Hardball Heart

Baseball Bloodlines: Grandma Ford and Election Day

2012-02-01T12:08:00.000-05:00

My grandmother died on my birthday last year.

I remember half smiling when I got the news. Not only had she passed away before my parents could get to the nursing home to be with her, but I swear she went when she did as revenge for me not shaving my beard.

Marie Ford was New York through and through. She told me stories about how she and her friends would bar hop in the city, which in those days meant they jumped from hotel bar to hotel bar. She was never more animated or happy as when I would tell her what I was up to in the city that she had grown up in. Whenever I’m out on the town, she’s never far from my mind.

Digging through some old files, I found the following story that I wrote for a college class. It made me miss all those mornings I went to breakfast with her and my father—whom she called her “Ken-Ken“—and calling her to talk about how well (or badly) our beloved New York Yankeeswere playing. Thanksgivings haven’t been the same without her and I being the first ones to sit down at the table and started devouring our food.

She was a special woman and this blog post is long overdue. I know she’ll find some way to get me back for going on like this, but I’ll hold her to the last words she said to me.

“I love you too Daniel.”

Long Island 1952
(Left to right) Uncle Stephen, my grandmother, Aunt Kathy
My dad is on the bike.

She was ready.

Her coat was buttoned all the way, her white hair was perfect, and she had her cane in hand.

“Hello love,” she said, opening the door before I had a chance to knock on it. “How are you sweetie?”

I tell her I’m fine, more concerned with trying to help her down the slippery driveway.

“Oh let go of me, I can do it myself,” my grandmother says.

I ignore her. I can feel her balance swaying and know that today isn’t one of her good days. At least she’s pretending to use the cane these days.

It had snowed the night before. hadn’t driven in months, but I was determined to help my grandmother today. She wanted to vote.

“So who are you voting for,” I asked, already knowing the answer.

My grandmother was a smart lady and had seen it all in her 85 years. However, she was lending her support to good ol’ George and I had been trying to convince her to change her mind for weeks.

“I just don’t think we should change leaders when we’re at war,” she said, patting my hand. “Not to mention, John Kerry doesn’t do anything for me; I don’t think he would do any better.”

This was my first presidential election and I must admit that I was being quite the geek about it. While most teenagers are excited to learn they can buy cigarettes and lotto tickets when they turn 18, all I cared about was being able to vote in this election. I was proudly wearing my “I just voted” sticker and had watched all the pre-election shows the night before. I had survived another long train ride and was looking at an even longer one tonight, but at least I had done my part in trying to remove our Fool-In-Chief.

“Right here dear,” my grandmother said patiently.

It had been a short drive to the elementary school where she was registered. Bright red, white, and blue banners were everywhere, people hurried in and out of the side entrance, and patriotic songs spewed out of the speakers of the decorated Winnebago. My grandmother eagerly gets out of the car on without my assistance and I have to hurry to catch up to her.

The school cafeteria is alive with activity. It is organized chaos.

Volunteers wear big smiles and try to engage you in conversation as you wait your turn. My grandmother did some bragging about me—some deserved and some not so much. I was just there to make sure she didn’t fall and just politely nodded and let my grandmother do all the bragging she wanted.

“You can help your grandmother walk up if you’d like,” a volunteer told me when we had reached the front of the line.

“You stay right where you are young man,” my grandmother said handing me her purse and walking up on her own.

I waited patiently.

She came out seconds later and received her sticker. We walked out the door into the cold November air to once again be regaled by “God Bless America” and eager local politicians greeting the next batch of voters.

“So how is the love life,” my grandmother asked on the way home.

I had my ear fixed on the talk radio station and gave her a short answer. Ok, maybe the reason my answer was short had more to do with the fact that I don’t have much of a love life than the radio, but whatever.

“You don’t have to walk me up the sidewalk,” she said when we had arrived back at her house. “You have things to do and I’ve already taken up too much of your time.”

I could see the sidewalk still hadn’t been sanded properly and once again ignored my grandmother’s directions.

“Now you take this,” she said, thrusting a ten-dollar bill into my hand.

I quickly refused it and she reluctantly took it back. I told her I loved her and I would see her soon.

“Can you just unlock my door for me?” My grandmother asked innocently. “I just want to check the mailbox.”

I did as she asked. I handed her keys when she was inside.

“Bye hun!” She said slamming the door in my face.

I put my hands in my pockets, finding the ten-dollar bill.

She’s good.

My grandmother with her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren on her 90th birthday.

Preview of Sid Sanford LivesChapter Four: Photo Album

2012-01-18T16:02:00.000-05:00

In honor of…well…me, I decided to share this selection from my novel Sid Sanford Lives! Enjoy it as I get a year closer to being ancient.

Jocelyn didn’t need to look at the calendar to know that summer had finally arrived. Gail Sanford’s living room had made the transition from spring in spectacular fashion. The mantle above the fireplace was alive with fresh purple flowers and sweet smelling baby’s breath. Several candles had lids off and were offering more summertime scents. All the windows were open, letting in a cool June breeze that wiped away the remnants of the cold New England winter and rainy spring.

There were new pictures on the wall. Gone were the pictures of farms covered in snowdrifts, children building snowmen in the front yard and a family of ducks walking through a rainstorm to get home. They had been replaced with boys playing baseball on summer legs and scenes of the beach on a busy weekend. The Sanford matriarch had also taken the heavy curtains down and replaced them with white lace ones that would let the sunshine fill the room during the day. Jocelyn didn’t know how or when the woman found the time or energy, but Gail never disappointed.

Jocelyn carefully put her steaming cup of hot chocolate down on the coffee table. She walked over to the Sid’s mother’s craft table. Her eyes took in the scrapbook that had been left open and all the other odds and ends that were scattered across the table. There was a basket of goodies ready to be delivered to someone on the far corner. Jocelyn knew that the Sanford boys wasted much of their breaths trying to get their mother to sell some of the crafts she made instead of giving them away. She always refused, saying that it would then be nothing but a job and not as much fun.

“Don’t touch anything over there,” Sid said walking into the living room. “She knows exactly where everything is. I borrowed a pair of scissors the other day and didn’t put them back and I think the back of my head is still red.”

Jocelyn laughed.

“Well, your mom told me I can do whatever I want because she likes me better than you smelly boys,” she said. She plopped down on the longer of the two couches and stretched out. “Besides, I helped tear down wallpaper and paint in here, so shut up.”

Sid put down his coffee cup with less care than Jocelyn did. She cringed as she watched the light brown liquid swish wildly in the cup, threatening to spill and stain the table. Sid put up his hands in surrender and did his best to get comfortable on the love seat.

“Hey, I was there too remember and I don’t get any privileges in here,” he said hanging his legs off the side of the seat. “I still feel the pain in my shoulder some days from tearing down that damn paper.”

Jocelyn rolled her eyes.

Gail had taken over the family living a couple of years before. She had bought new furniture for the first time in her life. She spent the better part of a summer picking out the perfect paint, removing wallpaper that had been stuck on the wall for over 20 years, trashing the old furniture and setting up her crafts and decorations exactly how she wanted them. She converted the extra bedroom into a television room so that the men in her life could watch baseball and movies while burping and farting to their hearts content. She had a room all to herself now; one she could disappear into for a while to escape the pressure of keeping four men on the right track everyday.

“So what do you want to do?” Jocelyn asked. He shrugged his shoulders.

Typical response.

“You wanted to go see a movie?” she offered.

“Nah.”

“You want to rent a movie?”

“Nah.”

“You want to play a board game?”

“Nah.”

“You want a hit in the head?” she asked balling up her fist and showing it to him.

“Sure,” Sid responded without moving a muscle.

Jocelyn gave him a playful jab to the head and then took a long sip from her hot chocolate. Her eyes scanned the room again. They lingered over all the old pictures Momma Sanford had on the shelves that surrounding the fireplace. Several generations of her family, as well as Sid’s father’s family, were represented. She liked the picture of Sid’s French uncles playing cards drunk. They all had sloppy smiles on their faces and all their cards were facing the wrong direction. There was a small picture of Sid’s Uncle Clifford in his Army uniform she liked too. The first time she saw it, she though it was a picture of Sid dressing up for Halloween. Sid was definitely the Frenchman of the household.

She liked the fact that the Sanfords were so proud of their history. Her mother kept albums, souvenirs, and mementos, but nothing like this. Her father wasn’t the emotional type, so he didn’t find much use for old pictures and knickknacks. Most of her aunts and uncles were still alive too; much of her history was still being written. Gail was the youngest of eleven children. Her history had branched out long before she came into the world and had limbs that were scattered across the country. It was a history that the matriarch treasured and preserved and kept on display no matter what season it was.

“You could be nice and show me your photo albums again,” Jocelyn said hopefully. “We could reminisce a little. I mean, we graduate high school tomorrow, when would there be a better time?”

Sid finished the last of his coffee and glared at her. She’d seen every picture and had heard every story twice over. He tried to make his face do all the talking and let her know she needed to come up with a new idea.

“Come on Sid, please?” she asked trying to look as cute as possible. “It’ll put you in the right frame of mind for your speech tomorrow.”

“How is me re-telling stories you could probably recite to me help put me in the right frame of mind?” Sid asked.

“I don’t know, it just will,” Jocelyn said making a move toward the shelf with the photo albums. She was not giving him a choice now. “We’re not going to decide to do anything anyway and I’d rather do this than sit and stare at each other all night.”

“Good point,” Sid said. Tomorrow everything in their lives was about to change. It was the perfect time to take a look back. He hated when she was right.

“What album do I get to torture you with first?”

“Your baby album,” she said carrying the dark brown book over and putting it in front of him on the coffee table. “I want to hear all the stories about what life was like before you met me.”

Sid smiled. There weren’t too many memories that he could recall without Jocelyn in them. All the stories about his early life had been passed down from his parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, etc. He wore them all close to his heart like badges of honor.

He opened the familiar brown binder. His ran his fingers over the fading stickers that were pressed to the back of the front cover. They explained that Sid had been eight pounds, two and a half pounds and was 20 inches long. They kept his date of birth, the name of the hospital, who his doctor had been and the date he was finally able to come home.

“You were so cute!” Jocelyn said giggling. She wrapped her arm around the inside of Sid’s and inched in closer. “Look at that hair!”

In the picture, Sid was wrapped securely in his blue blanket. His eyes were closed tight and his little hands were balled into fists. It looked as though he had a full head of hair and it had been perfectly combed and parted.

“My mother likes to tease me, saying I came out fully prepared to hit on all the nurses,” Sid said. “After crying my head off for two straight days, she didn’t have anything to worry about.”

“Your father must have been so proud,” Jocelyn said turning the page. “Tom must have been too, look how happy he was holding you.”

Sid chuckled and leaned back on the couch. Jocelyn feigned looking confused.

“What’s so funny?”

“Well, they both almost missed me being born,” Sid said returning his focus back to the picture of him and his older brother.

“Your mother must have been pissed.”

“Oh, she was,” Sid said. “But on the day I was born a blizzard hit; and it was a big one.

JANUARY—18 YEARS EARLIER

Kenneth Sanford paced the small living room one more time. He started biting the nail on his thumb. He took his glasses off and wiped them with the bottom of his shirt. He put them back on again and watched the basketball game on television for a few seconds. He started pacing again. Kenneth stroked his moustache as he stopped at a picture of his wife as a little girl. He smelled coffee.

“Please Kenny, sit down and have some of this before you put a rut in my living room floor,” a voice said quietly behind him. His wife’s mother Cecile Blanchette’s French accent was reassuring; so was the hand she put on his shoulder. He reached up and squeezed it, trying not to let the tears sneak out of his eyes.

“I was right next to her when Tom was born. I was holding her hand. I was helping her with her breathing. I knew she was scared and I was helping her,” he said staring at the picture. “If I’m not with her tonight, I’ll never forgive myself.”

He looked out the window. The snow was still falling rapidly and the wind was stronger now than it was when it was blowing the Sanford’s compact car all over the road on Kenneth’s way over here. He had gotten the call that Gail was going into labor at work and had eagerly left the store. He had walked into the biggest blizzard to hit Connecticut in 20 years. He knew Tom was safe and sound at his Mémère’s house and that the hospital wasn’t that far away. With the weather the way it was, he knew there was a possibility of getting stuck at his mother-in-law’s. He thought about how excited Tom had been last weekend helping his mother get his new brother’s room ready. Kenneth decided that if he was going to see his new son being born, then so was Tom.

“Daddy, am I going to see my little brother tonight?” a voice behind Kenneth asked. “I have his stuffed animal all ready for him.”

Kenneth turned to see Tom standing in the doorway. He had his coat on and the stuffed animal stored safely in a plastic bag. His winter hat was pulled down past his eyebrows and he had a very serious expression on his face.

“Of course you are,” Kenneth said. He bent down to hug his son. “Daddy is just waiting for Uncle Skip to come pick us up with his big truck. Daddy’s car can’t make it very far in this weather.”

“Is he coming soon?” Tom asked. His brown eyes widened, but the serious expression didn’t leave his face. It wouldn’t until he got answers or was on his way to the hospital.

I sure hope so, Kenneth thought.

“He’s on his way to save the day right now,” he said. “You can probably take your jacket off though. It’s warm in here and I don’t want you to get sick.”

Tom rolled his eyes and headed back down the hallway to his playroom. His head was down and the plastic bag was dragging on the floor.

Kenneth’s heart broke all over the place.

Less than an hour later, a truck thundered up the steep driveway. Its big headlights cut through the falling snow and illuminated the house. There was a heavy knock on the door moments later.

“I heard someone needed a lift,” Skip asked loudly.

“I do! I do!” Tom yelled running down the hallway. Cecile stopped him so she could put his jacket back on him. He impatiently let her and then hurried out the front door.

“Mom, the weather’s bad out there,” Kenneth said watching Cecile button her coat. “Skip can come back and get you when the weather clears up a little bit.”

“Kenny, I lived most of my life in upstate Maine and had eleven children,” she said calmly.
“When that thought was running through your head, did you really think I would listen to you?” She asked wrapping a warm scarf around her neck.

“No.”

“Good. Now get your coat on and make sure you button it all the way. It’s freezing out there.”

Kenneth nodded his head and did as he was told. He helped his mother-in-law up into the truck and hopped up himself. Skip put the truck in gear and they started out into the snowy night.

Hang on Gail, he thought. Your men are on their way.

Gail was as comfortable as she was going to get. A nurse fluffed a pillow every so often, but it was an exercise in futility. She was fed ice chips every so often as well. The doctor always had an encouraging word when he stopped in. He said it wouldn’t be too much longer. He kept saying that. Gail didn’t know what time it was, but she was sure hours kept going by. There were two things that weren’t happening: her baby boy being born and her husband next to her holding her hand. It was a toss up which Sanford male she was more annoyed at. For the moment, she was giving her baby a break on this one.

She winced as she felt another pain. She felt like everything below her neck was screaming out. Her blue eyes remained fixed on the door as the pain subsided momentarily. She wanted Kenneth to walk though the door so badly. She really didn’t want to do this without him. Gail was fairly certain that he had a good reason. The doctor had said something about a snowstorm. She decided to go easy on him when he got here. He’d smile and hold her hand until he didn’t have any feeling left in it. He’d be here soon enough. He’d have Tom with him too. He’d be here to see his family get a little bigger.

Yes, she thought. I promise myself I will go easy on him.

Gail thought she was hallucinating when he rushed past her door. She blinked expecting him to come back or for her to return to the real world. She wasn’t dreaming; she heard his voice somewhere down the hallway.

Where the hell is he? She thought. What the hell is he doing? Who the hell is he talking to over there?

“Kenny!” she yelled.

She heard footsteps on the hospital floor. Moments later, Kenneth was standing in the doorway. He looked tired and ragged, but he still had a twinkle in his brown eyes and an apologetic smile on his face.

“Where the hell have you been? Do you know how many hours I’ve been in labor? Did you get lost on the way here? Do you know I’ve been alone all this time? You better have a good reason for nearly missing the birth of your child! Speak, boy!” Gail yelled all in one breath.

Kenneth chuckled a little as he tossed his jacket on the chair in the corner. He walked over and kissed the top of his wife’s head.

“You wouldn’t believe the snowstorm that’s going on outside. Your brother-in-law rescued us from your mother’s house. I almost came right here, but I didn’t want Tom to miss it,” Kenneth said. He sat down next to the bed. He quickly grabbed her hand and held it tight. Gail looked like she was thinking over whether or not to forgive him. She decided to let him off the hook and gave him the best smile she could.

“O.K., that’s a good reason. How is Tom?”

“He’s excited. I would have been here a few minutes sooner, but I had to explain to him that his other grandparents were on their way. He was worried they were going to miss his little brother. I told him not to worry, that everyone that could be here would be here as soon as they could,” Kenneth answered.

“Good job.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Are you serious?” she asked taking in breaths. “Do I really need to answer that? Are you that much of a guy?”

Kenneth put his free hand up in surrender.

“Your doctor was in the hallway,” he told her. “He said he’d be in soon.”

Gail rolled her eyes. She was sure he was going to bring the same news. He’d tell her that her son was almost ready to join the world. She just wanted him to be here already. She was ready to hold him and stop him from crying. The pain didn’t matter anymore. The worse it got meant the sooner she’d have her son in her arms.

As if on cue, the doctor walked through the door. He was all smiles.

“How are you feeling?” he asked Gail.

Gail was about to let him have it, but Kenneth started talking before she did.

“I don’t know if you want to ask that Doc,” he said. “It’s a sore subject with her at the moment.”

The doctor laughed as he wheeled his stool between Gail’s legs. Gail doubled over in pain. The doctor peered over the bed sheet. He had good news this time.

“I think your little man is ready to come out Gail,” he said sending his nurses into a flurry of activity. “I think he might have been making sure his Daddy was here to see him, that’s all.”

Kenneth’s heart swelled with pride. His wife’s hand tightened up on his. The doctor commanded her to start pushing. Her grip got harder and harder each time she was coaxed into pushing. After 10 minutes, there was still no baby and a bruised hand.

“Honey, can we switch hands? You’re really doing a number on this one,” Kenneth said in between tries.

“Are you fucking kidding?” Gail asked breathlessly. “And no, we can’t.”

She started pushing again and she doubled her grip. Kenneth winced. She stopped again and took a deep breath.

“I’m serious darling,” he said. “My hand really hurts.”

“It’s not as bad as your head is going to hurt after this is over. Suck it up Kenneth!”

The doctor told her to start pushing again. Kenneth braced himself. His wife had moved her hand lower and was now starting to crush all of his fingers together.

“Gail!”

“Shut up Kenny!”

“You’re breaking my hand!”

“Shut up Kenny!”

“O.K.,” the doctor said as calmly as humanly possible. “I need you to give me one more big push!”

“Ahhhhhhh!” the two parents screamed together.

Tom swung his legs. Worry was still all over his face. It felt like he had been waiting forever. He had to wait months after his parents told him the news. He had to wait to find out whether he was getting a brother or sister. He had to wait to find out his name. Tom was tired of waiting. He wanted his little brother now!

His eyes looked down the hallway again.

His father was walking toward him fast. Tom stood straight up. He held on tight to the stuffed animal. His father was smiling. Tom smiled back.

“You want to come see your new baby brother?” Kenneth asked holding out his hand. “We named him Sid.”

Tom jumped up in the air and then took his father’s hands. They walked down the hallway together.

Preview of Sid Sanford LivesChapter One: PastimeConclusion

2012-01-08T14:39:00.001-05:00

Sid watched as Jocelyn stood up. He saw her eyes go wide.

“We don’t bite,” Kenneth said, waving his hand. “You can come over!”

Jocelyn didn’t hesitate. She leapt the fence like it was nothing and ran over to where Sid was standing. Before she could say anything, Sam almost knocked her down trying to investigate the new blood. She laughed and instantly became Sam’s best friend when she let him lick her face.

“What’s your name?” Sid asked, not impressed. The girl wiped her wet face off with her hand and then extended it to Sid. He reluctantly shook it with a disgusted look on his face.

“My name is Jocelyn. I’m 10-years-old, I’m going into the fifth grade, I have a dog named Cisgo, and I like to play baseball more than anything in the world,” she said all in one breath.

“Well, I’m Sid Sanford and that’s my dad. Can you pitch?” Sid asked, retreating back to home plate.

“You bet I can!” Her brown eyes lit up as she caught the ball Sid threw toward her.

Sid brushed off the plate and tapped it with the bat. He pulled his hat down tight. There was no way he was going to let a girl get the best of him.

“Wait! Wait! I want to play!”

Hawk burst through the screen door and ran out into the yard. Sid groaned and rolled his eyes.

Now he wants to play.

“What’s up little guy?” Jocelyn asked, giving the youngest Sanford a high-five. Sid flung the bat up in frustration and walked over to the two of them.

“This is my brother Patrick, but everyone calls him Hawk. Hawk, this is Jocelyn. She’s a girl and she’s from next door.”

“Hi Josh-e-Lyn,” Hawk said, murdering the pronunciation of her name. She laughed and flicked the younger Sanford’s hat over his eyes.

“You can just call me Jochie,” she told him. “See, we both have nicknames because we’re cool.” Hawk smiled and repeated the name a few times, liking the way it sounded.

Sid was growing impatient. This had nothing to do with baseball.

“Can we play or what?”

“Relax, Sid,” Jocelyn said. “I’ll make you a deal. If you hit the ball farther, I won’t make fun of you anymore. But if I hit the ball farther, I can play baseball with you two anytime I want.”

Sid liked the sound of that. He was going to win easy. The two spit into the palms of their hands and shook on it.

“Can I pitch? Can I pitch?” Hawk asked.

“Yeah, I guess so. You can hit first Jochie.”

Hawk ran to retrieve his glove from the ground where he left it and Jocelyn retrieved the bat Sid had tossed. Her eyes were open wide and she looked relaxed at the plate. She blew a bubble. Hawk wound up, just like Tom had taught him, and heaved the ball toward the plate. With no effort at all, she took a step forward and launched the ball unto the roof of the porch.

“Wow! Nice hit, Jocelyn,” Kenneth said. He adjusted his glasses with one hand and flipped the burgers one last time with the spatula in his other. Even Sam had lifted his snout to see where the ball had landed.

It was Sid’s turn.

He had to wait a minute though. Gail had come all the way outside to tell her husband the rest of dinner was ready so she could figure out who this blonde girl was in her backyard with her boys.

“All right Sanford, the potato salad is done, so we’re waiting on you,” she said planting a kiss on her husband’s cheek. The blue eyes she had passed down to her sons made contact with his brown ones. He winked at her. Sam bounded up from his spot miffed someone besides him was getting attention from his master. Gail waved to the boys and then went inside with the black lab close behind.

“Hurry up guys, the burgers are done,” Kenneth said, giving them. “Jocelyn, you’re more than welcome to join us if you’re hungry.” He plopped the burgers on a plate and made his way in.
Hawk forgot about what he was supposed to be doing and raced inside after his father. If there was something Hawk loved more than baseball, it was food.

Jocelyn stood on the mound and waited for Sid to get ready again.

“Hurry up Sid, those burgers smelled out of this world!” She said, feeling her stomach rumble in agreement.

Sid took his time though. This was serious business. Besides, he knew he could hit the ball farther than Jocelyn. This was his park and no one, especially not a girl, beat Sid in his own backyard.

He got into his stance and focused all his attention on the ball. Jocelyn reared back and threw. Sid’s eyes lit up and he rifled the bat through the strike zone. He made contact, but knew right away he was in trouble. Sure enough, the ball dribbled a few feet in front of him. Sid wanted to crawl into a hole somewhere. Jocelyn didn’t laugh, but instead ran over and threw her arm around his shoulders.

“Don’t worry Sid, you can beat me the next time we play. Let’s go eat!” she said, flicking his hat over his eyes.

He felt better.

Jocelyn stopped short before they walked into the porch.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“I just moved here and everything and I don’t really know anyone. I was wondering if you wanted to be my best friend. I know you probably have like a million best friends at school, but what do you say?” she asked, her brown eyes filling with hope.

“Sure,” he said shrugging his shoulders. Sid raised his hand to give her a high-five, but she pulled her hand away at the last minute and he fell forward. Jocelyn laughed as she raced into the house.

Sid didn’t follow her right away.

He had taken only a handful of swings that night and none of them had turned out the way he expected. Sid strode back to the plate with all the confidence in the world. All of his failures up to this point were forgotten. He was the man again. He owned the game again.

He dug in his back foot. He waved his bat toward the pitcher’s mound. He adjusted his cap one last time. He tossed the ball into the air. Sid took a breath and waited a heartbeat.

He swung.

Read Part 1. Read Part 2. Read Part 3. Read Part 4.

Preview of Sid Sanford LivesChapter One: PastimePart 4

2012-01-06T17:00:00.000-05:00

Not a whole lot of words needed to introduce the latest preview. I originally planned to break this up into individual posts, but I just couldn't break up Sid and Jocelyn's beginning.

Enjoy!

There had been a storm the night before.

It was so hot that September that the midnight rain had barely been on the ground before being burned off by heat and humidity.

The 10-year-old boy had made sure that conditions were perfect for a game as soon as the family got back from Tom’s baseball games. He had raked the bare patches of earth that served as the pitcher’s mound and home plate. He had hosed off all of the white plastic bases and set them down with care along the well-worn base paths. He had opened up a brand new Wiffle ball and tucked it into his 6-year-old brother’s glove that sat waiting on the deck.

He did some major begging throughout the day to ensure his younger half would agree to play one last game before the summer weather disappeared for good. He had been forced to agree to do the dishes for a month, but at least he’d have his game. The thought of this game would get him through the winter. He had been jumping out of his skin all day just to get to this moment.

He strode to the plate with all the confidence in the world. He was shy and reserved in every other situation in his life, but never once while playing on this makeshift baseball field. He stepped into the batter’s box and went into his routine. He touched the top and the bottom of home plate with his bat and dug in his back foot. He gripped the thin club tightly in his hands. He extended his arms toward the pitcher’s mound, pointing the head of the bat directly at his brother. His electric cool blue eyes caught a glimpse of the faded “SS” he had branded the knob of the bat with permanent marker way back in April. He had hit more than 100 homeruns since, the most he’d ever had in one summer.

He took a deep breath and brought the bat to his shoulders. He made sure his hat was on perfectly straight before his counterpart delivered his pitch. He barely felt the weight of his aging Yankee pinstriped t-shirt. It had become more of a second skin rather than a piece of clothing. The same could be said for his grass stained jean shorts and white tube socks that had long ago been permanently stained brown.

He had complete ownership of everything he touched on this backyard diamond. He knew the situation. There were two men on base and two outs. The score was tied. He could feel sweat starting to dampen the back of his neck. He knew it was from the heat rather than any kind of nerves. He knew he was going to hit a homerun and wipe away that tie score. He saw the pitcher launch into his delivery. His blue eyes locked in at the small white target that was about to be hurled his way.

Sid Sanford was ready.

“Wait!” The younger Sanford yelled out at the last moment before he released the ball. “Time-out! I got to go to the bathroom, Sid!” The younger boy let the ball drop listlessly to the ground and raced into the house. The screen door creaked shut before Sid could say a word. He slammed his bat down hard.

I finally get Hawk to play a game with me and he finds a way to get back inside, he thought. He aggressively hit the dirt off his old sneakers.

Sid knew his brother was going to take forever, so he started playing his own game. He got back into his stance, tossed the ball up, and launched it into the humid air.

He slowly walked to retrieve the ball. The screen door swung open. Sid didn’t get his hopes up. Hawk was never that quick. His instincts were right; his older brother Tom popped into view. Sam greeted the new presence outside by thumping his long tail against the floor of the deck.

“Is Dad coming back out?” Sid asked. Tom nodded, placing the tray of cheese down next to the grill. “Where’s Hawk?”

“I think he said he was going to the bathroom, but he’s probably ditching you to play with his action figures.” Tom said matter-of-factly. “Just keep an eye on this, O.K.?”

Sid nodded. Moments later, he was alone again.

He hurried back to home plate. He wasted no time in throwing the ball up again and smacking it across the yard. This hit didn’t go nearly as far, but that didn’t bother Sid.

“I can hit the ball farther than you!” a voice called out.

Sid stopped short and looked around. The neighbors to the right of the Sanford’s house had a granddaughter in Sid’s class, but he knew it wasn’t her. The new neighbors to their left had been moving in all day, but their house was quiet right now and Sid hadn’t seen any kids running around earlier.

He picked up the ball and made eye contact with Sam who was panting happily away. Any other dog might have barked or at least hunted around a bit, but not Sam. He cocked his head to one side, but he didn’t really care. He was more interested in waiting for Sid’s father to come back.

Besides, it was no big deal because whomever the voice belonged to had gone back into hiding. Sid decided to hit a couple more. Hawk probably wasn’t coming back and he had time to kill before his father finished grilling up the hamburgers.

Sid leaned his weight back on his back leg, threw the ball in the air, took a step and transferred the weight to his front leg, and swung. The yellow bat cut through the sticky evening air, but missed hitting anything. The ball fell to the ground unharmed.

“Ha! You stink!” The voice was back and clearly enjoying Sid’s failure.

“Come on! Who is that?” Sid yelled out.

There was no response and the neighborhood appeared to be as still as it had moments ago.

Kenneth walked out of the porch and Sam sprang to life. He leapt up, nearly causing his master to trip.

“I was just hear you stupid dog,” he said, pushing the lab away lovingly. Kenneth managed to navigate his way over to the grill and checked the burgers on the burner. “What are you yelling about out here, partner?”

“Some girl keeps making fun of the way I swing,” Sid answered. “She keeps hiding though and I can’t find her.”

