Coach

My son, Bret, made being a coach in youth sports organizations a lot easier for me.  First, because he was on my team, he made the team automatically better, giving me fewer things I had to do.  Second, he was like having an assistant coach out on the baseball field/basketball court.

At first, I didn’t want to be a coach.  It had been too easy with my daughter, Rachel, and her gymnastics.  I only had to drive her to practice, drive her to away meets, and sell bagels and coffee at home competitions.  But then one day while I was minding my own business, I was approached by another father who had been strong-armed into volunteering to be a coach.  He had agreed only if another father (me) would assist him.  I was gently persuaded.

But, then I kind of liked being a coach.  I liked the fact I could give Bret perks such as extra playing time (within the rules) and playing any position he wanted, like catcher.  I liked teaching young kids how to play the game, especially baseball.  Basketball has always been a little foreign to me, especially when it came to strategy.  But, I learned as I went along.  I also liked the cachet of being a coach, even if it was as a volunteer in youth sports.  I was in the inner circle of power, sort of.  I discovered there is an inner circle, and then another more powerful circle inside (sort of like Animal Farm).  I was not invited into the inside circle.

My all-time favorite moment watching a baseball game, at any level, was in fact watching Bret, as the shortstop, catch a towering pop-up to end a game which gave his team the championship.  In my head, I could hear the lyrics to the Queen song, “We are the champions, my friends, and we’ll keep on fighting to the end.”  Before the game, he had asked me to hit him just such fly balls so he could practice catching them.  I remember the time Bret was so feared as a batter that an opposing coach intentionally walked him.  In Little League baseball!  Another time playing third base, the batter hit a ball that bounced high over Bret’s head.  He turned around, ran toward the ball, caught it over his shoulder, spun around counter-clockwise, and then rifled it to the second baseman for the third out of the inning, saving a run from scoring.  It was an instinctive play that I have never seen even a pro duplicate.

Bret objected to wearing a protective cup while playing baseball.  I guess it was uncomfortable.  But, it was required under Little League rules.  However, he discovered that a star major leaguer didn’t wear one either (I think it was Don Mattingly).  How can I argue with that?  At the next game, the umpire announced he would personally check to make sure each player was wearing a cup.  And how will he do this?  By tapping each player’s groin area with a baseball bat, listening for the click of the bat against the metal cup.  This guy was a pervert.  I had a big argument with him.  I insisted he take my word that each of my players was following the rules.  Furthermore, his methodology was inappropriate.  I won the argument and saved my son. 

Once, I was designated to be one of the two coaches at an all-star basketball game.  I was given zero instructions as to how I was to substitute the eleven players I had.  I devised my own system which I thought was fair.  However, the other coach had a different system.  He was making substitutions more rapidly than I was.  Overall both his players and mine would have about the same amount of playing time, which was the point.  However, one league official got very angry, came over screaming at me in front of everyone and demanded that I immediately make substitutions (a la, the other coach) or he would fire and replace me.  My first reaction was to stand up to this guy and defend myself.  However, I looked at Bret, who was sitting on the floor waiting to enter the game.  I did not want to do anything to embarrass him.  I capitulated.  But, I vowed never to volunteer to help that league again.  This is how you treat a volunteer?

At the end of that season, our first-place team had a one-point lead with seconds remaining in a playoff game.  We had the ball and in retrospect, I should have called a time-out and discussed strategy, especially with Bret, who understood basketball better than I did.  Instead, he successfully passed the ball into our tallest player, who, once he had the ball, didn’t know what to do with it.  He was virtually mugged by all five players on the other team.  Their best player ripped the ball from his hands , turned, dribbled a couple of times, and then put up a prayer from just beyond half-court.  It went off the backboard and in.  We lost.  I took it gracefully.  I did not argue with the referee that it appeared the shot was after the final buzzer.  I wanted to show my son that you have to learn to accept defeat.  The disappointment of losing like that was another reason I didn’t want to coach any more.  I had enough.

I must mention the one game I coached without my son.  My all-star baseball team qualified for the Little League tournament, at the local level.  Unfortunately, Bret was underage and could therefore not compete.  However, as soon as the team was eliminated from the tournament, Bret could join the team for another series of games that had been scheduled over the remainder of the summer.  In our first tournament competition, we were losing after four innings, which marks an official game.  In the top of the fifth inning, my team rallied and took the lead.  We were still at bat, and scoring more runs, when a terrific thunderstorm hit the area and the game was stopped.  Everybody ran for cover and waited an hour.  Finally, without any let up in the downpour, the umpires called the game.  I had to explain to my players that we lost a game we were winning.  The other team hadn’t batted in the fifth, so the score would revert to the end of the fourth inning when we were losing.  All the adults were so impressed with my good sportsmanship.  I even received a letter of commendation and a Little League decal as a result.  However, I was really happy we lost so Bret could join the team and we could spend the rest of the summer together. 

