Mr. G. and the Boys of Summer

From the day winter begins, I start counting down the days for it to end. The first milestone is always the annual Boston Baseball Writer’s dinner in January. It is always a good time. We attended for several years but since the price increased and our financial situation changed, we have chosen not to go. The next big milestone is the beginning of spring training. Once the games in Fort Meyers begin, it feels like we just may make it through another cold and dreary winter season. This one has been particularly brutal.

I have loved baseball for almost as long as I can remember. There was a time that I had no clue about the game and I could have cared less. That all changed when my fifth grade teacher (who really intimidated me) basically embarrassed me on a daily basis starkly pointing out my lack of knowledge and understanding of the game in front of the boys in my class by pummeling me daily with questions I couldn’t answer. I was one of those kids that normally became emotionally crushed when ridiculed in front of her peers. I wanted the humiliation to end and the only way I knew was to learn – to be able to answer Mr. Gearty’s incessant baseball questions.

And learn I did, until the game became one of my greatest passions. Lucky for me, the Red Sox had a magical season that year. After 1967 I attended day games at Fenway Park regularly, sitting in the bleachers and scoring from the first pitch to the last. I normally sat in the same general admission spot and was lucky that, after a while, many of the pitchers knew I would be there and would say hello. I was occasionally sent on an errand or two to buy a fudgesicle for one of the guys.

I was mesmerized by the game. I loved going alone, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells all around me. Sometimes a friend would join me, but not often. And that was just fine by me. I even had a few adventures – like in 1969 when I boarded the Detroit Tigers bus with hall of famer Al Kaline looking for catcher Bill Freehan of the Tigers who I loved to watch. When I look back I realize how nuts that was. But, at the time, I was so innocent and had no clue that it was really something very out of the ordinary.

For several years in the 70’s I enjoyed watching Dwight “Dewey” Evans and he became my favorite player. Dewey was another gentleman who was just magic in right field. He was not a bad hitter either. He had two sons afflicted with elephant man’s disease. His son Tim suffered from large growths all over his face and was constantly having surgeries. I dont think his son Justin had it as bad but I remember him having growths on his spine. Now having a handicapped child or a child with a significant illness must be difficult for any person but for an elite athlete it has to be particularly tough. And he had two sons that endured surgery after surgery. Dewey always seemed to be such an incredible dad, so supportive and loving of his sons. How he was able to excel in his career with all the worries at home is pretty amazing. As far as I know he is still married to the same person. Although he never made a big deal of it, he was extremely supportive of neurofibromatosis.

Dewey played with the Sox for a long time and that was really cool. In the 80’s and 90’s the focus of my life changed. I was a mom and baseball took a back seat to my passion for my family. I still loved the Sox but really did not have time to watch many games any longer. Around 2002 I started watching again in earnest and was rewarded with the incredible World Series Championship in 2004. It was the culmination of so many years of excitement and heartache.

How lucky I have been to be a Boston fan. Although fifth grade was hard, learning about baseball was a victory for me and I suddenly felt proud of my knowledge of the game. So I guess I owe it all to Mr. Gearty. By sixth grade he knew he had created a monster and he was the one who taught me how to score the games. I went to see him often after school just to talk about the game. It made me happy and it also made me pretty popular around the sixth grade boys!

Truck Day Musings……..

 Today was “truck day” – the Red Sox equipment truck began its journey from Fenway Park for the nearly 1,500-mile trip to the Sox Spring Training home in Fort Myers, Florida. Only in Boston would “truck day” be an event!! It is exciting for me that spring training will soon be here. And today got me thinking about baseball in general and the players that have touched my life in a special way.

Although I have been an avid baseball fan for more than forty years, I have never been particularly impressed with most athletes and jocks. I know that it takes a great deal of dedication and perseverance to become great at a sport. But so many become so full of themselves, filled with a sense of entitlement and perception of being far more important than they really are. They often lose touch with who they are and where they came from. It is not really their fault. After all, we create them, often turning a blind eye as they receive perks and privileges through our educational system and in everyday life. They earn exorbitant salaries and are surrounded by many young women and girls whose judgment disappears in their mere presence.

My first real experience witnessing this almost godlike treatment of an athlete was in high school where Brian “Dukie” Walsh was touted by so many locals as the athlete with the best chance of making it to the NHL. This was during the Bobby Orr era and hockey insanity was alive and well in Boston. Dukie was a year older than me but wound up in a few of my classes. He even stole my Religion test right off my desk to copy my answers! I remember him talking about how his grades were inflated so that he would be accepted to an elite school with a top hockey program. Unfortunately for Dukie, injuries prevented him from attaining his dream, but it was an eye-opening experience to see how he was treated compared with everyone else.

