqI-AuQBnd_WOxk3WLbp6NrRZ3w_ODKectPzbwIoGP5sotyB38mWO8/s1600/14.+Boston+From+the+Top+of+Bunker+Hill.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAjT4I1f3gR_ROFhteCiiBQDFgJSDFdV3ZV-0YNINgXL-i05kOCjsiyoiu6K6tRw-V-rsphcbJP5OYQxq4hoFgHvbqI-AuQBnd_WOxk3WLbp6NrRZ3w_ODKectPzbwIoGP5sotyB38mWO8/s400/14.+Boston+From+the+Top+of+Bunker+Hill.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">14. A perfect view of Boston from the top of the Bunker Hill monument.</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhySNMRKayt4J2utGE6VFLGV5Dn4cxiDGW5vX485nrJZIOJpE57YnfLrt3jwVYpw3zuHkab_dtTM0OKnRcX9TSwCUnEy0nqxCtHMouhGO_cgrQ_sb3x0fPrjFN1d6hbW3VfxiHh8yfywMku/s1600/15.+Sunset+From+New+Office.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhySNMRKayt4J2utGE6VFLGV5Dn4cxiDGW5vX485nrJZIOJpE57YnfLrt3jwVYpw3zuHkab_dtTM0OKnRcX9TSwCUnEy0nqxCtHMouhGO_cgrQ_sb3x0fPrjFN1d6hbW3VfxiHh8yfywMku/s400/15.+Sunset+From+New+Office.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">15. A perfect view of a sunset from my new office in the Prudential Building. </span></td></tr>
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</div>
Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-60542847219314786182013-12-06T12:36:00.000-05:002014-05-10T13:55:00.931-04:0010 Songs My Parent’s Taught Me to Love<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
The hardest part of my day is choosing what music I’m going to listen to during the morning commute.
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On second thought, the hardest part of my day might be deciding which playlist to turn on when the writing muse demands my fingers start hitting the keyboard.
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Did my girlfriend’s living room lip-synch performance put me in the mood for the majesty of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SGbScr_4G0Y" target="_blank">Meat Loaf’s “I'll Do Anything for Love?”</a> Or does a gray Friday morning in Boston demand the constrained intensity of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lcPo2yfwQiE" target="_blank">Joshua James</a>? Is <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EctynXELdvM" target="_blank">Alabama Shakes’ “I Ain’t the Same”</a> the perfect song to listen to while plotting out the hell you’re going to make your main character walk through?
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These are the questions that try my musical soul on a daily basis.
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An enduring love for music has led me to a Springsteenian baptism in the front row at Madison Square Garden, an $11 Miller Lite-fueled epic night of U2 at MetLife Stadium, and my brothers and I across New England to experience Bob Dylan’s 4,356 renditions of Hollis Brown. <br />
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But every lifetime musical journey has to start somewhere. I’m blessed to have two parents who exposed me to a wide range of artists that not only produced great music, but also helped defined who my parents were at different stages of their lives. I listened to country music growing up because that’s the genre my mother grew up with. I listened to James Taylor and The Rascals because that’s who was playing when my father was hanging out with friends in high school. Every album, every song, every entertainer meant something to my parents, so they mean something to me.
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Here are 10 that they taught me to love forever:<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">“I Ain’t Gonna Eat Out My Heart Anymore” by The Rascals</span><br />
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The Rascals remind my father of high school. The Rascals remind me of my father. Eddie Brigati, Felix Cavaliere, Gene Cornish, and Dino Danelli formed his first favorite band as a teenager in 1965 and have been a staple in his music collection ever since. He’s fond of telling the story of his friend Peter’s band opening for The Rascals. The band only knew how to play at that point were songs by The Rascals, so they had to learn all new music before the performance.<br />
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Play this song loud.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">“Because You Loved Me” by Celine Dion</span><br />
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If you don’t love Celine Dion, we can’t be friends. She’s awesome and I’m pretty comfortable saying so. Disliking Dion is just un-American and un-Canadian in equal measure. <a href="http://www.grantland.com/blog/hollywood-prospectus/post/_/id/92390/lets-talk-about-celine-dion-why-she-still-matters" target="_blank">Wesley Morris said it best in a Grantland article</a> recently: “I've always imagined that when Beyoncé's hair is blowing it's Dion's voice powering it.” This particular song is special because it reminds me of the bond I have with my mother. I am on this earth because my mother decided not to murder me all those times she easily could have.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">“Shed a Little Light” by James Taylor</span><br />
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Since I included “Something in the Way She Moves” in my <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/04/10-songs-that-define-me.html" target="_blank">10 Songs That Define Me post</a>, I had to go with a different James Taylor song here. I could have easily picked something else off his first "Greatest Hits" album, but I choose “Shed a Little Light” because the hairs on my arm stand up whenever I hear the first notes of the song. It’s a humbling, inspiring, and purpose-driven arrangement that never fails to motivate me no matter what mood I’m in.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">“Wouldn’t Have Missed it for the World” by Ronnie Milsap</span><br />
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Sometime in the 1990s, my parents went to see Ronnie Milsap in Cape Cod, Mass. They were in the lobby of their hotel when the man himself walked in surrounded by bodyguards. My mother was able to break out of her catatonic state just long enough to take a picture. My father jokes that he had to keep her on lockdown to prevent her from stalking him that night, but it’s probably truer than she’d admit. Since I used <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/04/10-songs-that-define-me.html" target="_blank">my personal favorite “Lost in the Fifties” in a previous post</a>, I’m including one of her personal favorites.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">“Aqualung” by Jethro Tull</span><br />
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I remember raking leaves the first time I heard this album. I’m pretty sure my father handed me the cassette tape and said “listen to this right now.” This band also almost led to a reality that wouldn’t have included me and my brothers. I tell the tale in a <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/08/baseball-sunday-special-preview-of-sid.html" target="_blank">chapter in my novel</a> (with some creative license regarding some details):
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Jethro Tull had replaced Neil Young after Bridgeport. Hawk had no system whatsoever to his CD collection and it had taken Sid a good 10 minutes to find Aqualung. Sid could tell his father lapsed into a memory as soon as the first guitar rift rang out.
“You ever see them live,” Sid asked, already knowing the answer. The elder Sanford was just like his father before him with stories. They never got old to him, so that meant that it never got old to everyone else either.
“I saw them on tour when this album came out,” his father said smiling. “I went with my roommates Terry Gorman, Tommy Cane, and Bobby Irvin, who we used to call Fuzzy, and a friend of Terry; who had gotten us the tickets. We drove out to Dayton in his beat up Chevy Covair. What a piece of shit this car was; I think Terry was more impressed with the fact that the car made it both ways than he was with the concert.” His father laughed, the image must have been sitting right in front of his face.
“It’s weird, I can still picture it to this day,” the elder Sanford said, once again bobbing his head to the song. “Ian Anderson had such a presence on stage. What a concert. It really was something special.” That was the version Sid heard since before he could remember. His father had more tonight, however.
“Your mom was really pissed I went,” he said. “We were engaged at the time and she almost called everything off when I left. I had to do some pretty good begging when I got back.”
“Are you serious?” Sid asked. “You’re telling me all of us were a Jethro Tull concert away from being nonexistent?”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” his father said, adjusting in his seat, probably trying to make the feeling comeback in his knee. “But, yeah, that’s pretty much on the money.”
Sid let a few moments go by. He knew how deep his love for music went and probably would have done the same thing as his father. Music was one of the things that kept the family close together and a lot of that came from his father.
Sid smiled.
“Was it worth it?” Sid asked, knowing full well his father would never fall into that trap.
