33 Summers
Darren L. Pare
Published by Darren Pare at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Darren Pare
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33 Summers
By
Darren L. Pare
This book is dedicated to my wife, Rebecca, who has encouraged me through this whole process and believed in me from day one. Without her I don’t know if I would have ever finished, it probably would have remained half-written still stuck in my computer. Thank you for the confidence you have shown in me and I hope I make you proud. I love you.
Darren L. Pare
Memories are odd little things. They can be happy or sad and illicit a whole range of emotions. Yet memories are one of the few things that are truly your own, for no two people remember the same event exactly the same way. Your previous experiences have an effect on the way you see and perceive things. The following are my memories, and you can take them for what they are worth, for it is what I have left to offer.
Jack Mathis
March 27, 2008
The first memories I have of my childhood are of me and my father, James Mathis, playing catch in the backyard. I was about 5 years old and even back then I can remember my father telling me that I would someday play for the Yankees. I'm not sure I believed him then or not, but the seed was firmly planted.
"Jackie if you listen to me, we can go all the way to the majors," he would say. "I can see you in pinstripes now."
I would hear that mantra the whole time I was growing up. Even then I could see my mom, Ellen, looking out the window shaking her head and smiling. Over the years that smile would fade away, and so would she.
"Jackie pay attention to what you are doing, not your mom," my father would say. "You always have to keep your eyes on the ball."
I know I didn't realize it then, but my father had a subtle way of brushing my mom to the side and making her insignificant. Unfortunately over the years he would be less subtle.
"You can't worry about the people watching you; they can't help you when you are on the field. Stay focused, that is the only way to succeed and reach our goals," he would say.
I would then pull my hat down so that it almost completely covered my eyes and throw the ball back to him as hard as I could.
"Thata boy, get angry," he would respond.
Anger and I would become real close in the coming years.
I was an only child born August 1, 1971 in the small village of Greenville, Rhode Island. My father always told me he was happy I was a boy, for he had no idea what he would have done with a little girl. He owned a small hardware store in town that did a decent business, but he never seemed happy with his work. He would come home and complain about his customers and how helpless they all were. He was an All-American baseball player at the University of Texas and even played in the low minors in the Giants organization before he blew out his elbow. Although his arm would be physically fine he never seemed to recover from the injury mentally.
My mother was "just a housewife" according to my father. She was a very quiet woman, even with me. She always made sure I was dressed in nice clothes and kept me well fed with home cooked meals, but she always seemed a little distant. That was probably because of my father, who ruled not only with an iron fist but also an iron tongue. If you stepped out of line he always came up with the perfect words to take you down a notch, the kind that stung and buzzed around in your head, like an angry hornet trapped in a glass jar.
The one thing my mother passed on to me was an appreciation of music, something my father said was a complete waste of time, probably because he had no talent in that area. She would often sing when we were alone, never when my father was around. I believe these were her happiest moments. She would sing James Taylor's “You've Got a Friend” to me at night sometimes, telling me the song was number one on the charts when I was born. She sang in her chorus in high school and dreamed of a career in music, a dream that was long dead and buried by the time I came around.
My dad and I would play catch like this all summer long, with my father dispensing his thoughts on various topics as he would do for years to come. It was 1976 and the country was celebrating its bicentennial. My father would tell me what a great country we lived in and how the opportunity was mine, I just had to grab it. I remember seeing the tall ships in New York and the huge fireworks displays across the country. The country seemed to get swept up in a wave of patriotism and my father was not immune.
The wave of good feeling quickly left my father when October arrived. The Yankees were taking on the Reds in the 1976 World Series. My father’s mood often mirrored the fortunes of the Bronx Bombers. The Yankees were in the series for the first time in twelve years so that made my father happy, but the fact that they got swept, sent his emotions to the other end of the spectrum. I can remember him cursing at the Big Red Machine and especially their catcher, Johnny Bench.
1977 for many people will always be remembered as the year Elvis Presley died. Elvis was a shell of his former self at the end but still had amazing star power. Who else could get away with wearing sequined white jumpsuits and still be considered somewhat cool? His career is often looked at as two separate periods, the young Elvis and the old Elvis. The young Elvis had hit after hit on the music charts, starred in movies with the most beautiful women of the era, and was the essence of cool. The old Elvis liked drugs and fried peanut butter sandwiches too much, became a virtual recluse, and was defeated by his demons. Elvis hadn't had a top ten single since "Burning Love" in 1972. In 1977 the airwaves were being dominated by Debby Boone's "You Light up My Life" and Andy Gibb's "I Just Want to Be Your Everything," not quite up to the star wattage of Elvis. Years later, coincidentally, Gibb would lose his battle with drug addiction just like Elvis, so I guess they did have one thing in common.
