Baseball Cards and Candlesticks

This past summer I moved to a new residence. The whole process of packing, moving, and

unpacking is a horrendous experience. I think one of the devil’s torture treatments will be commanding the citizens of hell to repeatedly move to a new home. As soon as you get settled, he orders you to move again. It’ll be an eternal game of musical chairs, only without enough U-Haul trucks.

I’ve had a semi-nomadic life over the years with more than 20 different addresses since leaving Butterworth Hospital in Grand Rapids, MI as a newborn. Every move over the last 30 years has involved toting several plastic storage tubs from house to house. From baseball cards to newspapers, I’ve been saving things since my youth. Occasionally, I still buy an LA Times when something monumental happens, like the Cubs winning the World Series. But mostly, the tubs have sat unopened, like buried time capsules, stacked in the back of each new garage. 

I can’t remember the last time I looked at what’s inside the tubs. So when I moved this summer, I decided to crack the lids and peer inside. I felt like an archaeologist opening the lost Ark.

Just call me Indiana Tones.

The items in the tubs brought back fond memories. For example, two boxes of baseball cards instantly had me retracing my steps along the Michigan country roads to the local general store. I remember having to step into the roadside ditch to avoid the hurricane-force winds produced by speeding trucks carrying grain or hay to the nearby dairy farm. 

A stack of college newspapers recalled the semesters of writing in a basement newsroom as a sports writer and editor for the Long Beach State Daily 49er. Additionally, I laughed at the massive volume of newspapers and Sports Illustrated magazines in the tubs. Years before the Internet, I somehow felt the need to preserve every important sports moment from being lost forever. 

I expected to see some of the items in the tubs because, well, I put them there. But others were precious discoveries of objects long forgotten. A fifth-grade autobiography told me that my life as a writer began long before my university days. Pecked out on a typewriter and covered with a piece of wallpaper it correctly predicted that I’d live in California. I missed on the forecast of becoming a professional baseball player however. 

Rediscovering a scrapbook from the 1984 Detroit Tigers Championship season felt like finding the Dead Sea Scrolls. “Bless You Boys” bumper stickers covered a cheap photo album, holding Scotch-taped box scores and summaries from every game of that magical season. 

A carton of High School graduation mementos carried me through the halls of my alma matre. It contained my cap (no gown), a VHS of the ceremony, and a few grad photos highlighting my 80s light-bulb-shaped hairstyle. I discovered a senior class group photo taken on Daytona Beach in the spring of 1986. I was able to share it on our class Facebook page, provoking threads of comments and questions for days.

A trio of baseball gloves chronicled my days fielding grounders and catching fly balls on the rocky Michigan diamonds from T-ball to High School. They whisked me back to the 70s and playing catch with my dad, honing my fastball together after he came home from work. 

 

Family heirlooms of both the Durbin and Gervase variety brought a smile. A photocopied scrapbook that my cousin made for grandma Ruby sat next to a pair of oval paintings that grandma Rose bequeathed to me in 1983. But mixed in with the little league trophies, autographed baseballs, press passes, and media guides, sat an unfamiliar shoebox.

 

“What’s in here?” I wondered to myself.

Inside, wrapped in white tissue paper, were the two oldest occupants of my treasure chests: a pair of silver candlesticks. I have no memory of receiving them, but instantly remembered they also came from Grandma Rose. I quickly fired off some texts to my dad. He wasn’t sure how old they were, but he didn’t think they came from the old country. He said they belonged to his grandmother.

“She had nearly two dozen grandchildren, why did I get them?”

“I think she wanted you to have something to remember her by,” he typed back.

Yes, but why me? This is a little funny. I didn’t know my grandma very well. She always lived states away and visits were only once a year, if that.

To me, it was like stumbling upon the Holy Grail. I was holding two items that far outdated my 51 years. Remorseful, I wondered why I had hidden them in the plastic tubs and why hadn’t I opened them sooner. I’m sure they were packed in haste, maybe when I left Michigan. Perhaps all those years ago I figured that I set them up above the fireplace, when I had a mantle of my own. But somehow I’d forgotten them.

Like my baseball cards, I wonder what stories those candlesticks hold. Stories of Sunday pasta dinners and of my grandma baking cookies and folding ravioli in the kitchen. What memories did those candlesticks evoke in her? And what did she see in me to find me worthy of such a gift?