The elder Sanford just winked and kept driving.</blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">“Blue Clear Sky” by George Straight</span><br />
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There isn’t a bad George Strait song. The man simply can’t make bad music. . I’m pretty sure true love didn’t exist before George Straight sang about it. That being said, “Blue Clear Sky” is my favorite because of its optimistic tone and how it playfully captures the spontaneity of new love.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">“Tell Me Why” by Neil Young</span><br />
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I can’t leave Neil Young off this list. As my father says often, “Neil’s the man.” One of the reasons my father loves Young so much is that he can rock out on songs such as <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7KxiEjPCXA8" target="_blank">“Like a Hurricane,”</a> but also mellow out on tunes like <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K2WNs1FAPeA" target="_blank">“Silver and Gold”</a> without losing any credibility or magnetism. This song remains his favorite, and I even got to <a href="http://www.jckonline.com/blogs/louped-in/2013/08/19/10-neil-young-songs-that-reference-jewelry" target="_blank">work it into a jewelry blog during my tenure as <i>JCK Magazine</i>’s web editor</a>.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">“Whenever You Come Around” by Vince Gill</span><br />
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I can’t help but think of this Lewis Black bit whenever I hear Vince Gill:
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I swear I’m the sentimental writer I am because of listening to artists like Vince Gill with my mother. These lyrics are perfect and so is this song: “I get weak in the knees; and I lose my breath/Oh I try to speak but the words won't come I'm so scared to death/And when you smile the world turns upside down/ Whenever you come around.”<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
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</div>
</div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">"Tuesday Afternoon" by The Moody Blues</span><br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
One of the best Christmas presents I ever bought my father was a Moody Blues’ concert DVD. I’m pretty sure he wore it out. Few things are better in this world than listening to the album “Days of Future Passed” when you’re in the right mood.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/TjbaxtIKLPQ" width="400"></iframe>
</div>
</div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">“Now That We’re Alone” by Rodney Crowell</span><br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
I had a hard time choosing between Rodney Crowell, Conway Twitty, and Keith Whitley. I chose the song by Crowell because I listen to it often when I’m writing and it nicely sums up the value I learned from my parents to always be there for people when they need you. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/pTbwFEXmASM" width="400"></iframe>
</div>
</div>
<br />
<b>Also check out:
</b><br />
<ul>
<li><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/04/10-songs-that-define-me.html" target="_blank"><b>10 Songs That Define Me</b></a> </li>
</ul>
Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-24826132360210010842013-12-05T10:19:00.002-05:002013-12-05T10:24:47.520-05:00Cafe Rouge: 5 Poems to Enjoy a Drink With at the Hotel Pennsylvania<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<strong>I wrote the majority of my poetry during my sophomore and junior years of high school.</strong> During one productive stretch, I was pumping out five poems a day.
<br />
<br />
If you've read any of <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/09/nothing-says-friday-like-high-school.html" target="_blank">my previous poetry posts</a>, you know I hadn't lived through anything yet, so they read exactly like you'd imagine a sensitive 16-year-old boy's poetry to read.
However, my classmates back then believed I could make a career as a poet. This one critique from a classmate says it all:
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeSyk_z5R_4unnzo5HKlfcmUcBOVhq9HeqVql9-QhQGvUp_8abrccafdzA_Y-LV6wh-pkylQodaFjrPw17T-U63EZi5yJlmjRm4oo8zSaU_v7PiD1OzWBstQtBpY7-tXudDzELNccPILjM/s1600/writerlovenotes1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeSyk_z5R_4unnzo5HKlfcmUcBOVhq9HeqVql9-QhQGvUp_8abrccafdzA_Y-LV6wh-pkylQodaFjrPw17T-U63EZi5yJlmjRm4oo8zSaU_v7PiD1OzWBstQtBpY7-tXudDzELNccPILjM/s320/writerlovenotes1.JPG" width="243" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not so much...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Alas, the poetry career, and the aduring harem that comes with it, were not to be (what reality presented to me was much more satisfying in the end). Maybe I'll one day write a novel about a rock star poet and live vicariously through my degenerate, but kind-hearted, protagonist.
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">Pennsylvania 6-5000</span><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<br />
This song doesn’t go with any of the poetry you’re about to read, but I figured you could use something uplifting before things get grim. My high school jazz band did a rendition of this song that would knock your socks into George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. I find myself tapping my foot to the rhythm of that ensemble’s superior musical skill even when I don’t hear music playing. Grandma Ford loved attending my high school band’s performances because it brought her back to when she was hotel bar hopping in New York City in the 1940s. <br />
<br />
The headline of this blog refers to the lounge the Glenn Miller Orchestra played at the Hotel Pennsylvania in New York City. <em>The phone number for that hotel back in the day? 6-5000.</em> So swill a single malt scotch, get your heart rate up, and enjoy yourself before reading the inner demons of a white high school suburbanite. I’d also encourage shouting throughout the song in the most public place possible as nature intended. <br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">Home</span><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<br />
Come in if you like.
<br />
Remember to wipe your feet,
<br />
I don’t have a vacuum yet.
<br />
<br />
Have a seat if you like.
<br />
There’s plenty of room
<br />
on the matching sofa and chair.
<br />
<br />
Care for a drink?
<br />
Sorry,
<br />
the fridge is empty.
<br />
<br />
I’d ask you to spend the night,
<br />
but there isn’t even a <br />
bed for me.
<br />
<br />
Feel free to use the bathroom.
<br />
You might want to close
<br />
the windows and draw the blinds.
<br />
<br />
I’d cook you something,
<br />
but the stove doesn’t work,
<br />
and you wouldn’t want anything that was cooked on it.<br />
<br />
I’ll admit it’s not much now,
<br />
but just you wait.
<br />
In no time at all I’ll having looking like my home!
<br />
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">No Tears to Cry</span><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<br />
I have no tears to cry;
<br />
no tears to tenderly wipe away.
<br />
<br />
I have no tears to cry;
<br />
no tears to wash away the pain.
<br />
<br />
I have no tears to cry;
<br />
no tears to tickle my cheek.
<br />
<br />
I have no tears to cry;
<br />
no tears to cloud my weary eyes.
<br />
<br />
I have no tears to cry;
<br />
no tears to mask my fears.
<br />
<br />
I have no tears to cry;
<br />
no tears to match your own.
<br />
<br />
I have no tears to cry;
<br />
no tears to share your burden.
<br />
<br />
Lend me your tears,
<br />
so you have no tears to cry.
<br />
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">This Night</span><br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
My blond beauty empties her heart this night.
<br />
On this night, her red rose petals die.
<br />
My blond beauty cries in my arms in fright.
<br />
<br />
On this night, for the rebel she cries.
<br />
On this night, in her music she hides.
<br />
My blond beauty empties her heart this night.
<br />
<br />
On this night, for the creatures she strives.
<br />
On this night, her beauty knows no pride.
<br />
My blond beauty cries in my arms in fright.
<br />
<br />
On this night, she has no room for lies.
<br />
On this night, she has no wings to fly.
<br />
My blond beauty empties her heart this night.
<br />
<br />
On this night, despair fills both eyes.
<br />
On this night, the bitter winds sigh.
<br />
My blond beauty cries in my arms in fright.<br />
<br />
On this night, the angels weep on high.
<br />
On this night, she waves her world goodbye.
<br />
My blond beauty empties her heart this night.
<br />
My blond beauty cries in my arms in fright.
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7i0fCYibK6nO9RVtjVteRMkhKAT1fXuvMllRDlzyJxmsInlY2_lpRVmhymG3IzbNV4Fg48TzJQ3vDAayydynqiBiqMSvQTNK5GusPmdSCQp7Lq5p06N4m_rIP5JhgwkoIQ56KiXes_rOg/s1600/writerlovenote2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7i0fCYibK6nO9RVtjVteRMkhKAT1fXuvMllRDlzyJxmsInlY2_lpRVmhymG3IzbNV4Fg48TzJQ3vDAayydynqiBiqMSvQTNK5GusPmdSCQp7Lq5p06N4m_rIP5JhgwkoIQ56KiXes_rOg/s320/writerlovenote2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More inspirational notes from high school English class.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">Her Word Say to Me, “I Love You”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
Her words of compassion fill
<br />
my night with wonderful worries,
<br />
as they say to me, “I love you.”
<br />
<br />
They abandon all that she
<br />
has fought so hard to retain,
<br />
just to say to me, “I love you.”
<br />
<br />
They spell out the fabric of her gentleness and strength,
<br />
vanquishing any thoughts of misery and dank drips,
<br />
with a simple, “I love you.”
<br />
<br />
Her words cascade, cool and clear,<br />
down the folded page of recaptured dreams of fate,
<br />
with the words, “I love you.”
<br />
<br />
Her dazzling blue baby’s find rest in the late evening,
<br />
her anxious mind uncoils around my loving touch,
<br />
as my words say to her, “I love you, too.”
<br />
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">On the Edge of Heaven</span><br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
Those storm laden clouds are rushing down
<br />
and clash with that sun streaked blaze of sky<br />
and form a nothing….and then a nothingness.<br />
<br />
I watch those cherubs cry out loud <br />
and met those demons groans,
<br />
both merging into a song silent.