      

Noreen

I started dating Bonita in the summer of 1967.  I had just graduated from college and moved to suburban Detroit.  One of my brothers and his wife lived there and I thought it would offer me a good social life.  No sooner than I got there than all Hell broke loose.  A riot erupted in the city and federal troops were called in to restore order.  Was it something I said? 

On a more peaceful note, after a few dates, Bonita invited me to her home for a Sunday brunch and to meet her family:  mother, father, older sister, younger brother, and younger sister.  The youngest member of the family was a fourteen year-old named Noreen. 

I don’t think Noreen liked me in the beginning.  She thought I was a nerd.  Maybe I was.  Anyway, I proved to be useful.  I had a car, a used blue Corvair, and she would beg Bonita to get me to take her and her friends places:  to someone’s house, to a store, or to a mall.  I usually agreed as I was trying to make a good impression on Bonita.  However, Noreen had the annoying habit of giving directions at the last possible moment, as in, “turn here” while I’m driving through an intersection. 

Noreen had a difficult upbringing.  When she was a little girl, her mother became ill with multiple sclerosis (MS), which turned her into an invalid.  Her father had to work a lot, at odd hours, in order to support the family.  Her three older siblings each had their own issues and could not provide the guidance of a mature adult.  Thus, Noreen was on her own a lot. 

As her father was the lone authority figure, he did his best under the circumstances. However, like many parents, he didn’t know the right way to raise a child.  Where do we learn this most important work of our lives?  I remember an incident when Noreen said, I believe, “Shit!  Excuse my French.”  Her father slapped her across the face.  Noreen ran to her room, humiliated. 

I could understand Noreen to some extent because we were both the youngest in our families.  And similar to my situation, she got to spend the most time with her widowed father when all the other siblings had flown the nest.  She developed a real bond with him.  I remember when he died, it was January of 1982 when the Super Bowl came to a freezing suburban Detroit.  At the cemetery, she didn’t want to leave her father because, as she said, he hated being cold.

Sometimes, in spite of a lack of good parental support, children grow up well.  I wonder whether it is the exception or the rule.  Well, in Noreen’s case, she did great.  She pulled herself up by her proverbial bootstraps.  She got herself an education and a profession.  She supported herself, bought a house, and, as a single mom, raised an adorable child, Lauren, to become a successful young woman.  At one time, she owned and operated her own business, a bagel store.  Noreen was loyal and devoted to her family, friends and colleagues.  To me, she was always kind and generous.  I always looked forward to spending time with her and enjoyed her company.

I remember the first time Noreen came to visit us in New York, as a teenager, in the late 1960s, when we lived on West 21st Street.  This was a street in transition from a rundown Puerto Rican neighborhood to one for Yuppies.  After dinner one night, she went outside to sit on the front stoop of our brownstone.  At first she was all alone.  However, within a few minutes, she was surrounded by more than a dozen boys, all Puerto Rican.  I was a little nervous for her at first, but she assured me that everything was cool.  The leader of the group, a boy named Junior, later told me she was the first white girl that had talked to them.         

Another time, now in the 1970’s, Noreen came to our apartment in Queens.  During this period, she was a bit of a hippie.  She brought some “weed” with her.  She asked me if I would like to try some.  As I have never smoked cigarettes, the idea of putting something burning near my face does not appeal to me.  Then she suggested brownies, the kind known as Alice B. Toklas brownies.  How could I say no to a brownie?  Well, I had three of Noreen’s homemade brownies in short order.  Then, my world starting moving back and forth, very rapidly.  I started saying things without any inhibitions.  I was scared and wanted it to stop immediately.  Noreen and Bonita had to help me to walk up the stairs and lie down on my bed and sleep it off.  Noreen assured me I would be fine in the morning.  She was right.

I think it was the summer after my daughter, Rachel, was born and Noreen came to visit.  Someone dreamed up with the idea that we (Noreen, Bonita, and me) should take advantage of having three drivers and drive our Fiat 124 Sport Coupe through the night from New York back to Michigan.  We left at 4 PM and arrived at 6 AM the next day making a minimum of stops.  And everytime we did, Rachel, in her car seat, would wake up.  It was an exhausting, but fun trip for the three of us.  I wouldn’t have wanted to do it with anybody other than Noreen. 