I don’t put many things in the tubs anymore. Memories are now saved in photos on my phone or on social media sites. I guess my inner Marie Kondo is more focused on decluttering. 

In my new house, the candlesticks have finally emerged from their garage-style exile and have taken up residence on a living room side table. I think they represent all the good things that this house holds: the love of a beautiful wife and the harmony we share together.

Blessings of peace. 

Gifts of joy. 

Treasures of hope.

They remind me that both my nomadic life and years of living alone are over. They tell me that God’s grace is quite amazing and that a new life and new beginnings are possible. I’ll never find out what those candlesticks meant to my grandmother, but I think she’d be happy to know how much they now mean to me. 

Walking on Sunshine

“Because you’re mine, I walk the line”.

Johnny Cash

 “Do you like to hike?”

Those five words combine to make one of my favorite phrases in the English language. It’s right up there with:

“Play ball”,

“It is finished”, and 

“Free pizza”.

Hiking or walking is a beloved hobby. I stopped playing basketball and softball long ago. So I enjoy hiking for the physical exercise. Hiking also provides the chance to experience the beauty of nature that my kickboxing gym can’t duplicate. I love to opt outside to quiet and revive my soul along the beach, amongst the redwoods, or up a steep mountain trail. 

Walking is perhaps an individual’s first great achievement. “Is he or she walking yet?” we ask people upon meeting their infant. A child’s first steps are recorded, chronicled, and immortalized in photos and phone calls to grandma. From then on, everything we learn usually requires baby steps. Sometimes what we attempt isn’t always a walk in the park. But usually, and especially as toddlers, we have to learn how to walk before we can run. 

In all walks of life, there are good days and bad days. Particularly at work. Some days are a cakewalk and others feel like we were forced to walk the plank. Occasionally we have to walk on eggshells around grumpy coworkers and walk the tightrope to balance both a career and a family. Hopefully, the boss doesn’t say you’re walking on thin ice. It’s much better if he or she thinks you walk on water. I just wish my class would walk in single file. 

In baseball, we have walk-off homers. And a base-on-balls, or a “walk” is a good thing (for the batter, not the pitcher), but in basketball walking is against Dr. Naismith’s rules. 

Musically, The Bangles taught us how to Walk Like an Egyptian and The Police went Walking on the Moon. Aerosmith told us which way to walk (this way) and Nancy Sinatra had special boots made just for walking. And of course, Johnny Cash made sure he Walked the Line.

Some walks are shorter than others. A walk down memory lane can be quite brief. But it helps to walk a mile in someone’s shoes to really get the whole story. A bad friend can walk all over you. Integrity mandates that we walk tall and walk our talk.  

My first date with Beautiful Karla was a walk on the beach. It followed a few days after she texted, “Do you like to hike?” We’ve been walking together ever since. And today we get to walk down the aisle together. It will be a short walk, upon the soft, emerald lawn of a golf course in Seaside, CA. Harkening back to our first walk, the ocean will be in view. And the majestic eucalyptus trees that spend their lives guarding fairways will join our family and friends to bear witness to our vows and raise sturdy branches in praise to God for bringing us together. 

I know wholeheartedly that without Him, we wouldn’t be taking these steps today. Karla’s humble walk with God was one of the first things that drew me to her. I also know that marriage, though wonderfully joyous, is also extremely hard. So we both will look to him for guidance and help. Marriage must also consist of sacrifice. It’s a life of trying to out-serve the other. My pastor labels this a “race to the bottom.” 

I’m up for this race, but I feel like Karla has already lapped me. It’s a daily race that, like walking, has to be practiced, done step-by-step, and performed faithfully. It’s walking by faith as II Corinthians 5:7 describes. It’s a walk that God will give us the grace and strength to do as we amble hand in hand, down the aisle, along the beach, and up the mountain trails for the rest of our lives together. 

A Season of All-Star Love and Definitions

I LOVE the All-Star Game. And I’m so looking forward to tonight’s showdown from Cleveland. The last All-Star game that I missed was the 1968 midsummer classic from Houston, which occurred the day before my birth. The game was a 1-0 snoozer so I’m somewhat glad that I missed it. 

