Baseball Wedding Bells

I have a secret. As I sit here watching the Angels and Dodgers play I thought I’d fill you in. I’m working on my second marriage.
My first marriage lasted 30 years. It started in 1975 when I was seven years old. It was an arranged marriage, as I was introduced by my father. I remember our first date and I still have the ticket stub. It was a storybook wedding. The bride was dressed in white, with dark blue trimmings and an Olde English D on her hat.
While growing up in Michigan in the 70s and 80s I lived and died with the Detroit Tigers. The deaths were an annual ritual until Sparky, Alan, Lou, and Gibby brought home the championship in ’84. But in those days, I was young, and if the Tigers lost a game that I attended it ruined my ballpark experience.
In the 90s the Tigers were horrible. And unless you’re a Cubs fan, mediocrity does not make the heart grow fonder. Either does distance. I had moved to Los Angeles where I was blessed to have two teams to watch, the Dodgers and the Angels. And slowly, my relationship with the Tigers started to fade. Without a vested interest I could follow both LA teams dispassionately, laughing quietly at the Dodger fans who hated the Angels, and vice versa. I also learned to better appreciate the game. Not worrying about how “my team” was performing, I could go to Dodger Stadium or the Big A and watch the game, not the teams, soak in the subtleties and keep score without caring about the score. I could cheer when Cal Ripken or Tony Gywnn did something amazing because they weren’t doing it against my team.
My baseball heart in Los Angeles wasn’t all unattached. I grew very of fond both teams. Oh those poor people in Des Moines, or Albuquerque, or Wichita who were without their own major league team. How lucky I was to have two teams. I used to switch the TV and radio stations back and forth, following both teams. It was especially sweet when one team was on the east coast because then they both weren’t playing at the same time. Maybe I was just playing the field because at least once a summer I would get to see the Tigers play in Anaheim. I could wear my Tigers hat and slap high-fives with the seemingly endless crowd of transplanted Detroiters.
Then five years ago, I feel in love with the Angels. It wasn’t the Dodgers’ woes under Fox and McCourt that had me bleeding red. Nor was it Anaheim’s 2002 World Series title that rotated the axis of my heart toward Orange County.
It was the Angels 2005 playoff loss to the White Sox. You remember. AJ Piersynski whiffing at a third strike in the dirt, Angel catcher Josh Paul forgetting to tag him, that horrible no-call by the umpire! Something in my heart of hearts changed. A lever was thrown. A switch was flipped . Sparks flew like a light tower struck by a Roy Hobbs homer.
I … was … an … Angel … fan.
We had a connection. Through injustice and sorrow our hearts were melded together. I no longer had a blue shoe and a red shoe. I wish the Dodgers no ill will. I hope they succeed. But, when the Angels have an off day, I don’t watch the team in blue. My car’s radio no longer has a preset for Vinnie’s unending stories. Until this year, I went four seasons without going to Dodger Stadium. But I have been to Arizona to see the Angels practice. I have four Angels hats, two sweatshirts, and a now very dusty K-Rod jersey. I catch nearly every game on TV, the radio, or on my phone.
In 2006, the Tigers were good again. They made it to the World Series, but lost. I didn’t grieve. I was happy that they did well, but was also more thankful that they didn’t meet the Angels in the playoffs. I was Helen Hunt’s character Kelly Frears to Tom Hanks’ Chuck Noland in “Castaway.” Happy that he’d returned home from all those years on the island, but having moved on.
In 2007, I attended a Tigers – Angels game in Anaheim. For the first time I didn’t wear the hat with the Olde English D. Wearing red, I was surrounded by Detroit fans. These were my people. And I couldn’t cheer with them. I was the enemy. I couldn’t knock fists, bump chests, or smack high-fives. I was alone in a sea of former allies. The Tigers crushed the Angels that night. I left early (it was a work night). I went home distraught, sad, having learned the hard way that I couldn’t root for the Tigers when they played the Angels.
My best friend from high school still lives in Michigan and we regularly communicate about the teams from the Great Lakes State. We still lament the drafting of Darko and wonder if Rich Rodriguez will last another year as the football coach at the University of Michigan. He emails me about the Tigers. I don’t reply. This year both the Angels and the Tigers are near the top of their divisions. I hope both teams make the playoffs, I just pray that they don’t have to face each other.
We don’t know what happened to Chuck Noland as he drives off to deliver the beat-up Fed-Ex package, but I can guarantee that he didn’t invite Kelly to his wedding.