For some years, Noreen lived in Washington, D.C. and worked at the George Washington University Hospital.  That was the same hospital President Reagan was brought to after he was shot in March of 1981.  Noreen would have been in the center of that activity at the hospital, if she had been on  duty.  Instead she had kindly agreed to help Bonita and me paint the interior of the new house we had just bought in Queens. 

Noreen was always a cat lover.  I think she had a cat virtually her whole life.  In Washington, she had a beautiful Siamese by the name of Lucy, named after Lucille Ball.  Technically, having a cat was in violation of her apartment lease, but her landlord looked the other way, until one day.  She either had to get rid of the cat or leave.  So Noreen begged us to take Lucy.  I had two dogs in my life and they had not been good experiences.  And a cat?  I’m sure I was a victim of an anti-cat culture (think of them in cartoons).  Well, I agreed on a trial basis.  Thank you, Noreen, for giving us Lucy for five good years.  We missed her when she left us.

I’m a little embarassed about mentioning this last anecdote.  Years ago, Bonita and I were visiting her dad and Noreen, who was then a young woman.  I had dutifully gone out to run an errand and was returning to their two-level apartment.  I could hear Bonita and Noreen talking upstairs in the bedroom we were staying in.  As I was walking up the stairs, they were unaware of my presence.  When I got to a certain point on the stairs, I froze.  The door to our room was open and Noreen was not, as the saying goes, “decent.”  Noreen was not only a beautiful person, but a beautiful woman as well.

Last July, I called Bonita’s older sister, Helaine, when her husband died to express my condolences.  Noreen got on the phone and we talked amiably for some time, sharing some memories of the past and hopes for the future.  She, with her shy laugh, said she would invite me and my new wife, Cristina, to her daughter’s wedding, whenever that was in the future.  I was touched.

Some months ago, Noreen was diagnosed with cancer in both lungs.  The day after last Christmas, I called to wish her the best of luck and to try to boost her spirits.  As usual, she was trying to be optimistic.  Our conversation boosted my spirits as was always the case when I talked to Noreen. 

Noreen died on Monday, March 2, 2015 after the second of the two surgeries on her lungs.  I am among the many who will miss her, but who feel blessed from having known her.  And we will never forget her.  We are born in a chronologic order, but we don’t die in the same chronologic order.  Such is life.  She died much too young.  Farewell, Noreen.                

        

My Little Girl

“December 7, 1941, a day that will live in infamy.”  So said President Franklin Delano Roosevelt in response to the Japanese attack at Pearl Harbor that began the United States participation in World War II.  The American people will never forget that day.

However, thirty-four years later, December 7, 1975, is a day I will never forget.  It was the day my first child, my daughter, was born.

“My little girl, pink and white as peaches and cream, is she.”

She was born at exactly 12:30 AM that Sunday morning long ago at Long Island Jewish Hospital in New York City.  I remember because I was there when she was born and I looked up at the clock on the wall to check the time.  I basically wanted to know the date of her birth because I wasn’t quite sure if it was still Saturday, the 6th. 

Her mother, Bonita, and I arrived at the hospital ninety minutes earlier at 11:00 PM after waiting at home all day Saturday for her cervix to dilate sufficiently.  Initially, her mother was taken up to Maternity and I was left alone in the lobby to wait.  At that late hour, there was almost nobody else on the floor.  It was like a museum after hours.  Nobody!  I hate waiting.  The minutes dragged by.  I paced.  What was happening?  I wanted to know.  Finally, I was invited to come up to Maternity and join her mother. 

When I arrived, I was given special clothing to wear for the labor room.  I put it on.  Then, someone said, that because things were going so fast, I should instead put on different clothing suitable for the delivery room.  I went to see Bonita, who was alone in a labor room.  It was an understatement to say she was not doing well.  She was in terrible agony.  She said she thought she was going to die.  We had been through weeks of natural childbirth classes together where we learned breathing techniques to cope with the pain of childbirth.  Unfortunately, the techniques weren’t working.

After some minutes, Bonita was taken into the delivery room, a large bright room filled with a lot of people.  I went, too.  Her OB-GYN had just arrived.  Before then, we thought a hospital resident was going to deliver our baby.  Everybody seemed to have something important to do, except me.  I was like a spectator, nothing to do except watch.  And watch I did.  It didn’t take long.  Out came our baby, head first, with a kind of a wild-eyed expression on its face.  Welcome to the world.

I was about to find the answer to a question that had been nagging us for months, ever since we found out about the pregnancy.  What will we have, a boy or a girl?  I discovered during our natural childbirth classes that most of the first-time dads wanted sons.  I was the exception.  I wanted a daughter.  Why?  I grew up in a house devoid of girls.  I didn’t have a sister.  I was curious.  What would it be like to watch a little girl grow up before my eyes? 

