I had assignment back in high school to write about an ordinary hero in my life. I chose my cousin Judy who has the biggest heart I know despite the fact that she’s missing part of it.
I’m headed home for the weekend to help my parents paint their house (which I’m sure will yield plenty of excellent blog material), so I figured I’d start kissing up now and share this for everyone.
In all seriousness, I’m still lucky to have someone like Judy in my life. It’s been really special watching her raise her son Kevin with her hubby Michael. Her banter with Kevin reminds me a lot of ours back in the day and you can tell how much the two love each other.
So thank you once again Judy for being awesome and I’ll see you soon!*
*I’m well aware that this post will not prevent you from making fun of me…nor should it!
I never left Judy's side (even to blow out my birthday candles).
My Ordinary Hero
Of all the ordinary and unsung heroes that I know, my cousin Judith deserves to be in the Hall of Fame. Judith has overcome incredible odds to become the kind, warm-hearted person she is today.
At birth, Judith was faced with an uncertain future. A section of her heart was missing and she had to have a pacemaker put in. It didn’t stop her from always being there for me when I needed her.
After Grandma Cassidy passed away, Judith started babysitting us after school fulltime. She’s generally an incredible person, but she really shines when she’s taking care of children. She never complains and seems oblivious to how important she is to other people.
Judith does a lot of volunteer work while balancing a schedule that includes school, work, and spending time with her family. She always puts her needs behind her families’ and the children she takes care of. I’m pretty sure that she’d do her job for free if she didn’t have to pay bills.
So that’s why my cousin Judith is an exceptional example of an ordinary hero. I wish everyone could be acquainted with her in some way.
Looking through my archives recently, I stumbled upon an assignment I had to write for one of my journalism classes.
It was an easy assignment.
All I had to do was talk about what I did on my spring break that year. It was an exercise just to shake the rust out and talk about whatever we did in a captivating and entertaining way (even if your week included playing video games or mowing the lawn).
I can’t say any of my spring breaks were boring. My job with St. John’s baseball ensured arduous plane/bus rides, long hours punctuated by midnight peanut butter and jelly making, and meals provided by such high-regarded restaurants as Golden Corral and Shoney’s. I dropped into my first class back from the break infinitely more exhausted than when I last left it a week before.
But I loved every minute of it. There was a top step at the end of the dugout reserved for me every game, I got to see parts of the country I would have never seen otherwise (i.e. Fayetteville, Ark., and Corvallis, Ore.), and I was as close to the game I’ve loved since birth as I was ever going to get.
However, that doesn’t make for a good story, especially not for a cranky, older journalism teacher. There has to be some angst, some repression of urges, and some admission of torture to justify being an aspiring writer. So this pieces comes off more irritable and self-deprecating than reality.
Plus, I was 21. I didn’t know shit.
2005 St. John's Baseball
On the Couch in Florida
Some college students spent their spring break being rubbed down by exotic, tanned goddesses on some remote, tropical slice of heaven. Others could be found erasing memories of class by engaging in elaborate drinking games on some sandy beach. This writer chose to enjoy his spring break in a much different manner.
I spent one week…on a couch.
It was a couch in sunny Florida, but still…a couch.
And I did so willingly and was completely sober.
Now, I know the questions that must be swirling around in your head. Why would a junior in college with a precious week off from papers and tests be spending every night sleeping on a couch? What would possess a newly christened 21-year-old to do so without the company of Sam Adams or The Silver Bullet?
It so happens that I am the head baseball manager for the St. John’s Red Storm baseball.
Okay, I made it sound a lot cooler and prestigious than it actually is. I am essentially, for lack of a better description, the team mother.
There are numerous perks that come with this job, including free trips to places such as Florida, Louisiana, and Minnesota. I get some cool NIKE gear free of charge and get a sizable grant for my tuition.
However, there are times such as these (i.e. rooming with two coaches in a suite better suited for two and being forced onto the couch made for little people) that make me question what I do for a living.
My week consisted of ensuring that each room got a wake-up call, usually at some ungodly hour of the morning; setting up post-game meals, which received harsher criticisms than those handed out by The New York Times to first-time authors; and doing laundry, consisting of three different uniforms, laundry bags, and jock straps.
And sleeping on the couch.
Sober.
I did get to watch 10 entertaining baseball games in 80-degree weather, while most of New York City suffered through February’s winter doldrums. I did get to bond with some of the country’s best collegiate athletes, many of whom may very well end up in (or close enough) to the major leagues.
Of course, that entailed trucking back to the hotel to retrieve a forgotten jersey before game time, engaging in a prank war that consisted of baby powder and two buckets of water, and getting thrown into the pool, despite my embarrassing confession that I couldn’t swim.
And sleeping on the couch.
Sober.
You may be asking yourself, “What is this guy doing with his life?” Or my personal favorite, “Why is this educated, mature adult choosing to spend half his life doing laundry and cleaning up after a team full of knuckleheads and jocks?”
I really didn’t have an answer to either question until the last day of our trip. One of the coaches came up to me and in an unprecedented show of gratitude said,
“Outstanding job this week, Ford,” he said, while putting my hand in a vise grip. “We couldn’t have gotten through this week without you.”
To say I was taken aback would be the understatement of the century. In two years as the manager, I only heard feedback from the coaches if I royally screwed up (i.e. like the time I forgot to set my clock ahead and was an hour late getting the team breakfast).
I now felt like I belonged; like I was an equal part in our quest for glory. As we were winging back to the cold skyline of New York City, I gave myself an “A” for spring break 2005.
Even though I slept on the couch for a week.
Sober.
But happy.
You can see a fraction of my face in the back of this photo. Head Coach Ed Blankmeyer had just won his 300th game at Hofstra.
When I first started rereading a story that I wrote in high school about a fictional baseball hero named Dante Cimadamore, I found pages upon pages of what I envisioned my baseball career would have looked like had my father forced me to play Little League.