1977 was memorable to me for three other reasons. That summer was the first time my father allowed me to swing a bat. I loved taking my cuts even though I rarely made contact. Even back then I was swinging from my heels, trying to hit it as far as I could. Sometimes when I did make contact the bat would cause my hands to sting, but that didn't faze me in the least, in fact I kind of liked it. My father always insisted I use a wooden bat. "Just like they do in the majors," he would say. My father would spend hours teaching me my swing, correcting things I was doing wrong. At first he was almost gentle and beamed with pride at his little boy. The problems started when I repeated the same mistake, which was something my father couldn't stand or understand.
"What is wrong with you, are you retarded?" he said more than once to me.
I responded at first with tears, but that just made him angrier.
"Boys don't cry. Crying is for babies and little girls," he said.
I would learn to respond to his insults with anger, which was something he was all too familiar with and strangely respected. I would grip the bat tighter and try to hit it right back at him as hard as I could. The scary part of all this is in a weird way his teaching style seemed to work with me, to some extent. When he insulted me it drove me to try to prove him wrong. He was harsh with me, yet I still craved his approval. I didn't hate him yet; hell I was like a dog just looking for a pat on the head.
The second memory of that summer was my mother's car accident. She was driving down Church St. in town when a cat crossed in front of her and she slammed on her brakes. She missed the cat, but unfortunately an older gentleman behind her didn't notice her braking and hit her from behind. My mother's head snapped forward and hit the steering wheel, leaving a nasty bump on her forehead and injuring her neck. She wore a neck brace for the next three weeks. She never complained about the pain I could see she was in. She still took care of me and the house, yet my father would still find fault and ridicule her.
"I just don't understand why the hell you would slam on your brakes for a worthless cat. I would have just run the damn thing over," he said. "Just another reason why women shouldn't be allowed to drive."
About a week after the accident I found my mother crying. It would be one of the few times in my life that I would see her shed a tear, though my father gave her many reasons to. When I found her I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing and turned around and left the room. Looking back years later I felt like I just left her there to twist in the wind all by her lonesome. I was only six years old at the time, but maybe just a hug would have helped ease some of her pain. This may have been the first time I let my mother down, but it would soon become a ritual.
The third memory was a much happier one, at least for my father. The Yankees were back in the World Series for the second straight year. The Yankees were able to win the series against the Los Angeles Dodgers four games to two. New York finished the series with the help of three home runs from Reggie Jackson in game six. My father was so happy after that game and told me that I could do the same thing one day. It was probably then that I first wanted to be like Reggie. He concentrated on hitting home runs and getting RBI, rather than worrying about his batting average. Reggie struck out a lot, but when he made contact people took notice. Reggie was a star and seemed to be able to do whatever he wanted. Reggie had the power in more ways than one. He was a star and he knew it and he wasn't going to take any grief from anyone. He was going to do it his way or he wasn't doing it at all. Reggie, at this time, was the young Elvis of baseball.
1978 started off with a bang with one of the biggest blizzards that Rhode Island had ever seen. On February 7 and February 8, a nor'easter blasted us with over two feet of snow. The storm took the state by surprise with what looked like just a few flurries on the morning of February 7, turned the state on its ear by mid afternoon. Snow was falling at a rate of three inches an hour at times. Over 3,000 cars were stuck on the highway and the surrounding area in Providence, with many people spending the night in their cars. Others just decided to abandon their cars altogether. Winds reached over 50 miles per hour and caused many to lose power. Over 25 deaths were blamed on the storm and over 30 people were arrested for looting. The storm brought almost all of Rhode Island to a standstill for about a week.
Because of the storm we missed an entire week of school, which I enjoyed. I did start to think that spring was never going to come and the snow would be here until sometime in May. It was about this time that baseball really became my life, and would remain that way for many years. I couldn't wait for spring to come so that I could start throwing the baseball around. Thankfully the rest of the winter went by without much snow.
I played in my first midget league game in 1978. This was the first time that I had anybody besides my father try to coach me. Midget league was the step below Little League that was for kids 7 and 8 years old. In midget league the coaches pitch instead of one of the kids, nowadays the kids would probably hit from a tee. During the games nobody kept score and we played three innings, with each child batting once in each inning, no matter how many outs were made. I still swung like Reggie Jackson, only from the right side, taking big cuts and trying to drive it as far as I could. Just like Jackson I struck out in bunches, especially this year. My coach, Mr. Thomas, tried to get me to change my swing, but as with most of my coaches I wouldn't listen, I just followed my father's advice. I played for the Red Sox that year, which for most kids in Rhode Island would have been great but for a Yankee fan was a cruel twist of fate. I wore the red jersey with Red Sox splashed across the front in cheap blue letters, but I imagined one day I would wear the pinstripes and have a candy bar named after me like Jackson had the Reggie Bar.
My father came to most of my games that year, as he would until around high school when he was asked to stay away. He didn't cheer like the other parents would, but he would let me know if he didn't think I was concentrating hard enough. Many of the kids ran around without much direction, a controlled kind of chaos. In my mind I wondered why these kids didn't take this more seriously. How would they ever hope to play in the majors when they didn't even seem to care? It also bothered me that we didn't keep score, how would you know who won and who lost? Midget league wasn't baseball like my father had taught me, it was baseball light.