Back in the delivery room, I leaned in closer to get a better view.  I guess I was in a rush to judgement.  I remember calling out, “It’s a boy.”  Luckily, I don’t think anybody heard me.  A few seconds later, somebody who knew what they were talking about announced that it was a baby girl.  I was very happy.

So, who was she?  Bonita and I had put a lot of thought into the choice of a name.  My first choice was Rachel.  Why?  I thought it the most beautiful name.  I remembered the Bible story of Rachel at the well and how she eventually married Jacob.  I also remembered a Joanne Woodward, Paul Newman movie collaboration called Rachel, Rachel.  Her mother preferred a different name.  So, we compromised.  Both of our second choices were Jessica.  So, if it was a girl, she was going to be Jessica.  However, with only weeks before the due date, her mother changed her mind.  She no longer liked Jessica and agreed with my first choice for a name.

Rachel was a mess.  When she first arrived, she was covered with blood and mucus, but no hair.  I didn’t mind at all.  She looked beautiful to me.  Then something happened that scared me.  A woman picked up my daughter, wrapped her in a blanket and carried her out of the delivery room.  Who was she and what was she doing with my daughter?  I followed her.  I did not want to let Rachel out of my sight.  I had heard stories of babies being switched or worse, kidnapped, in the hospital.  I was going to protect my defenseless daughter.  The woman walked down the hall and turned left.  Finally, she entered a room on the right, with me in hot pursuit.  She unwrapped Rachel and put her under an upside-down U-shaped faucet and cleaned off all of the blood and mucus.  Then she re-wrapped Rachel and brought her back to her mother, all cleaned up.

 After another hour, it was suggested I go home and rest.  Rachel and Bonita were both doing fine.  I first went to a payphone on the floor (no cell phones available) and emptied my pockets of all the loose change I had collected for this purpose.  I called my parents and some others to let them know about the latest addition to the family.  When I arrived home, our downstairs neighbors, Mike and Lucy Salem, were having a late night party and invited me in to celebrate the birth of our baby.

After the sun came up, I was back at the hospital to see my daughter again.  She hadn’t changed much in the few hours I had been away.  Then I drove back home to get something to eat.  I remember as I approached home, I was thinking about my daughter and not much else.  When I pulled into the driveway, I realized that I had just gone through a red light, a half a block away.  I was scared and extremely thankful that nothing bad had happened.  I promised myself that I must be much more careful in the future because I had something very important ahead of me.  I had to be a father to my daughter.   

I would like to thank Oscar Hammerstein II for the words below.  When I first saw the film version of Carousel as an eleven year-old, I started thinking of one day having my own little girl.            

 Wait a minute!
Could it be?
What the hell!
What if he is a girl?

What would I do with her?
What could I do for her?
A bum with no money!
You can have fun with a son
But you gotta be a father to a girl

She mightn't be so bad at that
A kid with ribbons in her hair!
A kind o' sweet and petite
Little tin-type of her mother!
What a pair!

My little girl
Pink and white
As peaches and cream is she
My little girl
Is half again as bright
As girls are meant to be!

Dozens of boys pursue her
Many a likely lad does what he can to woo her
From her faithful dad
She has a few
Pink and white young fellers of two or three
But my little girl
Gets hungry every night and she comes home to me!

I gotta get ready before she comes!
I gotta make certain that she
Won't be dragged up in slums
With a lot of bums like me
She's got to be sheltered
And fed and dressed
In the best that money can buy
I never knew how to get money,
But, I'll try, I'll try! I'll try!
I'll go out and make it or steal it
Or take it or die!    

Fourth Lake, Chapter 2

Chapter 1 was posted at the end of January.

Later, while eating a breakfast of bacon and eggs together at their kitchen table, Phil, sipping his black coffee, read Judy an excerpt from that morning's Sunday New York Times.

"By a vote of 27-11, the House Judiciary Committee approved an article of impeachment against President Richard M. Nixon yesterday, July 27, 1974, in an historic Saturday night session.  They accused him of the following high crimes and misdemeanors: 

Article 1-Personally, and through his agents, President Nixon attempted to delay, impede and obstruct the investigation into the illegal entry, by agents of the Committee to Re-elect the President (CREEP), of the headquarters of the Democratic National Committee, located at the Watergate building in Washington, D.C.  He attempted to cover-up, conceal and protect those responsible."