The novel runs a couple hundred handwritten pages, and features homerun heroics, perfect games, and a romance birthed in a backyard baseball field (that would eventually become the foundation of my novel).
A quarter of the way through it though, I make my main character live through my own short-lived baseball career. My older brother was my first Scott League coach and endured a lot of my strikeouts and general offensive ineptitude. By my third and final year, I managed to become a serviceable outfielder and even hit more than .300.
I’ve always tried to be an honest writer, but even I’m surprised on how honestly I dealt with my brief, recreational baseball career (although I do allude to the main character’s future greatness).
The next few posts on this blog will include the full story of Dante Cimadamore’s summer league trials and Daniel Ford’s Major League Baseball aspirations.
After you read this, go outside and have a catch, or play some pepper!
Part 1: Tryouts
I believe this was taken right before my first Pony League game.
“It’s a good thing the tryout only lasted a few hours. Had it been longer, Dante would have needed a year’s worth of physical therapy to recover from it.”—Scott League director Jeff Jay
Upon returning to their hometown, Dante, Tim, and Patrick were instant celebrities (editor’s note: This takes place after Dante’s Little League wins the Little League World Series).
Parades were held, articles were written, and city awards were given out. Patrick Russell was bestowed the greatest gift of all. His Little League number was retired and he was given the key to the city. The rest of the team wasn’t so lucky.
“We got a commemorative hat and certificate, both of which I lost in the first week I had it.”—Tim George
The winter months passed by, allowing the craze over the young athletes to dissipate to the point where they could live normal lives again. However, when warmer weather finally arrived, so did the fan’s hunger for the game.
“Thanks to those boys, this town became baseball crazy.”—Parent
The coming of spring also brought new challenges to the boys of summer who had reigned supreme the year before. A new league beckoned and called for all those who thought they were worthy to move on from their Little League roots. Only a handful of Destiny’s Team—the nickname immortalized on their commemorative hats—answered the call. The rest sought other interests.
“I would have felt like I was under pressure all the time, and that’s no way to play the game.”—John Machado
“I found out I was a much actor than a second baseman.”—Malcolm Miller
A hundred and forty baseball players registered that year for the town’s recreational Scott League. Half that number would be put through the stress of a tryout. Dante Cimadamore stepped onto a full-size baseball diamond for the first time, armed with his talent and trusty glove.
“Just me and Rosebud. If I had known what was going to happen, I would have brought body armor.”—Dante Cimadamore
That day, Dante had been inspired (by what, only God knows) to try to broaden his horizons. He opted to leave the confines of the outfield to tryout as an infielder. He got in line behind the other first basemen and waited for the tryout to start. Dante wanted to show people he was versatile and could do more than hit and chase after lazy fly balls.
“I saw Dante trot out to first base and the first thought that went through my mind was ‘He’s going to kill himself.’”—Tim Nix
From his Little League experience, Dante thought he knew how and where to hit the cutoffs. However, he moved left when he was supposed to move right, and dropped every throw that came in from the outfield. Standing outside the foul line, Dante pictured the coaches crossing his name off their list, which made him more determined. Sadly, his determination would not overcome his lack of talent playing first base.
As the infield/outfield session moved into the infield, the real horror began. Surprisingly, Dante handled throws from the third basemen and short stops easily, but bobbled several of the second basemen’s throws to first. As his waited for his turn to complete a few double plays, Dante glanced longingly toward the outfielders. He saw the catching fly balls and fielding easy line drives—things he was capable of doing without thinking about it. He brushed the thoughts away and stepped back onto the dusty infield.
The third baseman started the double play off perfectly by getting off a crisp throw to the shortstop standing at second base. The fielder took a moment to collect the ball and pivot. Dante saw the throw head for the dirt and knew he was in trouble. The ball skipped in the dirt and struck Dante’s knee.
“I saw him miss the ball and then saw him jumping around in pain. I wanted to go over and make sure he was okay, but I didn’t do anything wrong, so I just let him be.”—Shortstop
The pain soon subsided to a sharp tingle. Dante eagerly stepped back onto the field, determined to show the coaches he could make the scoop on a bad throw. Once again, the same shortstop fired a low throw Dante’s way. Dante kept his eye on it the whole way. However, Dante stabbed at the ball instead of letting it come to him. The ball glanced off his glove and headed like a missile for his big toe on his right foot.
“Hands down, the worst pain I’ve ever felt.”—Dante Cimadamore
The blow to his foot knocked Dante to the ground. Slowly, he raised himself into a kneeling position and crawled into foul territory. He faced the fact that his days as a first baseman were numbered.
Of course, the coaches wanted to end the tryout with base running. Dante tried to mentally push the pain away, but it was too much for him. After gimping around first base, he fell on the way to second. He pulled himself up and forced his legs to walk briskly to the second base bag.
“I couldn’t believe it. It was the first time he hadn’t blown away the competition. He fell down! I’m pretty sure that was the last time anyone saw Dante not do something spectacular on a baseball field.”—Patrick Russell
Dante didn’t even acknowledge the chuckling players standing on the edge of the outfield grass. He fell into the green grass of left field thoroughly exhausted. Jeff Jay, the league’s director, said a few words on how this was the best tryout they had had in year.
“Best tryouts, my ass.”—Dante Cimadamore
The draft was the following day. Dante wasn’t looking forward to it. Although every player made a team, he was sure he was going to end up with a coach who would make him ride the bench all year. For the first time in his life, Dante limped off the field not proud of what he’d done on it.
***
An evening later, Dante was interrupted from his catnap by a ringing phone. He had been icing his swollen knee and his even more swollen big toe. He knew what kind of news was on the other end of the line, so he took his time answering the phone.
“Hello?”
“Is this Dante Cimadamore?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Ty Russell, a coach from the Scott League. Got a little beat up the other day, huh?”
“Yeah…” Dante said. “Russell. You wouldn’t be…”
“Patrick Russell’s brother. Yes. I taught hum everything he knows,” Ty said.
“Well, last year’s Little League squad thanks you for that.”