My father would drive me home after the games and tell me what I did right, and then in more detail tell me what I did wrong. I would sit there beside him in our Chevy Nova and try to absorb what he was saying, making adjustments in my next game. I wanted to make him happy because it meant less yelling, and if I had a good game it meant ice cream, a small chocolate chip cone at Fred's Ice Cream Shack to be exact.
Baseball seemed to be the only thing my father and I had in common. When we talked it was usually about baseball, but at least we talked about that a lot. I remember one point late in the baseball season when my father told me about California Angel, Lyman Bostock. Bostock was murdered in Gary, Indiana after a game against the White Sox. My father said Bostock was on the verge of being a superstar in baseball, but instead died at the age of 27, with a lifetime batting average of .311. I always wondered what he would have done had a crazy man with a gun not taken his life. It was an early lesson in being careful who you surrounded yourself with and where you hung out.
Just a short time later that season the Yankees won the World Series. They beat the Dodgers again in six games, this time rallying from two games down, to take four straight. Rallying back from a deficit was old hat by now for these Yankees. The Red Sox held a 14 game lead over the Yankees on July 17. In the next ten weeks the Yankees would wind up tying the Red Sox for the division lead. Since they were tied after 162 games they needed a one game playoff to determine the winner. The game would be played at Fenway Park on October 2. The Yankees would battle back from two runs down in the seventh with four runs of their own. Bucky Dent was the hero that day hitting a three run home run that barely cleared the Green Monster, the 37 foot wall in left field at Fenway Park. The Yankees would hold on to win the game 5-4. From that day on, Dent’s name would be a curse word in New England.
The Yankees were led by Ron Guidry in 1978. The lefty pitcher nicknamed Louisiana Lightning, had a record 25-3 and got the win in the playoff game against the Red Sox. Guidry won the American League Cy Young Award that year, and finished second to Jim Rice, of the Red Sox, in the American League Most Valuable Player Award voting. My father and I would talk for years about Guidry's 1978 season; my father believed it just may have been the best pitching season of all time. Even though I was a hitter at heart, my father would teach me to respect the art of pitching.
I relied on school and my mother to teach me about everything else in life. My mom and I talked a little about the Jonestown tragedy when it happened. Jonestown was built as an isolated religious community by Jim Jones and his followers in Guyana, South America. They were on the run from the United States government for tax evasion. People who escaped from the community later told of beatings, murders, and a planned mass suicide. United States Congressman Leo Ryan led a fact finding mission down to Guyana. As Ryan was leaving he was murdered by members of Jonestown. Later that day Jim Jones started the mass murder-suicide that claimed the lives of over 900 members, that included people drinking cyanide laced Flavor-Ade. My mother did the best job she could explaining the events that took place to me, though I'm not sure anyone could ever really explain Jim Jones. My mother rarely sugar-coated things, but rather gave me the facts and answered the questions I might have as straightforwardly as possible. I started to realize that some people's actions just didn't make any sense and that some people are just plain evil, yet even at an early age I wanted to figure people out.
My mother had a pretty quiet year, my father doing a pretty good job keeping his anger in check. We listened to the radio together quite a bit in 1978, and the airwaves belonged to the Bee Gees. The soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever, which prominently featured the Bee Gees, was all the rage. "Stayin' Alive," "Night Fever," and "How Deep is Your Love," were all chart toppers for the Bee Gees. Disco was in full swing and so were the ugly clothes that went along with it. I was dressed in flared pants and button down shirts with huge collars, what was my mother thinking. In later years when I heard a Bee Gees song I would think of these times and feel a tiny smile creep across my face.
1979 was a horrible year for my family. On January 17 my father's hardware store burned down and was a complete loss. On the good side the store was completely insured and was rebuilt in about seven months. The bad part was that for most of those seven months my father was home, with little to do to keep him occupied. My father being around the house was like an innocent person being sentenced to prison for my mother. My father played the part of the warden, constantly criticizing how she did things and how she could get more things done if she was more efficient. The ironic part of all of this was seeing my father give my mother advice on housework, though I had never seen him lift a finger to help out. Any little crisis that happened during this time was blown out of proportion by my father and my mother was always to blame. I remember the washing machine overflowed one time and my father hit the roof. He started yelling at my mother, "You idiot you put too much clothing in here and now all this water is going to ruin the floor." My mother had been using this washer for over seven years, without a hint of a problem, and all of the sudden she forgot how to use it? It seemed clear to even my eight year old mind that it just wasn't the case. My mother just cleaned up the mess without a word or a tear, as she usually did.
I wasn't helping the situation at home either. I was in third grade and I was starting to struggle in school, more specifically I was having trouble with math. I never really cared for math, unless it had to do with baseball statistics, and once I started to struggle I started to act out. Although I am not proud of the fact, if things didn't come easy to me I usually chose to quit rather than put in the hard work, the only exception was baseball. The fact that I had basically quit math did not sit well with the nuns at my catholic school. Sister Catherine, my third grade teacher, tried hard to give me the kick in the ass that I needed, but I definitely got my father's stubborn streak and rebuffed her efforts. She kindly offered to tutor me after school, but I already was sick of school so I wasn't keen on the idea of signing up for more. Then the school got my parents involved and I quickly changed my mind or more accurately had it changed for me. This would be the first time I can remember my father hitting me, but it wouldn't be the last. I knew I was in trouble from the moment I got home from school and my father said he wanted to talk to me.