<br />
<br />
Those divine doves toil
<br />
with deadly assassin crows <br />
in biting air of hostile tranquility.
<br />
<br />
I feel that pleasant prairie breeze
<br />
collide with scalding typhoons
<br />
that reach in and seduce the breath of lifeless souls.
<br />
<br />
Here, the edge of heaven waits for me,
<br />
losing the virtuous on the backs of the wicked,
<br />
long waiting to be saved.
</div>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>When you’re done
snapping your fingers, check out:</b><br />
<ul>
<li><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/09/nothing-says-friday-like-high-school.html" target="_blank"> Good Friday: Take 5 Poems to Bed With You This Weekend </a></b> </li>
</ul>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<ul>
<li><b><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2012/10/birth-of-cool-3-poems-you-can-rest-your.html" target="_blank">Birth of the Cool: 3 Poems You Can Rest Your Moon Dreams On</a></b></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/07/from-archives-summer-poetry.html" target="_blank">From the Archives: Summer Poetry</a></b></li>
</ul>
</blockquote>
<!--EndFragment-->
Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-4016726386906821532013-11-26T12:19:00.002-05:002013-11-26T12:43:53.304-05:00A Connecticut Yankee in David Ortiz’s Court<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<strong>I found my first Boston apartment the day <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=suhGDF6TvY0" target="_blank">the Red Sox won the 2013 World Series</a>.*
</strong><br />
<br />
The previous days had been a clinic in urban logistics. A combination of cars, buses, trains, subways, new Boston connections, and future in-laws led me to finding the perfect apartment to start my life as a Massachusetts resident. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn-fhc77v-K7lYDpVZ0JmXWUyxkQfPsW-lLJtRVIDBUIARjJbhT-7IhUu_AvH3ENDJZ_tHHHvazhsgIM00kSxxtPVeDV2Or-tYt59iYHvjpiUy5WUXukNj3FD5kl9Gn-MZQj1ALfU1bRKa/s1600/citgo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn-fhc77v-K7lYDpVZ0JmXWUyxkQfPsW-lLJtRVIDBUIARjJbhT-7IhUu_AvH3ENDJZ_tHHHvazhsgIM00kSxxtPVeDV2Or-tYt59iYHvjpiUy5WUXukNj3FD5kl9Gn-MZQj1ALfU1bRKa/s320/citgo.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I never anticipated an apartment hunt would include this.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I ended up having dinner with the future Mrs. Hardball Heart’s mother and grandparents after her father ending up scoring tickets to the game. Truth be told, I helped hire my girlfriend two years ago at my previous job, so neither one of us would have envisioned me having a beer with her Nana Shirley on my own. <br />
<br />
I didn’t see the <a href="http://sports.yahoo.com/news/red-sox-beat-cardinals-win-world-series-034244489--mlb.html" target="_blank">Red Sox clinch their first World Series at home in more than 90 years</a>. I fell asleep on the couch opposite my girlfriend’s mother during the game. I woke up sometime in the seventh inning, and decided my darkened guest room at the far end of the house would be a much more suitable place for a Yankees fan to endure the inevitable. My girlfriend, bless her heart, didn’t wake me up after celebrating as close to the field without being on it until the early morning hours. <br />
<br />
Boston’s victory wasn’t nearly as painful as their championships in 2004 and 2007. The next morning, I traded texts back and forth with my mother on how our despair was eased with the knowledge that <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/01/baseball-bloodlines-laugh-ill-never.html" target="_blank">my late Uncle Pit was in his glory somewhere</a>. Uncle Pit also left behind his brother Bee, a man who gladly took over his duty of calling my mother after every Red Sox win. I heard a lot of teasing in French during the four months I lived at home, and heard more than a few curses with every wager my mother lost. As expected, Bee didn’t waste any time in needling her. However, because of the love we have for those two men, my mother and I were celebrating on the inside more than we’ll ever admit. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1opY9sXrLrRYl2LsHfsq82XGVuC0M_Wg9F5nZm3NiewqxJXkT43yWLNpvtD0ns89-CrcSMmp4RxmrYYaezXxsBn4QdgLjFJag9B9Eqr5wcfefWtgH6VxYu1zdjeXywG5GYe8Q9EmfppzG/s1600/fenwaywithsteph.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1opY9sXrLrRYl2LsHfsq82XGVuC0M_Wg9F5nZm3NiewqxJXkT43yWLNpvtD0ns89-CrcSMmp4RxmrYYaezXxsBn4QdgLjFJag9B9Eqr5wcfefWtgH6VxYu1zdjeXywG5GYe8Q9EmfppzG/s320/fenwaywithsteph.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My girlfriend and I at Fenway Park for the team's Mariano Rivera tribute.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My father, who had resigned himself to the fact it was the Red Sox were a team of destiny far earlier than the rest of us, said that the team had “stepped in shit” all season.
<br />
<br />
“They don’t go on long losing streaks, they figure out ways to win close games, and they don’t make any mistakes,” He said on more than on occasion. “Basically, the opposite of what the Yankees do.”
<br />
<br />
Despite the agony of watching the Red Sox celebration, my family admires and upholds the values the team triumphed with: hard work, perseverance, and an unshakable faith in the people around them. I despaired for humanity when <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/sports/baseball/red-sox-dh-ortiz-finishes-boston-mayoral-election-article-1.1510330" target="_blank">David Ortiz finished third in Boston’s recent mayoral race</a>, but couldn’t suppress a grin seeing <a href="http://espn.go.com/boston/mlb/story/_/id/9915584/boston-red-sox-take-ride-duck-boats-world-series-parade" target="_blank">Ortiz and his teammates ride duck boats around the city during the World Series parade</a>. I do love me some duck boats. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgICp7l3DxAA99tCE_IvUp5sXrZ8emApMedRVJM4eT404F7YSvfO16rQ10GbG9P2lwDfmrob50gqwK-z_Lbni0jynlctK1V7-hXl-Api4EzLIAvPQfIcChLUHedkJPcCvIMuKG7M2fs0_NZ/s1600/mofenway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgICp7l3DxAA99tCE_IvUp5sXrZ8emApMedRVJM4eT404F7YSvfO16rQ10GbG9P2lwDfmrob50gqwK-z_Lbni0jynlctK1V7-hXl-Api4EzLIAvPQfIcChLUHedkJPcCvIMuKG7M2fs0_NZ/s320/mofenway.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Of all the places I thought I'd say goodbye to Mo in person...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Now that I call Boston home, I’ll have to live with the public exuberance that comes with winning a major sports championship. The hot stove may come with plenty of issues for the Red Sox brass, but nothing eases tense player negotiations like winning. I won’t even be able to take solace in the coming of spring because of the inevitable raising of championship banners and distribution of World Series rings. I also now work on the side of the Prudential Building that overlooks Fenway Park. It ruins a perfectly good view of the sunset that is getting earlier each day. I can’t help but think of my Uncle Pit chuckling every time I’m confronted with the green walls that I’ve despised for all my years.
<br />
<br />
What I can rejoice in is that I chose to live in a city where I walked the Freedom Trail with my father in the sixth grade, enjoyed <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/04/brothers-baseball-and-beer-art-of.html" target="_blank">beers and Bob Dylan with the Brothers Ford</a>, and spent the summer falling in love with.
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmERv8aPzDjczUABGRpqHNFCLwkWB7lkINYHuvOF7py84u6EQS3VFmLAYOcJxzA4ks5Y30l1xaYGltk73H8ZGj5GqCw3ou7KVUDGIRIiUn14Pv_0_2vXGCwoE6fgK8gS9cceB7ugyemEvd/s1600/commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmERv8aPzDjczUABGRpqHNFCLwkWB7lkINYHuvOF7py84u6EQS3VFmLAYOcJxzA4ks5Y30l1xaYGltk73H8ZGj5GqCw3ou7KVUDGIRIiUn14Pv_0_2vXGCwoE6fgK8gS9cceB7ugyemEvd/s320/commons.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I hope to enjoy Boston Commons again when the weather warms up in August.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My father is concerned I’ll turn colors, in large part to maintain my personal safety. Despite the fact my beautiful girlfriend can be pretty persuasive, that will never happen. The <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2011/07/baseball-beginnings-on-derek-jeter.html" target="_blank">Yankees have meant too much to me and my family</a> that to abandon them after one bad year would mean I’d be turning my back on everything I’ve built and believe in. My twenties were a war; it’s time for peace.