“I bet. Okay, I drafted you. You’re on the Phantoms. I saw a lot of heart in that tryout despite what happened. You kept getting back up. You played the outfield last year right?”
“Yup,” Dante said. “I tried something new and it backfired on me.”
“Well, I’ll put you in right field and we’ll forget you ever tried to play the infield. How’s that sound?”
“How can I say no?” Dante said. He felt relieved.
The pain stopped instantly. His flame for the game burned brighter than ever. Dante Cimadamore was a Phantom and he vowed that the Scott League would never be the same.
“I knew what I was getting myself into. If I was going to have emotion from my team, I need that kid. He ended up giving us a lot more than that.”—Ty Russell
This question was poised to me by a Writer’s Bone contributor on Friday. This was in response to me saying, “I think I'm here to find cool writers and give them confidence so they can find their voices.”
I majored in modesty at St. John’s University.
But I wasn’t kidding. There’s nothing I love more than editing and working with young writers to get the best out of them. It took me a long time to find my voice and I feel like I have some worthwhile advice to offer the next generation of up-and-comers.
I just didn’t have a venue to do it in before recently.
I’ve spent the last couple months building a sound foundation for a podcast with my fantastic partner Sean Tuohy. We got into it to talk about the things we had in common and discuss our approaches to the writing craft—to be huge writer nerds essentially. We thought it would be smart to start a blog along with it to drive traffic to the podcast and give us a place to write about anything we found interesting.
Our earlier posts included our best moments as writers, calling well-known writers assholes in a complimentary way, favorite moments from "The West Wing," and reminiscing about how Nelson DeMille popped our cherries by having Dirk Pitt shoot a guy’s dick off. Sean and I could have kept on that track—and our posts in large part have stayed true to those themes—but our shtick on the blog might have grown to be overkill when combined with our podcast.
Plus, I’ve had this desire to build a website that featured all the creative types I’ve come in contact with over the years. Some of them were still in the writing game, but I know more than a few that were hesitant or scared to write more than just a weekly grocery list. I was also lucky enough to meet a bunch of young writers when I moved to Boston that inspired me to send Sean this email:
“You said something great last night that's been in my head for a little bit. You said something like, "I hate hearing the word no as a writer." I emailed a writer friend earlier that day telling him we want to make Writer's Bone a place where writers don't have to hear the word no. They can let their freak flag fly so to speak. That should be our mission statement. Writers tired of restrictions, limits, and censorship will always have a home with us.”
We both worked full-time, so really it was no brainer to look for content that we didn’t have to think about creating. But it meant more than that to us. I think both of us have struggled at times to accept being a writer and here was a chance for us to ease the suffering of others. Author Rebecca Cantrell, one of our favorite early interviews, also inspired us:
“Writers must suffer for their art. Every time I hear that it drives me crazy. If writing isn’t fun, why do it? I have lots of fun writing and so do most other writers I know. It doesn’t have to be about suffering.”
The future Mrs. Hardball Heart and Sean’s girlfriend started contributing in the beginning and we started collecting thoughts and essays from a wide range of young writers. My girlfriend made a good point early on that we shouldn’t say they were working for us. Every writer essentially has to write for himself or herself, so she made me realize we were writing with each other. We’ve had that mentality ever since.
When we published an essay by a guy I work with ay my day job, I put a $1 bill on his desk and said, “Thanks!” He picked up the dollar, looked at it, and pinned it to his bulletin board. “That’s the first time I’ve ever been published anywhere!” He said. “Thank you!” It was one of the proudest moments of my professional career.
Someone asked me once what I would do if I was handed the keys to an established website and social media following. My answer remains the same. I would blow my brains out from boredom. I’m meant to build things and experiment, not toe the line and not screw up someone else’s brainchild. I’m meant to do what I’m doing with Writer’s Bone.
Now, the best part of my day—other than those moments when I’m in the presence of my spectacular future wife—has become when one of our contributors emails or texts me and says, “Hey, I have this idea…”
I’m bringing all this up because one of those young writers wrote a post (which you can read here) about how she moved on after her laptop and jump drive were stolen—two things that held all of her digital archives. That got me thinking about my own archives and how I’ve made an effort the last couple of years to document mine on this blog.
Below are a few things I found at my parent’s house in Connecticut a couple weeks ago that I want to live in perpetuity in some form or another. After you’re done here, I encourage you to head over to www.writersbone.com and check out our writers who are absolutely killing it right now.
I had an illustrator at one point. This is my favorite cover he produced. It also happens to be the only one I still have.
This might have been the first time I was ever published. The poem that Teen Ink ran was one I wrote for one of my high school band director’s who was semi-retiring.
Speaking of poetry, check out the above article that was published in my local newspaper that includes a quote from yours truly. Hey, if you're going to be quoted about your weepy high school poetry, you better make sure it's a good one.
A short story I started in high school. I'll be revisiting this in a future post.
Teen Ink also sponsored one of the awards I received in high school! That should say “badass writer” by the way. They sadly never got around to fixing that typo.
More proof I actually played baseball. That’s not me sliding into home plate or the catcher about to make the tag. I’m mentioned at the very end of the article for winning the league’s most improved player award.
My only other acting gig following my performance in The Wizard of Oz was as a cab driver in a play called “Funny Money.” I got to fire a fake gun (which didn’t work the second night)!
What the local paper had to say about me.
My friend Paul’s top hat was the best thing that ever happened to a lot of lives. The locals only caught a fraction of its majesty. My mom and I are photobombing in the middle.
I don’t care what the thermometer says. I don’t care how much snow is in the forecast. There is baseball being played somewhere.
I’m declaring spring!
And is there a better way to celebrate spring than reading some high school poetry? I think not.
Poetry in general can be kind of morose, grim, and down right depressing. That’s not what we need right now.
We need happy, inspiring poetry that makes us think warmer and better days are ahead. And guess what? They are.
Here Comes the Sun
While I love The Beatles version of this song, I may love this live version performed by Richie Havens. I’ve been playing this song frequently since his death in 2013, so it was an easy decision to make on which one would be the soundtrack to this blog post.