"Jackie, Sister Catherine called me today and said that you are failing in math. What do you have to say for yourself?" he said.
Although he asked me what I had to say for myself he really wasn't looking for a response. He cut me off as soon as I started talking, though that may have been a blessing for I had nothing for an answer.
"Jackie I am not going to put up with this crap," he yelled at me. "You will do the work that is asked of you, without any questions. You will respect your teachers and shut your mouth. If you need help you can go see your mother that is what she is here for."
"And just to make sure you understand me," my father at this time started to take off his belt. "Come here," he growled. He bent me over his knee and smacked my butt five times with the belt. Tears came to my eyes, but I would not cry, I was trying my mother's way of dealing with my father. As it was happening all I could think was how much it hurt, and yet thank God for pants because at least that cushioned the blow a little bit. My father only said one more word to me that night, as he pointed to the stairs that led to my room, "March." I went up to my room and sniffled on my bed for awhile. Neither my father nor my mother came up to see me that night, as I went without supper and tried to sleep. I could hear my parents arguing a little later, though I could not make out what they were saying. I am pretty sure they were fighting about me.
The rest of the school year I stayed pretty much on track. Math was still a giant pain, but I plowed through the best I could. I stayed after school to work with Sister Catherine and she helped me out as much as she could. I stayed away from home as much as possible, which was strange because I hated school too. I really didn't have any friends, so I couldn't hide out at their house.
Spring arrived and my father wanted to start working on baseball drills with me. I was still holding a grudge about being belted, so I lied and said I had homework to do and I stayed up in my room. This would go on for another couple of weeks, before I broke down. I was trying to hurt my father, but my love of baseball broke my spirit just the way my father wanted it to.
"We've got a couple of weeks to make up for Jackie, so that means double the work," my father said before we started our first baseball lesson of the year. "And just remember Jackie, I'm always right."
In 1979 the United States was experiencing our second energy crisis in seven years. The 1979 crisis was brought about by production issues in Iran due to a revolution, which brought the Ayatollah Khomeini to power. This disruption led to shortages, high prices, and long fuel lines at stations. My father would complain mightily about the rise in gas prices, he was sure it was a conspiracy by the oil companies to gouge American consumers. It was just another thing to light his already short fuse.
I was now in my second year of midget league and was getting better game by game. With my father not working, we worked day and night on infield drills and my swing. I was easily the best and most serious player on my team. I played second base most of the time and occasionally played third base, my true love. By the end of the season I was scorching the ball unlike any other eight year old in the league. The kids would automatically back up when they saw me approach the plate, and at that age it was the ultimate form of respect. My dad and I would go out for ice cream at Fred's so often that year that I got sick of chocolate chip and switched to strawberry.
On August 2 of 1979, one day after my eighth birthday, Yankee fans across the nation, including my father, were rocked by the news that Yankee captain Thurman Munson died in a plane crash. Munson was at the controls of a twin-engine Cessna practicing take offs and landings. In his third practice run the plane missed the runway and crashed killing Munson and injuring two passengers.
I remember watching my father as the special report broke the news of the Munson's death. He stared blankly at the television long after the report finished and didn't say a word. As seriously as my father took baseball this was like losing part of his family, if he had cared about his family. He didn't say much that night and I didn't try to engage him in conversation.
In the next few days my father and I would talk about how much Munson meant to the Yankees. My father would tell how Munson won the Rookie of the Year Award in 1970 and the American league Most Valuable Player Award in 1976.
"It was more than the awards, Jackie, Thurman was the heart and soul of the Yankees, their leader. He played the game the right way, giving it all he had all the time," my father said in an unusually quiet way. "He wouldn't take any crap from anyone."
My father was happy when he heard that Yankee owner, George Steinbrenner, announced that Munson's uniform number 15 would be retired by the Yankees.
The Yankees would finish the year in fourth place 13 1/2 games behind the Baltimore Orioles. The Orioles would eventually go on to face the Pittsburgh Pirates in the World Series. The Pirates used the Sister Sledge song "We Are Family" as an anthem that was embraced by the fans. I heard "We Are Family" almost everywhere I went and grew to hate the song and the Pirates.
The Orioles jumped to a three games to one lead before the Pirates would come roaring back. The Pirates, led by Willie Stargell's three home runs, would win the last three games to close out the series. I remember waiting for the Orioles to do something to take the series, yet they always found a way to come up just short. The 1979 Pirates became the first team I really disliked. I hated their ugly black and yellow uniforms, which seemed to change every game like this was some kind of horrible fashion show. I disliked Willie Stargell because he just seemed old and fat to me. I didn't like Dave Parker either because he seemed so cocky. What I liked least of all though was Kent Tekulve and his goofy glasses and even goofier side arm delivery. It would become clear to me later in life why I hated Tekulve so much, because I never would have much success against guys who pitched side armed.