The elder Sanford adjusted his glasses and laughed. He closed the top of the grill and bent over to finally roughhouse with Sam. The dog had settled under the shade of the tree and had no intention of being roused. Kenneth gave up as usual and turned his attention back to his middle son. It didn’t take him long to realize Sid had missed something.

“You might want to open your eyes the next time you look around, bubble butt,” Kenneth said pointing to the red fence that separated the Sanford’s from their new neighbors.

* * *

Did I really just say all that?

It wasn’t the first time the tall, blond-haired girl hiding behind the fence had seen him.
She had seen him before she even set foot in her new school. He was the second boy waiting in the line of fifth graders eager to begin their last year of elementary school. She saw him again in the cafeteria at lunch sitting with a couple of friends. She was sitting alone, but she felt okay about it. She knew her outgoing personality wouldn’t leave her friendless for long. She didn’t give it much thought anyway because she couldn’t take her eyes off this boy. Which drove her crazy.

She wasn’t a girly girl by any means. She liked sports, rough housing, and speaking out against all the boys that thought she couldn’t play because she was a girl. All of her jeans were holey and grass stained. She was tough and liked it that way.

She knew she would have to be extra tough when her parents told her they were moving away from everything she knew in Pittsburgh to Connecticut. The construction company her father worked for was relocating and offered to pay for a handful of employees to relocate with them. Her father had taken one look at the deteriorating job market in the Steel City and knew accepting the offer was a no brainer.

Are the boys stupid there too?

Jocelyn, the boys here aren’t stupid.

Well, are they smelly?

Jocelyn, the boys here aren’t smelly either.

I’m going to beat them up anyway.

Please try to be nice honey.

Only if they are nice to me.

I’m sure they will be.

As long as they let me play baseball, we’ll get along.

It was his blue eyes she decided.

Those eyes had bored into hers that afternoon without even trying. It was only for a moment, but it was enough. She didn’t even think he meant to look at her. He just happened to glance over in her direction while scanning the rest of the busy lunch scene. But she felt her cheeks redden and her heartbeat speed up as their eyes locked for a fraction of a second. She didn’t know what this feeling was, but she didn’t like not being in control of it. She tried to talk to him ever since, but always chickened out. She never thought to take a good hard look at the two boys who were always playing outside in the backyard next to hers.

She really should have seen it coming.

It seemed every good moment in her life happened around a baseball game.

It started when she was very young and used to crawl into his father’s lap as he listened to his beloved Boston Red Sox on a transistor radio he had supped up. She never learned why he didn’t root for his hometown Pirates, but the Red Sox became her favorite team too. Sometimes he’d come home late, collapse on the couch, pull her close, and they’d listen to the Sox battle the New York Yankees with their eyes closed.

She also remembered how her mother had consoled her when the neighborhood boys refused to let her play stickball. After calming her down, her mother grabbed her by the shoulders and met her eye-to-eye.

You’re just as good as those boys.

You don’t stop practicing; you don’t let anyone tell you no; and you don’t back down ever.

When the boys finally relented, she beat their brains in. She remembered jumping on home plate after hitting another home run and catching her mother’s gaze from the family’s front lawn. She couldn’t think of a time when her mother smiled wider. Jocelyn had pumped her fist and let out a scream. The boys always let her play after that. And she always won.

Now what?

When she realized whom it was she was living next to, she nearly dropped a gallon of milk on the kitchen floor. He was racing around the bases, one step in front of his younger brother. Even from the window, she could see his blue eyes flashing in the fading fall sunlight. His smile widened as he crossed home plate. Before she knew it, she was crouched behind a bush next to the red fence separating the two yards.

Why am I hiding? I’m not scared of anything!

Jocelyn saw the boy’s father spot her. She didn’t have a whole lot of options now that wouldn’t end in complete embarrassment. She made sure her ponytail was securely tucked through the hole in the back of her Red Sox hat. She pulled the brim down just above her brown eyes. She put on her toughest face and stood up.

I hate that I fell in love with those eyes.

Read Part 1. Read Part 2. Read Part 3.

Preview of Sid Sanford LivesChapter One: PastimePart 3

2012-01-05T13:34:00.002-05:00

It was 4 a.m. My eyes were wide open. I had closed my laptop, but my mind was still working. I turned on my light and jotted a few more notes in my small green notebook.

I forced myself back to bed and plunged myself back into darkness. My eyes flicked open moments later. I just couldn’t shake him tonight.

The story of Sid Sanford demanded to be written.

I’m not one to argue with my muse. When she calls, I answer because she might never come back again. That was the main reason I talked myself into accepting a cup of coffee from my roommate the first night in our new apartment. And also why I thought it was a good idea to have a second cup.

Did I crash midway through the next day? Of course I did. Did I try to put ancient content into my job’s daily newsletter? You bet I did. Would I do it again? I just finished a cup of coffee and it’s approaching the witching hour.

I’ll be able to sleep again someday. I just know that this is an important moment in the evolution of Sid and the writer who is painstakingly trying to bring him to life, so I plan on running through walls until I get the job done.

So enjoy the next installment of the preview of the opening chapter in Sid Sanford Lives. I plan on releasing the next installments Friday and Saturday so stayed tuned.

Dirt from the pitcher’s mound was still falling off the teenager’s baseball cleats.
His mother had yelled at him to take them off before he ran across her clean kitchen floor, but he hadn’t listened. He didn’t have time to waste. The doubleheader had taken up the morning and afternoon, and he had an hour of school reading to do and an hour of personal reading to finish before the night was over.

He yawned and adjusted his glasses. He tossed his purple hat with the yellow “J” on it to the other side of the room and rubbed his shaved head. He brought his legs down from where he had them propped up on his desk and stretched them. He finally undid the laces of his cleats and let those fall to the floor. He wiggled his toes as they became free.

He stretched out his arms over his head as he pulled off the purple shirt with “Jays” written in yellow script across the chest. He threw that next to his hat. He pried off his long white socks and thin yellow stirrups and pitched those into his growing pile of soiled baseball stuff. He decided to keep his baseball pants on. He had pitched a great game and wanted to keep that feeling as close to him for as long as possible.

He quickly rearranged himself on his chair. His legs reached for his bed this time around. He found where we was in the text and started reading.

That’s when he heard the screams.

“You are out!

“No I’m not!”

“I tagged you with the ball!”

“No you didn’t!”

“Are you kidding me?!”

“No way José!”

“You cheat!”

“You cheat!”

My brothers.

Tom Sanford really did want to be out there with those two. He wished he could be as laid back and carefree as his younger siblings. But being the oldest brother came with responsibilities. He had to be the one to set the best example for them. He had to be the one to do all his chores without complaint, work as hard as he could to get good grades in school, and help out his parents as much as possible. Besides, he didn’t allow himself to play Wiffle ball. Throwing the light white ball and swinging the thin yellow bat could have a damaging effect on his actual baseball skills. Not to mention the way those two played the game, he’d be lucky to get a hit without one of them crying about it for hours.

Still, Tom knew that school had just started a couple of weeks ago, and it was only fall baseball, so it was silly to deprive himself of a couple of minutes of brotherly bonding even if he didn’t ask into the game. There were times he didn’t enjoy being the smartest kid in the class, and this was one of them. But he wanted to get as far ahead of the game as possible.

In his mind, he didn’t have much choice. Even if he hadn’t overheard his parent’s conversation, he would have been able to figure it out by reading their faces. Things were tight and the hard work his mother and father were putting in was taking its toll on them. And that was just to keep what they already had: food, shelter, and clothing. Paying for things like college or trips was a distant possibility that might as well be impossible. And Tom wanted nothing more than to go to college to continue learning and play baseball.

He was going to have to get there himself.

He didn’t mind that. He didn’t blame his parents for all the extra effort he was going to have to put into the classroom and on the baseball field to accomplish his goal. He liked that it was hard. He didn’t want anything handed to him like some of his classmates. There was nothing better in his mind than proving himself and making his own way in the world. That way, the responsibility of succeeding or failing was completely on his shoulders. His parents had done enough to give their three sons more than they ever had been given. He was the oldest, so it was his responsibility to give some of that good will back.

Smack!

He heard the Wiffle ball crash into his parent’s bedroom window that was right above his room. He again felt youth and ambivalence tugging him away from the English textbook in his lap. He shook off the feeling as quickly as it came and continued reading.

His eyes ran into a word he didn’t know. He groaned and looked around for his dictionary. He found it on his bookcase well out of reach. He bounded out of his chair. He pulled the well-worn book off the shelf. He found the word he was looking for in no time. He tossed the book on his bed so he wouldn’t have to get up again. He glanced up at the baseball figurines that he had displayed on the top of his bookcase. Don Mattingly and Daryl Strawberry were definitely out of place.

My brothers.

Tom did some quick rearranging. He nodded in satisfaction when he got them just the way he wanted them. He collapsed on his bed and pulled his textbook toward him. He was much more comfortable than he was before.

He heard his father shuffle into the kitchen. He heard his mother and father’s voices. He heard laughter and kisses.

Tom smiled.

There was a knock on his door.

His mother sighed when she opened it.

“You’re still in your baseball pants?” Gail asked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, at least get off your comforter I just washed will you?” She said walking over to him. She planted a kiss on his forehead. “Blah, salty!”

He chuckled.

“I need you to bring out the cheese for the burgers to your father in a couple of minutes,” She said as she started to walk out. “Plus, I think he could use another drink sooner than later.”

“Sure thing Momma,” He said marking his page and closing his book.

Gail stopped before she went back to getting the rest of dinner ready. She wrapped Tom in a big hug.

“I was proud of the way you pitched today. Your dad can’t wait to hear all about it.”

“Thanks Momma.”

“But I’m exhausted,” She said returning her focus to the kitchen. “It feels like I’m out there with you on every pitch!”

Tom smiled.

“While you’re out there, make sure those two don’t kill each other,” Gail added. “At least not before I have the chance to.”

He looked out his bedroom window and listened to the shouts.

My brothers.

Read Part 1. Read Part 2.

Steve Jobs and the Myth of the Exceptional American

2011-11-09T14:10:00.001-05:00

Image courtesy of fuzzimo

Steve Jobs deserves all of the adjectives ascribed to him by the media.

He was indeed a genius, innovator, and pioneer. I’m writing this on a Macbook in close proximity to my iPhone, two iPods, while listening to a decade’s worth of songs downloaded from iTunes, so I don’t have to be sold on Jobs’ place in the Pantheon of America’s best minds.

However, the word I’ve had the most trouble with has been exceptional. I’ve always had issues with this word anyway, even more so when coupled with the adjective American. I’m as patriotic as they come, but to defend the idea that my fellow citizens and I are exceptional considering that we glorify the casts of Jersey Shore and The Real Housewives of Orange County, can’t get out of our own ways politically, and barely notice we’re still fighting two wars overseas that have claimed more an untold number of lives on both sides is as dangerous as it is stupid.

In my opinion, we are all exceptional—regardless of ethnicity, color, or creed—just by being alive. When our ancestors left the cave and stood on two feet—and if you believe recent studies ran, not walked, to outlast our stronger and smarter Neanderthal competitors—they left us a legacy of being able to tame the earth and cast our own destinies. One could argue that war and pollution have tarnished that legacy, but the fact that we’re still moving forward in time despite our differences is indeed exceptional.

I’m not saying that there haven’t been moments when American achievements have outshone those of the rest of the world. We built railroads to connect our distance coastlines; we took to the road, air, and the reaches of outer space in the spirit of efficiency, adventure, and discovery; we harnessed the power of steel, wiped out smallpox and polio, and—thanks in large part to Jobs—changed the way we listen to music, read magazines and books, and interact with one another. But after only 235 years of existence, can we really say that our exceptional moments are greater than those of the countries we share this world with?

Were Martin Luther King’s peaceful efforts to move the civil rights movement along during the 1960s more significant and inspiring than Gandhi peacefully inspiring a country to shake off the yolk of British imperialism? Franklin D. Roosevelt steadied a country during World War II, but was it more exceptional than Winston Churchill holding his country together with twine and Duct tape while enduring constant bombardment from Hitler’s Luftwaffe? Is anything any of our brightest and most talented innovators, leaders, or business people are doing right now illuminating our world more than those that live in societies whose existences endure through war, famine, and choice? Or has the fact that America has accomplished so much in such a short period of time an indicator that we’re exceptional?

I don’t have good answers for any of these questions. In fact, I have no answers. All I know is that Jobs wasn’t much different than any of us when he thought up a good idea. The difference is that he, like so many great minds throughout history, didn’t let those ideas go down the shower drain where they were born; he had the courage, will, and persistence to see their birth. We all have this exceptional ability to change our world no matter what country we were born into. We all need to start thinking of the next big idea, the next step forward. Steve Jobs himself said it best in his address to Stanford University’s graduating class in 2005:

Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma, which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice, heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.

Image courtesy of grace176

To put the bigger picture back in American terms, our world didn’t go dark after the passing of Thomas Edison, statesmanship didn’t perish along with Benjamin Franklin, journalistic standards didn’t erode when the world lost Nellie Bly, and our idealism wasn’t tempered by the assassination of John F. Kennedy. It wasn’t that Jobs was exceptional. Like the influential men and women that came before him, he was just better able to figure out what was exceptional about the rest of us.

Which is why I’ll go to sleep easily at night even though his light has been extinguished. I’m content knowing that the next great innovator is out there somewhere, ready to not only redefine what we want, but who we are. I won’t care what nationality, race, religion, or sexual orientation he or she is; as long as they can read the tea leaves as well as Jobs did and point us toward our next collective exceptional moment.

But I hope he or she hurries. Because of Jobs, we’re all a little impatient.

*I was told when I was writing this that I was pretty daft if I believed there were no other American innovators on the level of Steve Jobs. I’m not saying that at all. I’m just saying that Americans don’t have a monopoly on being exceptional, now or ever. I’m just kick-starting a debate, so forgive any shortcomings this post might have.

Preview of Sid Sanford LivesChapter One: PastimePart 2

2011-11-08T17:05:00.000-05:00

In August 2009, I posted a selection from the first chapter of my long-languishing novel. For those of you new to the blog—or for those of you who don’t have memories that long—my book centers on the life of Sid Sanford who happens to have a striking resemblance to…well…me. What I wrote back then still applies: For better or worse, he’s become my alter ego and I keep coming up with ideas for him that keep me from finally putting down my pen. For the last couple of weeks I’ve been tapping into something that has allowed me to seriously make a run at putting the final touches on this novel. Sid’s story needs to be heard in its entirety, and I plan to do my best to make that a reality. Originally this story was a lot shorter, but I realized I had to do a better job of introducing all the characters if I wanted this book to work. So far in these previews, Sid has made an appearance only in the background, but I promise you he’ll get his moment in the spotlight soon. In the meantime, here’s part 2 of the first chapter of Sid Sanford Lives.

She took a deep breath before she started moving again.

There was so much that had to get done and she didn’t know where to start. She had to get the hamburgers prepared and seasoned before her husband threw them on the grill, she had to get all the fixins her men liked ready to go, and she had to get all the paper plates and utensils on the table. Then, she had to throw together her famous potato salad, make rice for her oldest son Tom’s bland palate, and start making her boys’ lunches for the next day. School had just started and she always liked to make sure they ate well that first week. They were on their own after that.

What am I doing thinking instead of moving, she thought. Focus, focus!

The first thing she did was fill her soda cup—which her men teased her about, calling it her “bubba.” She was particular about it, yes, preferring to fill it all the way up with ice first and then pour in as much Diet Coke as the cup would allow. That way, she had a perfectly chilled drink for hours, which was especially handy if she got sucked into a Lifetime movie and didn’t feel like trudging back into the kitchen. She wouldn’t let her husband or sons refill it for her no matter how many times they offered. They never got the combination right and she was left with either a watered down Diet Coke or a lukewarm one within the hour. No thank you fellas.
She took a deep pull and felt ready to tackle everything.

Focus, focus!

She tied her apron on. She started with the hamburger meat she had left out to thaw when she got home from work. She washed her hands, opened the packaging, and dropped the meat into one of her favorite glass mixing bowls. She put in the right mixture of spices and squished the meat around so that it all was fully coated. She scooped out a little bit at a time and formed the perfect patties, which she laid on her serving plate with the rooster on it.

“’Kay!” she exclaimed happily. Her boys teased her when she said that. It was her French slang for “There, done!” It was a mix between “okay” and gibberish. She grew up hearing her mother and brothers and sisters saying it, so she said it too. It amused her to no end when she caught any of the Sanford men muttering it after completing a task.

A Ronnie Milsap song came on the radio.

“Woo,” she yelled to the empty kitchen.

She rushed to turn up the volume. She be-bopped to the fast-paced country tune for a moment and then set out to accomplish the rest of her goals. Between the music and the Diet Coke, she got everything done in plenty of time before her husband made his way down the stairs. In fact, she was at the kitchen table reading her book when she heard him shuffle into the kitchen.

“Wow!” Ken said when he saw everything laid out for him. “You make it so easy for me.”

“Lord knows I have to,” she replied without looking up from her book. “If I didn’t, none of you Sanford would be of any use to society.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said her husband, grabbing the tray of hamburgers haphazardly.

Gail cringed.

“Use two hands.”

“I’ve got it.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do too.”

It was at that moment that Ken tripped over his own feet, causing the tray to slip out of his hand and crash back down on the counter. Gail was on her feet in a flash after yelling out nervously. She got there as one of the patties jumped ship and landed next to the coffee pot.

“Told you that you didn’t have it.”

Ken’s face got red and he put his head down.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t love you to pieces,” she said. She put everything back to the way it was supposed to be, kissed him on the cheek, and tousled his graying hair. “Why don’t you start up the grill, say hello to Sid and Patrick, and I’ll send these out with Tom in a couple of minutes.”

Ken nodded and opened the door to the back porch.

“Take your dog with you!” Gail said.

At the mention of his name, Sam wormed his way out from under the kitchen table, nearly knocked her over, and bounded happily after his owner. The dog barreled his way past her husband and barked excitedly at the screen door. Ken chuckled and went to follow his loyal canine, but his wife stopped him.

“I almost forgot!” she said walking over to the fridge. “I made my man a drink!”

“Thanks,” Ken replied, trying to summon up some enthusiasm. “I could really use it after today.”

“What happened? What’s wrong?” she asked wearily, handing him his gin and tonic.

“Nothing, just one of those days.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’d tell me if something happened, right?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“OK, get to work,” she said satisfied with his answer for now.

She watched as he walked away from her.

She didn’t mean to worry so much.

She could sense something in him today though. There was weariness in his voice and body language. She didn’t know how he did it every day dealing with all those customers. She had her own struggles dealing with patients at the doctor’s office where she worked, but they were lambs compared to his grocery store clientele. She knew how much of the burden he heaved on his shoulders in providing for this family day in and day out and hated to see him get down on himself. She was the one that paid the bills, so she knew how tight things were and how little they had to show for all their hard work sometimes.

You’re my rock Ken Sanford, she thought. I can’t help but worried when my rock starts to show signs of wear and tear.

Her mother had been a worrier. She had vowed never to be like that. She tried her best to be as even-keeled as her husband, but it never quite worked out that way. It just didn’t fit her personality. She had accepted that to some degree, but it didn’t mean she felt good about it.

She had some legitimate reasons for worrying as much as she did. Both she and her husband had suffered through one job after another that might have been fulfilling if it weren’t for the people they worked under. While Gail had finally found a doctor that not only realized her value but also was as useless without her as the Sanford men were; Ken, meanwhile, hadn’t been so lucky. He was one of the hardest workers she’d ever known, but he just couldn’t catch a break. There was always someone else who had all of the flash and got all the promotions, yet Ken had the substance and got left behind. It wasn’t in his nature to fight back, even when she urged him to start ripping people’s heads off. He knew that he was doing a good job and the best that he could, no matter how crappy he was treated at times. He made her believe that they could withstand anything for their three boys.

However, that didn’t stop her from wanting to scream some days. They were making it work now, but at what cost? How long could they keep this up? How were they going to move beyond putting food on the table and clothes on their backs to putting their three brilliant kids through college? When was their bad luck finally going to get the best of them? Neither she nor her husband was above working the occasional odd second job, but all it did was keep them away from these boys they both loved with everything they had.

Focus, focus!

Before she went to get Tom, Gail Sanford looked out of the bay window and observed her two other sons chasing after each other in the backyard. Someone had hit the Wiffle ball in Sam’s direction and he had made off with it. They chased him down, pulled the slimy ball out of his mouth, and raced back to their positions. She smiled, knowing at some point she’d have to break them up after one or the other melted down over a silly argument. But for now, she watched as the dog trudged back to the deck and collapsed in a happy heap next to her husband.

My boys.

Read Part 1

Blanchette Blood: Moving Uncle Bobby

2011-11-01T00:20:00.003-04:00

"This hasn’t moved out of here for 27 years,” Uncle Bobby said. “It belonged to your grandfather."

He’s pointing to an old toolbox that looks every bit its age. I had been ready to make a crack about how many dead bodies he had hidden in there. As it turns out, it contained Blanchette ghosts instead. My mother’s father, Arthur, had built the toolbox in upstate Maine on a day that no one can remember. All of my mom’s brothers—Roland, Clifford, and Jimmy—had possessed it at one point before it came to rest in Uncle Bobby’s basement. Inside this nostalgia treasure box were tools that the Blanchette men had touched, used, and, more likely than not, spilled blood on. It was a connection to a generation of family that I admired and respected above all others.

Arthur Blanchette's Toolbox

So, naturally, my first inclination was to make a joke. “I guess I shouldn’t point out that I’m 27 years old, right?” I asked. Uncle Bobby mumbled something in French and gave me a look that said, No, you really shouldn’t.

We picked it up wordlessly and put it in the back of the trailer he had attached to the back of his powerful pickup truck. He shut the doors and we hopped into the cab. We were on our way to his new house, which was also a connection to the past of sorts. He was moving into my Uncle Roland’s house just down the street. He had passed away a few years ago, and Uncle Bobby had just bought the house from his widow.

After moving a table saw that had the density of a felled water buffalo, we moved my grandfather’s toolbox to its new home in the workshop connected to Uncle Bobby’s new garage. It certainly would have plenty of company during its next 27 years.

“It’s going to take me years to figure out where everything is and where all the light switches are,” Uncle Bobby said. He looked around at the vast amount of tools and odds and ends and chuckled. “At least when I go, moving all this shit will be someone else’s problem.”

I should point out here that I didn’t come home to help out my uncle. The story works a lot better if I jumped on a train without thinking after hearing he needed me, but the truth is I came up to run a race in Higganum, Conn. Well, that and have a few beers with my brothers at my nephew’s birthday party. None of this ended up happening. What did happen made the trip that much more worthwhile.

One of the earliest memories of my Uncle Bobby is sword-fighting with him on the steps of my porch using his tape measures. Actually, most of my memories with him involve a porch, a stoop, or a set of stairs. Like all the Blanchette men, he had this unmistakable French accent that colored everything that came out of his mouth—which, more often than not, would include plenty of colorful language.

All of the Blanchette brothers also had their own distinct laughs and eccentricities. I don’t remember my Uncle Clifford—who I’m told I owe my temperament to, which may or may not be a compliment—but I remember Uncle Roland being softer-spoken, and Uncle Jimmy being so loud at times that he scared the crap out of me as a kid. Uncle Bobby is certainly as hardscrabbled and tough as his brothers, but he always seemed to me to be a generous and good-natured man—something he reaffirms every snowstorm when he plows my parents’ driveway.

The Blanchette Men: Roland, Arthur, Jimmy, Clifford, and Bobby

I wasn’t close to him during my teenage years through my early 20s for a variety of reasons, but all that changed this past year. He had remarried a wonderful woman from New Hampshire named Sherri and had reconnected with the remaining members of the Blanchette crew, who couldn’t have been happier to shower him with all the love and attention he’d missed out on over the years. While having a few beers with him at my father’s 60th birthday party, I got the best advice I think I’ve ever been given. “Life’s too short and hard—no use being miserable through the whole thing,” he said. “As long as you’re happy, the rest is bullshit.”

So even though I hadn’t planned on it, helping my uncle an easy decision. As fate would have it, a giant nor’easter was headed toward the East Coast. It was expected to drop 6–12 inches and start right around the time we’d be moving the rest of Uncle Bobby’s stuff to his new house.

“I was telling my mom, I think your brothers might have had something to do with this,” I said after I had arrived early in the morning the following day. “Normally, I’d say Clifford or Jimmy are the culprits, but since you’re moving into his house, Roland might be the one messing with you.”

“You better believe all of them are up there having a good laugh,” Uncle Bobby said, rolling his eyes. “Bastards.”

The threat of the weather fueled our work that morning. We were machines. While Sherri, my mom, and my Tante Peewee—for those wondering, that’s “aunt” in French, and no one knows what the hell a Peewee is—packed up the rest of the house in boxes, the men robotically moved the heavy furniture to the new house. We got everything done just as the snow was starting to really accumulate.

After all the heavy lifting was over, Uncle Bobby ended up sitting on the top step of the small set of stairs to the family room where the rest of us were seated in a variety of rocking chairs. We were happily devouring the lunch my mom had prepared—along with a few well-deserved beers.

“I haven’t had this tomato rice soup in 30 years,” Uncle Bobby said through a mouthful of the steaming soup. “Hits the damn spot, though.” Sherri said something to the effect that she couldn’t get over the fact that my mom had stayed up all night making the bread and thought to bring her Crock-Pot and griddle to feed everyone.

“That’s the type family you married into,” he replied. He’s right. Come hell or high water—or a nor’easter—this family comes together to help one of its own. Usually, that aid comes with a warm meal and homemade Whoopie pies.

When we were leaving, Uncle Bobby shook my hand and thanked me up and down. I joked that I’d call in the favor the next time I moved in New York City. “You say the word, and I’ll be there without fail,” he said. He wasn’t kidding.

Me and Uncle Bobby

My cousin Terry mentioned out at some point that I didn’t have her father’s Mainer accent. “That’s true,” I told her. “But I inherited just about everything else—the height, the stubbornness, the nose, and the temper.”

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The Adventures of the Noreasters: Champs!

2011-08-15T01:01:00.035-04:00

2011 BASL Rainbow Division Champions

I was standing on second base.

Dan P. was at third base, after reaching base and then advancing on my double.

Spud was being intentionally walked.

The Noreasters had the bases loaded with one out, down by one run against the Gators in the first of potentially three playoff games to decide the Big Apple Softball Rainbow Division champion.

Our third baseman Chris dug into the batter’s box. I heard the shortstop call the outfielders in, trying to cut off the winning run scoring on a single. Our bench was yelling at the top of their lungs. I clapped my hands and got ready to run like hell once the ball was put in play.

And put in play it was.

As soon as it left Chris’ bat I knew the game was over. I sprinted home, screamed, and pumped my fist. Our team made a beeline to the middle of the infield where Chris had jumped into Spud’s arms and was now being carried around like a ragdoll. Once Spud put him down, the rest of us swarmed him. It might have been the only time in Chris’ life when he didn’t mind his carefully maintained coiff being manhandled.

The script for game one couldn’t have ended any more perfectly. The win ensured that the team that made it out of the loser’s bracket would have to beat us twice. That was not going to happen on this day.

But more importantly, it gave Chris one hell of a swan song. We were losing our “Puma.” After a couple of years looking for a job, he finally landed one…in Virginia. Unlike last summer, in which he informed us a day or two before he was leaving for San Francisco for three months and would miss a good chunk of the season, he emailed Spud and I a couple of weeks ago to let us down gently. To no surprise to any of us, he provided a goodbye that outshone anything Spud and I could have thought up.

I joined the Noreasters in the spring of 2007 and was instantly brought into the family by Chris. I’m pretty sure the first thing he said to me was an insult. I can’t count the number of insults that have passed between the three of us, but I can assure you that Chris has walked away the victor more times than not. When I moved into the infield earlier this season, Chris was there waiting with good-natured ribbings and plenty of olé plays. I will miss his stories, his belittling of Spud, and of course, his enduring counsel and friendship. As I’ve written before, I’ve been lucky enough to be surrounded by good men, and I count Chris as one of the best I know.

Me, Chris, and Spud

There was still work to be done however before we could start looking for a third baseman that didn’t need a chiropractor after bending down for every ground ball hit his way (sorry Chris, I really couldn’t resist).

The Gators beat the Ball Breakers (our dear frenemies) in the next game, and it looked early on that they were going to get revenge.

Vinny, after all his heroics during the tripleheader from hell, couldn’t find his rhythm. We knew it was bad when Dan P. could be heard shouting from the outfield after every ball, “You’re killing me Vinny! Throw f***king strikes!”

Despite the handful of runs we were giving up every inning, we weren’t completely out of the game. We roared back to tie the game in our first at-bat and kept coming back each time they thought they had put enough runs on the board to make us stay down for good. We never gave up. Their best player ended up hurting himself, and their team seemed to crumble.

We put up 10 runs in the bottom half of a late inning to really seal the deal. After that, Bob, who we now call “Hammer,” came in to save the game by setting the Gators down in order. We ran back into the dugout, ready to score more runs to really etch our names on the trophy.

Turns out, that didn’t happen. The umpires pronounced the game over since we were nearing our time limit (BASL games are officially over after an hour and 15 minutes no matter what the inning), and even if we were to get three quick outs, there wasn’t time to start another inning.

The Noreasters were champs! We celebrated…by walking around in confusion as to what had just happened.

It didn’t take us long to shake off the oddness of the moment and enjoy in the hard-fought victory we had been building up to all summer. We played in some of the worst conditions, beat every team in the league, and even survived me playing an infield position. The other teams can say whatever they wanted to about us, but no one can deny that we hadn’t deserved this.