Over the years I have enjoyed watching various athletes but have admired very few. Sure there were those that I just enjoyed watching for whatever the reason (not necessarily because they were the best) - Gary Waslewski, Gary Allenson, Butch Hobson, Rick Burleson and Ed Westfall to name a few. But there are only a few players that I can really say made me stand up and take notice and that I can honestly say I truly respected both as players and men. I am sure there are hundreds of athletes that have made a difference but these are the ones that have touched my heart. The first one was known as the “gentle giant.” The others I will include in future writings.

Gentleman Jim was handsome, 6’ 5” and mild-mannered. When interviewed he was rather quiet and clearly intelligent, a graduate of Stanford University. He loved baseball but his dream was to study medicine or dentistry. He won the Cy Young Award in 1967 and I loved watching him pitch (or hearing him pitch with my radio tucked under my pillow since only weekend games were televised). I was only ten and just beginning my love of baseball. While lots of kids loved Yaz and Tony C, for me there was something very special about Jim Lonborg. He embraced charitable and humanitarian causes quietly and with no fanfare. He adopted several Vietnamese children and his priorities were all in the right place. After a skiing accident he was never the same pitcher but he was definitely the first athlete I can honestly say that I adored. I was so nervous when I accidently met him that I remember scaring the crap out of him when I came up from behind him! He shook my hand and I remember never wanting to wash it again! After retiring, Jim Lonborg graduated from Tufts Dental School and is still a dentist. It is very cool that he was able to achieve two dreams – both a baseball and dental career.

As this is becoming very lengthy, I will continue this post on another day. Happy Truck Day Red Sox Nation!!!!

Is it Spring Yet?

The winter of 2011 has been, to say the least, awful. The number of plowable storms in such a short period of time is pretty astounding. I have never been one to even consider moving to a warmer climate in my senior years, but this year just truly makes me wonder.

It is not that I hate winter in New England. I just hate the hassles of travel. The commute to work can be pretty atrocious in normal conditions. Today’s travel ordeal resulted in a first for me – requiring all four subway lines to reach my destination. It was an adventure I could live happily without.

First, the Downeaster Amtrak train broke down just in front of North Station. After waiting at a dead stop for twenty extra minutes with the platform within reaching distance of my outstretched hand, I trudged to the Orange Line. At State our subway abruptly jerked to a halt - medical emergency at Downtown Crossing. So, off I went, to the Blue Line to go backwards to Government Center to intersect with the Green Line.  Once on the Green Line, I traveled to Park Street to get to the Red Line.  Red Line to North Quincy to meet the shuttle for work. Ten minutes shy of three hours since I left home, I was plugging in my laptop at my desk.

It felt as if I had just arrived when I was putting my coat on to go home. I reached the front door of my building just to watch the shuttle pull away. When I finally arrived at North Quincy station, luck repeated itself as I watched the inbound train close its doors just as I reached the platform. After fifteen minutes I was on my journey again to Downtown Crossing. As I rode the escalator to the Orange Line I could hear the P-A system - disabled train at Sullivan Square. Hundreds of people like sardines on the platform and I now had twenty-five minutes to get to North Station for the Downeaster.

Over the years I have become very skilled at picking the right spot to stand while waiting for the subway’s arrival. After about ten minutes, the announcement that the train was approaching created a visual that looked like hundreds of people on the starting line waiting for the shot to sprint. As the train pulled into the station it was clear that there was not a square inch remaining to put a small child in, let alone dozens of travel-weary adults carrying all manner of bags and suitcases. No matter what I was getting on that train!

As luck would have it (as much luck as I could muster today at least), my position was perfect, so perfect that a total of ONE person got on the train – me!! When I reached North Station I raced through the thousands of college students arriving for the Beanpot. With two minutes to spare, I jumped on the Downeaster and plopped down on an empty seat. Yes, I made it!!

Which is where I now compose this entry. As I open the laptop and start to type the train pulls away. Bravo!! Finally heading home! “Ladies and gentlemen, there is a signal problem in Wilmington and our train will be delayed.” Could I have expected any less? At some point I will arrive home this evening. And the best part is that I get to do this again very soon.