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI5LNmutI9V5Hh3eIz5usO8uPGUyGfQPWirgsPSBKV9422PJtT59det3cpxkrg0Tl_8oj2XX7wyVhEgExqZEPy4APgBcJCwbniVeO3NpuULLibw-jjEadNIHI1mKwS6gK7dmGeXGQSxslL/s1600/cheers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI5LNmutI9V5Hh3eIz5usO8uPGUyGfQPWirgsPSBKV9422PJtT59det3cpxkrg0Tl_8oj2XX7wyVhEgExqZEPy4APgBcJCwbniVeO3NpuULLibw-jjEadNIHI1mKwS6gK7dmGeXGQSxslL/s320/cheers.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I started watching <em>Cheers</em> roughly a year before I ended up moving to Boston. I finished the series not long after this picture was taken. Best tourist trap ever. </td></tr>
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I moved to <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/07/lords-prayer.html" target="_blank">New York City a year after September 11th</a>. I had the honor and privilege of witnessing, and contributing to, a city rebuilding itself without losing any of the qualities that made it special and strong. Bill Maher got into trouble recently for saying <a href="http://www.bostonmagazine.com/news/blog/2013/11/14/bill-maher-boston-marathon-city-leveled-godzilla/" target="_blank">“your city wasn’t leveled by Godzilla”</a> in response to Red Sox players placing their World Series trophy at the starting line of the Boston Marathon as a tribute to the bombing victims. Setting aside for a moment that <em>Anthony Weiner</em> appeared more human than Mr. Maher, I couldn’t have been more disappointed by comments from a New Yorker. As I found myself once again a transplant in a city shrugging off the aftermath of violent extremism, I could think of only one thing when I saw that Red Sox jersey draped over a World Series trophy on a hallowed stretch of asphalt:
<br />
<br />
This is my city. I love it here.
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<br />
<em>* Watching the Red Sox win up close was such a traumatic experience that I’m just now able to write about it.</em>
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Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-69108940714773694372013-11-19T19:48:00.000-05:002013-11-19T19:48:39.709-05:00150 Years Later: The Gettysburg Address<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<i>Since it’s the 150th anniversary of President Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, I thought I’d share a paper I had to write for grad school on the subject. When in doubt, always listen to Lincoln. </i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lincoln</td></tr>
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On November 19, 1863, President Abraham Lincoln delivered a short speech at the dedication of the national cemetery at Gettysburg. The ground he stood on had been fought over by Confederate and Union forces just four months prior, and the battle had signaled the turning point of the war for the Federals. Speaking for just over two minutes and employing a little over 250 words, Lincoln added to his oratorical legend and provided Americans with an enduring expression of freedom that has been recited over and over again in classrooms throughout the country. However, since the Confederacy was defeated and Lincoln is credited with preserving the Union, there is often little discussion in history classes about how the speech was originally received by the public and what the wording and context of the address actually meant for the country at that point in time. In hindsight, Lincoln’s address proved to be extraordinary, but why is that? How did the people at that dedication react and did it have the same effect as other famous American documents, such as the Declaration of Independence? Using methods —examining first-hand accounts and the context surrounding the event and scrutinizing the words Lincoln spoke— detailed in <i>After the Fact</i>, my goal is to delve deeper into those questions and gain a different perspective on why Lincoln’s address remains one of America’s best known speeches.<br />
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The first method I employed to determine the Gettysburg Address’ effectiveness was to examine first-hands accounts. At the time of the address, it is important to remember that Lincoln had been constantly attacked on all sides since taking office in 1861. He was hammered politically, militarily and personally. He was having trouble finding a general that could lead an army that vastly outnumbered its opponent in manpower as well as supplies. The Union army suffered one embarrassing loss after another, and nothing seemed to help stem the tide. Lincoln was also battling members of his cabinet, aggressive political opponents that seized on every failure and an increasingly war weary American people bled dry by constant warfare. It is no surprise then that once Lincoln finished delivering the address and sat back down on that November day, the initial public reaction was mixed. Many who were there actually missed the speech entirely since it was so brief. <i>The Chicago Times</i> gave a scathing review the next day, in which it wrote, “The cheek of every American must tingle with shame as he reads the silly, flat and dishwatery utterances of the man who has to be pointed out to intelligent foreigners as the President of the United States.”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7207119294536243867#1" name="top1"><sup>1</sup></a> Initially, even Lincoln had misgivings about the speech he had just delivered, saying to a friend that it was “a flat failure and people are disappointed.”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7207119294536243867#2" name="top1"><sup>2</sup></a> Even members of his own party thought little of him, even before the speech. Thaddeus Stevens remarked before the event that Lincoln was a “dead card” in the party.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7207119294536243867#3" name="top1"><sup>3</sup></a> Many thought the speech was unworthy of the event and that Edward Everett’s two-hour remarks preceding Lincoln were better suited for the occasion.<br />
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From Ken Burns' <i>The Civil War</i></div>
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These first-hand accounts give us some first impressions of the address, but they don’t fully address all the questions a historian might have in determining its historical value. Our history would be incomplete, much like if we relied on John Smith’s account of the Indians in Chapter One of <i>After the Fact</i>, where he describes the ceremonies he sees in detail without trying to uncover the reasons behind the Indians behavior. While first hand accounts are valuable as a way of getting a sense of what the actual event was like, they contain all the biases of the person giving the account. To further justify the Gettysburg Address place in history, one must also look at the context surrounding the speech. 1863 saw the Civil War enter its third bloody year. Lincoln was stressed with the execution of the war, planning for re-election and dealing with his son’s health. 1862 had proven to be a horrendous failure for Union forces and Lincoln’s mind began to formulate a different strategy in defeating the Confederacy. Lincoln had long struggled to define the war as a means to preserve the Union and not a means to abolish slavery. This strategic definition of Northern goals not only prevented anti-war Democrats from collecting more ammunition to use against him, but it also prevented desertions from his army that might occur if they disagreed with why the war was being fought. After a year in which defeat followed defeat, Lincoln decided that freeing slaves was a “military necessity”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7207119294536243867#4" name="top4"><sup>4</sup></a> and inflamed both his supporters and enemies by signing into law the Emancipation Proclamation early in January 1863. The Proclamation freed slaves in non-Union held territories, transformed “Union forces into armies of liberation” and “invited slaves to help” win the war.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7207119294536243867#5" name="top5"><sup>5</sup></a> Lincoln was referred to as a “half-witted usurper” and that the proclamation was “monstrous, imprudent, and heinous…insulting to God as to man, for it declares those ‘equal’ whom God created ‘unequal.’”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7207119294536243867#6" name="top6"><sup>6</sup></a> Lincoln survived this political onslaught easier after the victories at Gettysburg and Vicksburg galvanized the North and his address was an affirmation to friend and foe alike that there was no going back to the old Union.<br />
<br />
Also, most of the negative reactions to Lincoln’s address don’t take into consideration that Lincoln was not supposed to be the featured speaker that day. Everett took the top billing and gave a long speech that reflected that. Lincoln accepted the invitation to attend the dedication under the pretense that his remarks were to be brief. Also, not all the initial reactions were negative. Everett wrote to Lincoln after the event and said, “I should be glad if I could flatter myself that I came as near the central idea of the occasion, in two hours, as you did in two minutes.”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7207119294536243867#7" name="top7"><sup>7</sup></a><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Life Mask of Lincoln at the Smithsonian</td></tr>
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Closely examining the words Lincoln uses also gives one a different perspective on his address. The address reads:<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. </blockquote>
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Lincoln’s language touches on older themes in the American experience. His words are heavily influenced by Jefferson’s Declaration of Independence. He employs this type of rhetoric for a specific reason. After calling on the country to embrace his Emancipation Proclamation, he is reiterating to those who doubt him that he will follow through on his course without fail. Throughout this address he reinforces that he has made up his mind on the issue of slavery and is trying to rally people to support his cause. He insists that this war and crisis is more than just preserving the Union as it was. Lincoln states that the nation is undergoing a “new birth of freedom.” In fact, the word Union does not appear once in this address, while he employs the word “nation” several times. This is further evidence that Lincoln was preparing the country for life after the war, in which there would be a new nation in replace of the old. His words evoke a nationalism that the Declaration evoked “four score and seven years ago.” Lincoln places the birth of the nation with the Declaration, not with the defeat of the British and writing of the Constitution. While the Emancipation Proclamation laid the blueprint for his plans, this address was a call to arms to the public. By including the phrase, “government of the people, by the people, for the people,” Lincoln is making sure the public knows that he is not the depot his critics make him out to be and that there would be no government without their support. He is taking the moral high ground, while anti-war Democrats are advocating peace terms with the enemies instead of fighting tooth and nail to birth a new freedom for a republic whose values were first establish in Jefferson’s Declaration.<br />