As we huddled up, I went looking for the game ball. There was another story line at work here-one I am convinced saw us through to the final game.

Our manager Trish’s 93-year-old grandmother died earlier in the week, and from what I am told she was an amazing woman who Trish and several of our teammates were extremely close to. After losing my grandmother in January, I knew how hard this week must have been for Trish and I didn’t want to let the moment pass without letting her know we were behind her.

The entire team started clapping after I presented the game ball to Trish. It was great seeing the woman who took so much time out of her life to organize our team, as well as deal with our many personalities on the field, have a moment that was all her own.

“Thank you guys,” She said. “Now who is going to Rock Bar for drinks.”

The whole team whooped and hollered!

As always, the stories from our adventure out must stay hidden to protect the innocent. But I will leave you with this slideshow that contains a picture of everyone on our team holding the WWE belt that Brad brought from his office. I’d give you more context, but really, you don’t really need it.

Here’s to the 2011 BASL Rainbow Division champs and our 2012 title defense!

Baseball Runner: Queens Half

2011-08-02T18:00:00.000-04:00

Run.

I’ve been defined by many words in my life. I’ve been labeled writer my whole life thanks to my imagination and occasional way with words. Many members of my family would use the words shy, moody, sensitive, and emotional to describe me growing up. I’ve always been attached to the words baseball and student, and probably will be the rest of my days.

However, the past two years have seen another word come to define me like no other has.

Runner.

I found myself at the start of the 2011 Queens Half Marathon this past Saturday hoping that the label hadn’t left me for dead.

I kicked my legs out in front of me, trying to keep them loose and shake out the nerves. I bent down to tighten the laces of my shoes about a million times. I had my iPod set to Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run,” my traditional half marathon leadoff song. I watched the other runners in my starting corral and felt intimidated because most of them had trained infinitely more than I had.

What the hell am I doing standing here?

I hadn’t run in three weeks. I hadn’t had a solid week of running in months. I was out of shape and disillusioned. I had spent the last couple of months watching my life go up in flames. It was self-inflicted, and I had no one to blame but myself. Other than the people I cared the most about, a major casualty of all this was my ability to run. I couldn’t summon up the inspiration or motivation to run through the pain and replace it with blood, sweat, and tears. All I could do was order Chinese food at the end of the day, pass out, and hope the next day would bring me salvation.

I was tired of feeling that way. I could easily have remained in bed with the air conditioner cranking, my spirit broken enough to prevent me from running a race I had so eagerly signed up for months before. I didn’t have to be in Flushing Corona Park in the heat and the humidity at 7 in the morning. But I needed to be here. I needed a jumpstart. I needed to believe that runner wasn’t just a passing fling, but a lifelong definition.

As the crowd around me began to build, my mind wandered back to how the running had started.

I had a horrible hangover after one of my nephew’s birthday parties had gotten out of hand two summers prior. I don’t remember everything I drank, but I knew it was a lot. I had let the bottle attempt to wash away everything weighing on my mind, and like every time before, it failed. My Uncle Jimmy had just passed away, my younger brother was starting basic training in Texas , and my relationship was going through a rough stretch. I was trying to juggle a job and night school, unsure whether all my hard work was ever going to lead me to something meaningful.

I like to tell people that I started running because I’d have a better chance of not getting the crap kicked out of me when the Airman came back home. If I couldn’t withstand a few punches, at least I could have a chance at outrunning him. I promised myself that I wouldn’t have a drink until my brother graduated from basic training. If he was sacrificing, so would I.

I dug up my old running shoes and looked out my window toward Astoria Park. I was the only thing standing in my way.

Run.

The track at Astoria Park

I could hear my uncle telling me, “This is bullshit!” My mother points out to me often that he’d tell me no one should run that fast or that far without someone chasing you. During those first runs, a lame donkey hauling an 18-wheeler could easily have caught up to me.

My idea of a run at that time was a mile around the track. Nothing more, nothing less. I was lucky enough to have a running partner who pushed me to do more. In fact, she came up with the idea to work toward running the Hartford Half Marathon in October. It was a life-changing suggestion.

Little by little, I kept adding time and distance. I was running an out and back through Astoria Park almost every day. There wasn’t a moment during the day when I wasn’t thinking about the next time I could pull on my running sneakers.

I was alone one steamy night in July, on my way back from Ralph Demarco Park, when I noticed the lights were still on at the track in Astoria Park. I had the legs and the breath to keep going. I remember thinking about what my younger brother was going through in basic. I remember thinking about my uncle. By the time the lights were shut off, I had run seven miles without stopping. I now thought of myself as a runner.

By the time I saw my brother graduate from basic training, I was in the best shape of my life. I remember finding him in the crowd of newly minted Airmen in the sweltering San Antonio heat, eager to share with him everything that I had achieved. We shook hands and embraced tightly. We were both deeply tanned and skinnier than rails. We didn’t have to express many words to show how proud we were of each other. And we knew our uncle had a hand in both of our achievements.

Me and the Airman

I ended up finishing my first half marathon in under two hours. I wasted no time in reaching more personal running milestones. I ran a 7.25 minute/mile pace in one of the New York Road Runners’ winter races in 2009, I set a personal record of 1:41 at the 2010 Virgiinia Beach Half Marathon, and twice successfully ran up the hill at West Hartford Reservoir during the 2011 Greater Hartford Quarter Marathon without dying.

2009 Hartford Half Marathon

I was on a running schedule during the early part of 2011 that saw me running all but a handful of days from February through May. I signed up for a flurry of half marathons (including Providence on Aug. 7 and Hartford on Oct. 15) with the expectation of continuing that plan. As you already know, I took a flamethrower to my life that pretty much killed that idea.

But, here I stood at the start of the Queens Half, ready to become a runner once more.

Everything left my mind once the national anthem ended. All the memories, all the pain, all the crap took a backseat. I was now only thinking about the 13.1 miles of pavement ahead of me. I wasn’t hot, I wasn’t worried, and I wasn’t scared. My legs no longer felt nervous; they felt eager to prove there was no distance they couldn’t run. The fire was burning inside me, that primal place within me that I thought was unreachable the past few months, instead of burning down everything around me.

Queens was my borough. It was my home. I don’t break in my town. I’m not weak in my town.

Only one word thundered in my head as I heard the starting gun.

Run.

Player Spotlight: Lack of Speed

There are four players in Major League Baseball history who have some variation of “speed” in their names. However, only one of them played for more than three years.

Speed Martin pitched in six seasons for the St. Louis Browns and Chicago Cubs from 1917 to 1922.

He had his best season in 1921 for the Cubs. He won 11 games, completed 13 games, and pitched 217.1 innings. However, he also lost 15 games and only struck out 86 batters. His ERA was 4.35, but that was good enough for second-best on a Cubs team that only won 64 games and finished seventh in the National League that year.

Martin finished his career with only 29 wins, 207 strikeouts, and an ERA of 3.78.

Horace Speed played three seasons as an outfielder for the San Francisco Giants and Cleveland Indians from 1975 to 1979 (he did not play 1977¬¬–1987).

Speed finished his career with a .207 batting average, five RBI, four stolen bases, and 38 strikeouts in 120 at-bats.

Speed Kelly played 17 games as an infielder for the Washington Senators in 1909. He managed just six hits in 42 at-bats, one RBI, one stolen base, and 15 strikeouts.

And who can forget the joyously named Speed Walker? He played in only two games as a first baseman for the St. Louis Cardinals in 1923. Walker had two hits in seven plate appearances. He scored one run.

Also, check out this great article in Runner’s World magazine about a relief pitcher for the St. Louis Cardinals who ran a marathon inspired by his six-year-old daughter with a rare chromosomal disorder.

The Adventures of the Noreasters: Three in the Heat

2011-07-31T08:39:00.002-04:00

The 2011 Noreasters

“I have seniority, so I’m getting one of the rocking chairs,” Dan, our right center fielder, said. “This place is totally awesome.”

He dropped his stuff and quickly collapsed into the chair. Spud and I eagerly did the same on the couch nearby.

“This is like a cabin back in the 1970s,” Chris, our third baseman said. “I feel like we’re at camp.”

It wasn’t far from the truth. We were at the Cowgirl Diner in the Village. There was a deer’s head looking at us from his perch above the fireplace and the chairs and couches were arranged in a circle. Also, part of the ceiling was painted black with painted on stars. It was the perfect refuge for a sweaty bunch of softball players.

It got even better when Spud walked back from the bar with two beers for me in his hand. I hadn’t had anything but water, Gatorade, and bananas to eat or drink all day, but that didn’t stop me from taking a healthy pull from one of the bottles.

I smelt terrible. I had salt deposits on my cheeks as if I had just finished a half-marathon. I was tired, sore, and hungry.

“I asked them for the biggest Diet Coke they could possibly find.” Brad, our injured second baseman, said after someone made a remark about the gigantic cup of soda he was about to consume.

It had been well earned.

Dan, Chris (wearing a hat and about to play the outfield), and Spud

As some of you may have noticed, a heat wave swept across the country last week.

According to one report, last Saturday the temperature 100 degrees, but felt like 113, in New York City.

All the softball games scheduled on Randall’s Island were canceled by the Parks Department.

Were the Noreasters one of those lucky teams? Did I get to spend my Saturday parked front an air conditioner somewhere with an ice cold beer?

Of course not.

My softball team was only lucky enough to have three games scheduled back-to-back-to-back during the hottest part of the day. And rather than being out in the open with the possibility of a warm breeze, we were stuck playing in the oven that is Hudson River Park off the West Side Highway.

I had a bad feeling about the weekend when my manager Trish emailed the team urging us all to hydrate, hydrate, hydrate the day BEFORE the game. I also had my own mother texting me every hour checking up to see if I was drinking plenty of fluids and worrying about me playing in the intense heat. My plan to grow my hair out went down the drain (literally), after I took my long neglected buzzers to my out of control mop. I threw three pairs of socks into my softball bag, along with three extra dri-fit shirts and three different hats. I had two large Gatorade bottles and a full Nalgene, and planned to buy even more water the next day. I would remind all of you that this preparation is for a recreational softball league and not military exercises in the desert.

I have to sprint onto a field at the beginning of a practice or game. My older brother taught me that hustling off and on the field meant something, so no matter what condition I was in, or how miserable the weather, I had to run my ass to my position. So, I was already sweating profusely by the time I got to shortstop. I could barely catch my breath. My feet could feel the heat rising up from the turf infield through my cleats. My hat felt heavy on my head after fielding only a couple of ground balls.

Sweating

After starting the year 9–1, our team had gone on a little bit of a winless slide (a slide stopped by a hard-fought come-from-behind tie the week before); so first place was going to be up for grabs all day.

We were faced off against the Ballbreakers (our nemesis) in the first game. Despite the conditions, we played nice and loose and managed to eek out a close win. Although I made a nice backhanded play on a liner in the hole and threw out one of the fastest runners in the league in a key inning, I'm obligated to tell you I had five or six line drives go just past me or just over my head. Yes, I am short.

One game, one win.

Game two pitted us against the Sirens, who had destroyed us two weeks ago. They found every gap that week, had a bunch of worm burner hits that went just past the pitcher’s mound, and got our team so flustered at each other that one Noreaster was prompted to tell another “Eat me.”

Today was different. They weren’t the same team. We clearly wanted the game more. It didn’t hurt that we had Vinny as are pitcher. He’d been off the past few weeks dealing with a family issue, and had stoically volunteered to pitch all three games. He was exactly what we needed. He didn’t waste any time on the rubber, cracked jokes the whole day, and fielded a ton of liners back to him that turned into easy outs. He was the MVP of the day, hands down.

Vinny getting the job done

Two games down, and we had won them both.

Thank goodness the third game was a blow out. If it had been close, our minds would have melted even more than they already were. Just to stick it to Spud one more time, I won the RBI challenge we had started at the beginning of the day. During the first inning, I hit a two-run homer, followed by a grand slam. Late in the game, I came up with runners on second and third. At that point, we knew that we were close, so this at-bat was crucial. Needless to say, I came through, bringing both runners in with a double. Spud had a chance to get back into it since he batted right behind me, but ended up popping up to end the inning. Sara, our official scorekeeper and all-around cheerleader, let us know that I had won by just one RBI. Spud took solace in the fact that he hit one more homerun on the day and didn’t fall into a unending pit of personal despair like he otherwise would have.

The other highlight of the last game was Brad acting as our third base coach. He had done it all day, but he really got into that last game. It seemed on every ball hit, Brad was waving someone around third. He said it best, “I’ve never met a run I didn’t like.” However, we didn’t have one runner thrown out at the plate all day. The best part was he was wearing a Tom Landry style fedora. His advice, though, needs some work.

Brad

“I know we have a lead guys, but we can’t be giving up six runs every inning,” he said matter-of-factly after a messy inning.

“Really inspiring coach, thanks,” I said as most of us dragged our fatigued bodies back to the dugout.

It almost didn’t feel real when the last out was recorded. Three games, three wins. We were now controlled our own destiny (UPDATE: We ended up clinching the division yesterday. Go Noreasters!).

“Who wants to have drinks?” Trish asked.

Every hand shot up.

I wish I could tell you everything we talked about at Cowgirl. If I did, many of us would either be in jail or fired. Just know that there was not one moment we weren’t laughing, making fun of each other, devouring appetizers, or sucking back some kind of alcoholic beverage.

Vinny was the only casualty.

He finally cracked after all that time in the sun. After throwing up in the bathroom, he was last seen stumbling out of the bar. He sent out an email the next day, telling us he was all right. It was his heartfelt thank you for giving him the game ball that struck me though.

“I really didn't deserve it,” Vinny wrote. “It is a team sport and we all contributed both offensively and defensively.”

This from the guy that lost his breakfast, lunch, and dinner just to help us out. It’s not hard to see why I love being on this team. We’re a family and we’re always there for each other no matter what. Win or lose, we always enjoy each other and have a good time.

Expect for Spud. He just whines incessantly (just kidding…sort of).

Little Leaguers: First Catch

2011-07-12T13:46:00.002-04:00

My 4-year-old nephew Jack posed a question as soon as I opened the car door.

“Uncle Daniel, can you play baseball with me when we get home?”

A younger Jack ready to play ball

I collapsed into the passenger seat. I craned my body around to answer and say hello to him and my nieces Katie and Madeline (2 and 7 months, respectively), all of whom had made the trip with my older brother Tom to pick me up from the New Haven train station.

I winced immediately.

My neck was sore. My back was sore. My legs were cramped. My skin was pink. I could barely lift my arm. I had played two softball games with the Noreasters in the wretched humidity oven that is Hudson River Park. I had moved to shortstop earlier in the season, so I was constantly moving on every play. I was cranky, hungry, and pissed we’d badly lost two games. Two hours on a Metro North train hadn’t helped.

All that faded when I saw Jack’s eager brown eyes looking back at me from the far backseat of Tom’s minivan.

“Sure Jack!”

He wasn’t done asking questions. He never is. Jack’s mind works in such a constant state of overdrive that his parents worry they are raising a future insomniac. He asks questions so fast that you think he’s not processing your answers before he asks another (but he is because he’ll be quick to correct you if you later change your story).

“Did you ride on a high-speed train? Did your train have a lot of cars? Where are you going to sleep tonight? Do you like playing baseball? Can I have some chips?”

His normal interrogation was thrown off when I started devouring the potato chips Tom had brought me.

Tom explained to Jack that he could have some when we got home since we couldn’t reach him, but sneaked several to Katie. She was closer and started wearing him down as soon as she caught on there was food to be had (like any true Ford).

“I wanna ‘nother one,” Katie said.

“We’re almost home. The bag is empty anyway,” Tom said.

“I wanna feel the bag,” Katie demanded.

She was yelling that at Tom when I hopped out of the car to pick up Coronas and limes (essential all-night videogame-playing groceries). She was still yelling at him when I came back in. She continued the entire two-minute drive home. We pulled into the garage right just as Tom was about to blow his brains out. He had barely put the minivan in park before handing Katie the obviously full bag. I’m not sure if her wide smile indicated she was happier that she had (yet again) caught her dad in a lie or that she now had all the chips in her grasp.

Jack, on the other hand, was out of the car in a flash. He quickly collected his soft bat and a bag of tennis balls. He plopped a plastic home plate on the driveway. He raised the bat up to his shoulders and got into his stance.

I was still in the minivan.

And I was slow in moving out of it. This was much too slow for Jack.

“I’m wearing a bathing suit, so I’m going to play in the water while you get ready Uncle Daniel!”

Jack tossed off his t-shirt and proceeded to splash around in the kiddies’ pool.

“Jack, can I use my glove to pitch to you?” I asked.

He thought for a minute and happily nodded his approval.

I took a deep breath. The inside of my glove was still damp with sweat as I slid my hand in. I smacked my fist into the palm.

It was like the previous eight hours had never happened.

I wasn’t tired anymore. I could feel the adrenaline wiping away every sore joint and muscle. I didn’t feel cranky, hungry, or pissed. I felt ready.

I was fired up…to pitch to a 4-year-old.

He was ready too. He smiled as he swung and missed at my first couple of underhand tosses. He didn’t complain and he bounded after each stray ball. He finally connected on one and my instincts prompted my once tired legs to hustle after it.

“Wow!” Jack yelled. “Daddy can’t run that fast.”

“He sure can’t, buddy,” I said.

“Well, only if it’s downhill,” he added.

Jack took a few more swings before he changed his mind about what we were doing.

“Can you help me put on my cool baseball glove?” He asked.

He gave the pool a splash as he made his way over to me. I undid the Velcro on his glove and he smushed his hand in. After I tightened the strap, he slapped his hand in the palm like he had seen me do and rushed to the other end of the driveway.

My first throw missed his outreached glove and hit him gently in the chest. Jack giggled as he tore after the ball. It landed in the grass and he bent down to pick it up with his glove. The grass was long, so he tried and failed a few times.

What a difference a year makes...

“Hey Jack, when the ball’s on the ground, you can pick it up with your bare hand,” I said. “That way you’re in a better position to throw the ball after making an error.”

It just kind of popped out. I realized I was trying to give baseball advice to a 4-year-old who would take a 10-minute break to carefully inspect a worm that had wandered into our game. Besides, he ended up catching only a few of my throws, so he had to get some use out of his glove somehow.

However, he threw the ball pretty damn hard and accurately for his age. He laughed out loud every time the ball skipped by him. He beamed excitedly every time the tennis ball would hop right into his glove. I would pump my fist in the air each time it happened, making him smile even more broadly.

“Uncle Daniel, you can sleep in my room tonight,” he said as we wound down our first catch together.

“Thanks Jack, that’s very nice of you,” I said.

He dropped everything where he stood and rushed into the house to get ready for dinner. I cleaned up everything for him, still high from ending the day on a good note.

After putting on an eating display (as Tom said, Pépère would have been proud of that fact that I took down a sausage and two hot dogs), Jack dutifully provided me with a pillow and blanket to put on the air mattress that was now blown up at the foot of his bed.

“Jack, are you excited to have a roommate?” Tom asked.

“Yes!” Jack yelled exuberantly.

He celebrated by jumping up and down on the air mattress as Madeline clapped excitedly from her perch on his bed.

“You can have this to sleep with,” Jack said. He handed me his Lighting McQueen stuffed animal. I knew how much the movie Cars meant to him, so I was very honored.

Although he wasn’t thrilled that I wasn’t going to bed at the same time as he was (Madden 2010 and Lego Star Wars weren’t going to play themselves into the wee hours of the morning), he let me go without complaint after I read two books to him.

“Uncle Daniel?” Jack asked as I was leaving his room.

“Yes?”

“Did you miss us?”

I smiled.

“Yes, Jack,” I said. “Did you miss me?”

“Yes!” He replied. “I’m going to wake you up tomorrow and we can finish our puzzle!”

I didn’t cringe at the thought of Jack stomping all over me at an ungodly hour of the morning. I knew that even though I’d be cranky, sore, and sleepy, that Jack would make it all go away with his first questions of the day.

And like the day before, I’d be ready with answers.

Playing baseball with Pépère

Baseball Beginnings: On Derek Jeter

2011-07-08T19:28:00.001-04:00

I still remember how good it felt to notch my first base hit.

It was a couple of games into my second season in my hometown’s summer recreational Pony League. Up to that point, I only had strikeouts and two weak ground ball outs to show for all my effort.

I’m pretty sure I made an error in the field the half inning before because I ran in from the outfield angry. I led off the inning and I remember being angry standing in the batter’s box. I angrily lined the first pitch I saw into left field where I saw it drop in front of the outfielder. I stopped being angry when I reached first base.

I remember how good it felt to be standing there. I hadn’t made an out. I hadn’t walked. I had an honest-to-God hit. I didn’t know then that I’d have that feeling only 12 more times.

I have no way of processing how good it would feel to do that 3,000 times.

However, the most important Yankee of my generation is about to find out. As I write this, Derek Jeter is two hits away from 3,000 with three more games before the All-Star break.

Much has been made of Jeter’s decline in recent years. Fine, I get it. As you know by now, I’m a homer for the New York Yankees. I’ve been that way my whole life. I’ve never thought about rooting for another team (except for when I would root for the Mets when they were doing well before I moved to New York and actually met a Mets fan). I could tell you that I’m a Yankees fan because my dad was born in New York and has been a Yankees fan his whole life, but that wouldn’t be telling the whole story. I’m a Yankees in large part because of Derek Jeter.

Before 1996, I didn’t follow baseball religiously. I would watch the game with my older brother and my dad, but I had no connection to players like Pat Kelly and Melido Perez. I couldn’t steal Don Mattingly away from my older brother because I was in diapers when Donnie Baseball was tearing up the league during his prime. Besides, I was too young and having too much fun playing Wiffle ball with my younger brother in our backyard. What kid wants to waste three hours watching a bad team when he could be outside arguing with his brother about who is going to be the Yankees that day?

Derek Jeter and the 1996 Yankees turned me into a true baseball junkie.

Here’s a player I could connect with. He was young. He wore a single digit number. He played the coolest position on the field. He had an inside out swing that I would grow to emulate. He was fast. He was always smiling. And he loved his parents, who frequently went to the games to see their son play.

I can’t lie—winning the World Series that year helped endear me to Jeter. I vividly remember watching my father’s reaction to Charlie Hayes catching the last out. I think he jumped higher off the couch and cheered louder than either of the two sons he had be his side. I remember watching a smiling Jeter drenched in champagne, smiling broadly, and thinking that anything in this world was possible.

The Yankees kept winning during the late 1990s and my family and I became even more intertwined with our team. As much as my younger brother and I admired the Yankees shortstop, no one became more ensorcelled by Jeter than my mother. She has a shrine to Jeter at her office at work, as well in her computer room at home. Her nickname for him is “Jeter-Butt” because of the way he gets out of the way of an inside fastball (and for a host of other reasons, I’m sure). My older brother made her life when he bought her a picture of Jeter shaking hands with her other favorite baseball hunk, Cal Ripken, who was playing at Yankee Stadium for the last time in his career. No one is allowed to criticize anything Jeter does in her presence…ever. The few times anything negative about Jeter slipped out of my mouth were quickly followed by a backhand to the head.

Maybe my mom is a big reason it makes me feel good to cheer for Jeter. Maybe it’s he hasn’t been connected to steroids. Maybe it’s because I admire his charity work. Maybe it’s because he wouldn’t validate parking for two women he had at his apartment. Maybe it’s because he stayed out of trouble in baseball because he was afraid of letting his parents down (and for people like Bill Simmons who have poked fun at this, it’s not the worst way to go about your life).

Former major leaguer Doug Glanville wrote an excellent opinion piece that ran in The New York Times. Glanville says that “numbers tell a story,” and that Jeter’s numbers were hard earned. To get to 3,000 hits, you not only have to be good, you have to be lucky too. Jeter has been relatively injury-free and consistent for so many years, allowing him to “ooze [his] way to greatness.”

Like Glanville, I’ve enjoyed counting Jeter’s hits along the way. I liked watching him collect them when I was smacking Wiffle balls in my backyard, when I was amassing 13 hits in my recreational league baseball career, and now, when I’m drinking a beer alone in my apartment in New York.

Jeter will be the player I’ll tell my kids I saw play his whole career. I’ll tell them about the November night he became a hero to my hero.

For the next three games, I’ll live every one of his at-bats like I did when my younger brother was in Little League. Every ball he fouls off, every swing and miss, every groundout will make me jump and sigh with a mix of relief and anticipation for the next at-bat.

Three thousand is a special number. Derek Jeter is a special player, and will remain that way to me even if his batting average drops below the Mendoza line.

He’s earned that incredible feeling that’s going to wash over him when he stands at first base for the 3,000th time.

I hope I get to keep counting with him to 4,000.

Brothers, Baseball, and Beer: The Airman and the Marine

2011-07-04T19:20:00.006-04:00

Sometimes it’s all right for men to cry.

I was standing next to my younger brother Patrick, who was decked out in his dress blue Air Force uniform, as we waited for his soul mate Kerry to make her way down the aisle. As the bridesmaids and groomsmen, who included Kerry’s sons Tyler and Cody and her daughter Amber, found their places to the left and right of Patrick and I, I thought back to all times I’ve spent with my brother. All of the memories of backyard baseball games, poker nights, The West Wing marathons, New York trips, and even petty fights over who got to sit next to my mother during movie nights came back to me in a flood.

So often, it’s the older brother's job it to show the younger one how to be a man. During the past few months, it’s been the other way. I stood by my brother’s side as he became a part of a wonderful family, and continued the Ford legacy of being a good man. I felt my heart swell and knew I was going to have to force tears from my eyes.

Patrick and I waiting for his bride

Here I was the best man, whose job it was to keep the groom upright and nerve-free, and I was losing it.

As it turns out, I was not going to be alone in my emotions for long.

From my place beside an Airman, I watched a Marine redefine heroism and courage. Kerry’s brother was badly hurt overseas but was hell bent on walking his sister down the aisle. He was also in his dress uniform with his medals proudly hanging from his chest. He struggled maneuvering his crutches over the wet and uneven grass, and gave a sigh of exasperation as he finally settled into his wheelchair, unable to make the trip upright. Kerry wrapped her arms around her brother and held him in a long embrace, making sure that he knew it was not a defeat. He wheeled steadfastly next to her down the aisle to give her away to my brother.

Josh and Kerry

Before taking his soon-to-be bride’s hand, Patrick stepped in front of Kerry’s brother, stood at attention, and offered a crisp salute. The Marine crisply returned one.

There was not a dry eye in sight.

I didn’t try to force the tears back or make it seem like I wasn’t crying. I just let the tears fall freely. I’ve been lucky in life to be constantly surrounded by good men, but moments like this ensure that I never take it for granted.

I wish I had added one more thing to my best man speech, which I’m sharing with you in this blog. Life is made up of moments that remind us how much good everyone of us has inside, and those moments should be treasured and remembered forever. Thanks to an Airman, a Marine, and a glowing bride, I have plenty.

And, sometimes it’s all right for men to cry.

Patrick and Josh

Good Men and Women

Good evening.

I'm the middle child, so this is a big moment for me.

I’d like to share with you a quote from a letter I found while writing this speech.

“I don’t know how much pleasure it affords you to go over these days of the past, but to me they will ever be remembered as days of felicity. And how happy the thought that years increase the affection and esteem we have for each other to love and be loved. May it ever be so, and may I ever be a husband worthy of your warmest affections. May I make you happy and in so doing be made happy in return.”

Harvey Black, a surgeon in charge of the field hospital for the 2nd Corps of the Army of Northern Virginia during the Civil War, used these words to express his love to his wife Mary from the battlefield in 1863. Despite being written almost 150 years ago, they still beautifully express the sentiments that we came together to celebrate; fidelity, happiness, and love.

When Patrick was sent on missions to Afghanistan the past few months, Kerry expressed to me her worry that the Air Force would conveniently schedule a return trip that would force her man to miss their wedding. I reassured her that he’d be there no matter what.

You see, the Fords have a legacy of going AWOL to get married. That’s just what my grandfather did before he was shipped off to World War II. He was going to be there for the woman he loved by any means necessary, and that’s a trait he’s passed down to his grandsons.

Needless to say, I’ve never been more excited to tell someone “I told you so.” And I’m sure Pat’s relieved that he didn’t have to break any laws to be here.

My brothers and I were lucky enough to be born into a family defined by good men. Our father, our grandfathers and uncles on both sides of our family, are all men who value honor, trust, and dedication to their families above all else. Pat, never forget these good men that came before you and the place that you hold in that legacy, especially since you put on that uniform. No matter how hard life might get, these men, those that are with us and those that aren’t, support you.

In the presence of good men: Me, Patrick, Cody, Tom, and Tyler

The Ford family has also been blessed with strong women. I’m sure most, if not all, of you in this room have met my mother. She’ll be the first to tell you that without women like her, as well as our grandmothers and aunts, that the Ford men would be lost in the tall grass. Kerry, it’s been an absolute joy getting to you know, and I’m proud that you’ll be joining these amazing women. I know that you’ll keep Pat on the right path all of his life. He’s my best friend. I’ve gotten him this far; you’ve got him the rest of the way.

Kerry and Patrick

Regardless of all the family support you’ll have throughout your marriage, it’s up to you two to protect and grow your love. Everyone in this room will tell you that it’s not going to be easy all the time. Life isn’t supposed to be. Every kiss, every hug, every good moment is made that much sweeter by persevering through every fight, every hurt feeling, and every moment of doubt. You two are a team. You will get through everything together. Trust in each other, respect each other, and love each other.

So let’s raise a glass to a good man and a good woman. I love you both, and I wish you the best of luck.