Tonight, once again, it’s the best of the American League vs. the best of the National League. 

Trout and Yelich,

Mookie and Max,

Cole and Kershaw.

Harper and …. Oh wait, Bryce and his $330 mega-millions didn’t make it this year. 

In a strange turn of events that can only be described as divine intervention, I got up in the middle of last year’s game and went to make a delivery to a new essential-oil customer. A little over a year later, next Friday, I will be marrying her, the one and only -- Beautiful Karla. The last year has been a new season of love for me, and with our wedding just 10 days away, I thought it was time to dust off the Dickson Baseball Dictionary for my annual collection of baseball terms. What’s the theme? Nothing but LOVE, of course. 

A is for Appreciation Day – A celebration dedicated to a particular player, held in conjunction with a baseball game. Since our first date on August 5^th, everyday has been BK Appreciation Day. 

B is for Baseball Bride – The wife of a baseball player. Karla might feel like a baseball bride given how often she gets to watch Angel games and the MLB Network with me. 

C is for Cheese (a synonym for a fastball) and Cake (something done easily; e.g. a pitcher who says retiring the side will be a “piece of cake”).  BK isn’t a fan of frosting, so instead of three-tiered confectionary tower, our reception will feature a cookie bar with a slice of cheese-cake.

C is also for Cutie – A pitcher who specializes in throwing curveballs and slow stuff on the corners. My step-daughter-to-be, Alyse, is so adorable that if she decides to play Little League baseball the opposing hitters won’t have a chance with her off-speed pitches.

D is for Diamond Artist -- A term used in the 1930 for a ballplayer. Pierre from Marquis Jewelry, who made our rings, is the best diamond artist I know. 

D is also for Dodge the Bullet – To get out of a threatening situation; esp. appropriate to pitchers. It’s also appropriate for a certain left-handed teacher who was facing terminal singlehood.

F is for Fight Off – To be a persistent batter who fouls off pitches until getting the pitch wanted or drawing a walk. Also what Karla and I will repeatedly have to do to prospective suitors when Alyse hits high school. 

G is for Give Oneself Up – To hit the ball behind a teammate on base in an effort to bring him home or advance him to scoring position. Also the sacrificial posture of a successful marriage or when the husband relinquishes the control of the TV remote. 

H is for Hitch – A hesitation a batter makes with the bat before starting his swing. I felt no uncertainty in my decision to ask BK to get hitched. 

K is for Kiss – To hit a ball exceptionally hard or a wedding officient’s final ceremonial command. 

K is also for Knock Out – To cause a pitcher to be removed from the game or one of my favorite monikers for Karla.

L is for Leading lady – The first batter up in an inning. Or a term for Karla when I fall behind on a long hike.

Off the Schneid – Said of a player or a team coming out of a slump or a winless streak. Or yours truly after nine years of singleness. 

R is for Ring Up – To strike out a batter or what confident boyfriends do on bended knee at proposal time. It’s also the job of Eli, my step-son-to-be and our ring-bearer, during the ceremony.

S is for Sweetheart – A star player, esp. a pitcher, who rises to the occasion. Sometimes Karla thinks Mike Trout is my favorite sweetheart, but it’s not true. He’s a distant second. 

T is for Take the Blankets Off – To use a player in a game. Or what couples do in the summer when the air conditioner goes out.

Y is for Youth Movement – The process of trading or releasing old players and bringing up highly promising rookies from the minor leagues. While not exactly robbing the cradle, Karla is eight years the younger, so my youth movement should provide a dedicated caregiver in my old age. 

That 1968 All-Star Game was the first ever to be played at night, indoors, and on artificial turf. It was also loaded with future Hall of Famers. Four consecutive NL Future Hall of Famers took the mound alone: Drysdale, Marichal, Carlton, and Seaver. So it’s no wonder the AL didn’t score.

  

Time will tell how many future Hall of Famers are playing tonight. But the game will feature a youth movement, as there are 19 All-Stars who are 25-years-old or younger. The game is also the first I get to watch with my leading lady and Hall of Fame fianceé. We’ll both be rooting for Trout to pick up his unprecedented third All-Star MVP award. Just don’t tell him he’s no longer my No. 1 sweetheart.