Everything in the world seemed to go a little crazy in 1980. Even as a nine year old kid I realized that there was more around me than just Rhode Island and the United States. Every night on the news you would see updates on the hostages in Iran, the most vivid memory being seeing them blindfolded and paraded in front of the media. The hostages were abducted on November 4, 1979, from the American embassy in Iran. Originally 66 people were captured, with 13 released in the middle of November 1979 and 1 more set free in July, 1980. It would be 444 days before the release of the 52 remaining hostages was negotiated. I remember the paper in my hometown kept count of the days on the front page, with a small American flag beside the number. I didn't quite understand what was going on, though we discussed it a bit in school, I just knew that these people hated us for some reason.
The Iranians weren't alone in their hate for us; in fact there was a country that probably hated us more, the Soviet Union. 1980 was the first time I can remember my father watching any other sport besides baseball, as he watched the United States hockey team beat the Soviets in the Olympics. My father was full of patriotism at this point and full of hate for "those commie bastards," as he put it. It was one of the greatest upsets in sports history when the U.S. won the game 4-3. My father was pumping his fist and had a huge smile on his face when the clock ticked down to zeros and Al Michaels spouted his infamous "Do you believe in miracles, yes."
With so much going on around me and around the world, it was about this time that I really started paying attention to the news. I would read the newspaper and watch the news on TV as I got ready for school in the morning. It wasn't like I had to rush to school and play with my friends, because I just didn't have any. It was also a way to escape what was going on in my own house. My father throwing insults at my mother for the smallest mistakes, or what he perceived to be mistakes. I started comparing my father to the volcano, Mt St. Helens in Washington, which erupted in May. Though, unlike Mt St. Helens, my father's eruptions rarely came with any warning signs. Of course I kept those thoughts inside my head, because if my father heard about it another of his eruptions wouldn't be far behind.
I started my first year of Little League in May on the Stop & Shop team; the local grocery store sponsored the team. I noticed quickly how much bigger the 11 and 12 year olds were. My father had little sympathy for my worries.
"You can't let them know you are intimated by them or they will own you Jackie," he would say. "The ball may be coming in faster than before, but you just need to concentrate. The road to the big leagues isn't easy, but you can make our dream come true. Now get in there and show them what a future major leaguer looks like."
I was a complete hack all year long striking out just about every time at the plate, the only good thing was I went down swinging. I do remember driving in the winning run in our second to last game with a double in the left centerfield gap. I had a huge smile on my face as my Stop & Shop teammates swarmed me and patted me on the back. It was one of the happiest moments in my life and I wanted to feel that feeling again and again. I for the first time felt like part of the team and craved their approval as well as my father's. My father actually gave me a hug after that game and it felt so unnatural for the both of us that it lasted only a second. He did chat my ear off the whole way home talking about how I finally reached the next step.
"That swing was just plain perfect Jackie. That is the swing you need to have all the time. Next year we are going to own this league," he boasted. "All the work we put in Jackie is for times like today. One step closer to the big leagues boy, one step closer."
My father would take me to my first Pawtucket Red Sox game in late August. The Paw Sox, as they were known locally, were playing against the Yankees AAA minor league team, the Columbus Clippers. I was as excited as could be to see my first pro baseball game, but the game was a bit of a disappointment. The final score was 1-0, with the Red Sox winning. The fact that the Red Sox won was bad enough, but that I had to watch a pitching duel didn't sit well with the hitter in me. Future major leaguer Bobby Ojeda baffled the Clipper hitters all night long and the Clipper’s Greg Cochran matched him with zeros on the scoreboard. That is until the eighth inning when a walk and then an error by leftfielder Jim Nettles allowed the only run of the night to score. Ojeda struck out all three batters in the top of the ninth and the game was over.
On the ride home my father and I talked about the game.
"Well that Ojeda really had his stuff working tonight," my father said.
"I just wish we could have seen one home run," I responded.
"That is one thing about baseball Jackie, you never know what you are going to see from one night to another," he said.
"When can we go see a major league game," I asked.
"Well maybe we can try to catch one at Fenway Park next year," he said.
That last sentence kept my fire stoked for a whole year as I just couldn't wait to go see a big league game. I would do whatever it took to get my father to bring me to Fenway. It may have been the hated Red Sox, but I didn't care I just wanted to feel what it was like to be in a big league park.
Even the baseball world seemed to be turned on its ear in 1980. The year belonged to Cleveland Indians rookie Joe Charboneau; though it didn't start off well for him. In March Charboneau was attacked by an autograph seeking fan in Mexico City with a pen, causing Charboneau to miss the start of the regular season. He would return to hit 23 home runs and drive in 87 runs and be named the American League Rookie of the Year. Charboneau was probably known more for his eccentric ways, including dying his hair different colors and opening bottles with his eye socket. Charboneau would be just a one year wonder though, hitting just 6 more home runs the rest of his career.