The Airman and the Best Man

Brothers, Baseball, and Beer: The Art of Playing Catch

2011-04-10T07:02:00.002-04:00

The search began as soon as the day started to break toward spring.

The porch, the shed, the cellar, and my parents’ cars turned up nothing. I scanned the front and back yards cautiously. I didn’t want to discover that its final resting place ended up being a soggy piece of lawn recently buried under two feet of ice and snow. I came up empty no matter where I looked. I took a slug of my beer dejectedly. I was ready to concede defeat and suffer through yet another weekend without a sacred early spring ritual.

That’s when my eyes fixated on my younger brother Pat’s closet door. I was fairly certain that he had thoroughly investigated it, but with no other options left, I decided to check his work.

My faith in my brother was rewarded. There was nothing baseball related in plain sight. However, I noticed a duffle bag that I didn’t recognize. Always open to “borrowing” a forgotten pair of sneakers or workout shorts, I decided to keep digging. As soon as I moved a pile of clothes out of the way, Pat’s stupidity was reaffirmed.

The missing black Rawlings baseball glove was staring right at me.

I slid my hand into the soft leather glove. Any frustration I might have felt melted away as soon as I opened it and hammered my right fist into my opposite palm. I rushed to pick up the baseball I had abandoned in despair. When the ball was safely nestled in the webbing of the glove, I fired off a text message to Pat

Found your glove. Get your ass here.

The Ford brothers didn’t always play catch in the middle of the street. My earliest recollections have us tossing the ball around in our backyard. The grass always seemed to be perfectly mowed, well-worn dirt patches surrounded our plastic bases, and our neighbors’ fences ensured that our bad throws would end up a manageable distance away from us. Whether playing a heated Wiffle ball game or getting smacked in the head with one of our father’s throws, our backyard was a baseball paradise for a kid.

Maybe we decided to move after I sailed a ball over Pat’s head that ended up smashing the glass window on my father’s grill. It could have been the other throw that I unleashed that violently took off the top of one of the wooden fence posts separating our yards. It could also have been because we were tired of losing baseballs in our death-defying patch of poison ivy and then contracting a rash going in after them. Pat sent me a message the other day that put our flight from the backyard into perfect perspective: “It was a swamp until June and it was full of dog shit.”

Obviously, a new home was necessary.

We tried the driveway first. This was short lived because one of us failed to get a glove on a baseball that put a hole in my father’s taillight. We couldn’t long toss in then front lawn because there wasn’t enough room and we didn’t want to chance destroying our neighbor Jimmy’s prized vintage Buick. According to my older brother Tom, the street had everything we were looking for; convenience, fewer obstacles, reduced chance of damages, and more space to air it out. The street became our refuge and we wasted no time in creating memories we could actually remember.

Since our street is on a slight hill, I was quickly banned from throwing downhill. I developed a case of the yips for a couple of months and everyone, myself included, was tired of having to run to prevent the baseball from going into the woods or sewer after every errant throw. If I forgot my softball glove in New York, I usually ended up being the brother who was stuck with the inadequate-in-every-way catcher’s mitt. I might as well be playing catch with a tiny Latex glove.

2010 was a banner year for us.

On day, my brother Tom pulled up to the house, got out of his car with his glove on, and ran out to join me and Pat who had been throwing for a while. Tom’s wife Kristen had been inside, waiting for him to take her to lunch. And here he was ready to play ball with us. Good thing she wasn’t pregnant at this point (oh wait….). After throwing the ball around for a good 15 minutes, Kristen poked her head out the front door and admonished Tom for making her wait. Tom’s defense was that he had just gotten there. Pat looked at him after Kristen slammed the door and said, “I don’t think she bought. It might be because you’re sweating profusely.”

Our best days came early in the spring. All we did Easter weekend was drink beer, throw a baseball around, and eat. We’d throw for a bit, drink half a beer, throw a little bit more, finish a beer, throw, run to get refills, throw some more, etc. etc. This all occurred on the street and in our front yard. The only thing missing from our redneck tableau was a matching set of lawn chair furniture and a car up on cinder blocks. The only break we took was during Easter brunch, after which we continued to throw our arms out and sneak beers to Tom without Kristen knowing. Later that night we ended up scarfing down the leftovers from the cookout the night before as if we hadn’t eaten anything all day. My father complained later on that he looked like an alcoholic when he dragged three full trash bags of empty beer bottles to the Lions Club.

Found your glove. Get your ass here.

This past Sunday found Pat and I right back where we belonged. We had all the essentials we needed, except for one (in reality two, counting Tom)—beer. Pat had fought his instinct to buy anything near his Air Force base in Massachusetts, failing to remember you couldn’t buy liquor in Connecticut on Sundays. Undeterred, we dusted off our father’s bottle of Bombay Sapphire Gin and made gin and tonics. I have to say, our pint glasses really classed things up.

The rhythms of the catch were unchanged. There was the same inkling of soreness in our arms after the first ball was thrown, the frequent stopping to let cars go by, and the constant putdowns and slams we lovingly hurled at each other along with every baseball. The seams of the ball tore at our soft, winter fingertips, and the bright, unscarred baseball tore through the air with the familiar machine gun sound.

One thing stood out to me on that cool Sunday afternoon. Pat was dressed in his military uniform having come right from work. It was a clear sign of how time had changed him, changed the entire family really, and how precious these moments with each other truly were. I found out later that he was being shipped to some of the more unsavory parts of the world for a training mission. I shook his hand and hugged him good bye, told him to stay in the wire over there, and that I’d be right there waiting for him with a beer when he got back.

He won’t have to look very far for his glove this time either.

Player Spotlight

My buddy Chris and I bought $5 tickets to go see the Yankees last week. It was his first time at the new Yankee Stadium, which meant the baseball gods conspired to rain out the game. We still managed to have a good time by spending $50 on food and waiting 15 minutes just to see a guy being carted off on a stretcher after police halted traffic on the ramp leading to the upper deck. We actually could have left the scene at any time, but stayed thinking someone important might be strolling by, like the time Henry Kissinger and Beyoncé walked past me during Game One of the 2004 American League Championship Series. Nope, this time it was just some random unconscious guy.

The highlight of the evening was visiting the Yankees Museum. Even if there had been a game, and even if the Yankees had won, it still might have been the highlight since Chris and I are both Yankees homers and huge history nerds. Along with old jerseys, bats, championship rings, and World Series trophies, the museum included a display of baseballs signed by anyone who had been affiliated with the team. We giggled over seeing our favorite players and reacted with horror after seeing a baseball with Suzyn Waldman’s name proudly displayed. One of the ushers mildly disappointed Chris when he told him Mel Hall was too busy banging out license plates to sign baseballs. Well, that and FedEx doesn’t exactly deliver to those serving a 45-year prison sentence.

The reason for bringing this up, other than to continue our running Mel Hall joke, is to highlight a player that caught Chris’s attention because he shares the same nickname.

Spud Chandler

Chandler made his debut in 1937 and played his entire 11-year career with the New York Yankees. His breakout year came in 1943, in which he won 20 games, had a winning percentage of .833, pitched 20 complete games, had an E.R.A of 1.64, and won the American League’s Most Valuable Player Award. He would retire in 1947 with the best winning percentage of any pitcher with over 100 career wins (.717).

Chandler served in the U.S. Army during World War II from April 1944 to September 1945. He was not assigned to active duty because of his age and injuries to his arm. Like many baseball greats, Chandler missed out on two years during the prime of his career. However, he did not complain and is quoted in a 1993 issue of Baseball Digest as saying, “I came back. Some of those boys didn’t.” When he did come back to the league full time in 1946, he would win 20 games and post an E.R.A. of 2.19.

For more information on Spud Chandler, as well as other information about baseball players who served during World War II, I encourage you to visit Gary Bedingfield’s Baseball in Wartime. The website includes player biographies, memorials for those players who died during the conflict, details on service teams and games, and photo galleries. The author also maintains a blog, which can be found here.

Diamond Tweets

April is military child month. The Army will be sponsoring activities at installations around the world to recognize the sacrifice of military children. According to the U.S. Army, more than 1.7 million kids have one or more parents actively serving in the armed forces, with an estimated 900,000 children who have had one or more parents deploy multiple times. To learn more, click here.

Baseball Beginnings: Why I’m Not a Baseball Player

2011-04-03T12:00:00.073-04:00

I was not a baseball player.

I left that to my brothers.

I didn’t know the fundamentals of fielding a ground ball, how to round first base after singling up the middle, or how to use two hands to nab a fly ball out of the unlimited summer sky. I had no concept of how long 90 feet between bases actually was, what signals the pitcher gave away that let me know it was time to steal second base, or what it meant to pick up a teammate who stranded a runner in scoring position.

This wasn’t because I didn’t want to be a baseball player.

I watched in awe with my father as my older brother pitched his heart out in high school without reservation or fear. When he put on that Bristol Eastern uniform with "1" stitched on the back, he ceased to be my brother and became a superhero. He was everything I wanted to be.

It’s also not like I never played baseball.

It just wasn’t real baseball.

My younger brother and I would play Wiffle ball in the backyard from the start of spring until the chill of late October. I hold the Ford Stadium records for career homeruns, single season homeruns, strikeouts in a game, and career championships. If there were a Wiffle ball Hall of Fame, I’d be in it (turns out there is, and I'm not).

I had plenty of opportunities to be a baseball player.

My family is baseball obsessed. This all stemmed from my father. He followed the great New York Yankees teams of the 1960s (and the not-so-great teams during the backend of that era), and, according to his memory, could pick the ball out of the dirt at first base with the best of them. His oldest son was in uniform practically out of the womb, so one would have assumed that his second son would follow suit without question. He made it clear to me that it was my choice to play or not to play.

I wasn’t a baseball player because I was afraid.

You can’t be afraid and be a baseball player. I was shy. I was a crier. I was a thin-skinned kid who took everything the wrong way and then sulked about it. It would be easy to heap all the blame on my father for not forcing me to play, as my older brother often does, but I can’t imagine the tantrums I would have thrown once someone starting rifling ground balls my way. The scenario in my head gets even worse thinking about if I had made a mistake in a live game. My father’s tough, but no man could have endured that kind of humiliation.

I did end up trying to become a baseball player.

I started shaking off my shy demeanor as a teenager, and tried out for my middle school baseball team. I was the first player to take batting practice that first practice. I fouled off the coach’s first pitch, and I could feel the vibration in my stung fingers in the bottom of my throat. I never made contact again. The coach announced at the end of the day that everyone would need to turn in a physical form if they wanted to play. I knew I wasn’t any good, and didn’t want to put my parents through the trouble of arranging everything when I was just going to get cut. I used this as an excuse to give up.

My tryout for the local summer recreational league was possibly my most embarrassing moments as a player. I had decided I’d be a good first baseman, since they didn’t seem to do very much, so there I was as a low throw came in from the shortstop. I didn’t have a chance at catching it. Luckily, my big toe stopped the ball from getting past me. My knee caught the next throw with ease. This was all in view of my older brother, who was going to be a coach in the league. I wasn’t embarrassed for me, I knew I was terrible, but I hated letting down my hero. He drafted me anyway.

I tried two more times to join teams of any consequence. I gave it my all and lasted through weeks of tryouts for the freshman baseball team in high school. The problem was I still couldn’t hit, was slow afoot, and was only an average fielder with a below average arm. Pretty cut and dry analysis of why I was cut. My sophomore year I tried out for the J.V. team, and within two days my legs felt like I had run back-to-back marathons. In what felt like a coward move at the time, I wrote the head coach that I was done. I heard through the grapevine that he thought it was a classy way to go out.

So, I failed at being a baseball player, but these failures didn’t mark my complete banishment from the game.

I got to be in the same dugout with my older brother as he coached my team for two seasons in that summer league. I was able to become an assistant coach for my younger brother’s Little League team and watch him experience everything I was too afraid to do at his age. Eventually, my lack of baseball prowess helped me land a job with a great northeastern college baseball team, giving me all the experiences of a collegiate athlete with half the work. Not to mention, along the way I learned how not to give up.

When spring approaches and baseball season breaks through the boredom of a long winter, I think of all the things that could have been, and I appreciate the things that are. I can’t rob a line drive in an endless expense of lawn; I can’t eyeball a pitch outside to force a base on balls; and I can’t ensure my team is wearing the whitest damn uniforms possible during a Sunday day game. But I sure as hell can write about the game that I’ve loved all my life. And that’s just what I plan to do.

I should point out before signing off this Sunday, that I’m the last Ford brother to wear anything resembling a baseball uniform. It may be in a softball league, but it still connects me to the game in some way.

I’m not a baseball player…but, I’ll take it.

Player Spotlight: Old Reliable

My goal was to find a player whose name contained some variation of “beginning” or “origin” to commemorate the reboot of this blog. I perused through my voluminous ESPN Baseball Encyclopedia early in the week, but came up empty. I tried to think of old ballplayers my father randomly mentions and listened intently to the Opening Day telecasts in hopes of getting a good lead. No luck. I thought of ditching the idea of Player Spotlight entirely, until I entered the magic word into the search engine of baseball-reference.com.

Start.

Joe Start.

Joe couldn’t have been more perfect for a baseball/history nerd if he tried. He began his career with the Brooklyn Atlantics in 1980, four years before the Civil War and eleven years before the formation of the National Association of Professional Base Ball Players (the early predecessor to the National League). He led the Atlantics to two undefeated seasons in 1864 and 1865, years better remembered for the final clashes between the armies of Grant and Lee. He joined the New York Mutuals of the National Association in 1971, and would play professionally for 16 more seasons before retiring in 1886. He also, despite some debate, is considered to be the first first baseman to play away from the base, rather than close to it or on top of it as was the custom during the early days of the game.

Joe registered his highest batting average of .360 in 1871 for the Mutuals. He led the led the league with 100 hits in 1878 with the Chicago White Stockings, and logged a .351 batting average. He averaged 105 hits from 1878–1885, and drove in nearly 300 runs during that span. Joe smacked a career 117 hits in 1882 for the Providence Grays, and would finish his major league run with 1,417.

I realized why I should still care about Player Spotlight. Only the men wearing them make the uniforms of our hometown teams memorable. Baseball players' personalities, eccentricities, and character (good and bad) have defined the game just as much as their athleticism has. Throughout the game’s history, fans have piled on expectations on these men who, at their core, are no more superhuman than the rest of us. We revel when they defy logic and met them, and sulk and moan when they reveal their true humanity and fall beneath them. Either way, only a chosen few get to button up a jersey, pitch or hit a searing fastball, and leave behind a lasting statistical imprint that nerds like me can scrutinize centuries later. Their stories matter, so I’ll keep looking for them.

Opening Day

“Detroit is in Michigan?” one of my coworkers asked out loud in front of people.

While my other coworker, who happens to be from Michigan, tried to answer diplomatically, my eyes were fixed on the flat screen television above the table where we were enjoying lunch.

It wasn’t showing scenes of weeks old trash being unearthed from two feet of melting snow, celebrities devouring goddesses with tiger blood (no, that can't be right), or people stepping cautiously through the Bronx Zoo.

It was showing a baseball game.

Finally.

My beloved Yankees were playing the Detroit (yes, the one in Michigan) Tigers and I had done enough work that day to justify stealing away to catch a couple of innings of the first game of 2011. The Yanks hadn’t managed much against Tigers’ ace Justin Verlander until the bottom of the third inning. Mark Teixeira came up with two runners on and launched a ball to deep right field.

As soon as the ball was hit, I leaned my body toward fair territory, helping the ball’s trajectory stay true. As the umpire called the ball fair, the patrons around us cheered, and so did I. I got chills as if the homerun had decided the final game of the World Series instead of a meaningless game in April.

Baseball is back. And so am I.

Baseball Sunday Special:Preview of Sid Sanford LivesChapter One-PastimePart 1

2009-08-22T23:33:00.020-04:00

For the next couple of weeks, I’ll be previewing the first chapter of my (still) unfinished novel. The book centers on the life of Sid Sanford who bears a striking resemblance to…well…me. For better or worse, he’s become my alter ego and I keep coming up with ideas for him that keeps me from finally putting down my pen. The chapter introduces Sid and the family that is his (and my) backbone throughout the novel. Please enjoy and stay cool!

The man yawned.

He stretched out his arthritic fingers and gripped the steering wheel tightly.

Almost home.

He had endured another day. He had been called in early and left late. It seemed the whole world could call out sick without impunity but him. He knew there was always had to be that guy who picked up the slack for everyone else. He just wished he didn’t always have to be the one to do it.

The radio was shouting at him. Whoever the talk show host was, he was angry and letting everyone know it. He could usually put up with the right and left wing back and forth, but certainly not today. He quickly changed the setting to play whatever CD he had in the player. It didn’t take long to recognize who it was.

“Hello cowgirl in the sand,” he sang quietly along with Neil Young. “Is this place at your command?”

He turned the car off the main drag and unto a side street.

My street.

The neighborhood had an enclosed, secluded feel thanks to a pleasant wooded area that brought traffic to a halt at the bottom of the street. From there, the street branched out to the right and carved out a block and then returned right back to where it started. All of the houses on the block had vibrant green lawns that boasted more than one handsome tree.

Summer always brought out the best in the neighborhood, and this year was no exception. The man passed by his elderly neighbors diligently attending their garden. He gave them a friendly wave as he pulled into his driveway. He only had two things on his mind now as he turned off his car.

My boys.

My wife.

He reached for the coffee mug he had discarded on the floor of the passenger seat earlier this morning. He decided he was too lazy to reach into the back seat and collect the tie he had tossed back there after work ended. It could wait until tomorrow morning when he needed it again.

“Kenneth, you’re cooking burgers on the grill, get moving!” His wife yelled from the kitchen. He had barely made it through the door.

“Sounds good,” he said trying to sound upbeat. “I’m just going to change first.”

He walked into the kitchen. He needed a kiss. He needed his wife’s love, no matter how abrupt it might be.

“How was work?” she asked kissing him on the lips and pulling the mayo out of the fridge at the same time.

“It sucked,” he replied. “It’s over now and that’s all that matters.”

He pulled his wife close. He wrapped his arms around her and put his head on her shoulder. She allowed it for a half a heartbeat.

“Ok, you can love me later; we have work to do to get these kids fed.”

“I love you Gail.”

“Hurry up!”

Kenneth slowly made his way up the stairs to their bedroom on the second floor. He gripped the railing tightly to give some extra support to his creaky knees. He started to unbutton his white shirt with his free hand. He reached the top landing and could feel the ache of work slowly start to dissipate. He pulled the shirt off his shoulders and tossed it into the laundry pile. He kicked off his clunky black shoes and sat down at the edge of the bed. He pulled off his black socks. He got back up and pulled everything out of his pants pocket and threw the contents haphazardly on his dresser. He caught himself in the mirror.

He took a deep breath.

He had yelled at a customer at the store this morning. She had asked about something in the circular and she wasn’t accepting any of his answers. He finally called his manager and found out he been the wrong. He came back to her and apologized for it, but she decided to keep pestering him and saying what a horrible job he was doing. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Well, let me just put a bullet in my brain then lady,” he yelled.

He regretted it instantly. She left right after. He didn’t here anything about it from his managers, so she must have just left the store all together without trying to get him in trouble. He was red in the face all day and he couldn’t seem to get it out of his mind.

He had never yelled at a customer before. He usually just rolled with whatever they threw at him and did the best he could. Maybe, dealing with hundreds of grocery store customers a day had finally wore him down to his breaking point. It didn’t help that he had gone through another “restructuring” that had him learning a whole new job on the fly. Their plans didn’t come with any more pay for him either.

Turn it off, his mind told him.

He smiled.

He was home now. He’d be home until 6 am the next morning. He’d probably pass out early, but at least he was here.

He stripped off his white T-shirt. He rummaged through his dresser and pulled out his navy blue Yankees shirt. It was his favorite shirt he owned. His boys had gotten it for him as a Father’s Day gift. He put it on along with a pair of cargo shorts. After pulling on a pair of soft white socks and his sneakers, he was ready.

THWACK!

A white ball had bounced off the bedroom window causing Kenneth to jump. He walked over and pushed the curtains back more. He looked down and saw someone frantically running. There was another figure racing after the ball.

He smiled again.

My boys.

Baseball Sunday Player Spotlight

In honor of all the August birthdays in my family, today’s spotlight shines on a few players born during the dog days of summer.

Joey Jay was a pitcher for 13 seasons from 1953 to 1966 for the Milwaukee Braves, Cincinnati Reds and Atlanta Braves.

His best seasons came in 1961 and 1962 while pitching for the Reds. He won 21 games both seasons and finished 5th in the Most Valuable Player Award voting in ’61. He tossed 4 shutouts both years and struck out a total of 312 batters. He won one game and lost another in the 1961 World Series against the New York Yankees.

He finished his career with 99 wins and a lifetime ERA of 3.77.

William Chester (Baby Doll) Jacobson played 11 seasons from 1915 to 1927 for the St. Louis Browns, Boston Red Sox, Philadelphia Athletics, Cleveland Indians and Detroit Tigers.

His best year came in 1920 while playing for the Browns. He batted .355 with 216 hits, 34 doubles and 14 triples. He followed that up the next year with a .352 batting average with 211 hits, 38 doubles and 14 triples. From 1922-1926, he batted .316 with 899 hits, 173 doubles and 45 triples.

Jacobson finished his career with a .311 batting average and 1,714 hits.

Boog Powell played 17 seasons from 1961 to 1977 for the Baltimore Orioles, Cleveland Indians and Los Angeles Dodgers.

He won the Most Valuable Player Award in 1970 after hitting 35 homeruns and 114 RBI and leading the Orioles to a World Series Championship. He had five hits in that Series including two homeruns and five RBI. He hit 22 homeruns and drove in 92 runs the following year, but the Orioles came up short against the Pittsburgh Pirates in the World Series

Powell finished with 339 homeruns and 1,187 RBI.

Baseball Sunday Guest:Hall of Fame Trapper &GM of the NECBL Sanford MainersNeil Olson

2009-08-09T14:09:00.000-04:00

If you haven’t realized by now, I’ve been extremely spoiled in my life when it comes to baseball. However, at no point in my life was I spoiled more than in the summer of 2004. St. John’s pitching coach Scott Brown offered me a summer internship with the Sanford Mainers, a team he coached in the New England Collegiate Baseball League(NECBL) and I said yes without thinking twice. Days after St. John’s Baseball had been eliminated from the NCAA Tournament in Stanford; I was on my way to Sanford, Maine to become the Mainers’ Media Relations Intern. I was lucky enough to meet one of the best baseball men I’ve ever known. Neil Olson, the team’s general manager, took me under his wing and taught me even more about the game that I love. The summer wouldn’t have been the same without him and winning the championship was all the more sweeter seeing how much it meant to Neil. He was kind enough to spend some time answering my questions while in pursuit of championship number three.

Dan: I would be remiss not to start off by asking you about the baseball camp you attended run by Ted Williams. Tell me about your experiences and what affect they had on your baseball life.

Neil: At an early age, I attended Ted William’s camp for 13, 14 and 15 year olds. We had a core group of about 15 kids who just simply loved to play the game of baseball. The camp played quite a few Jimmy Fund games in various parts of the country. We had an absolute blast.

The camp also had a team in the Twilight League. New Bedford, Massachusetts and Tiverton, Rhode Island also had teams. We were playing against men much older. We held our own as two of out pitchers on our team would later pitch in the big leagues; Joe Coleman Sr. and Stan Thomas.

Ted Williams had been retired about five years when I first came to the camp. He actively attended the camp and enjoyed watching Jimmy Fund games as he could sense out love for the game. One particular Jimmy Fund game Joan Joyce, the famous softball pitcher pitched to both Dom DiMaggio and Williams. She let DiMaggio get a hit, but not Williams. She blew him away. He spent time in our dugout that night and you could feel his competitive spirit. He was pissed. (The opposing pitcher in that game night was Dave Wallace. He later was my teammate at New Haven College and after a brief major league career as a pitcher he became a general manager for the Dodgers and pitching coach for the Red Sox).

Williams only wanted to be a regular guy and became annoyed when drulled on for his autograph. I observed him having a gold ole boy conversation with my father one game and that’s a great memory. Williams was the last true American hero. He fought two wars and didn’t complain. John Wayne spent his whole life trying to play Ted Williams.

Dan: What got you into baseball originally? What did the game mean to you growing up?

Neil: I got into baseball after hearing some kids talk about the game. I became obsessed with batting rocks all day. I would practice ground balls in the basement all winter. It gave me a reason for being.

Dan: What kind of player were you? After watching you take some batting practice during my time in Maine, it looked like you had a really good swing and could hit the ball well.

Neil: I was a very good contact hitter! I had a good glove and came to play every night. My down fall was speed. Basically, I had none. I made the All-Star Team in a Valley Summer Wooden Bat League and led my college team in hitting two different years. I took batting practice once at R.F.K. Stadium with the Washington Senators. You guessed it; Ted Williams was their coach.

Dan: You’re now a hall of fame trapper. How did you get started trapping and were there any qualities that you possessed on the baseball field that helped you in the woods?

Neil: I got into trapping when I was just a kid. The competition is similar to baseball. It’s you against the animal you’re after. In baseball, it’s the batter against the pitcher. It’s all about the competition.

Dan: I know you keep stats on everything that you trap. What do you think is your most impressive or favorite statistic?

Neil: Lifetime I’ve harvested over 9,000 beavers!

Dan: You published a few books on trapping as well. What’s one of your favorite trapping stories?

Neil: Trapping canines in a beautiful back pasture in Colebrook, New Hampshire one fall day turned out to be a real ego buster. Colebrook has what I call ideal coyote habitat. Plenty of small game and some back pastures, big by England standards. These pastures have coyotes written all over them. This area was one of the first to have large populations of coyotes. Driving into one of these back pastures, I could see I had captured a coyote. I drove over the rise on the further end to have a look.

I stopped my truck on the top of the steep rise and walked down to dispatch my catch. Having a camera hooked to my belt, I said to myself, “What a great picture!” I snapped a picture making sure to get my truck setting on top of the knoll. Having done this I removed my revolver and dispatched the coyote. The second I pulled the trigger, I heard a noise behind me.

I turned around and in sheer horror, watched my truck roll down the knoll. When it came to the edge of the woods, it snapped off a six-inch fur tree like it wasn’t even there. Luckily, a large grey birch bent out at about a 45 degree angle was next. My truck slammed into it, driving the hood and radiator back. If the birch hadn’t been there, it would have plunged into a deep ravine and probably would still be there.

I went from the great white hunter into an idiot in a split second. I had failed to put the truck in park correctly. A tow truck was needed and my day was ruined, or smashed I should say.

Dan: How did you get involved in the Mainers?

Neil: I was looking for a way to give back to the game and this was my way of doing it. I was lucky that the commissioner of the NECBL got involved with Sanford.

Dan: You and I did a couple games for the local television station when I was up there in 2004. I also rode with you in the Sanford Mainers mobile during a Fourth of July parade. I can recall numerous baseball chats we had during long road games. I was wondering what were some of your favorite memories from that summer and what made that championship year so special.

Neil: Memories are always enhanced by winning! Both Scott and Joe (Mainers head coach in 2008) Brown had the desire to win. I learned a lot from both of them. It became us against the rest of the league and we prevailed.

Doing the commentary during those televised games with you was very special because not everyone has the chance to do something like that. I think we did a very job together.

Dan: How do you find time to run your own business, work with the Mainers and spend time with your family?

Neil: Scheduling is tough, but you make it happen if you want it enough.

Dan: You actually won your second championship last year. What was that experience like and how was it different from 2004?

Neil: Two championships in five years is pretty darn good in our league. Last year had a lot in common with 2004 since both Browns knew how to show players how to win (I call it Brownie points). The most talented teams don’t always win; it’s the teams that want it most that do.

The best series I’ve ever been involved with was a semi-final series against the Vermont Mountaineers in 2007. We lost in three games, but every game was decided on the last play of the game. The intensity was amazing.

Dan: I hear that you’re coaching third base now. What has that experience been like? You’re grandsons are playing now and I was wondering what its like to watch the next generation.

Neil: Being on the same field with my grandsons and watching them achieve is very, very rewarding! Because their father built his own field and Frozen Ropes indoor facility, they have played more baseball than any other kid their age in Maine. Stay tuned and remember their names: Garrett, Connor and Griffin Aube!

Dan: Last question: Honestly, on a scale of one to ten, how would you rank me as a worker putting up tents?

Neil: Keep your night job.

The Lord's Prayer

2009-08-02T10:45:00.001-04:00

Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name...

Most Americans will be hard pressed to remember a more trying time in our history than the fall of 2001. The World Trade Center was in ruins, a Pennsylvania field was scarred with the aftermath of a heroic plane crash and smoke was pouring out of a hole in the Pentagon. The Western world looked toward the East with anger and revenge in its eyes. I remember my mother coming home from work that otherwise beautiful September day and staring at the television for hours with tears continually pouring down her cheeks. Firefighters, police officers and nameless volunteers became our heroes who did their best to put the pieces of a broken city back together again. Even during our bleakest hour, we held onto hope.

Day by day, moving forward required constant adjusting to a new normalcy while at the same time mourning the loss of close to 3,000 of our brethren. Six days after the attacks, Major League Baseball returned to action and helped us to find the strength to carry on. Baseball teams in every city in the country honored the men and women taken for granted before but now were symbols of everything we hoped and believed in. When the games got under way, Americans were able to temporarily put aside everything that was going on around them and indulge in the calming rituals of our nation’s pastime. People could cheer on a game-winning hit, boo an opposing pitcher, or question a manager’s decision. Like times past, such as during the Great Depression and World War II, baseball was right there when we needed it.

