16 Perfect Views for Sunday Afternoon

I don’t remember why I wrote the piece you’re about to read. I guess that’s appropriate considering the content. I wasn’t dating anyone at the time. 

I hadn’t been dumped recently. I was just a young writer experimenting with his craft. This was the result.

In the spirit of this selection's title, also enjoy 15 perfect views during my travels in the United States and Canada. Feel free to share your perfect views in the comments section or tweet @danielfford.  

A Perfect View of You

Did I leave you crying?

I can’t remember that far back, even though, if you think about it, it’s only been a short while. For me, it’s all just one blur. I don’t know if you care or not, but I’m okay now. I promise everything go back to the way things were.

I broke a lot of those, didn’t I? As many as I think?

None of you deserved to go through all that, especially you. You’re one of the ones I loved the most and I can barely remember what you sound like. I do remember our last drive together just a couple of days before I left. I was flipping through the radio stations like always. You reached out to hold my hand. I turned to look at you. You looked, well I think you looked, happy. The rest is blurry.

Why does it get foggier the harder I try to remember? For your sake, I promise to have clear thoughts from now until forever.

I remember your mother telling me to always do what was right. Why did I forget that? Do you know what the right thing is? Your mother was a great lady, but I guess you already know that. Was she crying too when I…?

Sorry, another blur; another promise broken.

I do think about you despite the haze. You tend to be one of the only clear memories. You knew I was wrong. Why didn’t I listen to you? I tried to keep me in line, but I was too much like you.

Stubborn.

I hope you didn’t feel any pain. Call me a hypocrite, but I wouldn’t want you to feel pain. I love you. I love you at least 10 times less than you loved me, but I do. You don’t even have to say anything anymore. I know what you’re thinking.

Do you know what I miss the most?

I’m not sure how I can miss something when I can’t remember anything. I miss the way I could hear your heartbeat when you were cuddled up next to me. It always sounded jazzy. Maybe I won’t miss it tomorrow, maybe it’ll be something else all together, but it’s what I miss today.

I have to tell you something before I go.

I promise this is the last time. It’s something I didn’t tell you enough.

Or did I?

Knowing who I was, I’m sure I didn’t.

You’re beautiful.

You really are.

15 Perfect Views I Love to Share

1. A perfect view of the lake at my Aunt Kathy’s house.

2. A perfect view of Yosemite Valley and Half Dome.

3. A perfect view of New York City from Liberty Island…half-obscured by the big heads of two Brothers Ford.

4. A perfect view of the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge from my old apartment in Astoria, N.Y.

5. A perfect view of Central Park on a sunny day.

6. A perfect view from a hike at Macedonia State Park in Kent, Conn.

7. A perfect view of the morning sky from the Simsbury Air Show in 2011.

8. A perfect view of an apple orchard in upstate New York.

9. A perfect view from my favorite writing spot in Astoria Park.

10. A perfect view of the CN Tower in Toronto during a run.

11. A perfect view of North Reading’s town center.

12. A perfect view of New York City from a balcony on the East Side.

13. A perfect view of a sunset on a beach in New Hampshire.

14. A perfect view of Boston from the top of the Bunker Hill monument.

15. A perfect view of a sunset from my new office in the Prudential Building.

A Connecticut Yankee in David Ortiz’s Court

I found my first Boston apartment the day the Red Sox won the 2013 World Series.*

The previous days had been a clinic in urban logistics. A combination of cars, buses, trains, subways, new Boston connections, and future in-laws led me to finding the perfect apartment to start my life as a Massachusetts resident.

I never anticipated an apartment hunt would include this.

I ended up having dinner with the future Mrs. Hardball Heart’s mother and grandparents after her father ending up scoring tickets to the game. Truth be told, I helped hire my girlfriend two years ago at my previous job, so neither one of us would have envisioned me having a beer with her Nana Shirley on my own.

I didn’t see the Red Sox clinch their first World Series at home in more than 90 years. I fell asleep on the couch opposite my girlfriend’s mother during the game. I woke up sometime in the seventh inning, and decided my darkened guest room at the far end of the house would be a much more suitable place for a Yankees fan to endure the inevitable. My girlfriend, bless her heart, didn’t wake me up after celebrating as close to the field without being on it until the early morning hours.

Boston’s victory wasn’t nearly as painful as their championships in 2004 and 2007. The next morning, I traded texts back and forth with my mother on how our despair was eased with the knowledge that my late Uncle Pit was in his glory somewhere. Uncle Pit also left behind his brother Bee, a man who gladly took over his duty of calling my mother after every Red Sox win. I heard a lot of teasing in French during the four months I lived at home, and heard more than a few curses with every wager my mother lost. As expected, Bee didn’t waste any time in needling her. However, because of the love we have for those two men, my mother and I were celebrating on the inside more than we’ll ever admit.