While Phil's nose was deep into the pages of the newspaper, Judy was eyeballing her husband and thinking about their escapade in the shower only a couple hours ago.  She had a smirk on her face and didn't care if anybody noticed.  Judy would have preferred that they go back and make love again, this time on their king-size bed.  They were alone, for a change.  Their two daughters, Kiley and Megan, were both at gymnastics camp in upstate New York.  They dropped them off last weekend and planned to pick them up when they return in two weeks from their getaway to Fourth Lake.

Judy knew that Phil was saddened by the latest development in the ongoing Watergate saga.  Both he and Judy had been supporters of Nixon.  They had voted for him every time he had run for president, in 1960, 1968, and 1972.  They were registered Republicans.

When Watergate first appeared in the press, Phil and Judy thought that it was some kind of an attempt by the liberal media to unjustly tarnish the President's image during the 1972 re-election campaign where he was otherwise unbeatable.  However, as more and more revelations came to the surface, they assumed that Watergate had been the work of the President's ill-advised underlings.  They couldn't believe that Nixon was actually involved in any way, shape, or form.  Then, with the release of the "smoking gun" tape, Phil and Judy realized that the President had done something wrong.  However, did that mean Nixon should be removed from office?  He was a very good president.  The country needed him.  Would removing him from the presidency fit the crime?  Would it serve the national interest?

"Look," said Phil, "he covered up, sure, trying to save those on his staff.  That's what a loyal executive does.  Maybe he should be censured or something, but thrown out of office, I don't know."

"Darling, you're a CPA, not a lawyer.  We don't know all the legalities.  Apparently, he broke the law being loyal, as you say.  Would you knowingly protect one of your managers if you knew he had done something illegal?"

"Maybe I already have."

"Don't say that, Phil."

"I'm admitting nothing."

"Look, Nixon's got a problem.  Let him deal with it.  But, we've got to get going.  It's a five hour trip to the lake and I want to get there as soon as possible."

Judy wanted to get there as soon as possible because she wanted them to try out the bed in their rustic cabin overlooking Fourth Lake.

To be continued next month...

Baseball

It’s February 15th and very soon Major League Baseball teams will start regrouping in Florida and Arizona to prepare for a new season of competition.  It’s like an early start to spring, a renewal of life.  And it’s all about the game of baseball, the game I love the most.  And why do I love baseball so much?  Let’s go back to the beginning, which is a very good place to start.

When I was growing up in the 1950s, baseball was clearly the number one sport in America.  Hence, it received the designation as the “national pastime.”  Anybody who considered themselves a sports fan was also a baseball fan.  I was greatly influenced to be a fan by one of my older brothers.  I would go with him to play baseball in the park in pick-up games.  The two oldest boys (often my brother) would, on an alternating basis, choose their teamates.  We created an imaginary field in the park and played baseball.  Eventually, the Little League came to town and baseball became much more organized with uniforms, coaches, schedules, stadiums, and umpires.

I played three years of Little League baseball for a team sponsored by the local Police Department.  Among our rivals were teams sponsored by the Fire Department and local enterprises, such as Huron Cement and Kingsford Pumps.  I wasn’t a very good player (good field, no hit), but I enjoyed playing the game.  My problem was that I was physically weak and afraid of a high, inside fast ball.  My son, on the other hand, was strong and fearless when he played for a variety of Little League teams.    

Parallel to playing baseball, I followed, through newspapers, magazines, radio and television, professional baseball players and Major League Baseball teams.  Which team should I be a fan of?  Maybe the one closest to home?  Or maybe the one who our father or older brother rooted for?  In my case, my older brother was a fan of the New York Giants.  I have been a fan of theirs my entire life, for more than 60 years, even when they moved to San Francisco in 1958.  My favorite Giant player was Willie Mays, number 24.  In 1965, I saw him hit one of his 660 home runs, in person at Connie Mack Stadium in Philadelphia.  In 1972, I made my one and only pilgramage to see the Giants play at their home field, which was then Candlestick Park.  They beat the Pirates, 8-0. 

The essence of baseball is a competition between a pitcher and a batter.  The other batters patiently wait their turn.  The fielders patiently wait for the batter to hit the ball and then spring into action to catch it or field it and try to eliminate the batter turned base runner before he reaches first, second, or third base and especially home plate to score a run.  Some of the most athletic performances I’ve ever seen have been those fielders running, diving, catching, and throwing a baseball. 

It has been said that hitting a round ball with a round bat is the hardest thing any athlete can do.  If he is consistently successful just 30% of the time, he will become a superstar, earn millions of dollars, and be elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame.  Thus, by common sense, the pitcher must have the advantage in this competition with the batter.  There is a baseball maxim that good pitching beats good hitting.