Since the season had been delayed because of 9/11, the baseball playoffs were still in progress during the last week of October. In fact, the Yankees were returning home to New York after losing the first two games of the World Series to the Arizona Diamondbacks. Little did any of us know, but it was going to be an October that New York and my family wouldn’t soon forget.

Days before the Series moved back to New York, my dad’s brother, Uncle Stephen, passed away. He was mentally handicapped and had been fighting an illness. He was a big guy, with a deep voice who always displayed a keen interest my schooling. He was eager to give out hugs to his nieces and nephews, loved ripping into his presents before anyone at Christmas and could often be found sprawled out on the couch watching an Elvis concert.

Maybe what I remember most is how much my father loved his brother. He lit up whenever he was around him. For some time my dad worked at a grocery store in Deep River not far from my uncle’s home. At least once a week, they would go out to lunch where they would debate whether the Red Sox or Yankees were the better team. (My uncle strayed from the family pack a little when it came to baseball.) Whenever my dad mentions those times now, a smile never fails to crease his face.

Game Three of the World Series offered us a glimpse into the drama that was going to unfold in the next couple of days. President Bush (in what to me was the high water mark of his presidency) stood on the mound defiantly and fired a strike to the Yankees’ backup catcher to start the game. We could almost feel Yankee Stadium shaking from our living room in Connecticut. The cheers and cries of “USA! USA! USA!” not only buoyed the spirit of a nation, but gave my parents, who had spent much of the day planning my uncle’s wake and funeral, a much needed spiritual boost. The game itself was a close one, but we hoorayed loudly as Mariano Rivera nailed down the final out of the 2-1 victory.

The Yankees hopes were still alive and so were ours.

Thy kingdom come; thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven...

I remember sitting quietly in the pale light of the viewing room in the funeral home when residents of my uncle’s long term care facility walked through the door. The family’s sadness lifted slightly. We couldn’t help but be encouraged by this group of extraordinary individuals. Despite their handicap, they did their best to sit respectfully with solemn faces. Their true light shined through however and we were all the better for it.

I’ll never forget one resident as long I live.

He had been helped up to my uncle’s casket by one of the facility’s aides. He had continued to carry on a conversation as if the two were sitting across a lunch table. He suddenly got a serious look on his face and seemed to notice my uncle for the first time. He got very quiet.

“Okay, I’m going to pray for Stephen now,” he said out loud getting everyone’s attention. “Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name...”

He continued to recite the Lord’s Prayer loudly. His voice was steady, clear and without the slightest hint of disability. There was not a dry eye in the place. Everyone seemed to be smiling and crying at the same time.

“The Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit,” he said crossing himself. He bent down close to my uncle and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “Good bye Stephen.”

Toward the end of calling hours, everyone from the home came up and gave their condolences to my grandmother, my father and my aunts. One resident in particular made a lasting impression.

“I’m so sad about Stephen,” he told my dad.

“I am too, but it’s okay to be sad right now,” he replied.

“I still look good though, don’t I?” the resident said showing off his suit and shined shoes.

My dad couldn’t help but start laughing. I’ve only seen my father upset a handful of times in my life and this was certainly one of them, but this is the story that he mentions the most when he talks about my uncle’s wake.

My family got home from the funeral home mentally and emotionally exhausted. We took up positions in the family room and watched the Yankees as they went into the ninth inning down by two runs and facing a three games to one deficit in the Series. We got bummed out even more when they went down to their final out with a slumping Tino Martinez coming to the plate. With a man on first, he slammed the first pitch he saw from Diamondbacks’ closer Byung-Hyun Kim out of the park to tie the game. My father bounded out of his seat and yelled out in celebration. The rest of us quickly followed suit.

All of the tire and emotional strain miraculously vanished from our bodies. We hung on to each other with nervous anticipation after Rivera quickly put down the Diamondbacks in top of the 10th and the first two batters for the Yankees in the bottom half of the inning flew out. Again with two outs, Derek Jeter, who had just one hit in 15 at-bats thus far in the Series, came to the plate. After falling behind early, Jeter battled back to a full count. Kim’s next slider was right in Jeter’s wheelhouse and he didn’t miss it. Just minutes after the stroke of midnight, the ball cleared the right field fence and the Yankees were back in the Series.

That night, we could feel the entire city of New York shaking; this time it was in celebration instead of mourning.

Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those that trespass against us...

The next day, my younger brother and I stood next to our mother in the rear of the viewing room. My grandmother, my father and my aunts were saying their final goodbyes to their son and brother. My father never looked stronger than he did on that fall morning. It seemed like he was holding the rest of his family together with his bare hands. I can’t think of any other moment where I was more proud of my dad and proud to be his son.

After a moving funeral service, during which Tom and I delivered readings from the Bible, my brothers and I helped the other pallbearers carry him to his finally resting place next to my grandfather. Knowing how much that meant to my father and my family, it will remain one of the most important things I’ve ever done in my life.

Game Five was waiting for us when we got home. I didn’t think it possible that any of us would be able to survive another Yankee nail biter. Win or lose, we were all rooting for a quick decision. As always, the baseball gods had other plans.

Mike Mussina, who had been shellacked in Game One, only gave up two solo homeruns in his eight innings of work. Miguel Batista matched him pitch for pitch and left the game in the eighth with his 2-run lead intact. Once again, the Yankees found themselves facing their final out and a near insurmountable hole in the Series. Byung-Hyun Kim gave up a double to Jorge Posada to start the inning, but then quickly retired the next two batters. The Yanks’ hopes rested with third baseman Scott Brosius, a past postseason hero. It didn’t take long for him to further cement his reputation as a clutch performer. Brosius launched a long fly ball to left and immediately raised his hands up in celebration. Kim crumpled on the mound like he had been shot. Yankee Stadium, as well as my living room, went indiscriminately crazy. Two nights of miracles in the House that Ruth Built washed away a month’s worth of pent up frustration, sorrow and distress and unleashed unadulterated exuberance, relief and spirit. Even though the game went into extra innings, Yankee fans everywhere felt the end result was now preordained. Sure enough, Alfonso Soriano laced a base hit to score the winning run in the 12th inning giving the Yankees a 3-2 advantage headed back to Arizona.

The Diamondbacks ended up winning the Series in Game Seven by staging a comeback of their own in the bottom of the ninth. At that point, it didn’t matter. The Yankees had won every game on New York soil and did much to fortify the resilience of the city. They had also given the Ford family a few hours of peace and even more reason to believe that miracles were possible.

Whenever somebody asks me why I love a simple game so much, I think of my Uncle Stephen and that incredible week in October. Baseball wasn’t just a game when Derek Jeter hit the walk-off and turned the calendar over to November. It wasn’t just a game for all the people at the Stadium, and throughout a wounded New York, who cried out in celebration when Brosius cracked his homerun. They hadn’t just breathed life into the Yankees’ World Series hopes; they had reminded a beleaguered city and a family it was okay to smile and to hope.

I go back and forth on whether or not there is a God watching over our lives. What I have come to believe is that there are indeed angels, many of them among us everyday, including all the residents of my uncle's former long term care facility.

Whoever is up there, it seems like some of them are baseball fans, just like me.

And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil.

To donate to The Arc, an organization devoted to promoting and improving supports and services for all people with intellectual and developmental disabilities, click here.

The Adventures of the Noreasters: Softball Spud and the Vow of Silence

2009-07-26T11:41:00.031-04:00

The long, humid afternoon is over and a group of tired Noreasters are kicking back a few frozen margaritas at Arriba, Arriba. It doesn’t take many drinks before the conversation turns to making fun of my buddy Chris. He took his verbal bashing graciously, but we decided that he hadn’t taken enough abuse. As a public service (and under orders from my manager Trish), I am devoting this Sunday’s blog to the colorful highlight reel he has blessed us with the last three weeks. For all of you with children participating in sports, this is your warning to make sure your son or daughter doesn’t turn out like Softball Spud.

Saturday, July 11th

Game One: Noreasters 7, Fusion 14
Game Two: Noreasters 11, Fusion 23

After getting rained out pretty much every weekend in June, we finally took the field at Roosevelt Island against the best team in the league. For Chris, it got ugly early. In the first inning, he popped up weakly to the infield. Running out to the outfield, he asked me if he had dipped his shoulder.

“You just hit the ball like shit,” I replied.

“Well, did I…” he started to ask again.

“You just hit the ball like shit,” I said cutting him off.

“Yeah, you’re right. Okay.”

I may come off as sounding mean, but if you indulge him by answering his questions about his form, then he just thinks about it the rest of the game and ends up popping everything up to the pitcher. It’s better to say just enough to shut him up and answer his question at the same time. I have perfected the art, but it took several years and heavy dependence on alcohol.

While the first game was still close, I went from first base to third on a base hit. Let’s just say that I’m not….ahem….quick. However, after starting to run regularly during the week, I’ve gained a few MPHs around the base paths. Chris was nice enough to notice.

“Hey, you finally got the piano of your back!” he said excitedly.

“Thanks man, I’ve been running a lot.” I said.

“See, I can be a good teammate.”

Those were probably the last words anyone heard out of Chris that afternoon. After we lost the first game by a respectable seven runs, things got out of hand in Game Two. This was in large part to the stellar outfield play of Softball Spud. It seemed like every ground ball hit to him went past him and started on an unending roll. Even when he tried to get his body in front of the ball (that maybe only happened once), it always seemed to find a way past him. I knew it was getting out of control when my teammates started to come up to me and tell me to have a talk with Chris about what he was doing wrong. It’s not a good sign when I’m the only person that can approach him without him exploding into a rage of defense and self pity. My girlfriend, who had stuck around despite the hellish disaster that was our commute to the island, even got into the act by telling me he was letting groundballs go by him like it was his job. I decided to give him one more inning before I said anything.

That was a mistake. A fly ball was hit to right field and Chris (playing left center), decided it would be a good idea to drift over about 100 yards, cut off our right center fielder (who was too surprised to call him off) and then drop the ball that would have easily been caught by someone other than him. He followed this up by letting 90-100 more hits go by him.

“I hate the outfield! I’m horrible out here! I shouldn’t be in the outfield!” I heard him screaming to himself. It would have been funny if he hadn’t sounded like he was going to cry. Because of that it was HILARIOUS.

The line of the day went to Trish at the end of a particularly bloody inning. “We gave up nine runs with two outs in that inning,” she said matter of fact. It sounded like she wanted to add something else, but she ended up just sighing and slouching on the bench.

Needless to say, I never had my chat with Chris and we lost by double digits. In fact, no one else had a conversation with him. Toward the end of the game, he took a vow of silence. We found him at the end laying down in the grass slamming his cell phone into the ground. He looked like someone had killed his dog right in front of him. I asked him if he was taking the F train and he nodded sadly. On our walk to the train, he disappeared into what I’m assuming was a giant black rain cloud of depression.

(Note: Chris’ fiancé called him a baby and told him to go whine someplace else after he came home trying to find some sympathy. Just throwing that in there to further prove I’m not making any of this up.)

Saturday, July 18th

Game One: Noreasters 5 (5!), Ball Breakers 20
Game Two: Noreasters 14, Ball Breakers 10

I waited until Tuesday after the Roosevelt Island Massacre to text Chris and see if it had been a decent interval so that I could start making fun of him. Okay, I didn’t ask it that nicely. My exact words were “when can I start making fun of you for making Bill Buckner look good?” He said he was open to all jokes. Here are some of the highlights:

“You’re E.R.A. as an outfielder is higher than Chien Ming Wang’s. Against the Fusion, your E.R.A. is the infinity sign.”

“Dan (our right center fielder) said he’s suing you for stealing his fly ball. He’s also suing you for dropping it.”

His response to that: “I really thought it was my ball. When I saw it drop, I wanted to run away.”

My response to his response: “You mean run after all the balls that went by you?”

We put all that behind us when we stepped unto the field against the second place team in our division. Chris got his wish and was not playing in the outfield. He was playing shortstop, a position where he once maimed a female softball player during a scrimmage thanks to an errant throw. We put the proper medical authorities on standby and hoped for the best.

Softball Spud did not disappoint. He indeed let a few balls go by him and his first several throws to first base took routes not seen since the times of Ferdinand Magellan. I can’t quite describe his throwing motion. I admit that I don’t have a release point or a strong arm, but at least my motion doesn’t resemble a cartoon character (well, anymore). Imagine a bear fielding a ground ball down on one knee (pretty much every time for reasons he can’t even explain), taking a few baby steps forward to get some momentum and throwing the ball side arm toward first with both legs in the air pointed straight out in front of him. Then picture the ball flying over the first baseman’s head and then that bear start to swear profusely, hit himself viciously in the hip and tug his hat over his eyes. Let’s just say this guy has better mechanics than Chris:

To his credit, he eventually straightened out his throws and played a very serviceable shortstop. After suffering another disaster in the first game, we played well enough to earn our first win in months in the second. Chris even hit a legit home run over the rocks that he had no trouble bragging about.

Saturday, July 25th

Game One: Noreasters 11, Firebirds 3
Game Two: Noreasters 12, Firebirds 16

The Noreasters were back in action and Softball Spud was back at shortstop. It was a miracle he got to the game at all though. Usually, I’m the one with the worst commute, but he had me beat this time around. I was able to keep track of his progress through text messages:

“I am on a 6 train right now being pulled by lame donkeys.”

“I missed the M35 by a minute. Have to wait for the next one at 2:15 which will of course be late. I will be at the field around 4.”

“Did I mention I lost my bank card this morning? Yeah, it’s gone.”

He finally made it and it was my hope that Chris would learn by osmosis after watching me play a sparkling short during batting practice. The trick with him is to try and train him without him really knowing you’re doing it (kind of like a golden retriever or a gerbil). If a ground ball was hit his way during the game, I would shout from the outfield some of the following:

“You have time!”

“Step and throw!”

“Nice and easy!”

“Nice play! Good boy! Who’s a good boy?!”

After one of Chris’ errors, one of our outfielders turned to me after shouting encouragement and said, “Isn’t it kind of interesting that the whole team goes on “Console Spud Duty” after he screws up?”

That’s what is so great about Chris. You want to get upset at him for making a dumb play, but he beats himself up so badly that you end up pitying him and trying to cheer him up. I can’t lie; it’s a brilliant strategy by him.

In the second game, a ground ball was hit to Trish who quickly flipped the ball to Chris to get a force out at second. He turned to throw the ball to finish the double play, but the runner was practically there, so he held onto it. The umpire called time and Chris threw the ball to our pitcher Bob. Much to everyone’s surprise, he let out the loudest F-bomb we’ve ever heard walking back to his position. I immediately started laughing out loud in left field. He is the only person in the world that was angry about making an out. The best part was the umpire thought the curse had been directed at him and Chris took it upon himself to apologize at the end of the inning.

We had one calamitous inning early during the second game, so we were playing catch up the rest of the way. We finally got some runners on and Softball Spud stepped up to the plate. I was on first base. He took the first pitch for a strike and then dropped his shoulder to the point where it almost touched the ground and popped it up in foul territory near first base. Luckily, the first baseman wasn’t quite quick enough to make the catch.

Before Trish, who was coaching first base, could say anything, I screamed out, “Get out of your head! Get out of your head!” Trish simply replied, “Thank you. Thank you. Listen to Dan.”

He did, sort of. He hit a towering pop up to center that wasn’t caught because all the outfielders were playing so deep. We ended up scoring some runs that inning, but not quite enough. We ended up losing by four runs.

(Note: the real MVP of the doubleheader was Bob. In unbelievable humidity, the ageless wonder pitched every single inning. You could tell he was out of gas, but he never complained and gave us every opportunity to win the game. Cheers to you Bob!)

The comfy confines of Arriba, Arriba allowed us to unwind and gave Chris a chance to launch a defense of….well….himself.

“I can’t see the ball. I am going blind,” he told us.

He claims that his eyesight has been getting worse, so that he wasn’t seeing the ball well in the outfield, but he can see it better in the infield. Last year it had been his wrist, the year before that his ankle, so blindness was the next logical step I guess. I mentioned that it looked like he was seeing the ball going past him just fine.

Toward the end of the evening, we were watching the Mets play the Astros on the television. A player on one of the teams roped a single and raised his hands and eyes to God after reaching first base.

“Hey Chris, why don’t you do that when you get a base hit?” Dan (again, our right center fielder) said.

“It’s because he has to go back and play the infield and screw up,’ I said without missing a beat.

Softball Spud glared at me, but ended up shaking my hand, admitting that it had been a good zinger.

I doubt I’m going to get the same reaction when he reads this blog.

Every Baseball Has A Story

2009-07-19T12:00:00.002-04:00

According to MLB.com, a regulation baseball “shall be a sphere formed by yarn wound around a small core of cork, rubber or similar material, covered with two stripes of white horsehide or cowhide, tightly stitched together. It shall weigh not less than five nor more than 5 1/4 ounces avoirdupois and measure not less than nine nor more than 9 1/4 inches in circumference.” It’s hard to believe that something I’ve devoted most of my life loving and obsessing over fits into the palm of my hand. In the words of Roger Angell, “any baseball is beautiful…no other small package comes as close to the ideal in design and utility.” In the spirit of that notion, I took a closer look at some of the baseballs I’ve collected over the years and the memories they brought with them. Every baseball indeed has a story and each one is as special as the one before it. Today I offer three from my collection that are very dear to my heart and serve as reminders of why I love the game as much as I do.

First Hit, June 25th, 1998

Watching baseball as a kid, I always loved how when a player laced his first base hit, the opposing team would flip the ball into his dugout for a keepsake. After not playing Little League and going hitless my first season and a half in Pony League, I figured that I would never be able to have that first hit experience. On a hot summer day in June against the Bees, I came to plate pretty angry after making an error in the field. The pitcher wound up and heaved the ball toward the plate. I remember taking a step and swinging as hard as I could. I made contact and the ball dropped in front of the right fielder. I made the turn around first base for the first time in my life with my legs shaking. I remember feeling like a huge weight had just been lifted off my life. I had something other than a zero in my hit column (not to mention I had pulled the ball for maybe the only time in my career). The best part came after the game. I was waiting patiently for my older brother (who was my coach at this point) to unlock the doors of his baby blue Buick when I saw a ball dart through the air toward me. I caught it easily and looked up at my brother. “Nice hit,” he said simply. I’ve had the ball ever since.

Little League Phillies 2000

I tried my best to be as involved as possible in my younger brother’s Little League career since I never had one of my own. I always helped out his coaches during practice or games from the time he was in tee-ball to his first year in the “majors”. In 2000, I was cut from my high school team after the tryouts and was disillusioned, miserable and desperate to at least remain apart of the game. Luckily, my neighbor had become coach of the Phillies and offered me the chance to be his assistant coach. I said yes without even thinking about it. One of the best parts of the experience, other than watching my younger brother become one hell of a ballplayer, was meeting and coaching a young kid named Chris Collins. He wasn’t the best player and I used to kid him that we could time him running around the bases with a sundial. His smile never wavered, his jokes never seemed to run out (some of which at his own expense and his undying optimism was infectious to every one on the team. Now out of baseball for good, I was proud that there were other players like me out there giving it their best despite not having the skills others possessed. He really proved that baseball is first and foremost a game about heart. It’s nice to be able to check out all the young signatures on this ball and remember those times every now and again.

St. John's Red Storm vs. #1 ranked Stanford Cardinal
2004 NCAA Palo Alto Regional

“You’ve been awfully spoiled this year, Danny,” my friend (and former team manager) Derek told me after we found out St. John’s Baseball had been selected to participate in the 2004 NCAA College World Series Tournament. I couldn’t argue with him. Before the season started, I had never been on an airplane, never mind seen the West Coast. Now, with trips to Texas, Arkansas and Notre Dame under my belt, I was headed to beautiful Palo Alto, California to watch my guys play in postseason baseball. My mother had a different reaction when she got the news. She cried. I hadn’t been home in months and with a summer internship in Maine looming, it now looked like I would be away even longer. I remember buying new shorts, washing my lucky polo shirts I had been wearing all year and buying a brand new pair of Oakley sunglasses in the airport to try to look as cool as possible for the televised games. Seeing California for the first time did not disappoint. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky the entire time we were there and the temperature was consistently 80 degrees. Also exciting was the fact that owing to a scheduling fluke, I got my own room at the hotel. I’ll probably never know what it feels like to work in the Major Leagues, but I have to think that this experience came close. We were playing at Sunken Diamond Field, which is one of the prettiest ballparks I’ve ever since at any level.

As the for baseball part of it, we held our own against Long Beach State (a team led by Jered Weaver, who’s now pitching well for the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim) in Game One, but eventually lost to a bases loaded single in the bottom of the ninth. We beat the UNLV Rebels in our second game, setting us up to play the #1 ranked team in the country to stay alive in the tournament. The Stanford Cardinal were led by John Mayberry Jr., who was a first round draft pick by the Texas Rangers the next year. We started Matt Tosoni, a freshman from Canada who had already beaten Notre Dame on his way to racking up an impressive five wins that season. What we didn’t know then was that he had been battling ulcerative colitis and this would be his last start until 2006. He went six strong innings and was let down by his defense’s five errors. He also gave up a homerun to Mayberry that I think still hasn’t landed. We fought hard all game, but couldn’t find a way to get to Stanford’s freshman pitcher. After the last out was recorded, I realized that it wasn’t only the end of our season, but for some of our seniors, it was their last game in collegiate baseball. I remember looking at our senior shortstop Mike Rozema gazing out at the field with his hands on his hips. He had one of the best pair of hands I’ve ever seen for an infielder and he carried himself with a grace and class off the field that some major leaguers don’t have. I remember his eyes were red as he gathered up his stuff and headed for the bus. I made it a point when we got back to tell him that it had been a real honor to work for him and that I appreciated how nice he had been to me in my rookie year as manager and how hard he played the game. He was drafted by the Atlanta Braves soon after and got all the way through AAA before retiring in 2008.

Player Spotlight: Neal Ball

I found three other major leaguers with the last name Ball (Art, Jeff and Jim), but Neil beat them all out for the spotlight this week. His full name is Cornelius Balland he was born in 1881. Ball played seven seasons as an infielder for the New York Highlanders, Cleveland Naps and Boston Red Sox from 1907 to 1913.

He batted .247 in his first full year with the Highlanders in 1908, including 110 hits, 16 doubles and two triples. He also stole 32 bases. His best season came in 1911 playing for the Naps. Ball batted .296, with 122 hits, three homeruns (a career high) and 45 RBI. He also stole 21 bases and finished with 14 doubles and nine triples. He finished his career with the Red Sox and ended up with a lifetime average of .251, including 56 doubles, 151 RBI and 92 stolen bases.

Ball also has the distinction of being the first player in Major League history to turn an unassisted triple play exactly 100 years ago today. He was playing shortstop for the Naps behind Cy Young and there was a line drive hit toward him. There were runners on first and second who were on the move because the Red Sox coach had called for a hit and run. After making a leaping catch, all Ball had to do was step on second and wait to tag out the runner coming from first base.

The glove Ball used and a picture of him with the three men he got out are on display at the National Baseball Hall of Fame. For more details, read this great article written by Ball’s great niece Kathia Miller for Naplesnews.com. You can buy a tee-shirt with Neal Ball’s image on it here. You can also buy an old newspaper from July 19, 1909 with details of the game here.

Summer Reading List:
A Walk in the Woods & Life of Pi

If you’ve never read anything by the travel writer Bill Bryson, A Walk in the Woods is the perfect place to start. In this book, Bryson tackles the 2,100 miles of the Appalachian Trail along with a bumbling overweight sidekick. It is sidesplitting funny and is written in a clear and direct style that makes it perfect to bring along on a vacation or beach day. In between fretting over bear attacks, searching for his wandering companion and navigating hills, mountains and weather, Bryson sheds the spotlight on one of our national treasures and the people that make it so. It’s a wonderful read and will make you want to raid EMS and buy out Trader Joe’s trail mix section and hit the trail!

Life of Pi by Yann Martel is just a beautiful novel. The story about a shipwrecked boy all alone on the open seas with only a tiger as his companion is a remarkable tale of survival at all costs. You can’t help but turn the pages rapidly to see who wins this battle of wits with death as the only consolation prize. The end might have you scratching your head, but in my opinion, only makes the novel all the more memorable and inspiring. Also, the beginning of the novel will give the reader an interesting perspective on zoos and how they fit into our society. This is a couple days read at the most and will leave a lasting impression.

From the Archives:Summer Poetry

2009-07-12T15:20:00.015-04:00

Earlier this morning, I was looking through some old notebooks and folders which hold just about everything I've ever written. In the pages worn by time and age, I came across a few things that seemed appropriate to share on this cloudless, blue sky summer day in New York City. Enjoy!

Summer Legs
The heat of summer brushes off the cold of winter,
standing upon new legs, sturdy and strong.
They’re bumped and bruised from
slips and dives in the tall, green grass.
Their tan tone clashes with the
splashes of mud and dirt,
that threaten the useless bandage out of place.

Summer legs run in and our of trouble,
dodging the buzzing bees and stepping on a
poor ant along the way.
They pause only for a short while
to admire at a newly formed cut or bug bite.
They’re off again at the mere indication
that the game they had abandoned long before
suddenly decided to grab their itchy attention.

The summer sun sets and still
strong and sturdy new legs splash through
the puddles that spring left behind.
Just when the time has come to finally lay them to rest,
a shout fills the humid air,
the mud and ache are long forgotten,
as they sprint away into the setting sun.

At- Bat
That tall terror on the mound
grinds his hand in his glove,
where his pitch of choice is found.

I lean obnoxiously over the plate,
and watch the pitcher’s eyes
go from collected to completely irate.

The pitch barrels into the catcher’s mitt,
as if launched from a World War II tank,
not one I could hit.

Old Blue behind the plate yells,
“Strike Two”, at the next
and the crowd’s boos swell.

My mind fills again,
not with fear or pressure,
but with the smell of franks and pretzels roasting on the grill.

Those who long to see me be king,
hold their breath and gasp,
as the pitch is thrown with some gas
and I take a step and swing!!

Rain Delay
The field transforms into a labyrinth of puddles,
where ground balls splash their way
into the fielder’s glove.

The players, clad in sweat and mud,
struggle to grasp the slippery sphere,
as raindrops drip off the ends of their caps.

The umpire calls them in a shivering shout,
as he watches the white chalk lines drown
into the base line lagoon.

The day is over.
The game is done without a single pitch thrown,
giving the storm- laden clouds their
rain soaked victory.

A Saturday Morning with Dad
Back and forth
does the rusty blade sway,
sweeping the rest of
the tall grass away.

The mower strays behind me,
with good ol’ Dad,
who wants to do nothing more
than run and flee.

We trudge silently along
with the sound of
the mower and the blade
as our only song.

Our muscles begin to fade
and we pause to
stare out on what
has become the Everglades.

After a stout cough
and a little chat,
we bravely set up our plan of attack
to finish it off.

Player Spotlight: Hall of Famer Al Kaline

Today’s spotlight centers on one of my dad’s favorite players when he was growing up. Al Kaline was an outfielder for the Detroit Tigers for 22 years and was a 15 time All-Star.

His numbers are more than impressive. In 1955, he led the league with a .340 batting average and 200 hits. He smacked 24 doubles that year with 120 RBI. In 1961, 41 of his 190 hits were doubles, also a league best. He won a World Series with the Tigers in 1968 over the St. Louis Cardinals who were led by Hall of Famer Bob Gibson (who had posted a 1.12 ERA that year). He batted .379 in the Series with two homeruns and eight RBI.

Kaline finished his career with a .297 batting average and 3,007 hits. He ended with 498 doubles, 399 homeruns and 1,583 RBI. He also won 10 Gold Gloves and was elected to the Hall of Fame in 1980.

Summer Reading/Viewing List: East of Eden and Truman

John Steinbeck’s East of Eden was recommended to me last summer by Next Magazine’s dining editor Peter Sherwood (whose blog Evenings with Peter is a MUST read). I devoured the novel in short order and it instantly became one of my favorite novels of all time. The story revolves around the lives of the Trask and Hamiliton families set in California. Steinbeck’s beautiful prose not only seamlessly marries the lives of both families, but also assaults your senses with astonishing sights, colors and smells of scenic Salinas Valley. Steinbeck also introduces one of the most depraved, intrinsically evil characters of all time in the person of Cathy Ames. I assure you that this novel does not disappoint and should be in your hands as you sun on the beach with some of Peter’s fella’s Sangria!

David McCullough is one of the nation’s most celebrated historians and with good reason. Truman is not only a riveting look at my favorite President, but also a masterpiece of historical writing. Highlights include Truman’s decision to drop the first (and only) atomic bombs on Japan, his firing of General Douglas McArthur, his hard fought re-election upset and his lifetime struggle with poverty. There are times in our country where seemingly ordinary men are capitulated in extraordinary situations and Truman proved he was beyond exceptional coming from humble roots. His deep and lasting love for his wife Bess and his irascible personality makes you admire him even more, especially after reading his famous fiery letter to a reviewer who panned his daughter Margaret’s operatic debut. The book is over 1,000 pages long, but I could have easily read thousands more. It's probably not something you want to lug to the beach, but is perfect reading for a cool, lazy summer evening.

Summer Reading/Viewing List Part 1

2009-07-05T00:00:00.007-04:00

Summer to me has always been a time where my appetite for devouring any book, movie or television show put in front of me knows no bounds. In that spirit, during the next couple of months I'll offer up my recommendations for your lazy, summer days and nights. This inaugural list is mostly baseball related, but I plan on highlighting a wide range of diverse genres to satisfy as many people as I can. If you have any suggestions for me, feel free to send them my way. Long live summer!