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Lincoln’s words also provided a rallying cry for Federal troops, as opposed to providing them an excuse to abandon the cause. By uttering phrases such as the world “can never forget what they did here,” “from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion” and “we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain,” Lincoln made it clear to his forces that the men that had fought and died on this battlefield did not do so for an empty cause. Up to this point, the Southerners arguably had more incentive to fight, considering that they believed they were doing so to fend off an invading army. The Union forces on the other hand, not only had to contend with inept generals, but also with an unclear mandate. After winning a fierce battle on its own northern soil, Federal troops now had a sense of what they were fighting for and were more likely to give up their lives, if not for the cause of abolition, then to preserve and defend the memory of their fallen comrades.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lincoln Memorial at Dusk</td></tr>
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In conclusion, one can get a better sense of why the Gettysburg Address continues to be a celebrated piece of American history by examining first-hand accounts, the context in which the speech was given and the words Lincoln spoke. It is my aim as a future historian to provide readers with insights like those above enabling them to think critically about every event in American history, good and bad.</div>
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="1"><b>1 </b></a>Shelby Foote, The Civil War Vol, 2, 832<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7207119294536243867#top1"><sup>↩</sup></a></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="2"><b>2 </b></a>Foote 832<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7207119294536243867#top3"><sup>↩</sup></a></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="3"><b>3 </b></a>Foote 829<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7207119294536243867#top3"><sup>↩</sup></a></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="4"><b>4 </b></a>James McPherson, Battle Cry of Freedom 563<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7207119294536243867#top4"><sup>↩</sup></a></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="5"><b>5</b></a>McPherson 558<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7207119294536243867#top5"><sup>↩</sup></a></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="6"><b>6 </b></a>McPherson 594<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7207119294536243867#top6"><sup>↩</sup></a></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="7"><b>7 </b></a>Foote 833<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7207119294536243867#top7"><sup>↩</sup></a><br />
</span></span>Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-46177017160118184752013-10-31T21:31:00.000-04:002013-10-31T21:34:12.478-04:00Wednesday Morning Breakfast: Black Coffee and Glazed Doughnuts <div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<b>I hear crying from the driver’s seat as I get into the car. </b><br />
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Before I can ask what’s wrong, my Aunt Catherine stops her fake wailing and smiles.
“I’m going to miss you so much,” she says hugging me. “It’s been so good having you home.”<br />
<br />
She’s giving me yet another ride to the Hartford bus station. I’m making my way to Boston again, but this time it isn’t for a weekend visit with my girlfriend Stephanie. This time, I’m headed to my adopted city to find an apartment so I can start my new job the following Monday. Sooner rather than later, I’ll be making a one-way trip, once again leaving my home state.<br />
<br />
She does what she always does on these car rides. She argues about politics, talks about how much she misses my cousin Caryn and her family in Florida, and questions when I’m going to be putting a ring on Stephanie’s finger. By the time we get to Union Station, I don’t want our time to end.<br />
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“Get me updated on everything,” she says while giving me another long hug. “Text me details. I love you!”<br />
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I lean back in my seat on the bus. It’s been a stressful, cathartic, inspiring, and, ultimately, triumphant four months. Every good moment that’s occurred up to this point is made that much sweeter because of the good people I had supporting me since early August. I smile as the bus departs and I think back to how this story began. It started by me walking into Riverside Diner in Bristol, Conn., to meet my Aunt Catherine for our first Wednesday morning breakfast.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Wednesday Morning Breakfast crew: Ken Ford, Tante Peewee, Aunt Catherine, and me</td></tr>
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Okay, that’s the romantic version of how all this process began.<br />
<br />
In reality, it started with me getting laid off from my job in New York City. The news came as Stephanie and I were deciding how we would make our relationship work when she moved back to Boston and I was still in Queens. Would I eventually move to Boston? Would we alternate weekends in Boston and New York? Would we meet in the middle? Did we really want to endure a long distance relationship?<br />
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All those questions became mute when I found out I wasn’t going to be the web editor for <i>JCKonline</i> for much longer. The final verdict: I would move home to Connecticut and work remotely for <i>JCK</i> while they transitioned to a new digital team. I’d hunt for jobs and apartments in the meantime.<br />
<br />
“Did you ever think when you hired me that you’d be driving your stuff out of New York with me in a UHaul?” Stephanie asked as I navigated through Saturday morning traffic in the Bronx.<br />
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“No, I can’t say that I wrote the script up that way,” I replied.<br />
<br />
Stephanie went home that Sunday and I found myself alone in my boyhood room that night after both of my roommates (ahem, parents) went to bed. A thought occurred to me and I rifled through my contact list on my phone. I sent a quick text to my Aunt Catherine.<br />
<br />
<i>You want to do breakfast one day this week? </i><br />
<br />
She said yes, and we made plans to meet at a diner not far from my house on Wednesday. It was the best idea I had all summer.<br />
<br />
It was just she and I that morning and we acted like we had been meeting for breakfast like this forever. I updated her on everything that had happened to me in New York City the last couple of years and the plans I was making to get to Boston. She filled me in on her new Bible study class, how her house was quieter since Caryn and her four kids left for Florida, and how her health had improved recently.<br />
<br />
“We’re lucky that something so good came out of what was an awful situation,” She told me that morning. She was referring to her sister—my older brother Tom’s mother—who died of cancer at a young age. My father then met and married my mother and the rest, as they say, is history. She gives me credit for bringing the two families together, but really, it’s because both sides had hearts so big it would have happened with or without me. My brother Patrick and I were just lucky to be the end results of all that love.<br />
<br />
She also told me for the 50th time that she wanted me to write her eulogy (which never fails to make my older brother start complaining). I finished what felt like my fifth cup of coffee. As the hot black liquid made it’s way down my throat, I realized our breakfast tradition was older than that morning.<br />
<br />
Growing up, Friday nights were more often than not spent at my Aunt Catherine and Uncle Dennis’ house. Our cousin Judy used to babysit for Patrick and I every afternoon after school, so we became really close. We never wanted to leave that house when one of my parents came to pick us up.<br />
<br />
The best part of the sleepover was spending the morning with my Aunt Catherine. My cousins always slept late, but Patrick and I would be awake as soon as we heard her walk in the front door. We knew she’d be carrying delicious glazed doughnuts from the local bakery. The two of us would pig out while she enjoyed a doughnut of her own with her steaming black coffee. After that, she’d put the leash on their dog Fred and head out to the front porch for a cigarette. Patrick and I would sit right next to her on the bench, or on the front porch steps and watch the neighborhood. Occasionally, there would be a thunderstorm or snowstorm to enjoy. After that, Judy would be awake, and we jumped right into whatever adventures the three of us thought up. I remember thinking then that black coffee and glazed donuts with my Aunt Catherine were a great way to kick start a Saturday.<br />
<br />
"Live for today," Aunt Cathy said, snapping me out of my memory. "Family is everything."<br />
<br />
That’s when I asked her if she wanted to make this a weekly tradition.<br />
<br />
The cast of characters that joined us changed throughout the summer and fall. My father usually had Wednesdays off, so he quickly became a permanent Wednesday Morning Breakfaster. My Tante Peewee made more than one appearance, and we moved our date to Sunday once so my mother and Stephanie could join us. My Uncle Dennis made a guest appearance at what turned out to be our last breakfast. I found out I landed a job in Boston a few hours after we forked the last helping of eggs into our mouths.<br />
<br />
My Aunt Catherine was one of my first texts and while she was happy for me, she clearly had mixed feelings about it. Emotions that she had no trouble expressing as I hopped into her car this past Tuesday.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBVZx772PNoTSsj7_vRBKOexnxVWCt0H0ZYGtQlnEUItU6e-Kz8leVGGsLZ_dF-mW3HBO-opDo1IqaCuSFDBha5waWZNzA6Mlu16W4IxJer1cv2vJoKzIuEpwiXmzy1200qD2RdvLfK946/s1600/IMG_3291.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBVZx772PNoTSsj7_vRBKOexnxVWCt0H0ZYGtQlnEUItU6e-Kz8leVGGsLZ_dF-mW3HBO-opDo1IqaCuSFDBha5waWZNzA6Mlu16W4IxJer1cv2vJoKzIuEpwiXmzy1200qD2RdvLfK946/s400/IMG_3291.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Add Aunt Cathy and me<br />
Christmas Eve 2010</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I’m nearing Boston. I can see the city skyline in the distance. It’s not long before the bus is driving by Fenway Park, which is preparing for Game 6 of the World Series.<br />
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As I make my way out of the station and to the first apartment appointment, I can’t help but chuckle over something my Aunt Catherine said before my job interview several weeks ago.<br />
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<i>“If you need a reference, you can send them to your 63-year-old aunt and she’ll set them straight.” </i><br />
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The spirit of her message and love gets me over the finish line. I’m writing this in a Starbucks and I’m raising a hot, black coffee in her honor.<br />
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I can’t wait for our next breakfast so I can tell her all about it.