Havens sings with an earnestness and hopefulness that is infectious. Here’s hoping it gets the warmer sun here a little faster.
Summer winds brought
you into this big world, little one,
and you became our big angel.
You quickly captured big hearts,
dazzling with your big wondering eyes
and big open mouth smiles.
You were an instant big celebrity,
the center of the big stage, just like mommy,
even though you looked like your big daddy.
Six months into your little stay,
you face a big fight, little one,
more than just a big tummy ache.
It’s too soon, I know,
but you have to be a big girl now,
little one.
Your big friends and big s’onks
are saying big prayers,
so fear not little one, you’re not alone.
You have big life to live
and big love to give, little one;
this big world needs your big dreams and big hopes.
Winter winds are not here to stay,
but your big smiles and big laughs are, little one,
so weather the big storm and we’ll keep you safe and sound.
Saturday Morning With Dad
Raking the backyard with Pops
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.
Milk
Did you drink my milk????
The milk is gone…
because of me.
The milk you were to pour
on your strawberry covered cereal.
At one point or another,
someone was bound to drink it.
To be totally honest,
I’m not sorry it was me!
An Angel on the Bridge
The angel protecting the next generation
She waits with angelic patience
upon her arched wooden perch,
high above the harmful waters below.
All who proceed along the protected bridge
are helped along by her selfless, caring wings
and her watchful, caring eyes of sapphire.
She diligently prays each day and night
for her dark-haired prince to come
give her peace of mind and fill her heart with joy.
Her countenance brightens as he appears,
making his way unto her safe haven.
Before her answers are fulfilled at last,
he slips upon the slippery planks
and tumbles towards the menacing waters.
Without a thought of hesitation,
she extends her affectionate wings
and catches his falling form.
She smiles as she lifts him back unto her bridge,
guiding him to her patient heart.
Take Hold of My Heart
Written for Judy and Michael on their wedding day January 13th, 2001
Judy and Michael
From strangers from distant lands
to lovers not so far away,
a new and special love has been brought to life.
The beginning found them faceless on
opposite ends of a computer screen,
seeing each other only in daydreams.
Time wore on and soon friendship grew to love
and those daydream images became realities
as each braved the skies and marveled at the worlds they found.
He came from a world that
had shrugged off the bitter cold of separation,
bringing pieces of a fallen wall and a flag of black, red, and gold.
She came to him from a world
that
was filled with power and might,
bringing a flag of red, white, and blue with her love.
Together they braved the dangers of disapproval
and together they conquered the scare of
losing her heart to the indifferent beings of fate.
Today, with a ring and tender kiss
she takes hold of his heart as he takes hold of hers
and a higher power leads them into bliss,
where they’ll stay now and forever more.
Family Man
Pops and I at the Alamo
He looks his best in early morning light,
trying to rub his eye’s awake, barely able to walk straight,
preparing to work all day surrounded by unknown faces.
His shirts come home with stains galore from his toil,
that are added to should mom be making spaghetti
and his eyes look more tired than in that morning light.
He still manages to smile proudly,
now surrounded by those who love him most,
even the dog who isn’t the same when he’s away.
His arms are sore beyond belief from years of labor,
but yet he never declines an invitation to roughhouse,
even when mom tells him to stop before he gets hurt.
He’s always good for a conversation,
even when he has no idea what you’re talking about,
and is always good for a laugh, even if it’s at his own expense.
He waits up patiently late into the night,
so that his son can sweet-talk his girl
and can’t help dropping a line or two of his own, just to show off.
He asks nothing in return for anything he does,
except a kiss from mom and tons of hugs from his boys
and falls asleep easy each night, despite the aches and pains,
knowing that his family loves him just as much as he loves them.
The Mouser
Written with Momma Ford and Patrick
Since I don't have a picture on me of the cat in this poem, here's one of my favorite tree in Madison Square Park!
The little mouser rocks to and fro,
keeping her distance, along with her patience…
waiting…..waiting….till the time is right…..
TO POUNCE!!!
Her tail proudly swayed,
her keen eyes looked for praise and a friendly pat,
as she displayed her catch the day.
Her best views came from the
roof top of master’s domain,
where she watched the cautious movements of her timid prey.
After a sun bath and a little nap,
the bathroom window was her entrance to warmth
and a tired hrmph from master.
She raced him to bed where she slept and
had knitted her way into his heart.
Heavy scratches upon her front door scratching post
announced to all her appetite was back.
Her demands were quickly met,
not before the battle of who’s turn it was.
As quickly as it came, her appetite left her system
and with just two bites of the same ol’ chicken,
away she went to dig her face in a half- eaten ice cream cup.
She choose her quarters carefully at night’s end.
The cool cellar, upon that broken old work bench
in days of summer heat.
A window sill on a rainy spring day,
or the warmth of a car hood on a lonely winter day.
Of course, master’s bed was comfy on any occasion.
Wherever she lied her head to rest,
the little mouser clenched her eyes tightly,
let go a content purr
and feel fast asleep.
When you’re done snapping your fingers, check out:
This is the first new chapter in a much more complex and rich tale about both of my grandfathers. I hope by the end of 2014 I'll have a story ready to sold in bookstores or downloaded on your Kindle or Nook.
In the meantime, enjoy Arthur’s first appearance.
Arthur Blanchette
Arthur
Frenchville, Maine 1960s
Arthur eased into his rocking chair.
He knew his movements would be limited given the early hour, but his French-Canadian blood didn’t allow him to stay stationary while sitting down. He didn’t want to wake his wife or young ones who wouldn’t be up for another hour or so. At least, he hoped those were the only people still asleep in his house. Two of his older sons better be down at the potato farm getting ready for a hard day’s work. If they weren’t, hellfire would pale in comparison to what Arthur was prepared to unleash.
He took his pack of Winstons out of his front shirt pocket. He slowly and quietly lifted the closest window and the screen behind it. The chill of early October whistled into the house.