My girlfriend and I at Fenway Park for the team's Mariano Rivera tribute.

My father, who had resigned himself to the fact it was the Red Sox were a team of destiny far earlier than the rest of us, said that the team had “stepped in shit” all season.

“They don’t go on long losing streaks, they figure out ways to win close games, and they don’t make any mistakes,” He said on more than on occasion. “Basically, the opposite of what the Yankees do.”

Despite the agony of watching the Red Sox celebration, my family admires and upholds the values the team triumphed with: hard work, perseverance, and an unshakable faith in the people around them. I despaired for humanity when David Ortiz finished third in Boston’s recent mayoral race, but couldn’t suppress a grin seeing Ortiz and his teammates ride duck boats around the city during the World Series parade. I do love me some duck boats.


Of all the places I thought I'd say goodbye to Mo in person...

Now that I call Boston home, I’ll have to live with the public exuberance that comes with winning a major sports championship. The hot stove may come with plenty of issues for the Red Sox brass, but nothing eases tense player negotiations like winning. I won’t even be able to take solace in the coming of spring because of the inevitable raising of championship banners and distribution of World Series rings. I also now work on the side of the Prudential Building that overlooks Fenway Park. It ruins a perfectly good view of the sunset that is getting earlier each day. I can’t help but think of my Uncle Pit chuckling every time I’m confronted with the green walls that I’ve despised for all my years.

What I can rejoice in is that I chose to live in a city where I walked the Freedom Trail with my father in the sixth grade, enjoyed beers and Bob Dylan with the Brothers Ford, and spent the summer falling in love with.

I hope to enjoy Boston Commons again when the weather warms up in August.

My father is concerned I’ll turn colors, in large part to maintain my personal safety. Despite the fact my beautiful girlfriend can be pretty persuasive, that will never happen. The Yankees have meant too much to me and my family that to abandon them after one bad year would mean I’d be turning my back on everything I’ve built and believe in. My twenties were a war; it’s time for peace.

I started watching Cheers roughly a year before I ended up moving to Boston. I finished the series not long after this picture was taken. Best tourist trap ever. 

I moved to New York City a year after September 11th. I had the honor and privilege of witnessing, and contributing to, a city rebuilding itself without losing any of the qualities that made it special and strong. Bill Maher got into trouble recently for saying “your city wasn’t leveled by Godzilla” in response to Red Sox players placing their World Series trophy at the starting line of the Boston Marathon as a tribute to the bombing victims. Setting aside for a moment that Anthony Weiner appeared more human than Mr. Maher, I couldn’t have been more disappointed by comments from a New Yorker. As I found myself once again a transplant in a city shrugging off the aftermath of violent extremism, I could think of only one thing when I saw that Red Sox jersey draped over a World Series trophy on a hallowed stretch of asphalt:

This is my city. I love it here.

* Watching the Red Sox win up close was such a traumatic experience that I’m just now able to write about it.

Wednesday Morning Breakfast: Black Coffee and Glazed Doughnuts

I hear crying from the driver’s seat as I get into the car. 

Before I can ask what’s wrong, my Aunt Catherine stops her fake wailing and smiles. “I’m going to miss you so much,” she says hugging me. “It’s been so good having you home.”

She’s giving me yet another ride to the Hartford bus station. I’m making my way to Boston again, but this time it isn’t for a weekend visit with my girlfriend Stephanie. This time, I’m headed to my adopted city to find an apartment so I can start my new job the following Monday. Sooner rather than later, I’ll be making a one-way trip, once again leaving my home state.

She does what she always does on these car rides. She argues about politics, talks about how much she misses my cousin Caryn and her family in Florida, and questions when I’m going to be putting a ring on Stephanie’s finger. By the time we get to Union Station, I don’t want our time to end.

“Get me updated on everything,” she says while giving me another long hug. “Text me details. I love you!”

I lean back in my seat on the bus. It’s been a stressful, cathartic, inspiring, and, ultimately, triumphant four months. Every good moment that’s occurred up to this point is made that much sweeter because of the good people I had supporting me since early August. I smile as the bus departs and I think back to how this story began. It started by me walking into Riverside Diner in Bristol, Conn., to meet my Aunt Catherine for our first Wednesday morning breakfast.