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Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-86861220204920055772013-10-05T13:38:00.000-04:002013-10-06T09:15:43.917-04:0015 More Family Photos I Couldn’t Live Without<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
<b>Earlier this year, I featured <a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2013/04/15-family-photos-i-couldnt-live-without.html" target="_blank">15 family photos I couldn’t live without</a>. </b><br />
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The editing process getting it down to 15 was torture. Good thing everyone loves a series!<br />
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My mother keeps unearthing photos of Blanchettes and Fords that we spend all night scanning and re-touching. It not only has brought us closer as mother and son, but has put us in contact with relatives all over the country that are eager to share in our discoveries.<br />
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In honor of the above, and the family members that are no longer with us, here are 15 more photos that I could never part with.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi59glkBVzT-PhC7YkrksRenJMjcLJgxSr0ciXsIp5xu4ZAmZZsQ2I4VJcW8WaejahqXlhpWU69SMODh2ROANp3W-ACvTp8ARwG2HeHtIEd1Azw5fcEhywlmGtrzaviIm4f86Tv75Q6mGMM/s1600/1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi59glkBVzT-PhC7YkrksRenJMjcLJgxSr0ciXsIp5xu4ZAmZZsQ2I4VJcW8WaejahqXlhpWU69SMODh2ROANp3W-ACvTp8ARwG2HeHtIEd1Azw5fcEhywlmGtrzaviIm4f86Tv75Q6mGMM/s400/1.png" width="312" /></a></div>
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You wouldn’t know by looking at my Uncle Clifford’s smile in this picture of him as a boy, but he was the embodiment of the Blanchette temper. I was too young to appreciate him while he was alive, but I’m proud to say I’ve carried on a little bit of his temperamental legacy (my mother would say much more than a little bit). </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht2usjSqhQmiexzI5J2r9tPJD8L416OKYQ26ojM2zHhmKtoVw7O5eYmAOSAR3IzL8Re3SyG6evjpKq83Db74EIhiilvLCZRAl8mBgl_DivpKFqr9V5Gz67GzvP4nRfaaoAEQvPULPdWxTK/s1600/2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht2usjSqhQmiexzI5J2r9tPJD8L416OKYQ26ojM2zHhmKtoVw7O5eYmAOSAR3IzL8Re3SyG6evjpKq83Db74EIhiilvLCZRAl8mBgl_DivpKFqr9V5Gz67GzvP4nRfaaoAEQvPULPdWxTK/s400/2.jpeg" width="276" /></a> </div>
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My dapper Uncle Roland posing for a picture. The Blanchette man clean up very well…before someone hands them a drink. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Tj9p0iQaR8CGcSzC645vx2YgJ02jFaH769z_qQlL7gSJcHyZt06gbF9VPJUKtERPEk5cdTa-oCkcUMJzh3AIXXkiYcrn1UDjbOl1SI_ZN35YLvxScgrrBPbcd5UuQR65qqaqK4POBNpV/s1600/3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Tj9p0iQaR8CGcSzC645vx2YgJ02jFaH769z_qQlL7gSJcHyZt06gbF9VPJUKtERPEk5cdTa-oCkcUMJzh3AIXXkiYcrn1UDjbOl1SI_ZN35YLvxScgrrBPbcd5UuQR65qqaqK4POBNpV/s400/3.jpg" width="400" /></a> </div>
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My mother was born and raised on a farm in upstate Maine. How upstate people ask me? As evident from this massive snow pile <a href="http://www.jckonline.com/blogs/louped-in/2012/08/25/my-peperes-pocket-watch" target="_blank">my pépère</a>, mother, and Uncle Bobby are standing on, just about as far north as you can go in the continental United States. Across the street is Canada. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirampcjcK94KiOl1HZswwmH6QeOpj7zJfCAf2TxwR6LQyWK3DWrobkF_0vxdohPtyEv6vAGuT8y1faji2PzY6Le-Ou8HUtNz7i1spROtdROtyoWckh1C3-DEiecEsb0b9yfWGcvEJiKTTA/s1600/4.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirampcjcK94KiOl1HZswwmH6QeOpj7zJfCAf2TxwR6LQyWK3DWrobkF_0vxdohPtyEv6vAGuT8y1faji2PzY6Le-Ou8HUtNz7i1spROtdROtyoWckh1C3-DEiecEsb0b9yfWGcvEJiKTTA/s400/4.png" width="400" /></a> </div>
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I could write a novel about this photo of my mother. And one day, I probably will. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpcRrQtBXvONn-nG-_WFfzb26DMIDH2oX9BFCDgRi8iFd1W2uoiRHLQa6jHEE-Xs2qH_kSSP14fIhdFVxum60oMzbSUMBeYYDzsKPfl02-bzoVp2CWgRNLcZvk5drmgh4QoErQbAuPWudQ/s1600/5.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpcRrQtBXvONn-nG-_WFfzb26DMIDH2oX9BFCDgRi8iFd1W2uoiRHLQa6jHEE-Xs2qH_kSSP14fIhdFVxum60oMzbSUMBeYYDzsKPfl02-bzoVp2CWgRNLcZvk5drmgh4QoErQbAuPWudQ/s400/5.png" width="400" /></a> </div>
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This is the photo that could get me murdered. But it is too good not to share. My Tante Peewee (the one who is holding my mother as a baby) after looking at it said: “This picture is why I decided to become a hairdresser.” It will also be the reason she smacks her godchild the next time she sees him. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1-axu63kBZ9zQYIBUHfZuIHebi8uHqtGghfXCRgfQqtJ-IrFkd3P22kgjiBhHQVoliCznzzo-datLO16sbITkGMCOcaOXYl_mLLRn969FJv5LgNQSdgpm0Us0gwtT6ACnxsr085nOc369/s1600/6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1-axu63kBZ9zQYIBUHfZuIHebi8uHqtGghfXCRgfQqtJ-IrFkd3P22kgjiBhHQVoliCznzzo-datLO16sbITkGMCOcaOXYl_mLLRn969FJv5LgNQSdgpm0Us0gwtT6ACnxsr085nOc369/s400/6.jpg" width="221" /></a></div>
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A great wedding photo of my Aunt Rolande (why yes, we have a plethora of Rolands and Rolandes) and her husband Don. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH_AT2aSxcOooZjl5OjTyp2a9_jhyphenhyphenHw_JcL5k5c53Vu9qnszg0VUnCZ9b4IJtpo_ZToxOXh004CrCDKFIuuTeMVTdD4o0d106xWBhz2VoB9FFGYgLaIxy_DJqQvQbNQI29kZMmPUW7Bq4W/s1600/7.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH_AT2aSxcOooZjl5OjTyp2a9_jhyphenhyphenHw_JcL5k5c53Vu9qnszg0VUnCZ9b4IJtpo_ZToxOXh004CrCDKFIuuTeMVTdD4o0d106xWBhz2VoB9FFGYgLaIxy_DJqQvQbNQI29kZMmPUW7Bq4W/s400/7.jpg" width="400" /></a> </div>
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Words cannot express the awesomeness of this photograph. My Uncle Bobby and Uncle Roland are wearing aviator shades, my Uncle Jimmy has a shit-eating grin plastered on his face while rocking a bowtie, and my Uncle Pit looks like a 1950s movie star with a cigarette in his hand. These are my uncles and I love each and every one of them whether they are with us or not. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVMJ-sdhlgZxm5vRelg80DWzknqyLuZLVuREr3AAtG7DzTRo3quHur2hccaYimqcHWxxgxlK7rZQN5DqVAj2pJ4DsLiFHByoCGOH5kg0e6pI7LNL94bRaVmUfDjsVIhvRCe3ak1z0N_YnE/s1600/8.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVMJ-sdhlgZxm5vRelg80DWzknqyLuZLVuREr3AAtG7DzTRo3quHur2hccaYimqcHWxxgxlK7rZQN5DqVAj2pJ4DsLiFHByoCGOH5kg0e6pI7LNL94bRaVmUfDjsVIhvRCe3ak1z0N_YnE/s400/8.jpg" width="258" /></a> </div>