Arthur scowled.
He didn’t want the first noise of the morning to arouse suspicion. He tapped a cigarette on his wrist and brought it to lips. His first drag of the day was heavenly. He couldn’t help himself from rocking back and forth completely. The old wood floor beneath him creaked.
He sighed.
He was sure to hear it from his wife now. He sat very still and waited for her to thunder down the stairs and point an accusatory finger his way. She always preferred catching him in the act rather than grumble about circumstantial evidence. However, the moment of crisis passed silently.
Arthur gripped his cigarette with his lips as he straightened his black tie. As the head of the farmhands, he had to look professional. It didn’t matter that by the end of the day his white, starched shirt was as dark as his tie. The men respected he brought class to the job and could still get dirty like the rest of them. He pulled the cigarette away for a moment and watched as a clump of ashes fell to the floor. He’d have to remember to sweep them under the radiator before he left.
He felt around his front pants pocket. He angled past his tangle of keys and removed his pocket watch. It wouldn’t be long now before Al pulled into his driveway. Arthur risked one more ride in his chair before finishing his smoke. The floor didn’t creak this time. His house was on his side for once. He took one last deep, satisfying, soul-enhancing puff and tossed the stub out the window. He stealthily closed the screen and the window. He made sure the rocking chair was at a standstill before rising. He then walked the short distance to the kitchen.
He put the coffee pot on the burner and waited patiently. He had his thermos ready. His sandwich and apple were in a sack in the refrigerator. A turkey sandwich and a Granny Smith was all Arthur needed to get through a day during harvest time. In the off-season, he usually just had the apple. The faint smell of baked goods invaded his nostrils. His wife didn’t like when he overdid it on sweets, but she kept making them. He’d find them tonight. Steam rose from the pot and he heard bubbling. He waited another heartbeat before filling up his travel mug.
Al hadn’t shown up yet, so his first taste of coffee happened at his kitchen counter. It mingled pleasantly with the tobacco still lingering in his mouth. His eyes rose toward the ceiling as he heard his wife get out of bed. He didn’t blink until he heard the bathroom door close.
Arthur sprung into action. He marched back to his rocking chair. He removed his hat from the stand nearby and swept his forgotten ashes under the radiator. He pulled his hand away in pain as the flesh on his right hand made contact with the hot metal. He put his hat on his head and again looked toward the second level of the house. He sure wasn’t the one that turned the heat on this early in the fall. His wife could have every blanket she owned on her and she’d still insist on the house being 90 degrees. Arthur wore short sleeves indoors year-round.
The couple normally didn’t see each other this early in the day. He was usually out the door well before this hour. Yesterday had been a grueling day of harvest, so he gave his crew an extra half hour of sleep to recover. There were thousands of potatoes to yank from the ground, and he couldn’t afford to lose any of his men to exhaustion. Arthur didn’t leave anything he could directly control to chance. He was even alternating his son’s shifts to keep them fresh. God help them if they took advantage of him being more generous than his old man ever was.
Al honked his horn. Arthur would have to wait to see his wife later that evening. She was making her way down the stairs as he retrieved his coffee and lunch. He was already in the truck’s passenger seat when his wife appeared at the screen door.
“Moitzee!” She screamed. “Avez-vous balayez les cendres maudites sous mon radiateur de nouveau?”
Arthur shrugged.
Arthur on top of a snowbank with my mother and Uncle Bobby
“She’s going to light your clothes on fire in the yard one of these days if you keep smoking in her house,” Al said. “A big ol’ pile of flaming flannel. Hell, half the neighborhood will show up to keep warm and roast marshmallows. That fire will last so long, the town might cut its heating expenses in half.”
Highway 1 was empty. The countryside was a blur. Al liked to drive fast.
“Got some new boys starting today. I know, I know, I’m a soft touch,” Al said. “They aren’t criminals or anything. Just some good boys helping their families. If they go bad you can throw me out too.”
Arthur nodded.
“Weather is going to get cold fast,” Al said. “It may not seem that way since its been balls hot during the day, but my feet just won’t keep warm at night. You know I tried to sleep with my slippers on the other day? My goddamn slippers. You figure my feet would have sweated through the yarn, right? Nope. My feet were blocks of ice all night. That means we’re going to have a bad winter. But then again, I suppose we haven’t seen a good winter in more than five years. The only warm thing that happened during the recent winters was your baby girl Gail. What a peach that kid is. She cried for everyone when she was born that February, but not me. You remember that? She liked me best for a while there. I think her brothers scared the hell out of her for a little bit. You can’t blame her. If it weren’t for you and your wife raising them right, boy, I don’t know.”
Signals flashed in front of them.
“Dammit,” Al said.
The two couldn’t see the logging train yet, but they could hear and feel it. They were stopped just before the tracks that cut through the middle of town.
“We’re not five minutes away from where we need to be,” Al said. “Good thing I got the boss with me, so I don’t get in trouble for being late.”
Arthur instinctively checked his pocket watch.
“Now don’t get ornery on me,” Al said. “We’ve got more than enough time. Besides, those boys have been working hard the past week. A few more minutes of rest won’t lose us anything.”
Arthur chose not to disagree with that statement at the present time.
“See, look it wasn’t even a full train,” Al said. “Not a good sign those loads have gotten smaller and smaller. Plenty of trees out here, but not many people demanding lumber I suppose. Or maybe I’m just remembering the past years wrong. I can’t keep all these harvests straight.”
They arrived at the farm. Arthur rushed out of the truck. He walked into main barn and took his clipboard off his tidy desk. He didn’t linger and went back outside. He watched the men head out in to the field. He made a small check mark beside each man’s name. He noticed many of the men had been here a while, ignoring his orders to get more rest. He liked that. He liked the sight of his son-in-law Onias even more.