As I said, the baseball calendar begins in February.  March brings practice games.  From April to September, the thirty Major League teams compete during the regular season, aiming to qualify for the postseason, where only ten advance.  October is the postseason which ends with a champion crowned by winning the so-called “World Series.”  From November to January, teams try to improve their rosters by trading for players on other teams or by signing free-agents.  So year to year, the players on each team change.  So, what stays the same?  Maybe the uniform?  Maybe just the name on the uniform?  Maybe nothing?  Where are the St. Louis Browns or the Montreal Expos today?   

The regular season consists of 162 games.  This means about six games per week, or almost every day.  This is one of the beauties of the game.  There’s almost always a game tomorrow.  No reason to dwell on a defeat.  After a victory, no time to gloat.  There will be more to come the very next day. 

The season is not a sprint.  It’s more like a marathon.  It’s almost impossible to stay at an equilibrium.  Instead, the season becomes a series of highs and lows.  If, as the season is drawing to a close, your team remains in competition for the postseason or the championship, you can revel in the nervous tension this creates.  On the other hand, if your team has fallen out of contention, then you can start thinking about next year.  There is always next year.    

There is no clock in baseball.  No running out the clock.  Put your watch away.  Take your time.  According to pitcher Jon Lester of the Chicago Cubs, “If you use a clock, you take the beauty out of the game.” So, let’s build some suspense.  Each time a batter comes to the plate is a unique experience to be savored.  The last time, the pitcher struck him out.  Next time, he could hit one over the fence.    

So, if there is no clock, how do we know when the game is over?  It’s over when each side has had its nine innings or twenty-seven outs in their attempt to score runs.  Thus, at the end of the game, each side will have had the exact same number of chances to score runs.  How fair is that?  Therefore, no lead is enough and no deficit is too much.  If the game is tied after nine innings, the game goes to extra innings until one team has more runs at the end of an extra inning.  There are no ties in baseball.  (There is also no crying in baseball.)  A game is not over until it’s over.

Besides athletic ability, there is also strategy involved.  Who should play where and what will be the batting order?  Should you make a substitution, especially the pitcher?  Should a runner on base try to steal the next base or should the batter sacrifice himself to move the runner closer to home plate?  Should you play the infielders in to try and cut down the runner at home plate and risk giving up a base hit?  Or should they play back for the double play and possibly concede a run?

Some critics complain the game is too slow.  When I was a kid, games commonly took around two hours.  Today, they are more commonly three hours.  And since there is no clock, there is no telling how long a game will last.  My pet peeve is batters who, after every pitch, step out of the batter’s box and adjust both of their velcro batting gloves, even if they did not swing at the pitch.  This should be prohibited.  It slows the game.  Look at a vídeo of a baseball game from the 1950s or 1960s and you will see that the batters, who did not have batting gloves nor helmets, did not leave the batter’s box once they entered it. 

Those are some of the reasons why I love baseball.  Any questions?

Eagle Cove

Eagle Cove was a co-ed summer camp, primarily for Jewish children, nestled in an area on the south side of Fourth Lake in the Adirondack Mountains, in northern New York State.  I say was because, unfortunately, it no longer is.  For what ever reason, it closed after the summer of 1993.

“Green is the color of the Adirondack Mountains.  It’s the color God picked out to paint the scene.”

I was a camper at Eagle Cove for five years between 1953 and 1959.  The first time I ever googled my name, I saw myself from photos taken during that time that had been posted on the Internet.  I actually returned to Eagle Cove as an adult (everything seemed smaller) for a brief visit in August of 1974.  I remember because it was right around the time President Nixon resigned.  In 2004, I returned to the area to see the camp again, but it was gone.  However, I took a boat ride around Fourth Lake which passed right by the camp’s old water front.  I also chartered a seaplane for an above ground view of the camp.  All the buildings were gone, but you could see where they had been. 

Like all decisions in my family, the decision to send me to Eagle Cove was made by my mother.  She wanted a two-month summer vacation from caring for her four children and Eagle Cove provided it.  My three older brothers preceded me there, and since they survived, my mother figured it was also good enough for me, too.

Eagle Cove’s formula was structure.  Before each season even started, its directors had planned every moment of the eight week season for each camper.  There were fourteen boys cabins and about half that number of girls cabins.  Most had eight campers, a counselor and a counselor-in-training (CIT).  After reveille, we marched to the large mess hall building for breakfast.  After cleaning up ourselves and our cabin, each group engaged in two pre-planned activities.  Before lunch, there was a general swim at the most beautiful part of Eagle Cove, its waterfront.  After lunch and a rest period, each group would engage in another two pre-planned activities.  There was a second general swim before dinner.  After dinner, there was relaxation before lights out.  And no talking after!