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I challenge anyone to find a sexier picture of their grandparents (and be comfortable writing that sentence). Grandma and Grandpa Ford were lookers. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHqWLdlNwMNqkAVWo2EnpPbfcQ0i2KwK0MLyhEOJWspvNNjFWTUf3riUG-_Img8aLqT1-BEfjJrH0MD6lNaykj0Fs9J85btZPX4k_IzNS62tGZdD2Eurj50YnKfoOgC-LyDvC9FVo1jxEu/s1600/9.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHqWLdlNwMNqkAVWo2EnpPbfcQ0i2KwK0MLyhEOJWspvNNjFWTUf3riUG-_Img8aLqT1-BEfjJrH0MD6lNaykj0Fs9J85btZPX4k_IzNS62tGZdD2Eurj50YnKfoOgC-LyDvC9FVo1jxEu/s400/9.png" width="255" /></a> </div>
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My father as a baby. He was adorable. We don’t know what happened. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8pSeyHQvwiHJwzXlRvPIAQsIcRhysuH9OAe5w6Mtx2iZfgMAwny-PfQU-gpaIbBYXDNz9H-mNZwCjSLW0JrhlN57Ioo4Szf0cG7X9ULwc7oQ3w1btAxlO0okJfmgeYI5jW3t7dMFo9ppa/s1600/10.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8pSeyHQvwiHJwzXlRvPIAQsIcRhysuH9OAe5w6Mtx2iZfgMAwny-PfQU-gpaIbBYXDNz9H-mNZwCjSLW0JrhlN57Ioo4Szf0cG7X9ULwc7oQ3w1btAxlO0okJfmgeYI5jW3t7dMFo9ppa/s400/10.png" width="400" /></a> </div>
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The Ford family in the 1950s. Don’t worry, my Aunt Ellen is featured in a photo coming up. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxVzeeqLwltW_LzI4O3KmRcdSCQkYK38js66H1i0Of4L0Zf5L57kBt5-fukm_yCDV8IKA3tZEdRHdfxqKiNu-C_uyZMwohCbIz7twXerlL1s687oIRMxsTA7qqzt6iAQ2F3RM4xvVyqwuD/s1600/11.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxVzeeqLwltW_LzI4O3KmRcdSCQkYK38js66H1i0Of4L0Zf5L57kBt5-fukm_yCDV8IKA3tZEdRHdfxqKiNu-C_uyZMwohCbIz7twXerlL1s687oIRMxsTA7qqzt6iAQ2F3RM4xvVyqwuD/s400/11.png" width="400" /></a> </div>
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My father tells me all the kids used to climb all over Papa Bauer and he loved every minute of it. He certainly looks like a man who has everything he wants in life in this picture. My Nana Bauer (who used to call me Frenchie) is flashing quite the smile on the far left. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGXPXZ4lLFjZFtAV259aWaj9WwxZ-CRB92duTr7Y5CeTeXk97jZp-50unZDTetRwppS6_lWhDLFwAepqJoBoPAp7M-F0995v0MNK8GB9N3ToaDypGDsAh6PYOn3IFzm02oi2R_6oFNWw0v/s1600/12.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGXPXZ4lLFjZFtAV259aWaj9WwxZ-CRB92duTr7Y5CeTeXk97jZp-50unZDTetRwppS6_lWhDLFwAepqJoBoPAp7M-F0995v0MNK8GB9N3ToaDypGDsAh6PYOn3IFzm02oi2R_6oFNWw0v/s400/12.jpg" width="400" /></a> </div>
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My father makes a smorgasbord of funny faces in the trove of Ford family photos we found recently, but this is the only one I feel like subjecting the public to. It also is one of the few that we have that features the whole Ford clan, including my Aunt Ellen. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXq_5WDpcg9cdXxHEbhp4nxuLXeI7Yd0QSBdhdBna-S2qZobg1Tu5OCuRSKpiVerMNkHhKGoCCMKPcxxaQCxlKNWUB_gzskS5mZLYg7rqQFWgq4S3HUCsUg8vPlo5FJ0lA1o0QgqXUYf9x/s1600/13.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXq_5WDpcg9cdXxHEbhp4nxuLXeI7Yd0QSBdhdBna-S2qZobg1Tu5OCuRSKpiVerMNkHhKGoCCMKPcxxaQCxlKNWUB_gzskS5mZLYg7rqQFWgq4S3HUCsUg8vPlo5FJ0lA1o0QgqXUYf9x/s400/13.png" width="400" /></a> </div>
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This photo of my father as an altar boy can still be found in the Our Lady of Mercy educational center. Maybe the fact he once helped in the blessing of Olm Elementary School will help some of us out at the pearly gates. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpJDe2yRQdVaSv_vZPmz_Km-cVV6P4PWgW8RMyMk6R-yC4-Jk4WvqMPzRY4iQVTcBm23AwRZpByj-Y4eoiBfE3NjIRGuZhw4PBWTmwB_R9E_-KujfShzdoTRC6RHJqAR1W9r8UMUovaxQx/s1600/14.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpJDe2yRQdVaSv_vZPmz_Km-cVV6P4PWgW8RMyMk6R-yC4-Jk4WvqMPzRY4iQVTcBm23AwRZpByj-Y4eoiBfE3NjIRGuZhw4PBWTmwB_R9E_-KujfShzdoTRC6RHJqAR1W9r8UMUovaxQx/s400/14.JPG" width="400" /></a> </div>
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My nephew Jack and the Pink Cowgirls, Katie and Madeline. I kid that since I moved back to Connecticut that my best friend is a 7-year-old, but it’s probably not far from the truth. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0UFpI3FWYA-b2VgFD49dxFfj7GgfJFTcql0zzFj1D8jpNKED-6f2DMuxemUiNDQBRtpSKkmxy_eo0JN3JQZPY5r00KcyX4FiV_QZ-l-qFF_NZjyokJYX9wT1HXl96J-eUa6LpyToOW1u5/s1600/15.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0UFpI3FWYA-b2VgFD49dxFfj7GgfJFTcql0zzFj1D8jpNKED-6f2DMuxemUiNDQBRtpSKkmxy_eo0JN3JQZPY5r00KcyX4FiV_QZ-l-qFF_NZjyokJYX9wT1HXl96J-eUa6LpyToOW1u5/s400/15.jpg" width="300" /></a> </div>
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My girlfriend Stephanie may not legally be family yet, but I consider her to be a de facto member of the Ford clan. She’s been a source of inspiration and support since I’ve known her, and dating her has been a refreshing and invigorating experience. Our transition to Boston hasn’t been the easiest, but we haven’t lost our desire, sense of humor, and love for one another. I hope she knows I have no intention of ever losing an ounce of my love for her. </div>
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My mom after showing her this picture: "Could your girlfriend look any sexier?" </div>
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Me: "Hey, what about me?" </div>
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Mom: "I didn't really see you, she's kind of distracting." </div>
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Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7207119294536243867.post-67334493086323627992013-09-27T14:23:00.001-04:002013-09-27T14:23:18.203-04:00Feel Good Friday: Take 5 Poems to Bed With You This Weekend<div style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; line-height: 18px;">
Nothing says Friday like high school poetry.
And nothing says high school poetry like unrequited love, dripping sentimentalism, flowery stanzas, and more lovesick metaphors than you can shake a stick at.<br />
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Light some candles, turn on some jazz, and hope that the one you love still wants to get busy with you after reading him/her these poems.