Summer Game and Five Seasons by Roger Angell

I read Summer Game and Five Seasons by Roger Angell late last February and doing so made me crave the start of the baseball season like never before. Angell’s writing made me feel like I was sitting next to him in a bar having a conversation over watered down light beer.

Summer Game chronicles the years 1962 through 1971, an era that saw the demise of the great Yankee championship teams, rise of the Baltimore Orioles and two former New York teams in sunny California. One of my favorite chapters is the one in which he goes into statistical detail on 1968’s “Year of the Pitcher”. In a year in which the great Bob Gibson of the St. Louis Cardinals pitched to a record 1.12 ERA, the two leagues combined batting average was .232 and there were 340 shutouts recorded.

Angell’s heart though lies with the woeful infancy of the New York Mets which is sweetly apparent in every chapter devoted to New York’s second team. At a game early their inaugural 1962 season (in which the Mets lost a record 120 games), Angell struggles to figure out why the Mets fans surrounding him are cheering and rooting on such an inept team. He realizes that the Mets symbolize the antithesis of the mighty Yankees; that “there is more Met than Yankee in every one of us”.

Five Seasons picks up right where Summer Game left off in 1972. Some of the highlights include the greatest World Series every played in 1975 between the Boston Red Sox and the Cincinnati Reds, three faithful Detroit Tigers fans and the three year dynasty of the Oakland A’s. Like Summer Game, the Yankees are strangely absent from the scene (until the 1976 season detailed toward the end of the book). It was refreshing to read about a time in which my favorite team couldn’t just demand the center of attention. I liked reading about characters such as Vida Blue, Nolan Ryan, Tom Seaver and Brooks Robinson, none of whom donned the Yankee pinstripes.

The Bronx is Burning by Jonathan Mahler

I caught bits and pieces of the eight-part ESPN special a couple years ago, but not enough to really understand what happened in the sultry summer of 1977 in New York City. I picked up the book by Jonathan Mahler in a bargain section of a bookstore and blew through it in little over a week. Intertwined with the Yankees impressive World Series run is the story of a much different city than the one I live in now. Crime was rampant, a blackout inflamed the ghettos in Brooklyn and the Bronx and there was a serial killer on the loose terrorizing young couples for a year. The city was decaying and being fought over during a bitter mayoral race won eventually by Ed Koch. Also interesting was Mahler’s detailing of Rupert Murdoch’s purchase of the New York Post and how it set off a newspaper war the likes of which not seen in decades. He makes the larger than life persona of appear more human, well, until his three World Series homeruns made him a hero to New Yorkers who had vilified him all season long. Mahler lets the facts of that year speak for themselves, hardly adding any of his own dramatizations. Even non-Yankee fans will appreciate how far the city has come since those dark days and how our problems now are not insurmountable.

ESPN Baseball Encyclopedia

This is my Bible. It’s where I get all of my stats whenever I do a Player Spotlight. Currently, I’m using ESPN’s fourth edition which came out after the 2006 season, but I was weaned on my older brother’s 1980’s edition. I used to lug that tome around to both of my brother’s practices and ask my dad a million questions about players he watched as a kid. After complaining for years that I didn’t have an updated copy, I finally walked down to the Barnes and Noble near St. John’s and picked one up. I could barely afford my rent at that point, but it didn’t seem to matter because fresh statistics from the past ten years were now at my finger tips. Now I know that Mike Gallego has a lifetime batting average of .239, Jim Abbott won 87 games with only one hand and Ron Karkovice hit 96 career homeruns. It’s been an invaluable tool and if there are fans as nerdy and opposed with meaningless stats as I am out there, this book is for you.

Baseball, directed by Ken Burns

Baseball, directed by Ken Burns, is a masterpiece. There is no other way to describe it. Each decade of baseball’s history is detailed in Burns’ signature style and highlights the changes in the country during baseball’s rise as the national pastime. More importantly, however, is the treatment that Burns gives to the Negro Leagues. He does not shy away from the truth that the best ball players might not have been playing in the white Major League. Players such as Josh Gibson, who was characterized as a “black Babe Ruth” and the great pitcher Satchel Paige finally get their due as integral parts of baseball’s history. With more enlightened background information, I was able to even more fully appreciate the heroism of Jackie Robinson.

As a New York fan, I was impressed with Burns’ portrayal of the great New York Yankees, New York Giants and Brooklyn Dodgers teams of the 1950s. For a decade, all three teams were great and were seemingly always battling each other for a championship. I’ve heard some criticism that Burns is too New York centric, but there is no way to separate the city from baseball’s history and I think he does more than an admirable job of balancing everything.

A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn

This book in no way shape or form has anything to do with baseball, but I felt it necessary to include it on my first list. This book should be required reading for all Americans. This is one of the first books I read when I started to gain a passion for our nation’s past. Expecting to find the same stories that I had learned throughout my schooling, I quickly found out that this wasn’t my father’s history book. After reading it, you’ll never think the same way about race relations, labor unions or Christopher Columbus. Zinn sheds light on side of history that has for too long been obscured. Our rise to being a superpower has not been easy or preordained and was done primarily on the backs of the people the Constitution and Declaration of Independence claimed to protect. This book affirmed my belief that lessons for the future can indeed be learned from the past and that history does not need to repeat itself. It may not be good beach reading, but it should be a book that finds its way into your hands sooner rather than later.

Happy Fourth of July!

Being a patriotic fellow, the Fourth of July has always been one of my favorite holidays. As a kid, I remember fondly the barbeques my aunt would host every summer without fail in which she made enough hot dogs, hamburgers, potato salads and Whoopee pies to feed most of Southern Connecticut. Not so fond are the memories of me clinging to the side of the pool in the shallow end while all the “big” kids were having fun in the deep end. Of course, no Fourth of July is complete without fireworks and my cousins always put on quite a show despite the cringing from my aunt and my mother.

That being said, the Fourth gives us pause to remember not only how our great country came to be, but also the men and women who have given their lives to ensuring our democratic freedoms. My undying gratitude and hearty well wishes go out to all the service men and women who are stationed across the globe and here at home in the United States; especially one Airman in particular who is upholding a proud Ford tradition in the armed services. Patrick, we miss you, we’re proud of you and we look forward to your graduation in August.

Wishing everyone and their families a happy, healthy and safe Fourth of July weekend!

Go Daniel Go!

2009-06-28T12:00:00.001-04:00

“Go Daniel Go!”

Are you %$&*-ing kidding me?

That was the only thought going through my head as I started to sprint toward second base. I put my head down and pumped my arms as fast as I could. I could feel the dirt kicking up under my cleats and hitting the back of my legs. I heard the ball hit the catcher’s mitt. The umpire barked a call I couldn’t make out. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the catcher stand up and heave the ball to the shortstop who was covering the bag. I accelerated again the best I could and then pushed my legs out from under me. My outstretched foot hit the white bag before the fielder swiped his glove across it.

“Safe!” the umpire bellowed.

I raised my hand up to call timeout. I stood up and shook off the brown earth off my black T-shirt and gray baseball pants. I took my helmet off and wiped the sweat from my forehead. While the pitcher readied for his next pitch, I glared at Coach Tim who was cracking up along the first base line. I hadn’t reached first base all that often in the last couple of years, never mind steal a base.

“Daniel, the pitcher was in his windup, I had to send you,” he explained as I trotted in after the inning had ended. “Your wheels still made it a close play.”

I grabbed my glove without saying anything and ran back out to my position in left field. I was able to pick up my heart that had fallen out of my chest around first base on my way there.

I was in my third, and as it would turn out my final, year playing organized baseball with the Bristol Park and Recreation Pony League. I was a member of the Phantoms in the Scott Division. I had been drafted by my older brother out of pity and necessity after a horrendous tryout which I will go into more detail at some point (let’s just say it was the last time I ever played an infield position). I went hitless my first season, going an impressive 0-17 with 15 strikeouts. My last two at-bats were ground outs and you would have thought from the fans’ reaction that I had laced a hit to win the World Series. The next year I improved to 2-17, with only 5 strikeouts. No one, including myself, expected the year I was about to have under Coach Tim (my cousin-in-law who had taken over the team after my older brother became a league director).

The first practice pretty much set the tone for the kind of summer we were in for.

I was the first player to arrive and Coach Tim’s buddy and assistant coach Scott asked if I had a hose once he found out I was an outfielder. I stood there like a dead fish with its mouth gaping open for several minutes not having any idea what the hell he was talking about.

“Your arm, man,” he replied. “Do you have a good arm?”

“Oh. Yeah, of course,” I lied.

Unlike my older brother, who went over basic fielding/throwing/running drills the first practice, Coach Tim had everyone take their positions right away and started smacking balls off his fungo bat. It seemed like the extended infield/outfield routine went on for hours with none of the drudgery that usually defined a first practice. Despite my weaker arm, I had turned into a decent outfielder and had no trouble making plays and getting the ball into the infield. There really is no better feeling then tracking a white baseball sailing through bright blue summer sky and feeling it settle abruptly into the leather webbing of your glove.

The highlight though came when we started to do base running drills to finish off the day. All the players lined up behind home plate. Instead of just barking directions on the sideline, Coach Tim went to the front of the line to run with us.

“Alright guys, we’re going to run out a base hit. Give the guy in front of you a minute before you start,” He instructed us. I watched him get into a running stance and then heard Scott yell out “Go!”

I was one of the first people in line, so I got a great view of our new head coach trip over his own two feet, fall to the ground in a heap and then roll violently away to avoid being stampeded by the rest of the team. Needless to say, it wasn’t the best omen for how our season was going to start. I don’t remember Coach Tim running with us after that either.

The Phantoms started 0-4. And it was an ugly 0-4.

It didn’t take long to realize we had some real characters on the team. Our shortstop thought he was God’s gift to creation even after making error after error. We had two brother outfielders, one who got tossed from a game early on for calling an umpire a “bitch” and the other who cried if you looked at him wrong. We had one of the most talented players in the league playing at second base, but he wasn’t hitting a lick. We had several players who were playing their first season of baseball ever and it showed.

The real gem was an outfielder named David who had barely seen a baseball field, never mind set foot on one. At our first game, he strode up to the plate for his first at-bat in the tightest baseball pants Connecticut has ever seen. To complete the mental image, he wasn’t wearing a cup. My cousin, also Coach Tim’s girlfriend and future wife, tried her best to point all this out to him.

Caryn: “David, there are bigger pants available.”

David: “Naw, I like these, they feel good.”

Caryn: “David, you’re not wearing a cup!”

David: “Huh?”

It was hard to push the subject any further than that with his entire family sitting at the end of our bench cheering him on. Eventually, to the relief of everyone, he started to wear baggier pants, but unfortunately for the team, that didn’t help him hit the baseball any better.

Coach Tim actually made some pretty good coaching moves to get us out of our funk. Our best player on the team, the third baseman Joe, asked if he could pitch and he was given a shot. It saved our season. He ended up being our best pitcher down the stretch. Coach Tim also moved our shortstop to centerfield after getting fed up over his awful play the first four games. He turned into a different player and started running down deep fly balls and throwing runners out at home on a consistent basis.

There was also something very strange happening. I was hitting. Not only that, but I was hitting in bunches. The game that really stands out is a four hit game I had against the Cardinals. I had a shot up the middle and then three balls through the hole between the first and second basemen. The last one was bobbled by the outfield and I was raced toward second base to take advantage. I felt euphoric as I approached the bag and started into my slide. My foot didn’t hit anything. I realized that I had slid too early and was still a couple feet away from the base. Before I could get up and do anything about it, the second baseman tagged me on top of my head with the ball in his glove. The good news is I was credited with the RBI. I don’t think that helped with the embarrassment at the time.

I was also finding my voice on the field. I was one of the “veterans” on the team and did my best to keep everyone pumped up and focused. I never shut up in the outfield. I was constantly giving the pitcher support and yelling out directions after the ball was hit. All the excitement and passion I had for the game just came pouring out. I was the first one to high-five a teammate after scoring a run or making a good play in the field, I always stayed positive even when we were losing and I worked as hard as I could to have as much fun as possible. I must have known somewhere in my mind that this was it and I wanted to get as much out of it as possible.

Of course, it was hard not to have a good time when you’re head coach was providing unintentional comedy on a consistent basis. We were all over him one practice, cracking jokes left and right about anything and everything.

“Coach, what do you do for a living?” our second baseman asked him.

“I’m a baker.”

“You’re a what?”

“I’m a baker.”

“Coach, isn’t that, you know ‘women’s work’?”

“Hey, how about you run some laps and ask me that again.”

“I want to be a baker when I grow up!”

(Ironically enough, he ended up becoming a chef).

Not so funny was the tirade Coach Tim had during our last practice before the playoffs. After a pretty spirited water fight after a good workout, the emotional brother outfielder started to whine and complain about playing time and how disrespected he had been the whole year. I have never seen a face turn the shed of red that Coach Tim’s did. A season worth of anger and frustration came pouring out. He must have used every curse word ever uttered in the history of mankind. The rest of the players and I stood wordlessly at our positions as we watched our crying comrade take it. After a good five minutes, Coach Tim grabbed his trusty fungo.

“Daniel, the plays at second base,” he yelled.

I started running before he hit the ball. I heard the ping of the bat and looked up. Sure enough, the ball was traveling miles over my head. I was out of breath when I finally caught up with it. I’ve never seen a longer cut off line to the infield when I turned and threw the ball. Each outfielder had the same experience and Coach Tim swore until practice ended. At least we were finishing like we started.

My last game in a baseball uniform came against the Eagles in the first round of the playoffs. It was a pitcher’s duel between Joe and a good buddy of mine Tony. I actually helped Joe out of a jam early in the game when I made a diving catch on a weak fly ball. I remember getting up, flipping the ball to my older brother who was umpiring the game and shouting at my teammates to get something going.

We were down by one run headed into the last inning. Tony had kept our hitters off balance all day with his ungodly curveball. He was still in there and showing no signs of getting tired. I came to the realization that I was up third in the order. I could be the potential last out of the game.....again.

Sure enough, the first two batters made quick outs and I strode to the plate. In baseball, the rule is to take a strike late in the game when you’re losing, so that’s what I did. The second pitch was a curveball that Jesus himself couldn’t have touched. I had a flash back to a game during my first year when I struck out to end the game looking and ended up crying my eyes out. I stepped out of the batter’s box and took a deep breath. I stepped back in and accepted my destiny. I swung weakly at another nasty curveball. The season was over, as was my short-lived career.

I got quite the send off however. On a cool, clear night at venerable Muzzy Field, I stood with the best players in the league, waiting to receive the Sportsmanship/Most Improved Player Award. I couldn’t hear what they were saying over the loudspeaker about me because I was too busy concentrating on not tripping over myself on the way to the presentation table. Finally, I heard them announce my name and I trotted over easily. The best part was that my older brother was the one to hand me the award. He’d been my coach and mentor, not only the previous two years, but throughout my life. Sharing the moment with him was special and made winning the award even sweeter.

As I was leaving the stadium later that night, I received one of the best compliments of my life. Spec Monico, a great coach at my high school and who had just won the league championship managing the Eagles, told me the award was well deserved and I had earned it.

“You don’t forget awards like this one,” he told me. “These are special.”

He was right.

Player Spotlight:Baseball Fathers

2009-06-21T00:00:00.010-04:00

In honor of Father’s Day, I delved into the stats of some famous baseball fathers. Check back later in the week for a longer post about my short lived playing career. Enjoy your Sunday and cheers to the best father a guy could have!

Jose Cruz (father of Jose Cruz Jr.)

Jose Cruz spent 19 seasons in the majors between 1970 and 1988, mostly with the Houston Astros.

He finished third in the National League Most Valuable Player Award voting after hitting .302 with 11 homeruns and 91 RBI. His best three seasons came between 1983 and 1985. He hit .318 in 1983 and led the league with 189 hits. He finished that year with 28 doubles, 8 triples and 92 RBI. In 1984, he finished with a .312 average with 187 hits. He drove in a career-high 95 runs and finished with 28 doubles and 13 triples. He only played 141 games in 1985, but still hit .300 and drove in 79 runs. He finished with 34 doubles and 163 hits.

He ended his career with a .284 batting average with 2,251 hits. He finished with 391 doubles, 94 triples and 1,077 RBI.

Bobby Bonds (father of Barry Bonds)

Bobby Bonds played 14 seasons in the majors for 8 different teams between 1968 and 1981.

In 1973 with the Giants, he finished third in the NL MVP voting after hitting 39 homeruns and driving in 96 RBI. He led the league with 141 runs scored, 341 total bases and 148 strikeouts. He also smacked 34 doubles and 182 hits. In 1975 playing for the Yankees, he hit 32 homeruns and drove in 85 RBI. One of his best seasons came in 1977 playing for the California Angels. He finished with 37 homeruns and 115 RBI.

He ended his career with an impressive 332 homeruns and 1,024 RBI. Less impressive are his 1,757 strikeouts, good for 11th most all-time.

Ray Boone (father of Bob Boone, grandfather of Aaron and Bret Boone)

Ray Boone is the original Boone who played 13 seasons between 1948 and 1960.

In 1953, Boone hit .296 with 26 homeruns and 114 RBI for the Cleveland Indians and Detroit Tigers. In his first two full years with the Tigers (1954-1955), he smacked 40 homeruns and 201 RBI. He led the league in RBI in 1955, driving in 116. In 1956, He hit .308 with 25 homeruns and 81 RBI.

After bouncing around four teams the last years of his career, Boone finished with a .275 batting average 151 homeruns and 737 RBI.

Mel Stottlemyre (father of Todd Stottlemyre)

Mel Stottlemyre played 11 seasons between 1964 and 1974, all pitching for the New York Yankees.

He pitched for some pretty awful Yankee teams and led the league in losses in 1966 (20) and 1972 (18). He did win his fair share however, winning 14 game or more in all but three years of his career.

In 1968, Stottlemyre won 21 games with a 2.45 E.R.A. He completed 19 of his 36 starts and had 140 strikeouts. He continued his winning ways the next season, winning 20 games and leading the league with 24 complete games.

Stottlemyre finished his career with 164 wins with an E.R.A. of 2.97.

Vern Law (father of Vance Law)

Vern Law played in 16 seasons between 1950 and 1967, all pitching for the Pittsburgh Pirates.

His best season came in 1960. He won the Cy Young Award after winning 20 games with an E.R.A. of 3.08. He completed 18 games and tossed three shutouts. More importantly, he won two games against the Yankees in the World Series. The Pirates upset the Yanks that year after Bill Mazeroski’s walk-off Game Seven homerun (sorry Dad).

Law finished his career with 162 wins and an E.R.A. of 3.77. He pitched 119 complete games and 28 shutouts

Thorton Lee (father of Don Lee)

Thorton Lee played in 16 seasons between 1933 and 1948, mostly with the Chicago White Sox.

His best season came in 1941. He won 22 games and led the league with a 2.37 E.R.A. He also led the league with 30 complete games. He tossed three shutouts and struck out 130 batters. In 1945, he won 15 games with a low E.R.A. of 2.44.
Law finished his career with 117 wins and a 3.56 E.R.A. He pitched 155 complete games and 14 shutouts.

Let's Go Mets!

2009-06-14T11:20:00.007-04:00

Before I moved to Queens, I would actively root for the New York Mets to do well (provided they weren’t playing the Yankees). I quickly realized that Mets fans are sometimes worse than Red Sox fans in their hate for my favorite team. During the first few months of the season, when the Yankees would inevitably be off to a slow start, I would hear more garbage coming out of Mets fans mouths about how they were the best team in New York. The last two Septembers were especially sweet when the record was set straight (never mind the fact that the 2008 Yanks were choking as well).

That being said, I will always have a soft spot in my heart for Shea Stadium, the Mets former home which is now a parking lot.

It was a blue and orange concrete bowl lacking in any sort of definable character, but I always ended up having a great time whenever I got the chance to go. It always seemed to be raining or threatening to rain when I was there which made the stadium seem even more of a dump. It did offer a lovely centerfield view of the scrap yards and auto chop shops as well.

The concerts that I saw there will always be what I’ll remember most about Shea. My second year in college I scored a ticket for Bruce Springsteen and had a blast all by myself. I missed a Bob Dylan guest appearance by a night, but I did get to see former Mets starting pitcher Al Leiter take a turn on the tambourine. Springsteen rocked as always.

I was also lucky enough to see Billy Joel’s "Last Play at Shea” last summer. I can say without a doubt that it was the best concert I’ve ever been to. Joel seemingly played for hours, performing every hit in his lexicon. However, his special guests were what made the night really special.

To begin with, Tony Bennett, in all his 82-year-old splendor, serenaded the crowd with a great version of ”New York State of Mind”. As soon as Joel started into ”Shameless”, Garth Brooks, a favorite of mine since birth, came out wearing a Mets jersey and belted out the song that had ended up being a hit for him. My voice was gone for the rest of the night at that point. Steven Tyler of Aerosmith made an appearance and sang ”Walk This Way” and Roger Daltrey of The Who came on and performed one of the great rock songs of all time, ”My Generation”. If all of this wasn’t enough, Paul McCartney brought the house down with ”I Saw Her Standing There” . The upper deck above my seats was literally shaking up and down uncontrollably. After Joel performed ”Piano Man”, we all figured the concert was over because Joel didn’t have any songs left. McCartney had one up his sleeve however. Along with the rest of The Beatles, he had played the first concert at Shea in 1965 at the start of the group’s famous first U.S. tour. Fittingly, his voice was the one to send Shea off, delivering a stirring version of ”Let it Be”. I had chills for hours.

So even with fond memories of what happened inside Shea, I was not at all sad to see it go. That feeling was justified even further when I walked up to their beautiful new ballpark.

The exterior of the new Citi Field, designed to resemble the Brooklyn Dodgers former home Ebbets Field, has a very distinctive and inviting look. The stadium is surrounded by broad walkways that are lined with trees that made me question whether I was still in Flushing. It definitely succeeds in being a throw back to the past with perfect modern touches. I couldn’t wait to get inside.

Fans are welcomed into the Jackie Robinson Rotunda upon entering the stadium. If you don’t get goose bumps immediately, then you just aren’t a true baseball fan. The sheer history of the room was overwhelming.

The Rotunda puts on display the life and career of the incredible man that broke baseball’s color barrier in 1947. Robinson not only showed unassailable courage day in and day out on the field during his major league career, but went on to be a tireless advocate of black rights until his death in 1972. Paying tribute to him was a very classy move by the Mets and I hope a new generation of fans will be able to appreciate Robinson’s legacy for years to come.

I went to the game with a good number of people on my softball team, the Noreasters of the BASL. We have an interesting blend of Yankees, Mets, St. Louis Cardinals, Red Sox and Phillies fans (okay, just one Philly fan, Brad) which made for a pleasant evening of wise cracks, personal insults and good-natured slams. That choking sound you hear is our third baseman Chris making fun of the Mets’ past two last season collapses.

My buddy Chris’ family’s unending jokes about how high up we were notwithstanding, I thought that we actually had a decent view of the whole field. As long as a ball wasn’t hit to left center or left field, we could see basically everything. Everyone eventually acclimated to the high altitude and the Mets were gracious enough to supply a team of Sherpas to help us up the steep slopes of the upper deck.

The Mets were facing off against the World Series Champion Philadelphia Phillies, whose lineup on paper made the Mets batting order seem like it was a Triple A Minor League team. With several of the Mets big hitters (Jose Reyes and Carlos Delgado) hurt, Luis Castillo was batting leadoff and Gary Sheffield was batting clean up. With the exception of David Wright and Carlos Beltran, it wasn’t exactly a Murder’s Row compared with Chase Utley, Ryan Howard and Raul Ibanez of the Phillies. Also, Cole Hamels, last year’s World Series Most Valuable Player, was on the mound coming off several strong starts. The vaunted Phillies sluggers were facing off against Mike Pelfrey. It did not bode well for the Amazin’s.

As always when it comes to me and Chris, we found something to debate about the entire game. I said to him early on that Mr. Met was the best mascot in baseball, maybe even in sports. I mean, you really can’t get better than a mascot with a giant baseball as a head.

He disagreed immediately, saying that other mascots were way better, including the Phillies’ Philly Fanatic. I laughed in his face for this ridiculousness. Trish, the manager of our team and a rabid Mets fans, said it was a no brainer. She said that she couldn’t even think of another mascot in sports, never mind one that was better than Mr. Met. When I mentioned the Philly Fanatic, she told us a story how she had taken her family to a Phillies-Mets game in Philadelphia where the Phillies mascot appeared to urinate on a gorilla wearing a Mets jersey. Our debate ended there, mainly because we were doing our best not to laugh at Trish telling us how scarred she had been. Feel free to weigh in, but I defy anyone to come up with a better mascot.

Chris and I also brought upon ourselves a slew of jokes about how we wore the same hats without any kind of advanced planning. I can’t remember how many times his fiancé rolled her eyes at us, but it was constant throughout the evening. Chris was also sought out by a beer guy who admired his Transformers hooded sweatshirt. The guy then showed us the Autobot symbol and Deceptican symbol tattoos on his forearms. Not to be outdone, Chris showed off his Autobot tattoo on his calf. It had to be one of the nerdiest moments I’ve ever been apart of and that’s saying something.

The game actually ended up being really exciting. Hamels didn’t have a particularly good start, especially considering that Pelfrey ended up with two hits against him, including a double and RBI single. The Mets had numerous chances with the bases loaded to blow the game wide open, but failed to get a big hit. They ended up banging out 16 hits with only four runs to show for it. Utley ended up being the hero in the top of the 11th, smacking his second homerun of the game into the right field seats. The Mets went down quietly in the bottom of the evening.

After the Mets failed to score in the bottom of the tenth, most of our team hit the road. I stuck around until the end however and I got to thinking how much I missed watching baseball in person. After being spoiled at St. John’s, being able to see 60+ games a year at some of the best fields in the country, live baseball games have come few and far between. With the outrageous ticket prices in both stadiums, there’s no telling when my next game might be. It was all about the game during the last couple of innings and I could have sat there all night taking it all in. The constant drowning sound of 40,000 voices talking, cheering and laughing; the crunch of peanut shells under your feet and the taste of beer in your mouth; and the heavenly smell of hot dogs and sausage being grilled seemingly all around you (Noreasters feel free to supply your snide comment here).

Luckily for me, several people stuck around and I got to do what I enjoy most; bullshitting about the game with a wad of sunflower seeds tucked away in my cheek. Our outfielder Dan, also a Mets fan, admitted his former love for the Cincinnati Reds during the Big Red Machine era and impressed us all by listing what seemed like their entire roster. Our shortstop Rachel, who is cool despite her love of the St. Louis Cardinals and Red Sox, Brad and I had an interesting discussion about who was the best player in baseball. We all agreed it was Albert Pujols, but some other interesting names were thrown around, including Joe Mauer and Hanley Ramirez. I still don’t agree with Brad that Pujols will rival Ted Williams as the best hitter in baseball, but can agree that he’ll be in the top five if he continues his brilliant start to his career. It was a great way to end the night, especially after watching Brad jump out of his skin when Utley hit the game breaking homerun.

As I made my way out of the stadium, I couldn’t help but be thoroughly impressed by the new Citi Field. As Brad accurately pointed out, it has a real small town ballpark feel to it. It is sparkling clean, completely distinct from its Bronx counterpart and just an enjoyable place to be all around. I think I’ll leave the final words to the drunken Mets fan who provided a couple of innings of entertainment trying to incite the upper deck to do the wave.

Let’s go Mets!

A Good Man

Unfortunately, I have to end this post on a sad note. My Uncle Jimmy passed away this past week after battling an illness. If you look up Frenchman in the dictionary, odds are there is a picture of my uncle next to the entry. He was a short, stubborn, muscle-bound, scrappy guy who had a laugh that filled up the whole room. I have no doubt that he is now with his older brothers sitting around a poker and trying to drink each other under the table. Should you be enjoying a Sunday cocktail, please raise a toast with me to a good man who deserved a longer line of credit.

Godspeed Uncle Jimmy. You will be missed.

Memorial Day Remembrances

2009-05-24T12:00:00.001-04:00

I wanted to take some time this Sunday to look back at the brave baseball men that gave up the sunshine of their youths to serve their country in World War II and Korea. It wasn’t only the well known players, such as Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio, who gallantly signed up for what could have been a death sentence. I wanted to make sure the lesser known players were remembered for their dedication and patriotism. So while you enjoy your family barbeques and dipping your feet into your pool for the first time this Monday, take a moment and remember that we are all apart of something bigger. These men took up arms so we could enjoy these moments. Have a happy, healthy and loving Memorial Day!

Bob Feller

Everyone who knows baseball knows who Bob Feller is. Recently, he has made no secret of his feelings regarding the Steroid Era, saying that anyone who is caught using them doesn’t belong in the Hall of Fame. In my opinion, Feller has more than earned the right to say whatever he wants about the game or anything else for that matter. He joined the Air Force during the prime of his career and spent the war as a Gun Captain aboard the USS Alabama. He ended up with five campaign ribbons and eight battle stars, according to the Baseball Hall of Fame.

Around those war years, Feller was one of the best pitchers in the American League. He won 24, 27 and 25 games for the Cleveland Indians in the years leading up to 1942. He also led the league in strikeouts from 1938 to 1941 with 240, 246, 261 and 260. He pitched in 343 innings his last year before the war; something that would be unheard of in today’s game.

Feller continued his winning ways after the war, winning 26 and 20 games in 1946 and 1947. He struck out 348 batters in 371.1 innings in 1946. That same year he finished with 36 complete games and 10 shutouts. He didn’t win the Cy Young Award that year because it didn’t exist yet. He did finish sixth in the voting for the Most Valuable Player Award.