The baseball world was stunned when Houston Astros pitcher J.R. Richard suffered a stroke in July. Richard was a strikeout machine and won 18 games in each of the three previous seasons. After the stroke Richard never pitched in the majors again. It struck me how a man that seemed so healthy could be cut down in his prime with little to no warning.
The playoffs that year had my Yankees being swept by the Kansas City Royals in the American League Championship Series. The Royals would take on the Philadelphia Phillies in the World Series. The Phillies would win the series in six games behind the pitching of Steve Carlton and the hitting of Mike Schmidt. It was the second year in a row that the Yankees would disappoint me and my father. My father shouted about the Yankees lack of effort and he had little interest in watching the World Series, though we would anyway.
The year would end with Ronald Reagan being elected president in November and with John Lennon being shot and killed in front of his apartment building in New York in December. The Reagan election made my father happy as he said often that Jimmy Carter was weak and needed to be replaced. The Lennon shooting touched my mother as she said his music spoke to her. She would listen to his music, when my father wasn't around, for months afterwards. She would sing softly to herself and stare out the window. I would just watch her as she looked sad, but strangely at peace, a look she never had when my father was around. On the radio Kool and the Gang were urging us to celebrate good times with their hit "Celebration", but good times seemed hard to find.
I will always remember 1981 as the year I had to go to my first funeral. My grandmother on my father's side passed away in January of that year after a brief battle with pancreatic cancer. My father and grandmother weren't close; in fact it had been three years since I had seen her. She lived in Storrs, Connecticut which wasn't that far from our home in Rhode Island, slightly over an hour by car. This particular drive to Storrs was a quiet one with no radio and little conversation.
We arrived at my grandparent’s house and were greeted with half-hearted hugs by uncles and aunts I couldn’t remember meeting before. It was a bit odd for me to receive more hugs in the span of five minutes than I had in the last year. After about ten minutes I was looking for a place to hide, already tiring of people saying how much I had grown since they last saw me.
My father would pull me aside and bring me to see my grandfather. When my father and grandfather shook hands I could feel the tension, though I didn't know what the cause of it was. They didn't talk, except for inane chit chat about the weather. My grandfather didn't even acknowledge me; he seemed like a gruff man that had little tolerance for children. I stayed by my father's side not saying a word or moving a muscle. The two men stood side by side for twenty minutes without looking at each other. My grandfather made the obligatory offer for us to stay at the house, but thankfully my father lied and said we already had a hotel room set up. The whole room was quiet, an odd kind of quiet that made me uncomfortable.
My father had two sisters and one brother, none of them had a close relationship with one another. The whole family seemed to be there only because my grandmother died and they wouldn't return until another funeral rolled around. I wasn't even sure if they were to pass on the street that they would bother to say hello to one another.
The funeral was the next day and it was the first time I had seen a dead body. It really didn't freak me out, she seemed peaceful enough. I actually was more afraid of the living than the dead. The funeral was short with the minister saying a few nondescript words. There would be no loving eulogy saying how much she would be missed. No tears were shed, not a sniffle was heard. I personally felt empty inside, not quite sure what I should be feeling for this woman. The only memory I had of her was the bowl of butterscotch candies she had in her kitchen and that was only because I hated butterscotch so much.
We quickly packed and left soon after the funeral, my father not even saying goodbye to my grandfather. There would be even less conversation on the way home than on the way to my grandparent’s house.
Death, or at least near death, would dominate the news as assassination attempts would take place on both the president and the pope. President Ronald Reagan was in office less than three months when on March 30, John Hinckley, Jr. took six shots at him, hitting him on his left side with the sixth shot. The bullet wound up puncturing the president's lung and required emergency surgery. The president pulled through of course and returned to work in less than a month.
Pope John Paul II would have an even worse scare on May 13. A Turkish gunman shot the pope four times as he arrived at St. Peter's Square in Vatican City. The pope was in critical condition when he arrived at the hospital, but survived. Once again I couldn't wrap my head around the actions of some of the people; the world to me was such a confusing yet intriguing place.
1981 was also the year that my mother broke her left arm. She would have to wear a cast for four weeks, which made her day to day chores difficult. My mother said she broke her arm when she fell down the stairs. Unlike the time when my mother hurt her neck in a car crash my father was almost kind to her. He helped her with a few of the chores and assigned me to dish duty. He asked her a few times how she was doing, which he never had done before.
When my father was at work and I was helping my mom with things around the house we would have the radio on. The music in 1981 was nothing less than horrible, but I still think of my mother anytime I should stumble upon “Bette Davis Eyes” or “Jessie’s Girl” on the radio.