What were these activities?  We had baseball, softball, basketball, volleyball, tennis, arts and crafts, swimming instruction, canoeing, hiking, Indian lore, etc.  The camp was well-maintained and periodically upgraded, especially the waterfront.  By my last year, they had built a complete Little League baseball stadium.

“We welcome you to Eagle Cove.  We’re mighty glad you’re here.  We’ll set the air reverberating with a mighty cheer.  We’ll sing you in, we’ll sing you out.  And we will raise a mighty shout.  Hail, hail, the gang’s all here.  We welcome you to Eagle Cove.”

By most accounts, the campers had a good time at Eagle Cove.  Unfortunately, I have mixed feelings about the place.  However, what ever negativity I have, I take 100% responsibility for.  If you read Lord of the Flies, you realize that boys, especially between the ages of eight and fourteen, can be cruel.  It’s just in their DNA.  Typically, in a cabin of eight boys, there will be one or two leaders, five or six followers, and one runt.  For most of my time at Eagle Cove, I was the runt.  I think my happiest year there was when someone else became the runt of my cabin.

And what made me the runt?  After all, back in my home town, I was a well-adjusted boy with plenty of friends.  Well, first of all, it was my attitude.  I had a bad one.  It had not been my choice to go to Eagle Cove.  I didn’t want to be there.  I had been perfectly happy the prior summers of my life at home.  I had begged my mother to let me stay, but to no avail.  All of my bunkmates quickly realized where I was coming from and let me know, in their own way, that they didn’t appreciate it.  I was probably ruining their own good times. 

Second was swimming.  When I first arrived at Eagle Cove, I couldn’t swim.  By eight years-of-age, I had developed a fear of the water.  Twice a day, I had to face a mandatory general swim.  The camp was divided into three groups, based upon your swimming level.  There was the area for the non-swimmers, the minnows.  The shark area was for intermediate swimmers and the whale area was for the real swimmers.  Most of the campers were in the whale area.  In my first year, I believe that I was the only non-swimmer in my group and I stayed there until my last year at camp.  This forced me into a twice-daily period of humiliation and teasing.  One of my proudest moments at Eagle Cove was when, with the help of a very kind swim instructor, I finally passed my shark test.  I was then no longer the only fourteen year-old hanging out with non-swimmers, half my age.  I still have the badge and certificate I earned fifty-five years ago.

So, I was the runt.  I became the victim of daily abuse, teasing, etc. from my bunkmates.  I was bullied, before I know what bullying was.  And I didn’t know how to deal with it.  I should have had a better attitude about camp.  After all, it was a wonderful place with plenty of enjoyable things to do.  And I should have put forward a better effort to learn how to swim. 

I also should have dealt better with the teasing.  I should have ignored it.  The more I complained, the more they teased.  Until one time!  When I was ten years-old, I came as close as I have ever come in my life to killing someone.  It scares me thinking back.  Inside the cabin after lunch one day, I couldn’t take the abuse one boy was giving me.  We got into a fight, more of a wrestling match.  I got him in a choke hold and squeezed as hard as I could.  When he said he couldn’t breath, I let him go when he promised not to tease me again.  I let him go, but he started doing it again almost immediately.  I grabbed him once more around the neck in the same choke hold.  I was furious.  I couldn’t trust his promises.  Thankfully, I finally let him go before anything bad happened and he never bothered me again. 

I must mention a couple more highlights of my time at Eagle Cove.  It wasn’t all bad.  In 1958, as a thirteen year-old, I won the Mohawk Unit Ping Pong championship.  (I was runner-up the following year.)  My name was entered onto a permanent list of honor that was on display on the second floor of the mess hall building.  I found it when I went back to Eagle Cove in ’74.  In 1959, my group travelled to another camp, Racquet Lake Camp for Boys, for a basketball game.  I couldn’t believe their team was coached by Gene Shue, a professional basketball player for the Detroit Pistons.  Incredibly, in those days, professional athletes needed off-season jobs.     

“I know a place that’s quiet and serene.  I know a place where beauty reigns supreme.”

I wish I had better memories of Eagle Cove than I do, but that is my reality.  I don’t want to forget anything about my life, neither the good, the bad, nor the ugly.  

Take Me to Havana

In December of 1952, when I was seven years old, my family, all six of us, traveled by car, two cars actually, from Oswego, New York, to Miami Beach, Florida for a vacation.  Some interesting things happened along the way, including my being unable to climb the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. and a trip to a hospital in St. Augustine, Florida, to receive a shot of penicillin from the biggest needle I have ever seen.  I went to my first college football game, the North-South All-Star game at Miami’s Orange Bowl, but the thing I remember the most was not going to Havana.