Feller finished his career in 1956, winning 20 games only one more time in 1951. He finished his career with 266 victories, 2,581 strikeouts and 279 complete games. The war robbed him of 300 wins, but not our respect. He was voted into the Hall of Fame in 1962.

Taffy Wright

Taffy Wright played for the Washington Senators, Chicago White Sox and Philadelphia Athletics in his nine year career.

He hit .300 or better in the five years before he entered the war in 1942. In 1940, he hit .337 with 196 hits and 88 RBI for the White Sox. In 85 games in 1942, he hit .332 with a .432 on base percentage and only struck out nine times.

He stumbled to a .275 batting average in his first year back from the war, but came back to hit .324 in 1947. He finished his career with a career average of .311 with 1,115 hits. It’s interesting to think of whether he could have been a Hall of Fame hitter with four more prime years under his belt.

Johnny Schmitz

Johnny Schmitz pitched 13 seasons for seven different teams from 1941-1956. He led the league in strikeouts in 1946 after serving in World War II. His best season came in 1948. Playing for the Chicago Cubs, he won 18 games with an E.R.A. of 2.64. He had 18 complete games and pitched in 242 innings. He finished 12th in the MVP voting that season.

Schmitz ended up with only 93 wins in his career, but with a respectable E.R.A. of 3.55. He finished with 86 complete games and 16 shutouts.

He also had one of the best nicknames I’ve come across; “Bear Tracks”. I don’t know how he got it, but I’d trust a guy on the mound who had a nickname like that.

Enos Slaughter

Speaking of great names, Enos Slaughter has one of the best. Even his nickname, “Country” was cool. He seemed to be named to be a hitter and that’s exactly what he did.

Slaughter played most of his best years for the St. Louis Cardinals. Before he entered the war in 1942, he led the league in hits (188), triples (17) and total bases (292). He hit .300 or better four times between 1938 and 1942.

In 1949, he hit .336 with 191 hits, including a league leading 13 triples. He drove in 96 runs and finished in the top three in MVP voting. I hadn’t realized he played two seasons for the New York Yankees in 1957 and 1958. He hit .304 in the later year with 138 hits in just 77 games.

He finished his career with a .300 batting average with 2,383 hits. He was elected to the Hall of Fame by the Veterans Committee in 1985.

Baseball Sunday Guest:Dustin Hockensmith

2009-05-11T12:15:00.004-04:00

Throughout my time working with the baseball team at St. John’s, I became close to an unbelievable array of talented people, none more so in my opinion, then this week’s Baseball Sunday Guest:. He brought a welcome blend of wittiness and spirit when he became the Sports Information Director and blew us all away with his writing skills. We bonded on crappy road trips to places like Lubbock and South Bend, drunkenly guided each other home after benders in the city and survived more than one meal together at Qdboa. Welcome fantasy sports writer extraordinaire Dustin Hockensmith!

Dan: I wanted to get this question out of the way as soon as possible. What is your favorite embarrassing story about me when I was the manager for St. John’s Baseball?

Dustin:Trying to think here, and I can only come up with one embarrassing story about myself and one general, embarrassing theme for you. It's not one story as much as a collection of stories about you that comprise your interesting, to say the least, relationship history. This isn't a good forum to relive all those, but it is to relive the day at the old “The Ballpark at St. John's” when the national anthem tape wouldn't play. I had to have cursed, what, 50 times in 30 seconds, just furious about the fact that all 9 fans in the house were gawking up at us in disbelief. Then, turns out, it wasn't a technical malfunction at all, just the stupidest kind of operator error. Who knew the volume knob had to be turned up when you wanted sound to come out???

Dan: Where did your passion for sports originate from? What sports did you play growing up and what player(s) did you look up to? Which sport would you consider your favorite?

Dustin:I can't even think back to a day when I didn't have a passion for sports, and older brothers are the reason for that. They went off and found their passions first, then it was hard to not follow suit. Their interest level in sports was, and still is, through the roof, and mine has been the exact same. But, since I was the bat boy for their T-ball teams at the tender age of 2, I've felt some kind of cosmic connection to baseball. And when the time came where I could no longer play, I made a real point of staying connected to the game. In college, it was getting involved with the Penn State program, then traveling and learning from a scout, then working with the Maryland program, covering the Baltimore Orioles, working at St. John's, and now, writing a baseball blog at ImaginaryDiamond.com.

Dan: You went to Penn State for your undergrad degree and worked as a sports information assistant for a couple of years. What was that experience like and how did you develop your interest in writing? Who were some of the writers that you looked up to?

Dustin:I knew Penn State was where I wanted to go, didn't even consider other schools. Part of me knew that some kind of opportunity was around the corner in sports, that such a big athletics program could give me a good chance to get involved. The experience didn't disappoint, either. Once I transferred from a tiny branch campus to State College my junior year, I got involved with the field hockey team, and a couple of months later, I was flying with them to Louisville to do PR at the national championship game. At that point, I realized that a.) maybe I had some kind of talent for this, and b.) maybe it was worth my 100 percent dedication to see if I could make a career of it.

I have no regrets about the fact that I studied finance and economics in college, but I wish I'd explored writing a little further. The business program at Penn State required very little coursework in English, and my studies involved next to no writing. It didn't dawn on me until after graduation that, yeah, I can write a little bit, and, yeah, maybe I should explore that talent.

Dan: Your first job out of school was at the University of Maryland? What was that like?

Dustin:Maryland was really an awesome experience. Working with the baseball program was a fantastic opportunity to see what legitimate talent looks like and to live life in one of the premier baseball conferences in the country. What I couldn't have seen coming was just how incredible and interesting life would be on the road with the team. You can attest to the fact that 25 collegiate baseball players make up the funniest, goofiest, craziest travel party you can imagine.

Working with the football program was really cool, too. I was in the locker room five times a week, getting to know the players, watching practices, seeing games from the sidelines. All kinds of things that the average fan would love to do. And a couple of the things I always find myself bragging about are a friendship I had with linebacker Shawne Merriman, who's now a stud in the NFL, and watching Merriman and tight end Vernon Davis, a top 10 draft pick turned dud in the NFL, do battle against each other in practice.

Dan: After your stint there, you worked at ESPN for a couple of months as a reporter for their Sports Ticker. Did you enjoy that experience and how did it help you hone your craft?

Dustin:Eye-opening, without a doubt. I knew right away that kind of journalism wasn't for me, especially when I'd nearly crap my pants every time I walked into a major league clubhouse. The first question I asked was at Victor Martinez of the Cleveland Indians, who responded “Don't ask me about my hitting.” Uhh, okay Victor, "what's your favorite breakfast food, and why?" I didn't really say that, just walked away from him with my tail between my legs.

One of my other signature moments as a SportsTicker reporter was kicking Paul Konerko's water bottle over as I approached him for an interview. He couldn't stand the thought of talking to me anyway, then I was a clumsy moron and he immediately hated my guts.

I will say, though, that walking around a clubhouse was a great place to people watch, to see how players acted off the field. I remember being impressed by Coco Crisp, thinking he didn't act or talk like a guy named "Coco." Jhonny Peralta’s demeanor impressed me, too, he just looked like he'd be a solid major leaguer. Todd Helton was tiny and kind of a jerk. CC Sabathia was as big as a house and hit 100 on the radar gun at Camden Yards.

Dan: You came to St. John’s during my senior year. You started working for the two consistently winning teams in the athletic department, baseball and soccer. You also worked with the basketball team during the winter as well. What are some of your memories from your time there?

Dustin:Well, it was a tough gig. Not a lot of personal time, and not a lot of opportunities to catch my breath during the year. From mid-August until mid-June, I was working at least six days a week. I don't know of another position in the athletic department that required such involvment from start to finish of the sports season. Still, I have no complaints about it. I got to work closely with the three most appealing sports that St. John's has to offer.

My best memories were with the baseball program, no question. It's a hell of a lot of work, and you have to work every, single day from February through June, but it never felt like work. All the travel, even when the trips were logistical nightmares, was my favorite part of the job. I loved arriving at the ballpark, playing catch in the outfield, shagging fly balls at practice, sitting in the dugout, just having the chance to get to know the guys and spend so much time with the team.

Dan: You also worked with the basketball team, which gets all of the attention when they are in season. How different was it working for them and then coming out on the road with baseball? Talk to me about the long train ride you had when you joined us on the road in South Carolina one weekend.

Dustin:From strictly a job perspective, the difference between working with the baseball and basketball teams was night and day. Promoting the baseball team practically involved begging for attention, even though it had so much success. Promoting the basketball team involved less work in that regard, but there was more scrutiny on the players and coaches and more pressure on you.

I made the decision to make that long train ride from New York to South Carolina, which was brutal by the way. My services were needed in both places, so I elected to stay with the basketball team as it fought to make the Big East Tournament, then make the trip to South Carolina on my own. Little did I know, it was going to be 12 hours of planes, trains and automobiles to actually get there.

Dan: Other than me providing unintentional comedy on a daily basis, we had a lot of characters on the team we worked together with. What stands out in your mind?

Dustin:Everybody on the team had a personality. Scott Barnes - the aloof talent. Justin Gutsie - the dumb guy, who wasn't as dumb as he let on. Matt Tosoni - the typical Canadian. Jeff Grantham - the scholarly shortstop. Sam DeLuca - the big leaguer. Anthony Smith - the proud son of gung-ho parents. I could keep going. Each player and coach had something about them that I won't ever forget.

Dan: Since we were on the road quite a bit during the early spring, you, Brien (“The Big Guy”) our athletic trainer and I became pretty good friends. Is there any story that you remember more than others involving the three of us?

Dustin:Hmm ... not really, to be honest. Three years later, and the specific memories just kind of fade away. I'll always remember your personalities and having a blast on all the road trips, but I'll need some help with the specifics. The question is, is there any story that YOU remember more than others?

Dan:I remember feeling like crap on a trip to Norte Dame and Brien introducing me to Blue Moon beer. That was a life altering moment and we all ended up getting pretty drunk. That brought to mind a story involving just me and you. We were at a real dive bar in Queens and watching the Floyd Mayweather -Oscar del a Hoya fight with a really rough crowd. They gave us our Blue Moon in the most flamboyant glasses with a huge orange slice hanging off the end while everyone around us had bottles of Rolling Rock and Miller High Life. I have never been that self-conscious drinking a beer.

Dan: Of the players we worked with who are playing in the minor leagues, who has impressed you the most?

Dustin:Well, Scott Barnes was the most gifted. He had good stuff -- not elite, can't-miss stuff -- but he was so athletic and so capable of repeating his delivery over and over again. And as Texas Coach Augie Garrido said at the NCAA Tournament last year, he just got tougher and tougher with runners on base. It's easy to see why he's regarded as one of the San Francisco Giants' top prospects now.

Rob Delaney, you just have to be happy for him. He was pretty average his senior year, let's be honest, but he's gone on and had quite a bit of success in the Twins' organization. Time will tell if he ever puts on a big league uniform, but he's given himself a chance after signing as a free agent. That's impressive.

Brendan Monaghan, same deal. He may not have the athleticism or reach the big leagues or have an extensive career, but he had just incredible leadership ability and work ethic. He also was mature, studied hard and treated people with respect.

Once again, I'd have something positive to say about all of them, so I'll just stop right there for the sake of saving space.

Dan: How much Aquista’s, Double J’s and Q’doba do you think you ate during your time at St. John’s? Which one made you feel the worst?

Dustin:Great question, typical Daniel Ford humor. I ate disgusting amounts of all three. Aquista's at every home baseball and basketball game. Double J's for lunch at least three times a week. Q'doba for lunch and dinner at least three times a week. It was more of a surprise when I was eating anything but that stuff.

Buffalo chicken pizza from Aquista's made me feel the worst, I think. A close second was Q'doba, and the sensation it gave you that an army of exotic spices was tearing you apart from the inside. But damn, it was good going down.

Dan: In August 2007, you decided to leave St. John’s to start your own website that focused on fantasy baseball. What led to that decision?

Dustin:What didn't lead to that decision? It was about family, it was personal, it was professional, it involved a lot of things. I wanted a job that led me closer to my family, and launching a web site allowed me to choose where I could live. After some pretty stressful years after college, I also needed to take some time and "find myself." And lastly, I wanted to try and write on a full-time basis, to just dedicate myself to the craft and improve as much as I could.

Turns out, there couldn't have been a worse time to a.) take about 70 percent pay cut, and b.) get involved in the newspaper business. Live and learn, I guess.

Dan: What’s the name of your site and how has it evolved since you launched it?

Dustin:The last of our sites still standing is a baseball blog called Imaginary Diamond. We got started covering baseball, basketball and football, and we got to a point where we had three mediocre sites and not one great one. So, we trimmed down, focused on baseball, and started seeing some better results. Recently, we signed a partnership with a group of guys who created Yahoo! Sports, left, and started a site called SportFanLive.com. For the first time, we have a semi-steady, if very moderate, revenue stream.

Dan: Why do you think fantasy baseball has taken off the way it has in the last ten years? What goes into planning your fantasy draft and how early do you start that process? What’s your best finish so far?

Dustin:Fantasy baseball has been around for a long time, but the progress of the internet and fans' senses of entitlement have played big roles in its surge in popularity. Fans want, even demand, to be part of the action, and fantasy baseball lets them do it in any way they can possibly imagine.

Having a successful draft is a process, for sure. I use average draft rankings -- i.e., the study on where other drafters are selecting players -- and practice a few times before the real thing. What I end up with is the market for players, when I can expect them to go off the board, my opinions, and as much information I can possibly gather on players. So much happens in the off-season, it's a real chore to catch up on all the news.

Dan: What do you think about all the new stats that have come out in recent years, such as WHIP, OPS and all the defensive stats? Why do you think stats seem to mean more in baseball than they do in other sports?

Dustin:Baseball is by far the most numbers-driven sport there is. Just by nature, you can assign probabilities to practically everything, then have a big enough sample size for the numbers tend to hold true.

And because so many baseball actions are so quantifiable, innovation in statistics can create an advantage for managers and general managers. A team like the Oakland A's, made so famous in the book ”Moneyball” have used all kinds of measures to find underrated free agents and amateur players. And just as they brought on-base percentage and OPS measures into the mainstream, they shifted to defensive statistics and started finding value there.

So many great minds are dedicated to baseball statistics now; it's mind-blowing how far they've come in a short amount of time. Statistics will continue to evolve as long as innovators keep finding new ways to quantify the game.

Dan: You came over to the dark side when we were working together and became a Yankee fan. What do you think of the year they’ve had so far and do you think they will be in the playoffs this year? What other teams do you think are good this year?

Dustin:The Yankees have dealt with a lot so far. And in typical Yankee fashion, they sling money around, get a bunch of ill-fitting, high-priced parts, and hope they fit together. I'm not sure that this group fits together well enough to make the playoffs, let alone win the American League East or be worthy World Series favorites.

But, the best days are ahead of them. Mark Teixeira is a slow starter. CC Sabathia, at least in the last two seasons, is a slow starter. Alex Rodriguez is just coming back. There's still a chance, but that's a tough division to give away games early and hope to come storming back.

Even with Manny Ramirez being suspended for 50 games, I still like the Dodgers in the National League. I also like the Cardinals and Phillies, two teams that weren't getting nearly as much attention as they deserved.

In the American League, I saw the Royals' success coming. Never saw such dominance from ace Zack Greinke, but liked the balance in their lineup, their efforts to improve the bullpen, and the abilities of young closer Joakim Soria. Those pieces, combined with an unpredictable AL Central, give them a chance to make a Tampa Bay Rays -type run this season.

Dan: You are also the online editor for the Patriot-News a local Pennsylvania newspaper. What’s been the most interesting story you’ve covered so far?

Dustin:Well, the editing process, which I'm told is where the money is at in journalism -- I've still yet to see any -- is more about facilitating, training, reading, generating headlines, stuff like that. So, since I've taken this post, I've done next to no writing. Prior to that, I was working as a part-timer and a stringer in the sports department, and I covered every kind of story imaginable. Boxing, mixed martial arts, swimming, bull riding, semi-pro football, softball, lacrosse, you name it.

This is no doubt an interesting time for newspapers. We either sink or we swim. And if we swim, we may just be treading water until we actually sink, too. Nobody is quite sure. We're in OK shape with our circulation numbers, but where we're struggling is in advertising dollars. When times are tough, the first cuts usually made by businesses are in their advertising budgets.

Dan: On Facebook, I noticed one of your interests is bowling. Are you any good?

Dustin:Some friends and I got into a "winter" bowling league last year that actually lasted from September until April. I got off to a slow start, peaked about two-thirds of the way into the season, then just crashed and burned down the stretch. My average finished just below 170, which is OK for a first try, I think.

I was good and bad in bowling for the same reasons I was good and bad at sports like golf and baseball. I'm competitive and mildly athletic, so the motions and techniques are never the problem. I also just happen to be a head case that gets too caught up in the moment and consumed with doubt.

I can understand perfectly where guys like Dontrelle Willis and Zack Greinke are coming from. The body can be willing, but sometimes the mind just gets in the way.

I'm willing to bet that was way more than you bargained for with such a simple question.

Texas Nightmare, Frank Viola and Mom

2009-05-10T12:00:00.001-04:00

I slumped into my seat on the bus.

My head throbbed and I could feel my blood seeping into the paper towel I had pressed up against my forehead. I was doing my best not to make eye contact with anyone sitting around me. I could hear snickers and I’m sure they were meant for me. I tried to put them out of my mind and relax as the bus started to drive out of the stadium’s parking lot.

Suddenly I panicked.

I bounded out of my seat and looked in the overhead compartment. I rifled through the bag I had on the seat next to me and came up with nothing. I nervously sat back down and tried to think of some way to tell the coaching staff the bad news. I forgot to grab our expensive brand new digital video camera when we left.

“Do any of you have the camera?” I asked the coaches courageously. “I think I left it by one of your bags, but I don’t see it here.”

No response. I started to break into a sweat.

I retraced my steps starting from when the game ended. I remembered I put the camera case down near the coaches’ bags so I could go get the bats that had been confiscated by the umpires for being too dented. Eager to get back to the team bus as soon as possible to get a head count, I sprinted toward the umpire’s locker room that was behind the home team’s dugout underneath the bleachers. I ran head first into a low hanging steel beam.

My knees buckled immediately and I bit my tongue hard. The next thing I knew I was flat out on the ground and seeing stars. Everything was fuzzy when I stood up. A parent from the other team came up to me and asked me if I was okay. I nodded, which hurt like hell. After collecting the bats and getting strange looks from the umpiring crew, I rushed into the bathroom, wiped my forehead off and walked as fast as I could to the bus.

“We have to go back!” I yelped. “The camera is on the field, I left it there. We need to go back and get it!”

I watched as the coaches looked at each other. Coach Hampton, the head assistant, turned around in his seat. I braced for my well-deserved tongue lashing.

Instead, he reached behind him and presented me with the lost camera.

“Let one of us know next time that you need us to grab the camera for you,” he said, a smile starting to break out on his face. “You should have heard yourself just now. And what happened to your head?”

Too embarrassed to explained, I told him it was nothing and slumped back in my seat in disgrace.

I was on my second road trip as the equipment manager for St. John’s University Baseball. I had accepted the job the previous fall and spent much of the early practices and scrimmages trying to wrap my head around what I had gotten myself into. I tried to absorb enough knowledge from my friend Derek who had the job before me, but it was in large part a trial by fire.

Between going to class and doing homework, I had to more or less be a team mother to over 25 players, many of whom were four years older than me. I did everything from laundry, videotaping hitters and pitchers, field maintenance, study hall monitoring and deflecting the practical jokes thrown my way.

By the time of our first road trip to Arkansas, I felt like I had already worked for a full season and was ready for a break. That first trip actually went smoothly. I survived my first ever plane flight; I didn’t forget any gear or lose any uniforms; and I managed to organize every meal in the hotel without a hitch. I did, for a minute, think I left Coach Hampton’s brand new phone in the visiting team’s locker room, but was excited to find it in my jacket pocket.

Going into our second trip, a week in East Texas, I knew I probably wasn’t going to be as lucky. I was right. Almost getting knocked out cold was only the start of my Texas nightmare. After taking two of three from Lamar University (who was ranked in the top 25 going into that weekend), we were headed to play Sam Houston State. We stopped to eat at McDonald’s before setting out on our two and a half hour bus trip. After getting something in my stomach, I felt a lot better about things and vowed that the rest of the trip was going to be mistake free.

That, unfortunately, did not last long.

Since we were in between hotels, all the players and coaches had their suits hanging up around the bus as it’s a school policy to travel in suit and tie on an airplane. Coach Blankmeyer asked me to get a head count before we got on the road. I got up from my seat and peeked around the obstacles to ensure that everyone was on board. I gave the bus driver a thumbs up and the bus roared to life. I sat back down eager to get some shut eye after what had already been a long day.

“Hey, we’re missing someone,” a player said from the back of the bus.

My skin went ice cold. My eyes shot open and the bus screeched to a halt. All of the coaches looked back in my direction. I sheepishly looked out the window and back toward the McDonald’s. Sure enough, three very confused St. John’s players were standing by the door holding ice cream cones.

“What’s the matter with you today Danny,” Blankmeyer said mockingly. “These suits can’t play baseball.”

The entire bus exploded in outright laughter. I couldn’t shrink down in my seat far enough. For the rest of the ride I remember gazing out into the nothingness of Texas and wanting to jump off the bus with it going as fast as possible. I’d either be crushed by the wheels or be left to wander the Texas heartland forever.

I didn’t talk to anyone the whole way to our dinky roadside hotel. I remember rushing off the bus, flopping down on the bed and hoping never to see the outside world again. I pulled the flat, overused pillow over my head and was determined to pass out until we had to leave for our team dinner.

Of course, the phone rang minutes later. Our volunteer assistant coach, Chris Carminucci wanted to have a word with me. I hung up with a horrible feeling in my stomach. I thought they were about to fire me in the middle of nowhere in Texas and leave me to find a way home all by myself. I expected the worse when I walked slowly and insecurely into his room.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. He spent a half hour pumping me up. He understood that I was having a tough time trying to learn the job. He gave me tips to improve my management skills such as being early to the bus to keep track of everyone getting on and off. He assured me that the coaches all liked me and things would get easier everyday. He told me story after story how awkward he was when he started out coaching and that staying positive was what got him through the rough stretches. Call it cliché if you will, but everything he said hit home at that moment. I left the room feeling more confident and was resolved to make my stamp on the job.

I wish I could say the trip was all roses after that, but it got even worse. However, it became a collective nightmare instead of just mine. We lost a few close games and got blown out by a team that we should have murdered and left for dead. I had to spend our off day washing uniforms using the hotel’s tiny washer and dryer since there wasn’t a laundry mat within 100 miles. The last four days in Texas, we had to eat Subway because it was the only thing open when our games ended. It didn’t help that the hot sandwiches we ordered earlier ended up being cold by the time we picked it up. I don’t know how many of you would feel after eating a cold foot-long meatball sub everyday, but we were on the edge of mutiny by the end of the trip.

The one good thing I remember clearly from that trip, other than leaving, was after we won our first game of the season against Lamar. I was standing outside the hotel in Beaumont waiting for Pizza Hut to deliver 33 pies and Coach Hampton walked by.

“Winning feels pretty good, doesn’t it Danny?” he asked.

“It’s the best feeling in the world Coach!” I said exuberantly grinning from ear to ear.

He looked at me for a moment, shook his head and couldn’t help but smile back.

“You’re good shit Danny,” he replied. “I don’t care what they say about you.”

We returned to New York with only a couple of wins to feel good about, but certainly not empty handed. We all learned more about each other and what we were capable of. I kept on learning that year and, in spite of finding new ways to humiliate myself, endeared myself to the whole team. I got to watch 25 talented players win more than their fair share of great baseball games and learn how to be a man all at the same time.

I'm sure I'll share more stories from my time at St. John's, but for now, I'll leave you with this one. I think I'll raise a toast to Texas and pray I never have to go back!

Player Spotlight

St. John’s Baseball has a long history of producing Major League Baseball talent. Two of the most famous alumni are John Franco and Frank Viola. Both were drafted out in the 1981 MLB Draft (Viola in Round 2; Franco in Round 5) and both went on to have distinguished Major League careers. For the first of what I assume will be many St. John’s related posts, I wanted to focus exclusively on Viola. I actually had a chance to talk with him after he did the telecast of one of our games that was broadcasted by ESPN. What I’ll remember the most though is shaking his hand. He had the most enormous hands I’ve ever seen in my life. My hand literally disappeared when we shook.

At St. John's, Viola won a combined 20 games in his last two years with E.R.A.'s of 2.16 and 0.87. In 1980, he guided the Johnnies to an appearance in the College World Series and pitched a four-hitter to win their opening game against the Arizona Wildcats(who ended up winning the Series that year).

Viola had his best years in the Major Leagues as a member of the Minnesota Twins. In 1987, he won two games in the World Series against the St. Louis Cardinals, including the deciding seventh game to give the Twins there first championship in Minnesota (they had won the Series previously as the Washington Senators in 1924). He ended up being awarded the World Series MVP. The next year, he had one of the great seasons for a pitcher in Major League history. Viola won 24 games, had an E.R.A. of 2.64 and pitched seven complete games, including two shutouts. He was awarded the Cy Young Award at the end of the year.

After a rough 1989 season, during which he was traded to the New York Mets, Viola rebounded with another 20 win season in 1990. He led the league with 249⅔ innings and 35 games started. He finished with an E.R.A of 2.67, seven complete games and three shutouts. He finished third in the Cy Young Award voting.

Viola played one more year for the Mets and then spent the last five years of his career with the Boston Red Sox, Cincinnati Reds and Toronto Blue Jays. He ended up with 176 career wins, 74 complete games and 16 shutouts. He finished with a career E.R.A. of 3.73. He retired in 1996.

Happy Mother's Day

I want to wish a Happy Mother's Day to my mother. She knew exactly how to deal with her four baseball obsessed boys and ended up becoming a bigger Yankee fan than all of us combined. She yells at the TV, gushes over Jeter and closes her eyes when the game is on the line in the ninth inning. My life wouldn't be the same without her. Enjoy your day Mom and I love you very much!

Baseball Sunday Guest

Throughout my time working with the baseball team at St. John’s, I became close to an unbelievable array of talented people, none more so in my opinion, then this week’s Baseball Sunday Guest:. He brought a welcome blend of wittiness and spirit when he became the Sports Information Director and blew us all away with his writing skills. We bonded on crappy road trips to places like Lubbock and South Bend, drunkenly guided each other home after benders in the city and survived more than one meal together at Q'dboa. Our conversation went on longer than either of us thought, so I decided to let it stand as its own post. Please come back tomorrow to check out my conversation with fantasy sports writer extraordinaire Dustin Hockensmith!

Meet the Noreasters!

2009-05-03T12:00:00.008-04:00

I never imagined I would be the last Ford playing organized baseball, ahem, softball.

My family projected Pat to be playing throughout college and I figured Tom’s arm would have to literally fall off his body before he stopped playing in his twilight league. I always had a more peripheral relationship to the game and thought that when I walked off the field after a playoff loss when I was sixteen I’d never be in a uniform ever again.

I was wrong.

During my interview with my buddy Chris, we talked about what it meant to play on our softball team, the Noreasters. After an exciting doubleheader on Saturday, I thought it would be the perfect time to introduce everyone to the team that has become like a family to me.

I first joined the team three years ago after Chris’ blind endorsement. He knew the team needed an outfielder and was satisfied with all the bragging I had done about my stellar outfield work seven years prior. He could see I was hungry to play and he did everything to sell me to the manager of the team. Without seeing me play, she reserved a roster spot for me.

It was a gray afternoon on Randall’s Island when I first stepped on the field as a member of the Noreasters, a team in the Rainbow Division of the Big Apple Softball League. It was an exhibition game against an all-women team from a different league.

I was quiet throughout most of the game, concentrating on swinging the bat and learning everyone’s name. I remember making a nice catch in the outfield and then forgetting there was a runner on first with only one out. That’s when I was first introduced to Chris screaming like an idiot for me to throw the ball to the infield. I also hit my first homerun in that game, a deep drive to centerfield that I had no trouble legging out. Our catcher tried to convince me I broke a lamppost out there, which looked like it had been bent in half by a car eons ago.

That game ended after Chris maimed a woman sliding into second base with an errant throw. He had moved to shortstop from centerfield. He fielded a groundball cleanly and then side-armed to our second baseman, who had no chance of catching it. The woman crumpled to the ground as the ball hit her square in the head. She was helped off the field and was pretty out of it for awhile. She ended up being O.K. and Chris sparingly played the infield after that, mainly because we are now required by law to alert the paramedics whenever he’s playing any infield position.

My first season was truly special. We made it to the championship game and played hard despite being overwhelmed by the best team in the league in the end. As much fun as we had on the field, we had even more off of it. We were always joking around, picking on each other and finding new ways to gross everyone out. It was the perfect atmosphere for someone who was trying to find himself again.

When I joined the team, I had made the decision to leave grad school; I was extricating myself from an awful relationship; and I was struggling to make ends meet every month. Everyone on the team made all of it easier to bear without even trying. Starting with my amazing manager Trish, everyone gave me the confidence and assurance that I was a good guy and good things were bound to happen to me if I just kept working hard. We felt like a family despite our differences in ages and backgrounds. We loved to win and perform well individually, but if neither happened, it was nothing a couple of margaritas couldn’t fix at Arriba, Arriba after the game.

I started my third year this past Saturday, with a team MVP award in my pocket no less (sorry to keep piling on Chris).