Onias, who was married to his daughter Lucille, gave Arthur a quick wave before continuing his work on the old tractor. He wouldn’t have been surprised that Arthur hadn’t given him a return reply. The two hadn’t talked much since Arthur caught wind of the job offer Onias had from a carpentry company in Connecticut. Arthur knew his oldest son Roland had arranged it, which didn’t make him any happier. Half of his family was already in that state, so he wasn’t thrilled with the thought of another daughter joining them. Besides, Onias was a good worker and a good card player. Arthur knew how much the brothers and sisters hated being apart. It wouldn’t be long before everyone moved down there. He was lucky Bobby and Gail were both young enough to be dependent on him and his wife hated the thought of moving away from where she was born. They weren’t going anywhere without him, that was for damn sure.
Arthur wrote in the names of the two men Al had hired the night before when they arrived and checked them off as well. He starred both so he could remember to keep an eye on them. By the time the last man present made it into the field, only two names remained unchecked. And they were both Blanchettes.
He didn’t try to stifle his anger. He wouldn’t need any more coffee to get his heart rate up. He was thinking of which son’s head he was going to dump the rest of it on whenever they decided to show up. He took his pocket watch out and balanced it on his clipboard. Every time he watched the second hand passed 12, he felt his blood pressure spike. He knew he was going to be at full boil when his sons were standing in front of him.
Arthur’s son Clifford practically walked willingly into his open hand. As Clifford recoiled, Arthur grabbed the collar of Jimmy’s shirt and pulled his face close.
“A man needs to live his life on time! There’s nothing more important in his life! Be ass early, be on the dot, but sure as shit don’t be goddamn late! You lose a helluva lot more than time when you’re late!”
Arthur pushed Jimmy away and walked a few paces away from the boys. It did nothing to calm his anger. Seeing that Clifford’s face red with frustration and hurt made the pot boil over again.
“I’d send you back to your Momma, but she’d goddamn die of embarrassment and shame at the boys she raised!” Arthur shouted. “You let me down. You disappointed me. You lost my respect. Get your asses to work and goddamn earn it back.”
His sons ran by him with their heads down.
“Keep those heads up, goddamn it,” Arthur shouted after them. “You break a leg after being late and I’m cutting it off myself and throwing you back to work.”
He put his hand up to discourage Al from saying a word. Al ignored him like usual.
When half your life is hanging out with your younger brother in the backyard playing Wiffle ball, why wouldn’t you make him a central character in your novel about baseball?
My brother Patrick was a pretty damn good pitcher in Little League, and I had the privilege of being his assistant coach throughout his career. When I started writing Pastime in high school, I knew I was going to base a character on him and make him do something memorable (my older brother Tom makes an appearance later in the novel as Dante’s Pony League coach).
So enjoy the tale of “Perfect Pat” while you wait for Spring Training to start. And I don’t care how cold it is, I’m going to find a way to have a catch with my brothers.
My brother Patrick during his last year on the Phillies
Little League World Series: International Championship
Italy is known for food, wine, and beautiful women, but not its baseball. That’s because their Little League team in recent years hasn’t played much better than a tee-ball team.
However, this year, the Italian team had been struck by the destiny bug and had swept their way unto the Little League World Series’ biggest stage. Two teams of destiny in one game? Which team would the baseball gods’ favor, and which would be tormented by baseball demons?
“All the hoopla crap going into that game was totally bogus. Don’t get me wrong, I’m Italian and I love Italians, but there was no way they were going to even try to beat Patrick Russell.”—Dante Cimadamore
Both teams had more than each other to contend with. When Russell took the mound, the temperature had risen to a sweltering 97 degrees. There was a slight breeze that had, but it scalded rather than soothed. Russell showed no signs of being affected by the heat.
“I had a job to do and I wasn’t going to let a little hot weather keep me from doing it right.”—Patrick Russell
Italy’s first batter grounded out weakly to second baseman Simon Capodi who easily scooped up the ball and threw to first base in plenty of time to get the out. The second batter whiffed on three straight pitches. The last batter of the inning hit a lazy fly ball that Tim Nix tucked away in his glove for the final out.
Russell had thrown five pitches.
Italy’s pitcher Franco Vennero was no slouch. He hadn’t given up a run in the two games he’d pitched in Williamsport, and at the start of the tournament he pitched a one-hitter against powerhouse Japan. He looked to put the U.S. team of destiny to sleep from the start.
“I never saw the first three pitches he throw at me. He had to be throwing 85 m.p.h.”—John Machado
Jeff Prince willed a bloop single down the right field line with two outs. Capodi followed with another to left. It was time for Vennero to meet Dante.
“Everyone who watched ESPN knew the kind of season he was having. I pretty much wanted to wet myself when he stepped to the plate with runners on.”—Franco Vennero
He handled the slugger with ease. Dante hit a weak liner to the Italian shortstop who stepped on second base to double up Prince who had strayed too far off the bag. The first inning was in the books.
Russell went back to work. The heart of Italy’s lineup had done damage throughout the tournament, but left the plate with broken hearts after their first at-bats. The third batter of the inning tried to bunt one by the American pitcher, but Russell darted off the mound and made a strong through to first base. Italy had nothing to show for their six weak at-bats.
“Looking back it was tough to say who had the upper hand early on. It was a pitcher’s duel from the word go.”—U.S. coach Tom Doyle
Vennero didn’t give the next three batters in the U.S. lineup any chances. Two strikeouts and a fly out later and the Italians were back in their dugout.
The pitchers weren’t letting up and neither was the weather.
The temperature at the top half of the third inning was nearing 100 degrees. Tournament officials debated on whether to let the kids keep playing or have them take a break from the heat. Russell was on the mound throwing warm up pitches before they could rule one way or the other. The game continued and so did Russell’s dominance.
“There is no other way to put it folks, this kid from Connecticut is the real deal.”—ESPN television announcer
Russell actually threw three balls to the first batter he faced in the third. He quickly found his focus again and blazed three straight fastballs by him. It would turn out to be the only three-ball count from either pitcher. Another strikeout followed. Dante and company headed back to their dugout after Russell left the last batter in Italy’s lineup crying for pasta.