My impression is that it was a spur of the moment decision by my parents to take the short flight from Miami to Havana, Cuba for an overnight stay.  Unfortunately, only half of us were going: my parents and one of my older brothers.  My eldest brother would stay behind to supervise the two youngest, which included me.  I felt robbed, cheated, deprived of something; I wasn’t quite sure of what at the time.

On September 18, 1953, one of my boxing heroes, Carmen Basilio, from nearby Canastota, New York, got a chance to fight for the Welterweight Championship of the World against the champion, Kid Gavilan, at the War Memorial Auditorium in nearby Syracuse.  Gavilan was from Cuba, that place I hadn’t visited.  Basilio floored the champ in the second round, but lost a close split decision.  I read all about it in the newspaper the next day.  (Tragically, on April 3, 1962, another Cuban boxer, Benny “the Kid” Paret, a favorite of mine, died from injuries suffered in the ring defending his Welterweight Championship of the World.)  

On July 3, 1960, I was an usher at the wedding of my eldest brother at a hotel in Rochester, New York, also the home of the minor league baseball team, the Red Wings.  That day, the home team played a double header against the Havana Sugar Kings.  Some Sugar King players, including Leo Cardenas, a Cuban, who would move up to the Cincinnati Reds the following month, were hanging out in the hotel lobby.  A group from the wedding engaged the ballplayers in conversation.

The hot topic that day was the aftermath of the revolution that had recently transformed Cuba.  On January 1, 1959, Fidel Castro and his followers overthrew the dictator, Fulgencio Batista.  A year and a half later the Sugar Kings were talking about a very chaotic situation in Havana, that place I hadn’t visited.

On January 3, 1961, US President Eisenhower broke off diplomatic relations with Castro’s Cuban government over concerns about Cuba becoming communist and spreading that ideology to the rest of Latin America.  On May 1 of that same year, Antulio Ramirez Ortiz boarded National Airlines flight #337 from Miami to Key West, Florida.  Holding a steak knife to the pilot’s throat, he commandered the plane and demanded, “Take me to Havana.”  That was perhaps the first of a growing epidemic of airplane hijackings between the US and Cuba over the next couple of decades.

On October 22, 1962, I was home alone when President Kennedy came on television to address the nation.  He mentioned a crisis involving offensive missiles in Cuba, that place I hadn’t visited.  Besides being extremely worrisome for the nation as a whole, I was especially concerned because that older brother who had gone to Cuba ten years earlier was in the US Navy stationed at Key West, right in the thick of what could have been WWIII.  Thankfully, war was averted, but all flights between the US and Cuba were cancelled for decades.  In addition, US citizens were legally bared from travelling to Cuba.

When I was at college, I studied the unique economic system that Cuba’s government had formulated.  It was the only communist country that did not industrialize, relying instead on an exclusively agrarian economy.  Coincidentally, I now live in São Paulo, the latitudinal equivalent in the Southern Hemisphere of Havana in the Northern Hemisphere. 

For all of the above reasons, I have been curious about Cuba for a long time.  I object to the dictatorial policies of the Castro regime, but that is separate from the Island of Cuba itself and the Cuban people.  They and I share a love of baseball.  In 1949, Minnie Minoso became the first black Cuban to play in the Major Leagues, with the Cleveland Indians.  I have had a chance to experiment with Cuban food (including black beans), which I like very much.  One of my favorite music CDs is the Buena Vista Social Club, Cuban music performed by old-time Cuban singers and musicians.  As a father myself, I supported the return of Elian Gonzalez to his father in Cuba.  Besides, being in the Caribbean, the weather there has to be great. 

The whole world can go to Cuba, except Americans.  Americans can go anywhere in the world, except to Cuba.  Recently, the travel restrictions have been eased to a certain extent by President Obama, but Americans cannot simply call up their travel agent and book a trip to Cuba like any common tourist going to any common destination.  It’s a favorite winter place to visit for our Canadian friends to the north.  My Brazilian wife and her compatriots can visit Cuba anytime they wish.  Why can’t I?

In 1971, I legally visited communist Yugoslavia and communist Hungary.  In 1973, I legally visited communist East Germany.  (Wow!  Two of those countries no longer exist.  Was it something I said?)  Hundreds of thousands of Americans legally visit communist China every year.  So, why is Cuba treated differently?  There are reasons; there are always reasons.  But, they are hypocritical.  The bottom line is that my civil and human rights to freely travel are being infringed upon by my government for no valid purpose.  I demand that it stop.  I want to lie on the beach at Playas Del Este and walk the streets of Miramar.  Please, American Airlines, take me to Havana.