As for my baseball life the second year of Little League was much better than the first. I played third base most of the year, which was my favorite position and I also collected my fair share of hits. My biggest hit though was a hit to the head I took from a Jeremy Collins pitch. I saw the pitch coming at me and tried to back away, but I actually wound up backing into the pitch taking it right below my left eye. It hurt like nothing I had ever felt before and I was doing my best not to cry, but I lost that battle. My coach and the umpires quickly gathered around me to see if I was alright, while my father came over encouraging me to be tough and shake it off. I wound up having to go to the hospital and was left with a nasty black eye and blurred vision for a couple of days. I had to miss the next three games, which all ended up as losses for my team. My Stop & Shop team would wind up missing our league playoffs by one game.
The Pawtucket Red Sox gained a bit of fame in 1981 earning the distinction of playing in the longest professional baseball game, 33 innings. The Paw Sox were playing the Rochester Red Wings on April 19, a cold and windy night. Many of the players noted that balls that would have normally been home runs were blown back and wound up as easy outs. The game, which started at 8:00 that night and would continue until 3:45 the next morning, wound up being suspended after 32 innings. The game was picked up on June 23, and lasted less than 20 minutes, with Pawtucket winning 3-2 on a single by Dave Koza. The game was the talk of Rhode Island and would be the talk of the baseball world because Major League Baseball was on strike when the game resumed.
My father came through on his promise to get us tickets for a Red Sox game. He showed me the tickets and I held them in my hand like they were the Holy Grail. The tickets were for a game against the Chicago White Sox on August 13 and I circled that date on my calendar. The baseball strike, which began on June 12, looked like it might take away my chance to go to Fenway. I watched the news all summer longing to hear them tell me that the strike was over. Finally on July 31, one day before my birthday, I received an early present when the strike came to a conclusion.
August 13 finally arrived and my father and I packed up for our trip to Boston. It would take about an hour to get there and I had a smile on my face the whole time. We arrived at Fenway Park and made our way to our seats along the third base line. I looked in awe at the Green Monster in left field. It was a beautiful sunny day, but it could have been pouring rain, as long as they played I didn't care. As a Yankee fan I was definitely in the minority when I cheered on the White Sox. Unlike the Paw Sox game I attended the year before this one had plenty of offense. The Red Sox jumped all over White Sox starting pitcher Reggie Patterson for six runs and eventually won the game 9-6. Carl Yastrzemski hit a home run for the Red Sox, while Rhode Island born, Billy Almon and Harold Baines hit homers for the White Sox. On the way home my father and I talked the whole time about the game. It was one of the few times we both were truly happy. It didn't matter that the Red Sox won, we just enjoyed the experience of Major League Baseball.
Our day at Fenway Park would wind up being the highlight of the baseball season for my father and me, and maybe the highlight of our relationship. The Yankees made the World Series but wound up losing to the hated Los Angeles Dodgers in six games. Steve Garvey and Pedro Guerrero were the hitting stars for the Dodgers and I disliked both of them for years to come. I saved most of my anger for two Yankees who my father said “didn’t get the job done when the pressure was on,” Dave Winfield and George Frazier. Winfield, who had signed a huge free agent contract earlier in the year, had just one hit in 22 at bats. Winfield was labeled Mr. May by Yankees owner George Steinbrenner, a play on the title Mr. October given to Reggie Jackson after his clutch performance in past World Series. Frazier was a relief pitcher for the Yankees who would wind up losing three of the four games in the series. Frazier pitched less than four innings in the series, yet he gave up seven runs. As bad as losing the series was worse times were ahead for the Yankees.
1982 was kind of a quiet year for my family. We didn’t have any funerals, weddings, or serious injuries. I still struggled with my schoolwork, but I kept my troubles to myself and did the best I could. Math was still a giant pain, but I tried my best to put everything in a baseball context and that seemed to keep me interested. My father didn’t want to hear about my troubles in school, he would just respond “put your nose to the grindstone” or “don’t be afraid of a little hard work” or some other cliché that would get me mad more than anything.
My Little League season went real well as our Stop & Shop team went to the playoffs and lost in the championship game. I had twenty-one runs batted in during our fifteen game season. I was hitting third or fourth all season long and only seemed to come out of the game during blowouts. I heard some of my teammate’s parents complaining that I played too much and how their child should be allowed to play more. When I told my father about what I had heard he just smiled a big smile and told me to keep up the hard work. Our team won 13 games and we were the number one seed in the league’s four team playoff system.
The playoffs were a bit of a different story though. We won the first game against the A & W Root Beer Stand team, 3-2, despite my error and me going hitless in my four times at the plate. We weren’t as lucky two days later against the number two seed, Del’s Frozen Lemonade. We were down 5-4 going into the bottom of the sixth inning. We had runners on first and second with two outs when I came to the plate. I hadn’t had a hit in four previous plate appearances, but I did manage two walks. I didn’t have butterflies in my stomach; I had Harlequin Ducks.