The Wednesday Morning Breakfast crew: Ken Ford, Tante Peewee, Aunt Catherine, and me

Okay, that’s the romantic version of how all this process began.

In reality, it started with me getting laid off from my job in New York City. The news came as Stephanie and I were deciding how we would make our relationship work when she moved back to Boston and I was still in Queens. Would I eventually move to Boston? Would we alternate weekends in Boston and New York? Would we meet in the middle? Did we really want to endure a long distance relationship?

All those questions became mute when I found out I wasn’t going to be the web editor for JCKonline for much longer. The final verdict: I would move home to Connecticut and work remotely for JCK while they transitioned to a new digital team. I’d hunt for jobs and apartments in the meantime.

“Did you ever think when you hired me that you’d be driving your stuff out of New York with me in a UHaul?” Stephanie asked as I navigated through Saturday morning traffic in the Bronx.

“No, I can’t say that I wrote the script up that way,” I replied.

Stephanie went home that Sunday and I found myself alone in my boyhood room that night after both of my roommates (ahem, parents) went to bed. A thought occurred to me and I rifled through my contact list on my phone. I sent a quick text to my Aunt Catherine.

You want to do breakfast one day this week? 

She said yes, and we made plans to meet at a diner not far from my house on Wednesday. It was the best idea I had all summer.

It was just she and I that morning and we acted like we had been meeting for breakfast like this forever. I updated her on everything that had happened to me in New York City the last couple of years and the plans I was making to get to Boston. She filled me in on her new Bible study class, how her house was quieter since Caryn and her four kids left for Florida, and how her health had improved recently.

“We’re lucky that something so good came out of what was an awful situation,” She told me that morning. She was referring to her sister—my older brother Tom’s mother—who died of cancer at a young age. My father then met and married my mother and the rest, as they say, is history. She gives me credit for bringing the two families together, but really, it’s because both sides had hearts so big it would have happened with or without me. My brother Patrick and I were just lucky to be the end results of all that love.

She also told me for the 50th time that she wanted me to write her eulogy (which never fails to make my older brother start complaining). I finished what felt like my fifth cup of coffee. As the hot black liquid made it’s way down my throat, I realized our breakfast tradition was older than that morning.

Growing up, Friday nights were more often than not spent at my Aunt Catherine and Uncle Dennis’ house. Our cousin Judy used to babysit for Patrick and I every afternoon after school, so we became really close. We never wanted to leave that house when one of my parents came to pick us up.

The best part of the sleepover was spending the morning with my Aunt Catherine. My cousins always slept late, but Patrick and I would be awake as soon as we heard her walk in the front door. We knew she’d be carrying delicious glazed doughnuts from the local bakery. The two of us would pig out while she enjoyed a doughnut of her own with her steaming black coffee. After that, she’d put the leash on their dog Fred and head out to the front porch for a cigarette. Patrick and I would sit right next to her on the bench, or on the front porch steps and watch the neighborhood. Occasionally, there would be a thunderstorm or snowstorm to enjoy. After that, Judy would be awake, and we jumped right into whatever adventures the three of us thought up. I remember thinking then that black coffee and glazed donuts with my Aunt Catherine were a great way to kick start a Saturday.

"Live for today," Aunt Cathy said, snapping me out of my memory. "Family is everything."

That’s when I asked her if she wanted to make this a weekly tradition.

The cast of characters that joined us changed throughout the summer and fall. My father usually had Wednesdays off, so he quickly became a permanent Wednesday Morning Breakfaster. My Tante Peewee made more than one appearance, and we moved our date to Sunday once so my mother and Stephanie could join us. My Uncle Dennis made a guest appearance at what turned out to be our last breakfast. I found out I landed a job in Boston a few hours after we forked the last helping of eggs into our mouths.

My Aunt Catherine was one of my first texts and while she was happy for me, she clearly had mixed feelings about it. Emotions that she had no trouble expressing as I hopped into her car this past Tuesday.

Add Aunt Cathy and me
Christmas Eve 2010

I’m nearing Boston. I can see the city skyline in the distance. It’s not long before the bus is driving by Fenway Park, which is preparing for Game 6 of the World Series.

As I make my way out of the station and to the first apartment appointment, I can’t help but chuckle over something my Aunt Catherine said before my job interview several weeks ago.

“If you need a reference, you can send them to your 63-year-old aunt and she’ll set them straight.” 

The spirit of her message and love gets me over the finish line. I’m writing this in a Starbucks and I’m raising a hot, black coffee in her honor.

I can’t wait for our next breakfast so I can tell her all about it.