All of the American parents thought Vennero was finally going to falter in the bottom half of the inning. All they got was three groundballs and a smile from the Italian pitcher.
“This guy, what’s his name, Franco? He wasn’t making things any easier for me.”—Patrick Russell
Italy’s first batter the next inning became Russell’s sixth strikeout victim, and his fourth in a row. The next batter fouled out to catcher Kurt Saucier, affectionately known as Pig Pen. The last batter of the inning upped Russell’s strikeout total to seven.
Vennero got Dante to hit into a nifty double play to end the bottom of the inning. It seemed the game had lasted mere minutes.
As the U.S. team trotted out the field once again, it began to dawn on them that their pitcher was unscathed. With only six more outs left in the game, the players behind Russell were 100 times more focused and serious about winning. And they didn’t say another word to Russell. Well, with one exception.
“After the fifth, I was the only one who could get away with talking to him.”—Jocelyn Nocera
The heart of Italy’s lineup gave Russell his first scare. The crowd held its breath as it heard the high-pitched ping! emanate from the bat of Italy’s cleanup hitter. Tim Nix dove for the ball headed for the outfield, snared it in his glove, and stepped on first base.
“Let’s just say, whenever we play poker and we go up against each other on a hand, Russell always folds.”—Tim Nix
Another Italian batter tried to bunt his way on base. Russell once again made an easy play to get the out. Three strikes latter the last batter of the inning was wearing his glove again.
Vennero was too busy trying to get outs that he didn’t realize at first what was going on. It wasn’t until the bottom of the fifth inning that he felt the electricity of the crowd reach another level. Instead of being intimidated, Vennero used the crowd noise as fuel to strike out the next two batters.
Russell and Vennero exchanged smiles as Russell made his way to the batter’s box. He was a great hitter, but up to that point hadn’t done anything worth remembering with a bat that day. The crowd buzzed with anticipation that the game was about to be decided by the two kids who had so far defined it.
“Yeah, no would believe this story if it hadn’t actually happened. There’s video footage, and I still have trouble believing it.”—Dante Cimadamore
The young competitors showed no sign of fear. Russell fouled off two pitches and eyeballed two others out of the strike zone. Russell knocked the dirt off of his cleats with his bat and stepped in to face Vennero’s next pitch.
“Here’s the pitch from young Franco Vennero…Russel takes a swing and launches one to deep center…the fielder is drifting back…the outfielder just hunched over…that ball is gone! On the verge of pitching a perfect game, Patrick Russell just gave his team a one-run lead with a monster homerun! The only thing hotter on this field is this kid from Connecticut!”—ESPN television announcer
The entire stadium was shaking. No one was sitting down, not even Italy’s cheering section. Russell stepped on home plate and was out of breath because he had run the bases so fast. Everyone low-keyed the celebration at home plate because there was still work to be done. Russell looked back to the mound and Vennero was still smiling at him. The two pitchers tipped their caps to each other and Vennero finished his near-perfect outing with a strikeout. He didn’t feel anything but pride in himself and his country as he walked off the mound to a hearty applause.
The temperature at the start of the top of the sixth pushed past 100 degrees. It seemed everyone in the crowd was pounding Gatorade. Russell looked unperturbed as always, and finished up his warm up pitches. He wasn’t afraid, he wasn’t anxious, and he wasn’t unfocused. He was ready.
The first batter struck out. The crowd gasped as Russell lost his grip on a pitch and it came close to hitting the next batter. Once the batter recovered from the accidental brush back, he saw Russell mouth a silent “sorry.” Three pitches later, the batter was headed to the dugout. The next batter stepped to the plate eager to put an end to perfection.
“He had our number all day and I felt like I was going to be the one to steal his glory.”—Italian Little Leaguer
Confidence would get the young Italian nowhere this day. Russell fired a quick strike. The next pitch beautifully caught the outside corner for strike two. If anyone was still sitting in the state of Pennsylvania, they were deaf, blind, and dumb.
Russell didn’t hear any of that. His focus was on Pig Pen’ glove. It looked as big as a beanbag chair. He went into his pitching motion and fluidly threw the ball toward the plate. The batter put his head down and ripped the ball to the gap in right center.
Neither Dante nor Tim heard the other call for the ball because the crowd was so loud. The two boys collided. Dante was about to spring up and chase after the ball that undoubtedly skipped past the two outfielders when he heard Tim whisper,
“Sorry, pal. You got the homerun record, but I caught the ball that won us the Little League World Series.”
“Bastard.”—Dante Cimadamore
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Dante replied. “Oh, you might want to show the umpire you caught the ball so we can start celebrating.”
Tim smiled and shoved his hand in the air. The pure white baseball was clutched in his dirty hand.
“I really could have used all the Gatorade in the park at that point. My teammates pig-piled on top of me instead.”—Patrick Russell
The U.S. team that year started out as underdogs and ended up perfect American heroes. The players stayed on that field for as long as they could before worried officials and parents made them return to the shade. However, they would always stand in the summer sunshine of glory and their story became baseball legend.
For one thing, as a writer, you get to fully appreciate how terrifically awful Aaron Sorkin’s Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip was.
That’s some deliciously, chewy stuff.
The best advantage to being a writer however is having heaps of past material to reflect on. Odds are good that most writers have been doing it since the moment they realized their hands were meant for more than just a pacifier. I know writers who have kept archives going back to grade school. I am no exception. I have a wealth of material from my younger days including poetry, short stories, and even an autobiography.
This past Sunday, I posted excerpts from a handwritten re-write of my first completed novel. The edited tome included a section that wasn’t in the original. It was titled “Interlude: Daniel’s Tale.” I inserted seven pages based on myself to round out the character who shared my name. The pages offer the perfect vehicle in which to blare Bruce Springsteen on the radio, roll all the windows down, fall into a thousand yard stare while holding a lit cigar in between two fingers, and contemplate how the hell 30 years went by so quickly.