I stared right at out at the pitcher, Pete Cutler, and tried to look as intimidating as an eleven year old can. Cutler just looked right through me. I took a couple of practice swings and then watched as the first pitch crossed the plate, strike one. I didn’t move from my spot, I’m not even sure if I breathed, as I watched strike two cross the plate. I took a deep breath and fidgeted in the box trying to firmly planting my feet. I saw the pitch coming in and swung from my heels harder than I had ever swung in my life. There was one small problem the ball was three feet outside and I had struck out, ending the game. I stood in the batter’s box as the Del’s team piled on top of the pitcher, I couldn’t make myself move. My coach was hollering at me to lineup for the postgame handshake and finally I moved. I was able to hold back the tears, but I felt completely empty inside. As usual my father didn’t help, thinking he was funny by calling me Jackie Winfield for the better part of a year. “You let down your team in the clutch just like Dave Winfield too bad you don’t have the money he has,” my father said as he laughed.
In the fall I started my first year of junior high school. It was odd getting used to a new school, but it wasn’t like I had so many fond memories at my old catholic school. Public school was a new world with more freedom, though I would stay imprisoned by my crippling shyness. I did start to notice girls more, but they had no reason to notice me for I barely spoke two words all day long. I had high hopes of things changing when I started, but when the time came to introduce myself to people; I usually just chose to walk away.
School wasn’t all bad though, I enjoyed my history class with Mr. Demmons. Three things kept my interest in his class. First Mr. Demmons seemed to be on a constant caffeine high, he had so much energy it rubbed off on his students, and he seemed to really enjoy teaching. Second we would do current events on Fridays, so all my television news watching would come in handy. But the most important reason of all was that Jessica Wilson was in the same class. Jessica and I didn’t talk a lot, but she always said hi to me, which is more than anyone else did. She was pretty and nice, which in the world of junior high school is a rare combination. I would attend my first school dance because of Jessica. I stood there all alone listening to “I Love Rock & Roll” and “Mickey”, trying to build up the courage to go ask Jessica to dance. I would start walking towards her and then find some silly reason not to ask her, like she was talking to her friends or I didn’t like the song that was playing. Before I knew it the dance would be over and I would be back in my bedroom wondering what it would have been like to dance with Jessica. It would be the first of many times I would play this game with myself, and somehow I always came out the loser.
My obsession with the news continued to grow as I continued to try to understand how people’s minds worked. The big news story I remember from 1982 was the cyanide laced Tylenol capsules in the Chicago area. Seven people died after taking Tylenol capsules that were tampered with at several Chicago area stores. I never understood why someone would choose to kill people this way. Killing people in general is sick and twisted, but what perverse pleasure can be taken from killing random people. The only reason I could come up with in my 11 year old mind is that someone was really angry with the makers of Tylenol and wanted to hurt the company’s public image, but since the case was never solved we can’t ask the person why they did it. I soon realized that trying to understand people’s behavior is often just fighting another losing battle, heck I often couldn’t understand my own behavior.
The world of baseball was quite disappointing for me in 1982. First in January my baseball idol, Reggie Jackson, signed with the California Angels, ending his run with my beloved Yankees. Second the Yankees finished the season in fifth place in the American League East. With my Yankees done for the year I started rooting for the Milwaukee Brewers in the playoffs. The Brewers were power hitting bunch lead by Cecil Cooper, Robin Yount, Ben Oglivie, and Gorman Thomas. Thomas was my favorite of the bunch because he would swing for the fences and didn’t seem to care a bit about his batting average. Thomas slugged 39 home runs that season and drove in 112 runs, yet only hit for an average of .245.
The Brewers met Reggie’s new team the Angels in the American League Championship Series. This gave me another reason to root for the Brewers, for I hadn’t forgiven Jackson for leaving the Yankees. The Brewers would lose the first two games of the best of five series, but come storming back and win the next three games. Mr. October failed to show his usual prowess in these playoffs managing only two hits in 18 at bats. The Brewers would face the St. Louis Cardinals in the World Series. Milwaukee and St. Louis were polar opposites offensively. The Brewers would crush home runs earning the nickname Harvey’s Wallbangers, partly after their manager Harvey Kuenn. The Cardinals only had two players with more than ten home runs and depended on speed, singles and doubles to manufacture runs. The Cardinals would win the series 4-3 making the 1982 baseball season a complete disappointment for me.
As uneventful as 1982 may have been for my family 1983 was a completely different story. I could never forget the things that took place that year.
School was more of the same as I barely managed Cs on my report card. I would try out for the Vincent J. Gallagher Middle School baseball team in the spring. It was no secret that Coach Red Milligan never selected sixth graders for his team, yet I still tried. After tryouts were over I was sure that I would make the team because in batting practice I crushed the ball to all fields, even smoking one of the twelve pitches I saw over the centerfield fence. The names of the players that made the team would be posted outside the gym the next day. That night I couldn’t sleep, all I could think of was showing everyone that a sixth grader could make the team. The next morning I ran to the gym and looked at the list that was posted and I searched up and down, but I did not find my name. I was devastated and I wanted to talk to Coach Milligan, but not by myself. I talked to my father that night and he told me that maybe I just wasn’t good enough yet to make the team and I probably needed to work harder. I didn’t know what to say to my dad, I was devastated for the second time that day. I went up to my room and stewed and wondered if my father let me down or was he right that I needed to work harder.