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">Jazz Soundtrack: Take Five</span>
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The Dave Brubeck Quartet’s “Take Five” is jazz ecstasy. There is something so mysterious and sexy about this track. It teases you right up to the moment it ends and leaves you desiring so much more.<br />
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Rare that you can find a tune that works for seducing someone and making sweet, sweet love to them.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">The Detritus of Love</span><br />
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The heart of your amiable existence<br />
has abandoned my own ruptured core,<br />
slipping into that obscure dead of nightfall.<br />
<br />
No longer can you discern passion.<br />
No longer can you contemplate the marvel of eternity.<br />
No longer can your eyes of chocolate behold my affliction.<br />
<br />
You are lost to me,<br />
lost as the reveries of tales grown tall,<br />
spent with a trusty shovel and flowing cape.<br />
<br />
…and you forsake me.<br />
As a criminal, a robber, a thief of nothing matters.<br />
A victim am I
of the slamming door,
rusting off its red hinges.<br />
<br />
I am left,<br />
laying upon the grainy floor of my loveless forest,<br />
dying like the wind swept leaves of autumn.<br />
<br />
I am left,<br />
trying to slip into that nightfall of obscurity,<br />
to battle like a war starved Roman,<br />
for the missing heart of your adrift soul.
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">In Dreams</span><br />
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As radiant sunshine melts into crystal starlight,<br />
As merciless waves settle into tranquil seas,<br />
My world is calmed by an angel’s heavenly breath,<br />
if only in a dream.<br />
<br />
As shadows become frightful enemies,<br />
As demons plan their mischievous deeds,<br />
One star of an angel’s bright blue eyes sends them away,<br />
if only in a dream.<br />
<br />
As tortured screams subdue to exquisite music,<br />
As wind whistles their tune aloud,<br />
I share a dance with an angel upon a moonbeam,<br />
if only in a dream.<br />
<br />
As cities plunge into slumber,<br />
As hearts are set afire,<br />
An angel takes a flight upon her golden wings,<br />
if only in a dream.<br />
<br />
Then, as inky darkness gives way to radiant sunlight,<br />
As crystal starlight gives way to playful clouds,<br />
An angel kisses me awake,<br />
no longer in a dream.
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">Stay Here Tonight</span><br />
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Stay here tonight<br />
among the silver stars<br />
that glimmer gallantly<br />
for your wondrous beauty.<br />
<br />
Stay here tonight,<br />
take away the barbarous hands of time<br />
so that we may find forever.<br />
<br />
Stay here tonight,<br />
ordain relief into my rest<br />
and establish my mind’s<br />
endless exuberance.<br />
<br />
Stay here tonight<br />
amidst my thoughtless words<br />
that rapidly roll off my tongue.<br />
<br />
Stay here tonight<br />
to find protection from<br />
the oppressive outside<br />
obstacles of your world.<br />
<br />
Stay here tonight,<br />
amid these gallant silver stars.<br />
Take not away my living breath,<br />
sweet baby, stay here tonight.
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">Should I Stay?</span><br />
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Should I stay and fight a battle I’m sure to lose,<br />
to lie along the body filled trenches among<br />
the fallen cannonballs that crushed dawn’s early light?<br />
<br />
Am I just divulging into hollow love,<br />
where the voice of reassuring reason<br />
is lost in the groans of dying hope?<br />
<br />
Do I care enough to place a bet<br />
on this rigged game of cat and mouse,<br />
where I could forever surrender my very soul and sanity?<br />
<br />
Have I derailed my train of happy times<br />
and plowed into a depthless gorge of forgotten troubles<br />
that have yet to put me in my place?<br />
<br />
Can I now lean on the crumbling walls of indifference,<br />
which my punctured essence has been slammed into<br />
again and again with no signs of mercy?<br />
<br />
Should I stay and save you from drowning in tears,<br />
and lead our hearts back into the good graces of the sands of time,<br />
which sift through the cracking crystal glass?<br />
<br />
I ask you sweet darling, should I stay?
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">Something Heaven</span><br />
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She kisses asleep the last blinks of sunlight,<br />
ready now to be relieved of lonely hours<br />
and retreat into the warmth of her secret paradise.<br />
<br />
She lies contently on her bed of daises,<br />
unaware of a million uncaught glances<br />
and blind to my heart’s silent declarations.<br />
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She smiles as she begins to dream out loud,<br />
bringing the light back in to a pain distant past<br />
and forces the dark eyes out of the shadows.<br />
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She’s not afraid of putting her heart on the line here,<br />
learning to fly again on her angelic wings<br />
and journeying back to a sweet new beginning.<br />
<br />
I just hope I don’t blink and send her back to dreams;<br />
I’ll just steal a kiss from her perfect tender lips<br />
and reveal the love buried deep within my modest spirit.
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;">Fall in Mine</span><br />
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She’s gliding down the highway,</div>
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stepping on that broken line.</div>
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She wanted to show heaven,</div>
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it was not yet her time.</div>
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She stopped and came upon a man,</div>
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who hadn’t yet been born.</div>
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She couldn’t see behind the scars
the face that had been torn.</div>
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She cried 1,000 tears upon his eyes,</div>
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begging him to see.</div>
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It was then I lost the heart,</div>
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to say that man was me.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I watched her fly away, defeated,</div>
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and I got back in my car.</div>
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I had loved her long ago,</div>
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and have not strayed that far.</div>
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The engine hummed loud and low</div>
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and I left the road behind.</div>
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I sent a prayer up to her,</div>
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so not to be unkind.</div>
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<br /></div>
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She loved him enough to ignore and stay,</div>
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and I’m giving all not to go away.</div>
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My soul’s being driven,</div>
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but destiny’s disguised.</div>
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The truth used to be so young and deep,</div>
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but I’m finding comfort in this little sleep.</div>
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She never falls outside her line,</div>
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and never makes a sound.</div>
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But I know if she ever does come down,</div>
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baby doll can always fall in mine.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I stopped by to have a bite,</div>
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at the same routine café.</div>
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Rhonda was a friend of mine</div>
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that let me have my own way.</div>
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I couldn’t quite remember</div>
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just how to say good night,</div>
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So I closed tight the blinds</div>
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and forced away the light.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The morning brought the stars</div>
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and I headed right back out.</div>
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I caught myself wondering
what this sin is all about.</div>
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The radio talked softly,</div>
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but the words weren’t so mild.</div>
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They kept bringing up tomorrow</div>
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and murdering my child.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Where have all the world’s angels gone,</div>
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it’s what’s got me singing this song.</div>
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People have given up on good loving,</div>
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and think in terms of army shelling.</div>
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God's to busy designing devil costumes,</div>
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to stop us from rebelling.</div>
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But when heaven falls out empty</div>
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and hell becomes the time,</div>
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We’ll all need a place to keep ourselves,</div>
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so baby, we can all keep in mine.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I pulled off that gravel road</div>
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because sleep was soon to hit.</div>
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The marching bells of comet toils</div>
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kept my trailer cool and lit.</div>
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I had a dream explode in my head,</div>
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one that kept coming back.</div>
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It had a good and tenderness,</div>
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some perfect it did not lack.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The weather held out for one day</div>
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and the church was stainless white.</div>
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That dress gleamed off her,</div>
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she sure was a sight.</div>
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She sailed up that long aisle</div>
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the angels flied in free.</div>
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It was then my heart turned it off</div>
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to hide it wasn’t me.</div>
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<br /></div>
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She loved him enough to ignore and stay,</div>
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and I’m giving all not to go away.</div>
<div style="font-weight: 100;">
My soul’s being driven,</div>
<div style="font-weight: 100;">
but destiny’s disguised.</div>
<div style="font-weight: 100;">
The truth used to be so young and deep,</div>
<div style="font-weight: 100;">
but I’m finding comfort in this little sleep.</div>
<div style="font-weight: 100;">
She never falls outside her line,</div>
<div style="font-weight: 100;">
and never makes a sound.</div>
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But I know if she ever does come down,</div>
<div style="font-weight: 100;">
baby doll can always fall in mine. </div>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>When you’re done
snapping your fingers, check out:</b><br />
<ul>
<li><b><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2012/10/birth-of-cool-3-poems-you-can-rest-your.html" target="_blank">Birth of the Cool: 3 Poems You Can Rest Your Moon Dreams On</a></b></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://www.hardballheart.com/2009/07/from-archives-summer-poetry.html" target="_blank">From the Archives: Summer Poetry</a></b></li>
</ul>
</blockquote>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Daniel Fordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033964259403353042noreply@blogger.com0