High School Graduation Speech: 10 Years Later

2012 not only marks the tenth year I’ve been in New York City, but also the tenth anniversary of my high school graduation.

The combined milestones have compelled me to rummage through old photographs, musings, letters, speeches, and keepsakes from the last decade. Much like my recent “A Look Back” series, it gave me a chance to see my evolution as a human being and appreciate both the good and bad moments from the last 10 years.

A student at Bristol Eastern High School had to audition if they wanted to speak at graduation. I stayed after school on the day of auditions and was so interested in everyone else’s speeches and stories that I ended up being the last student to go before the selection committee. I’ve always been at ease speaking in front of people, so I said my speech as effortlessly as if I was having a casual conversation with friends.

Toward the end of the week, my AP English class held a celebration of family that allowed our parents to come in and hear the essays we had written about them. It just so happened that it was the same day that the graduation speakers were announced. I remember walking by the door with the piece of paper tacked to it that had my name on it with both of my parents by my side. I was thrilled, but what made me more proud was that I got to share that moment with them.

I must have read my speech at least 50 times the day of my graduation. I don’t remember feeling nervous though. Once my classmates and I marched into the auditorium and took our seats, I felt a strange sense of calm come over me. Laura Lindstrom—who was actually a neighbor of mine who also ended up in New York City—could have given a beautiful speech before me, but I was too busy mentally preparing for mine, that I don’t remember a word of it.

When I got to the podium, I recalled what a friend of mine had said a couple days before. “Don’t be nervous, all graduation speeches are boring. No one pays attention to them but your family.” Needless to say, my goal was to make people pay attention.

I hate when speakers thank everyone in the room for being there. I much prefer they just get right down to business. We get it, you’re honored, but we’d rather you show us that by blowing our socks off rather than boring us from the start. In that spirit, all I said was “good evening,” and started talking.

As you will not at all be surprised to hear, my speech was constructed around baseball. One of the things that I’ll never forget is watching the men in the audience sit up in their seats during my opening lines. There were more than 2,000 people in the room that night, and I knew from my first sentence I had them. It was the most fun and exhilarating experience I had in front of a large audience up until I spoke at my younger brother’s wedding last year.

However, there was one thing I’ll never forgive myself for doing. I flubbed the last line. The words tripped coming out of my mouth and I mangled the closing. My family couldn’t tell in person, but it’s clear as day on the video. I knew it after it happened too, which took some of the glow off the standing ovation I got (#firstworldproblems).

Oh, you probably want to read the actual speech huh? Here it is along with some pictures from my high school days. I’ll have more retrospectives on my last 10 years in New York City in the coming weeks.

Take a Breath

Baseball fans remember two things about a great baseball game; the beginning and the end. If you ask a fan who the starting pitcher was, or who ended the game with a grand slam, you’ll probably get an answer. Few fans remember the third baseman that came in in the seventh inning for defense, or the relief pitcher that laboriously tries to clean up the starter’s mess.

Beginnings and endings have a special place in our culture. They carry great significance in our mind’s eye and that is why we are here tonight. The Class of 2002 is here to end something. We are here to begin again.

I went to my best friend Jocelyn's senior prom as a sophomore. She remains an important part of my life is expecting her first child with her husband! 

In Field of Dreams, Kevin Costner’s character says, “There comes a time when all the cosmic tumblers have clicked into place and the universe opens itself up for a few seconds to show you what’s possible.” The Class of 2002 has arrived at that moment.

Tonight marks the turning of the page, the end of an era. In this end, we find new beginnings. Some of us are off to the workplace, where we’ll strive hard to supply our families with a safe and happy life. Some of us are off to college, continuing to challenge ourselves and to discover the pleasures of education.

The AP English class that made me the writer I am. This was after taking the AP test. Thanks to  my friend Brian for saying something funny and making me look like an idiot.

Whatever the case might be, the Class of 2002 is playing in a very different ballgame. The events of September 11 have created a world that is uncertain of itself and scared of what tomorrow might bring. In the ashes of a tragedy, the world is discovering new beginnings. The Class of 2002 is apart of that beginning. We are the next answer to evil.

Neil Young teaches us, “you have to turn on evil when it’s coming after you. You have to go in after it and never be denied.” We are now all citizens of planet Earth and great change is on the horizon. At the end of our high school careers, my peers and I face a tremendous challenge. In the words of Bob Dylan, “You better start swimming or you’ll sink like a stone, for the time they are a-changing.”

Running around Muzzy Field at halftime of the annual Thanksgiving Day football game with a giant American flag.