The night before the game, I lovingly re-oiled my glove and got everything ready for the following afternoon. I had my cleats, sweatbands, black socks and batting gloves all packed into my softball bag. I wore all three of my hats for at least five minutes each in an attempt to decide which one I would wear tomorrow. I ended up throwing all of them into the bag in case I wanted (or needed to in the event of a crappy performance) to switch up my look for the second game of the doubleheader. After filling up my water bottles and putting them in the fridge, I went to sleep with dreams of rounding the bases after collecting a clutch hit to win the game.

I left my apartment the next morning preparing my mind for the game. I had the song Victory 2004 blaring out of my headphones. When I’m trying to get my mind focused, I think about everything and I think about nothing. At times, I visualize the ball getting hit in my direction in left field and what I’m going to do to catch it or stop it from going behind me on a base hit. Other times, all I’m thinking about is the rhythm of the music and the hop in my step as I make my way to the bus.

A lot of things can throw me off my mental preparation ritual, none worse than the breakdown of public transportation. To reach Randall’s Island from Astoria, I have to take the M60 over the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge to 125th St and then take the M35 back over the bridge and onto Randall’s Island. Usually, it doesn’t take me long at all, however since it was my first game back after my vacation, it took over an hour. I waited a half hour for the bus at 125th St; it took me ten minutes to actually get on the bus and it took forever for the bus to get me to the field we were playing on. It was far from an ideal start and led to me practically blowing out my ear drums by cranking the volume on my iPod all the way up because I was so angry.

It was only the second time ever Chris had beaten me to the field. The first was last year before the start of the playoffs. My girlfriend convinced me it would be a good idea to walk over the RFK Bridge to get to the game. That was another hour of my life I’ll never get back. We ended up playing three games that day and getting bounced out of the playoffs. It was the longest day ever with absolutely nothing to show for it except sore legs and a hangover the next day. Chris blames my walk over the bridge entirely.

I was actually pretty nervous coming into today. Last year, I had worked out vigorously several weeks before the season started. I did sprints, lifted weights and made sure I was eating right to get myself in the best shape to help the team win a championship. This year however, owing to a hectic work environment, going back to school (actually doing the homework this time) and outright laziness, I am far from being in great shape. I thought I would be a hot mess out there in the field and at the plate. I wasn’t worried so much about not being good anymore, since I’ve been there before, but I wouldn’t have been able to withstand the ridicule from Chris and everyone else.

As soon as I grabbed my glove, everything felt the same. Chris and I started to throw in the outfield to warm up our arms and it was like the long winter never happened. My mind went right back to focusing on what I needed to do on every play and how I was going to approach every at-bat. Before I knew it, the first inning was in the books and I was waiting for my first chance at the plate.

Our leadoff hitter, Bill, is a hitting machine. Well, he was before me and our shortstop Brad jinxed him. While we were taking practice swings, we mentioned how Bill had probably hit .900 last season. “It’s amazing how he does it holding a beer in one hand,” Brad joked. “I actually think he had four cigarettes in this at-bat so far,” I joked right back. Predictably, Bill ended up flying out to the outfield. Brad and I vowed never to make fun of Bill again, but the damage had already been done. He went hitless for the day.

With two runners on base, I stepped to the plate. I love hitting with runners in scoring position. There is no way I’m not bringing them in. Whether it’s a sacrifice fly, a ground ball to the left side or a screaming line drive, I’m putting the RBI in the bank. I walked confidently up to the batter's box. I made sure my batting gloves were on as tight as possible and then rubbed my hands in the dirt. Then, I rubbed my hands together and gripped the bat. I settled into my stance. I watched the pitcher start into his delivery and tapped my bat twice on my shoulder. I let the first pitch go by. It was called a strike. I took a deep breath and rearranged the dirt I was standing on. The second pitch sailed in and I swung. It was a line drive up the middle; two runs came into score.

It was a good start to my 2009 softball season.

As usual, anytime we play the Ball Breakers, the game ends up being close. We were down by a couple runs going into the last inning. I ended up getting on base and Brad smacked a ball that ended up splitting the outfielders. I’m not the fleetest of foot on the base paths, so when Brad turned the corner at first, he started screaming at the top of his lungs, “You better run Ford!” The ball ended up past a line of rocks that designated the play a ground rule double. We now had the winning runs on base for our catcher that day, Jonathan.

Jonathan laced a ball into the outfield and I started clapping as I ran to touch home plate. I turned around and saw Jonathan taking the biggest turn I’ve ever seen at second base. I looked toward the outfield and saw that the ball had split the outfielders and was rolling into deep right center field. Jonathan chugged home with a game winning three run homerun! The entire team was shouting and swarming around him as he attempted to catch his breath. For reasons passing understanding, Brad grabbed him and threw him into the fence. Jonathan let us know later that because of the lack of oxygen, he didn’t feel us pounding on him.

We now had an hour and a half to kill before our next game, so some of us decided to grab food at a nearby concessions stand. Trish reiterated to everyone that we weren’t going to sit down and relax, because when we do that, we usually play like crap the next game. Everyone got their food quickly…..except for Chris and I.

We had ordered hot dogs, but according to the hostess, our receipt “blew away” and they hadn’t made them yet. Trish glared at the guy who finally threw them on the grill until we were given out food. Meanwhile, everyone got to sit down and enjoy the nice weather and relax, exactly what Trish wanted to avoid.

We did end up losing the second game, but we played hard throughout the whole game and only lost by a couple of runs. I ended up being the last out in fulfillment of the Ford curse. It never fails that in a tight game a Ford will come up with two outs and the game on the line…..and make an out. It happened to Tom; it happened to Pat; and it’s happened to me more times than I can remember. In this at-bat, at least I hit the ball hard and the outfielder had to make a great catch to end the game. It took all Chris had not to burst out into an MVP chant.

Over margaritas and light beer, Trish instituted a ban on the concessions stand in between games. It may not have had anything to do with the loss, but we weren’t taking any more chances.

We have a championship to win.

Old and New

2009-04-26T12:00:00.002-04:00

I don’t remember a whole lot about my first visit to the old Yankee Stadium when I was six or seven. I know it’s supposed to be a seminal event in any Yankee fans life and that every detail should be remembered as an everlasting photograph. However, at that age, I just didn’t understand the importance of the moment.

I’ve been told it was an Old Timer’s Day and I could have potentially seen Mickey Mantle, Joe DiMaggio, Phil Rizzuto and other Yankee legends who were still alive back then. It would have been a nice memory to tell my kids one day, but alas, it isn’t one that survived.

However there are certain memories from that day that do stick out in my mind.

I was a shy kid so I vividly remember being overwhelmed by the sheer mass of the crowd. Walking around the stadium before the game, I don’t think I could have clung tighter to my dad’s hand. I remember looking around, eyes wide open, at all the people surrounding us. I sat between my father and older brother, Tom, and was hypnotized by the cheering crowd. I’ll never forget that out of all those people, Tom was the one a pigeon picked to relieve itself on. Classic.

But, unfortunately, I have no memory of the game itself.

I’m pretty sure the Yanks lost, because I only saw a few wins in the old place. One of the first wins I remember seeing in person was in 1996. It was a school field trip, but I got to take my dad. The Red Sox jumped out to an early lead, but after a rain delay, Bernie Williams tripled to put the Yankees in the lead for good.

The best part about that game was watching the Yankees superb end of the game relief pitchers in person. Mariano Rivera mowed down the Sox in the bottom of the eighth inning. The Yankees’ closer at the time was John Wetteland and he started out the ninth inning with a strikeout that made the whole stadium shake. He ended the game with a strike out after Joe Girardi threw out a runner trying to steal second base. I remember my dad jumping out of his seat like he was a teenager. I’ll never forget giving him a high five and hugging him while all the fans went nuts around us.

The best seats I ever had in the old stadium fell into my lap. I received the tickets as a gift for a July 4th game. I brought my dad and we were pretty happy to find out that the seats were a section removed from the seats closest to the field. We were also under the upper level and out of the harsh July sun. Early in the game, a couple came up to us and asked if we wanted to switch seats with them because they wanted to get their young daughter out of the sun. The father pointed to where his seats were—eight rows up from the visiting team’s on-deck circle. I’ve never seen my father move so fast to claim our new seats. And I immediately went to get us some flat, overpriced celebratory beer. It never tasted so good. It was hot in the sun, but we had come well prepared with ample amounts of sunscreen so we didn’t fry like bacon. I don’t think we left those seats once, not even to use the bathroom. When the game ended, with a Yankees win in fact, neither of us was eager to go home.

I watched every last second of the last game at the old Yankee Stadium on television. My girlfriend, who had gone to bed well before it ended, asked me in the morning how the game had gone and I told her I cried at the end of it. She couldn’t understand why. She said the new stadium was going to be hundreds of times nicer and soon everyone would forget about the old one. My father actually said the same thing when I called him later in the day even though he was only saying it to comfort himself. But it wasn’t the Stadium I was crying for; it was all of those memories I still have. I know I’ll make memories in the new stadium, but there will always be a piece of me that will always remain with the old one.

What was really weird about my first visit to the new incarnation of Yankee Stadium was seeing the old stadium still standing across the street.

It was like having your ex-girlfriend sitting a couple seats over from you and you’re still desperately in love with her. Coming out of the subway, my muscle memory almost dragged me to the opposite side of the street. However, I overcame that when I realized that my current girlfriend was even better than the old one.

My actual girlfriend is the reason I got to go in the first place. I concluded when the new stadium was built that there would be no way I could afford tickets. She received an e-mail last week with a promotion for $5 tickets and made me call immediately. The next thing I knew, I had two seats in the upper deck for only $20. You have to love the $10 service charge.

I was in love at first sight.

I couldn’t stop looking at the beautiful new design once I got off the subway. The outside is very reminiscent of the old Yankee Stadium prior to the 1974-1975 renovation. It had a really old school feel to it, but also looked fresh and modern. I had a huge grin on my face and was bouncing around excitedly like it was my birthday and I was ten years old. I couldn’t wait to get inside.

I’ll never forget walking into the Great Hall for the first time. It defies description. It’s everything that makes the Yankees the Yankees. It’s over-the-top, lavish, in-your-face and historic. It’s wide open and feels like you’re walking into the lobby of a five-star hotel. There are banners representing Yankee greats, as well a humongous picture of the celebration of the 1996 World Series victory. I started seriously following Major League Baseball that particular year and to see the image of Wetteland jumping into Girardi’s arms blown up larger than life instantly gave me chills.

As much as I wanted to see where my seats were, I wanted to see the field. My favorite part about going to a game as a kid was emerging out of the dark passageways into the brilliant sunshine and having the field seemingly leap into my consciousness. It appears as if the green grass never ended and it was always perfectly cut. The grounds crew would be raking the dirt to get it as smooth as possible. The players would be stretching or running in the outfield or having a catch on the grass in front of the dugout. All of these images attacked my senses at once and filled me with euphoria. I was happy to find out that seeing the field for the first time at the new stadium was just as awe inspiring as before.

The whole experience made me feel like I had been there before. I sensed all of the old stadium’s charm. My dad, who had gone to a game there the previous Sunday, commented that it felt like you were home. And he was right. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this place had been here forever, instead of being just a month old.

I am absolutely in love with the façade that surrounds the roof. It’s a great touch and really adds a feeling of nostalgia to the whole place. I remember growing up watching old highlights of games before the original stadium was renovated. I always appreciated the way the stadium used to look. To me, the post-renovated stadium lost a little of that old-time charm by having only part of the façade over the centerfield scoreboards. The Yankees made the right decision to replicate the old façade in the new design.

Much like the old stadium, the new one included a walk of shame up the ramp to the grandstands. You keep walking and walking and feel like the game will be over by the time you reach your seats. However, what’s different about these ramps is that you have enough room so that you don’t feel like cattle being led to the slaughter house.

Space is one of the biggest differences in the new Yankee Stadium. If the game is going bad and you want to leave your seat and go off by yourself, you feel like you can do that. Even though it was a smaller crowd because of the weather and I was in the upper deck, it felt like you had all the room in the world to walk around. I’ll need to go to another game to see how it is with more people there, but I got the impression that it was a lot easier to move around.

Our seats were great. We were in the upper deck on the third base side in left field. Much like the old Yankee Stadium, I really don’t think there is a bad seat in the house. From where I was seated, it looked like every seat had a good view of the field, even if you were farther away.

Andy Pettitte pitched that day and at first, I wasn’t that excited about it. I love him to death, but I’ve seen him a bunch of times in the last couple years. There was a rainout on Monday, so all the pitchers back a day. I knew I shouldn’t have been disappointed. Andy pitched great for seven innings.

It was a really good game. The Yankees jumped out to a four run lead early and held on to beat the A’s 5-3. Brett Gardner made a terrific diving catch in centerfield, which my girlfriend remarked was worth the cost of our tickets. Mark Teixeira also made a heads-up play to throw a runner out at home plate and Johnny Damon sealed the lead with a homerun to left field. Since the Yankees led by less than three runs, I was able to see Mariano Rivera pitch. Seeing him trot in from the bullpen with Metallica’s Enter Sandman blaring and the stadium going crazy is one of the best moments in sports. He gave up a single to make it interesting, but retired the last batter on a weak pop up.

Other than the game and seeing all the new stadium had to offer, there are a ton of other memories from that day that I’ll cherish for the rest of my life. It was fun teaching my girlfriend who the new players were so she could keep everyone’s name straight. Also, thanks to her, I now have a complex about why I don’t cheer along with the music. We got to know a drunk girl who was so wasted my girlfriend had to point out that the Yankees were in the white uniforms and the A’s were in the green uniforms. We got an added bonus when we were able to collect some souvenir cups that people left behind.

As we were walking out, the old stadium seemed like it was sulking in the shadows cast by the bright lights of the new stadium. I almost felt guilty for enjoying the Yankees’ new home as much as I did. That feeling didn’t last long when I took a last look up at the new exterior all lit up against the black night. I felt like I was looking up at a monument. In a way, I was. It was a monument to all the memories that came before and all the memories that were ahead. It is a symbol of all the hope and promise that comes with being a Yankee fan. I look forward to experiencing it someday sitting with my father and brothers.

I want to give my dad the last word in regards to the new stadium because he really put it best. He said:

“They just did everything right and I knew they would. I don’t know how they do it all the time, but they do it.”

Baseball Sunday Guest:Airman and Brother First Class

2009-04-19T12:00:00.016-04:00

It’s hard to put into words what this week’s Baseball Sunday Guest has meant to me. He’s a brother, a best friend and one of the best men I’ve ever known. I used to tell people that watching him play baseball was one of the greatest privileges of my life and I still believe it. It’s been a real pleasure to see him grow up into a very responsible, level-headed and passionate adult. He’ll be leaving for the Air Force Reserves in mid-June to fulfill his desire to serve his country. But for today, he’ll be answering my questions. Please enjoy Airman First Class Patrick Ford.

DAN: First and foremost, your girlfriend is a Red Sox fan. How do you deal with that and does she realize she’ll need to convert if she plans on joining the family?

PATRICK: The only games we watch together are Yankee games. It’s to the point where she’s humming along to the music of the YES Network . I think in a year or two, she won’t even know where the Red Sox are from. Honestly though, I don’t mind what team she likes as long as she knows if we ever have kids they will never wear anything with a “B” on it.

DAN: We shared a bedroom for the better part of our childhood. What do you think was the best part and worst part? Do you think it's the reason we’re so close?

PATRICK: The best part was having my best friend around all the time and we could share the toys and games we had. The worst part was having my best friend around all the time when we were fighting. Nothing was worse than being at each other’s throat and having to say goodnight right next to each other. Being in the same room for so long is no doubt why we’re so close. Regardless of whether we got along or fought, we were still there for one another. That’s the most important thing I take out of that experience.

DAN: I’ve mentioned a few times how much the game has meant to our family. What is one of your earliest baseball memories and why do you think the game has been so special to us?

PATRICK: My earliest baseball memories are of all the Ford boys throwing the baseball in the backyard. That’s where the love of the game started. Baseball has always been the one thing that we all enjoy together. And when there’s a shortage of things to talk about, as often happens with Tommy, baseball is always the go-to subject.

DAN: Our older brother Tom taught you how to bat left-handed, pretty much as soon as you learned how to walk. What do you think that meant to your career?

PATRICK: Batting left-handed was one of the best things I learned how to do simply because of the advantage I had against right-handed pitching. As I moved up in the higher levels of baseball batting lefty should have helped me to produce big numbers. But like anything else if you don’t work hard to get stronger against the competition, you won’t get much out of it. I didn’t put enough time into getting stronger and working on my game in the off-season. I had two times of year—baseball season and everything else. If I had put in the time year-round I would've produced a lot more as a left-handed hitter than I did.

DAN: Who were some of the players you looked up to as a kid? Was there any player in the Major Leagues or otherwise that you tried to model your career after?

PATRICK: The only player I looked up to was the player that taught me how to play—that, of course, was Tommy. My swing is because of him. My pitching motion is almost an exact replica of his motion. And my knowledge of the game comes from insights he gave me as I grew up through the different leagues. As for a major league player, the first year I started really paying attention to Major League Baseball was 1996—Derek Jeter’s rookie season. Naturally I was drawn to Jeter because I watched his career take off.

DAN: You had quite the career in Little League. You played in the highest league as a 9-year-old; you were an All-Star in every age group; and was the go-to guy for the Phillies for four years. What stands out about those years in your mind?

PATRICK: I remember being able to play baseball with one of my best friend’s Al. It was a blast to hang out with him before, during and after the games. I remember certain games that went really well, but I mostly remember the friends I made. Not to mention, you were there helping the team for a few years and it was nice to be able to share the Little League experience with you too.

DAN: During your last year in high school, you played quite a bit as an outfielder after spending most of your career as a pitcher and infielder. How difficult was it adjusting to the position and what was your biggest boneheaded play?

PATRICK: I hated the outfield. At the time I had no problem helping the team in any way I could, but looking back on it, I was not suited to be in the outfield. The worst play I made came against Bristol Central, our city rival. First of all, I was the starting pitcher and only lasted a third of an inning, and was taken out after five runs and three dozen hits. Second, I struck out my first time at-bat with two men on. Needless to say, I wasn’t having a good day.

At one point in the game my coach put me in left field. Our pitcher got into a bases-loaded jam with two outs and one of my friends that I knew from summer league came up to bat. I still remember the sound of the ball hitting the bat (sigh). My first reaction was, shall I say, wrong. I took three or four steps in when the ball was nowhere close to reaching its highest point. I nearly cried when I saw the ball travel a good 20 to 30 feet behind me.

It turns out we lost by a lot more than the three runs that came in, but I still felt like digging a hole in the grass of Muzzy Field, curling into a ball and lying there until the game was over.

DAN: What did it mean to you to be a co-captain your senior year?

PATRICK: To tell you the truth it was unexpected. I was on the varsity squad for three years (playing off and on my sophomore year) but compared to my three other co-captains, I didn’t seem worthy of the honor. I always worked hard to practice and play baseball the way it should be played but it never crossed my mind that I would be one of the captains. I had so many great teammates that could have filled that role. It was a true honor to be a captain for Bristol Eastern High School because of the team’s tradition of winning. I thank Coach G (Mike Giovinazzo) for giving me the opportunity to be a recognized leader of that team.

DAN: After reading my last blog post, you thanked me for not mentioning how bad you reeked after every game. Explain how people, mainly our mom, would react to you after a game.

PATRICK:…no comment.

DAN: You had a similar hat demolition process as my friend Chris. Which hat was your favorite and is it still around?

PATRICK: My favorite hat was from my freshman year in high school. I played two separate seasons with that hat. It’s definitely still around although I can’t wear it. The smell and the dirt will never come out of it. I’m very proud of that.

DAN: You decided to hang up your cleats for good after your high school season ended. Do you regret not playing American Legion ball that summer or are you satisfied with your decision?

PATRICK: I don’t regret not playing Legion ball that summer. I was devastated about losing in the first round of the state tournament with the team we had. Legion started practicing the day after that game. I couldn’t think of starting over after looking forward to going far in the state tournament. Not to mention, I was going to school at UConn and knew I wouldn't play in college. I would have made the same decision today that I did back then.

DAN: What do you miss the most about playing baseball? What game stands out most in your mind from high school and Legion?

PATRICK: Honestly, I miss everything about playing baseball. I miss getting ready for the game, having batting practice, taking ground balls… everything.

The game that stands out most is the complete game I pitched in Legion during the 2005 State Tournament. Owing to the 8 innings I pitched, I earned a spot on the All Tournament Team. When I was on the mound that day, I felt like I was pitching like Tommy—according to all the stories Dad told us about his games. That’s a game I’ll never forget.

DAN: You just received a volunteer award for your work at the Boys & Girls Club. Talk to me about what the award meant to you and how your passion for non-profit work developed. Why do you think organizations like the Boys & Girls Club are so important?

PATRICK: The award is important to me because it reminds me of the kids I worked with. I’ve enjoyed every second working with the kids of the Boys & Girls Club. I really got interested in non-profit work because of my desire to serve the community and have a positive impact on people’s lives. The club has provided me with the perfect outlet for that. Organizations like the Boys & Girls Club provides kids throughout the country with opportunities to succeed and thrive in the community. The club keeps kids off the streets, sets goals for them and helps them to succeed academically. It’s meant to be the kids’ “third place.” All clubs want kids to feel like home, school and the club are the best places they can be on any given day.

DAN: You’ve said you’ve had the desire to serve your country for awhile now. Talk to me about where this desire came from and why you decided to enlist with the Air Force Reserves?

PATRICK: Desire can’t be put into you and can’t be taken out. That’s the only way I can explain it. I always knew that I was destined to serve. It’s as simple as that.

I decided on the Air Force Reserves because I met Allyson. Originally, I was planning after college to join the Air Force and that would be that. As soon as I met Allyson, I fell in love with her. I knew that I couldn’t be away from her for the amount of time the Air Force would have required me to be. I looked into the reserves and decided it was the best way to begin my life with another person, serve my country and continue working for the Boys & Girls Club.

DAN: You leave for basic training in June. What are some of the things you’re looking forward to and what are some of the things you are going to miss?

PATRICK: I look forward to wearing the uniform and learning about the Air Force Tradition. The list of things I’m going to miss is countless. First and foremost, I’ll miss our family and Allyson. Besides the obvious, I’ll miss the ability to drive myself anywhere I please. There’s a certain amount of freedom that gets taken away in training. But I think it will certainly be a valuable experience and one that I’ll be proud to share with my children someday.

DAN: What will your responsibilities be once you finish basic and tech training?

PATRICK: I will be an Airman First Class serving at Westover Air Force Base in Massachusetts as an Aerospace Maintenance Crew Chief of the C-5 Galaxy. I’ll be working on one of the largest planes in the Air Force.

DAN: Now that we’re uncles and have a new generation to watch grow up, what has been the best part of interacting with all these newbies?

PATRICK: Hearing the kids try to pronounce "snunk" (our family's French-Canadian term for uncle) Patrick for the first time.

DAN: For awhile there you were the baby of the family. Are you still bitter about being replaced?

PATRICK:…no.

DAN: How excited are you to watch our nephew, Jack, play baseball?

PATRICK: I’m very excited. I only hope he’ll be 10 times better than Tommy just so we can stick it in Tommy’s face.

DAN: What does the future look like in your mind? What are your ultimate goals?

PATRICK: My future consists of continuing to watch my niece and nephew grow up, marry Allyson and start a family and let life run its course. My goal is to one day be able to look my children in the eye and say that I’m proud of the life I’ve had and I’m proud of every decision I’ve made.

End Game and Baseball Brothers

2009-04-19T00:00:00.003-04:00

It’s Game Four of the World Series.

The Yankees are up three games to zero in a best of seven against the Atlanta Braves.

It’s late in the game and the Yankees are down by a run.

After a base hit, the Yankees’ big slugger comes up with a chance to do some real damage. He’s one homerun away from setting an all-time record and putting his team up in the final inning. He calmly touches the plate with the end of his bat and eases into his stance. He’s ready for anything.

The Braves’ pitcher takes his time on the pitching rubber. He’s not sure what to throw. He finally makes up his mind and starts his delivery. His mechanics are perfect. He plants his foot and releases the ball exactly where he wants to.

The white ball slices through the crisp fall air. Everything is silent as it makes its way toward home plate.

The batter takes a step and starts a mighty swing. His wrists move his bat quickly toward the strike zone. His head is down and he rotates his hips to generate maximum power.

The silence of the moment is broken when the ball connects with the bat. It starts again as the two competitors watch the flight of the ball.

“It’s gone!”

A record breaks and a World Series victory is within reach as the ball hits the top of the outfield fence and goes over. The batter raises his arms as he starts to round the bases. It’s a triumphant moment. He leaps up and lets out a yell.

The pitcher does not take any of this well. It appears like he’s lost the game and feels the weight of the world on his shoulders. He can’t help but cry.

Then, he gets angry as he watches the batter celebrating around the base paths. He grips the only weapon he has, his glove. He rears back his arm and lets it fly.

It finds its target, who is stunned as he reaches home plate. Yelling fills the air as the pitcher starts barreling toward the man who’s just humiliated him. The batter puts his hands up defensively. The pitcher swings his fists wildly, but the batter keeps pushing him away before he can make contact.

“Boys!” a scream fills the air. “Get inside right now! You can’t play nice, your season is over!”

The younger brother quickly lands one more punch before running into his house crying even harder. The older brother picks up the yellow Wiffle bat that he just hit his 200th homerun of the season with, gives one more look around the backyard and also heads inside.

World Series over. Season over.

Years later, the older brother is trying to survive the Florida heat while his college team fights off elimination. He cringes as a third strike sails by their last hope. He watches as his hated rival celebrates on the field.

He eases off the bench and starts going through the motions of getting all of the equipment together. He recognizes the faces on the seniors. It’s the recognition of a last moment. There is no tomorrow and there is no next year.

He stops what he’s doing.

He’s a senior. He’s done now too.

The dugout empties out quickly, like it does after every loss, save for the handful of guys looking at each other not knowing what to say. It’s harder for the men around him; they actually have a uniform and a line in a stat book to walk away from. He just has to hand in a laundry room key.

In the locker room, the coach tells him what their plans are for “getting out of Dodge”. The older brother is half listening, wondering what it’s going to feel like in a day or two waking up and not having to pick up after 25 players and four coaches. The game has been apart of him so long, he wonders what it will be like not to be around it every minute of every day.

He takes a deep breath as he remembers something. His younger brother’s high school season isn’t over yet. His team opens the state tournament two days from now.

There are still games left.

The younger brother gets a hit in his last at-bat.

The game is too far out of reach to matter, but it’s a line shot between the first and second baseman. He rounds first base like he’s been taught all his life. He watches the left fielder come up with the base hit cleanly and throw it in to the shortstop covering second base. He retreats back to first base and waits there until the pitcher is back on the rubber.

He’s erased off the base paths moments later after his teammate hits a groundball to the shortstop. He wipes the dirt off his pants and sprints back to the dugout.

His team can’t rally and the crowd is left stunned by the upset. The older brother watches from the stands as the seniors take a last look around. Some are going off to play college ball and still have games to savor. Others though, like his younger brother, are leaving the game behind for good.

The crowd starts to shuffle out. Some of the players come out of the locker room of the old time ballpark quickly, wanting to get away from the pain of losing right away. The older brother knows that his younger brother won’t be among them. He’s always the last one out and tonight will be no exception.

True to form, the younger brother walks out with the coaches. His faded, sweat-lined blue hat is pushed up on his forehead. Their mother rushes to hug him, despite the fact he’s all dusty.

The older brother waits patiently.

Finally, the two brothers shake hands.

They meet blue eye to blue eye.

Two careers began in a backyard not too far away from where they were standing. One brother was able to wear a uniform and captain a team to a state tournament. The other hung on for dear life as the game brought him around the country as a watcher, writer and go-to-guy.

There’s no throwing a glove this time or staging a tantrum. There are only smiles and pats on the back.

The two walk out of the stadium together, arms around each other.

Neither has to look back.

Player Spotlight

Brothers have long been an intricate part of baseball history. Joe, Vince & Dom DiMaggio ; Cal & Billy Ripkin ; Aaron & Bret Boone ; Felipe, Matty & Jesus Alou and of course, the tres Molina brothers are some of the more well known bands of brothers littered throughout baseball’s past and present. However, I wanted to think outside the box for this week’s player profile. I was not disappointed.

I’m a big fan of any player with my first name (even more so of Dan Ford , who will get the spotlight to himself one of these weeks), so I was pleased to discover Hall of Famer Dan Brouthers . Brouthers played in 19 major league seasons from 1879-1896 (He also played 5 games in 1904, but did not accumulate any stats). In 1883, he achieved his career high in batting average, .374, and drove in 97 runs. He also had a whopping 159 hits in only 98 games, including 17 triples. Brouthers also had a career year in 1892 when he racked up 197 hits and had 124 RBI. He finished his career with a .342 lifetime average, a .423 on-base percentage and 2,296 hits. He died in 1932.

In honor of today’s guest and, well, me, I also discovered the brother duo of Gene and Russ Ford. I sympathize with Gene because he was the older brother, but had to watch his younger brother enjoy the better career. Then again, Gene can also say he played in the major leagues and I can’t (well, he could if he wasn’t dead). Gene pitched in seven games for the Detroit Tigers in 1905 and came away with a 0-1 record with a 5.66 ERA. Russ, on the other hand, pitched seven seasons for mostly the New York Yankees from 1909-1915. He went 22-11 in 1911 with a 2.27 ERA and 158 strikeouts. He finished 18th in the MVP balloting that year according to baseball-reference.com. He ended up just one win shy of 100 career wins with an ERA of 2.59.