I revived the idea for an interlude for my novel Sid Sanford LIVES! It has a slight twist (which I’m not going to tell you about because I want you to buy the book one day soon. Buy in bulk people), but I imagine it will provide 60-year-old Daniel Ford the same kind of insights that the 30-year-old Daniel Ford found in reading the 15-year-old Daniel Ford’s work.
My full glass of single malt scotch tonight will be raised to Daniel Fords of all ages and times, and to the men and women who ensured he didn’t end up in a raging dumpster fire.
15-year-old-ish Daniel Ford
A Soldier’s Tale
Interlude: Daniel’s Tale
Every turbulent instance in my existence, every bump in the road, every obstacle paled in comparison’s to my grandfather’s take of being heaved into the cold, unloved by his parents; war, man’s only true enemy; and being disunited with the person he loved most in the world. The predicaments that have crossed my path through my 15 years are those that confront every young human being.
Similar to my grandfather, I have tried to live my life without regret. All the mistakes I’ve made, and I’ve made my fair share, haven’t weighed one ounce more on my mind since their occurrences. Each one has shaped and molded me in an improved person. I’m someone who can enjoy the blessed moments that life has to offer. Mistakes belong in the past. However, I would be a hypocrite is I said all mistakes stayed there permanently. There are a select few that momentarily suspended my belief that better days were ahead.
I was born with a reckless heart. I’ve been more than willing to give my affections to the opposite sex on a whim. The two “loves of my life” left me everything but unscathed.
I met Audry my freshman year of high school.
I was totally unaware of the causalities I would endure in the months ahead when I pursued this eager senior girl. The first few weeks of the relationship were some of the greatest moments of my young life. I perceived things with her by my side that I had never considered real. I was on this impregnable pedestal. However, once again, a pretty face devastated me. To put it lightly, she began to feed at other troughs. With the assistance of a few divine companions, I managed to salvage the remainder of my dignity and peace of mind when I ended the relationship.
I think about her every now and again. I actually think more about the poor bastards she’s currently manipulating with her charms. Outside my grandparent’s house, I gazed up at the twinkling beings of light and contemplated that romantic mistake. I knew it wouldn’t haunt me forever.
Melissa didn’t walk into my life. She exploded into it. She was also a senior and we met at a school dance. I was convinced this was my time to find peace and happiness with a member of the opposite sex. However, like most romantics adventures in my young life, everything went terribly awry. Rapidly.
We hadn’t spoken a word to each other in two days. A fight over something trivial caused us to stop communicating. I summoned all my courage and vanquished all my pride to the bottom of the ocean, and went to her house. When I arrived something felt different. There was a different air surrounding her home…it was almost hostile. I will always shiver when I remember her mother’s voice.
“Melissa is gone.”
I didn’t cry. I was too filled with guilt at that moment. It was selfish, but I couldn’t help it. She had unlocked her father’s liquor cabinet and drank as much alcohol as she could. She decided to get into her car and drive through her neighbor’s living room. I piece of the engine pierced her heart. Her mother aged years in the couple of minutes I standing in front of the screen door. My mind and body felt 50 years old.
I couldn’t shake the belief that I was the cause of it all. It was a stupid fight that one of us should have been able to forgive and forget about. What I didn’t know then was that Melissa was an alcoholic. When I found out, I couldn’t believe it. I thought I knew everything about her. She was an expert at hiding it. The guilt dissipated, but I was left with the cold realization I hadn’t been able to clear the air or clear the air the way I wanted to.
I shook myself from the reverie. That was enough living in the past. There were certain times though when I felt the wind blow through my hair and imagined it was her hand running through it. I think in this moment she was nearby, like she promised she would be always. I believed she wouldn’t let me make the same mistakes over and over again, which is comforting to someone who makes a lot of them.
A year after Melissa's death, I attended a poetry slam. I left that event with a friend for life and partner in love. Ashley was patient with me because I was hesitant to begin a new relationship. She was willing to wait and take things slow. It wasn’t until I stumbled across a note Melissa had wrote me at the beginning of our relationship. She wrote that if anything happened to either one of us, the other had to promise to live life to the fullest. It stopped being difficult to enjoy my time with Ashley after that. I’ve been having the time of my life ever since.
Since Ashley and I have been a couple, I’ve become a more outgoing and caring person. I was creating new friendships and memories every day it seems and the hole Melissa left was beginning to fill in. I started writing again. My family took notice.
“Seems to me he finally dug himself out of whatever hole he was in,” I overheard my father tell my mother one day.
Maybe. I wasn’t out of it completely, but that’s the whole purpose of friends. Without my steadfast buddies, who always set aside their own dilemmas to come to my aid, I’d never come close to removing myself from a depressing abyss. I have been blessed with the most caring friends a young man could ask for. Old friends I’ll trust forever and new friends I’ll be thankful for forever have given me new confidence. And of course, I always have my ultimate confidant ; an ally so enduring that not even the grim reaper would dare toil with her. She’s a friend that not every human being is as fortunate as I am to have.
My mother.
I’ve tended to look outside of my family to get inspiration. Looking back, there wasn’t a moment when she wasn’t giving me her wisdom, guidance, and encouragement. Sure, like all mothers, she sometimes came off as overbearing. However, I now realized she was only like that when I needed a kick in the ass. My mother always had free time to help me with the most trivial problems. She puts up with all the mood swings I inherited from her brothers. She’s lucky now that I’m rarely in an unpleasant mood. I’ll never again take her love for granted. I’m blessed for having been raised by this tough Frenchy. I certainly don’t tell her enough that I love her.
A gust of March air stung my face like a hard slap, causing me to return my thoughts to the ailing storyteller. Another source of inspiration was dying like an ordinary man. But I knew better. He wasn’t an ordinary man to me. Ordinary men don’t make you feel like you are on a cloud overlooking the crystal clear images of the past. Ordinary men didn’t hold the emotions of the heart and mind in rapt suspense. No, he was no ordinary man. He was a man of strong beliefs, a man of character, and a man of trust.