We begin our quest to make the world a better place. We have the chore of reversing the decisions of negligent politicians who have been afraid of change. We are left the job of restoring hope to a world now afraid of its own shadow. Sir Isaac Newton once said, “If I have been able to see further than others, it was because I stood on the shoulders of giants.” The Class of 2002 will be the shoulders the world will stand on.

On the set of Funny Money. I played an English cab driver. Our director may or may not have walked out on our performance both nights.

Tonight, we leave high school behind. There will be no more study halls that last forever or endless excuses for forgotten homework. We no longer have to worry about getting caught going to McDonald’s for lunch. We are left with only the memories of first loves and horrible break-ups.  We leave behind a piece of ourselves tonight. We leave behind the rebellious, free-spirited teenager to embrace the responsibility of adulthood.

After being awarded the most improved player award my last year of organized baseball.  I didn't make the All-Star team, but got to run across Muzzy Field one last time as a baseball player.

Tonight the Class of 2002 walks off the playing field, eager for the next season; the next at-bat. I realize now there are no endings, there are only beginnings. Endings are simply a place where we can stop to catch our breath.

My advice to my classmates is: take a deep breath; we have a long game ahead of us. Thank you.

June 14, 2002

My brother Tom said I would regret wearing a stylish button instead of a bow tie for my junior prom. My only regret is not wearing my friend Paul's top hat. He also had white gloves and a cane. It was awesome.

A Love Affair With Astoria, N.Y., in 15 Photos

I have lived in the borough of Queens since my arrival to New York City nearly 10 years ago.

I was hell bent on moving into Manhattan after I graduated from St. John’s and was hired by JCK magazine. I wanted to experience what it was like to walk out my door and be in the heart of the city that I was still very much in love with.

That never happened. And it’s all because I met Astoria.

It wasn’t love at first sight. In fact, it took a visit to an apartment claiming to be in East Williamsburg, Brooklyn—but was really smack in the middle of Bushwick—that scared me and my girlfriend at the time into accepting the first apartment we had seen in Astoria.

The place was a little far from the subway, we had to take two trains to get to work, and there was a horrible couple with a yippy dog living downstairs that moved in shortly after we did.

However, the view of the RFK Bridge from our windows was like having an expensive work of art on our walls, Astoria Park was a runner and writer’s paradise, and the food in the area was spectacular.

I began to fall more and more in love with each passing day. I’ll never have gyros anywhere other than BZ Grill, Trade Fair became my favorite grocery store despite its hectic and cramped quarters, and my running route through Astoria and around Roosevelt Island remains my favorite in the city. Did I mention that the Bohemian Beer Garden was a drunken stumble down the street?

Moving out of that apartment was all the more heartbreaking because Astoria was now more than just an address. It had become a loving and trusted friend who never let us down.

I don’t know if I’ll live my whole life in New York, but if I do, I’m sure that Astoria and I will have to resume our love affair. My heart will always consider it home because of the passion, energy, and inspiration that I created and discovered there.

These photos are for you Astoria. I love you, and I miss you.

When I got off the N or Q train to make the five-minute walk to my apartment, the worries of the day seemed to just melt away as Astoria welcomed me home.

The corner of opportunity and dreams…

This is the view of the RFK Bridge I mentioned before. 

RFK lit up as the sun goes down.

All unpacking stopped the first night in Astoria once the Fourth of July fireworks started. It was the first sign that the area was going to yield more surprises than we had anticipated.

Me and my friends Scott, Softball Spud, and Steve-O (left to right). I was overly excited to hand out those birthday cupcakes and the guys still haven’t let me live it down. Also, no one in this picture won any money.

The Bohemian Beer Garden in the rain.

Brick Café is my absolute favorite place to have brunch in New York City. The French toast with strawberries and whipped cream is to die for.

The next six pictures were taken during my last run through Astoria Park as a resident of the area. I still don’t know why or how those shoes ended up there, but they make for a great photo.

This is where my running career started. Originally, I would run one mile and call it a day. It was at this track in Astoria Park that I started to add a little to my run until the night I ran seven miles without stopping.

The trees lining the straightaway of my out and back in full bloom.

My nephew Jack loves this photo of the “train bridge” as he calls it.

I love rocks.

The signal to turn around and head home.

This photo was taken while I was writing my final paper for my grad class on the Church in the Middle Age in Astoria Park last year. The beautiful weather and unparalleled view made writing about a dry topic bearable.

For more cool photos, check out:

 15 Cool Photos From Back Home in Connecticut

The Adventures of the Noreasters: Three in the Heat

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).

From the Archives:Summer Poetry

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.