Father's Day Cards

After a quick browsing of the Father’s Day cards at the local Hallmark store, I discovered that 95 percent of the selections mocked dear ol’ dad in some way, shape, or form. The other five percent where under the heading, “Blank Inside.” A similar search last month for Mother’s Day revealed zero cards making fun of moms.

The Father’s Day cards mainly poked fun at our fathers’ affinity for belching, farting, napping, cursing, and remote-control using. Whereas Mother’s Day cards either praise mom for her love, care, and devotion or offer up some sort of apology for having to put up with difficult children. Why has it become so accepted to deride dad on his day? This should not be the case because we all know about the societal, emotional, and spiritual importance of having an active, strong, and masculine influence for children of both genders.

Anyway, I have a great dad and I’ve never sent him a Father’s Day card that poked fun at him. I usually try to find a card that honors him or praises him for his excellent parenting skills. I then write a thank you note to him for some of the dozens of individual memories of the times when he came through for me in the clutch. Things like holding my hand while I got stitches in my head from a freak floor-hockey accident in PE class. Or building me a loft in my college dorm room. Or driving to Lansing at a moment’s notice to pick me up after my college was flooded. Or making me get a job in a bathroom counter top factory in which I was the only employee who didn’t have a parole officer.

Now if I were designing Father’s Day cards, I would create a genre just for cards to thank dad for providing a safe, warm, secure, and loving home. God only knows how many miles my dad drove selling medical books to put food on our table, braces on my teeth, and a private Christian education in my mind. He did it without a cell phone, an iPod, or books on CD. He did it with the faithfulness of a postal worker and still had the energy when he got home to chase me around our driveway basketball court, battle me on the tennis court, or crouch over a makeshift home plate while I honed my fastball.

My next genre of cards would be for never once insulting me, putting me down, or abusing me. Instead compliments were given and the utterances of “I love you” were as numerous as mosquito bites in a Michigan summer.

There would be a genre for recognizing his talents, from meatball making, to story-telling. He had a forehand that reminded me of Jimmy Connors and a set shot that would make Bob Cousy proud. He writes, gives speeches, quotes Shakespeare, and can discuss anything from the Opera to what happened last week on Glee. He’s one of the few members of the Geezers Who Aren’t Afraid of Technology Club. He computes, scans, downloads, and uploads, with the aplomb of a Microsoft employee. He can even understand the person from India when he puts in a troubleshooting phone call.

And finally, there would be a genre for standing strong during tragedies. When cancer hit our home three times he twice valiantly stood against it like Stonewall Jackson. He shaved his own head, shuttled my mom to countless chemo sessions, and became an expert in making homemade juice in an effort to employ radical treatments. In my mom’s final year on this Earth, he blessed her with a surprise birthday party and a couple of trips across the country to see loved ones on both sides of our family. Her last year was without a doubt the best of their 45-year marriage.

When the cancer finally won I watched him grieve. It was the absolute worst of times but he was strong. As a now mom-less family, I truly believe that we all were bonded closer together because he didn’t fall apart. But when the cards and casseroles stopped arriving I wondered how he would get by in an empty house. Was I going to find him glued to the couch with his ubiquitous white undershirt stained orange from Cheeto dust? Thankfully, I never did. Instead, he successfully reinvented himself; becoming a star of the Monterey Peninsula, a popular columnist, a social butterfly, and a first-class Geez-about-town.

This week I heard a radio commentary from character-guru Michael Josephson talking about how a dad cannot be a friend to his children. He said that, “a father who tries to be a best friend can’t be a real father. To be a friend is voluntary. It’s an option. To be a father is a privilege, but above all it’s a moral obligation.” I agree with this. But there comes a time when a Father’s role is lessened to a degree. Maybe it’s when the child goes off to college, or gets married, or has children of his own. I think it’s possible at this time for a father to become a friend. In fact, I know it’s possible. Because it’s true in my own life. Happy Father’s Day, Dad. And when you’re done reading this, you may resume your daily routine of napping, cursing, belching and farting.

Nifty at Fifty, my big sister Christy

I don’t have very many childhood memories of my big sis. This is either to due to the time when as a baby my mom bounced me on my head in a Grand Rapids grocery store or to the fact that my sister is eight years my elder.
I do remember that as a youngster I would find her talking to herself in the bathroom mirror. I remember that she had a Ford Pinto and that one winter day, with me as her only (frightened) passenger, she drove the Pinto through an eight-foot-high snow drift that had accumulated across a desolate country road. Another memory is of the time when she took me to get a 70s-style-feathered hair cut. As a fourth grader. Maybe she was expecting the David Cassidy look, but I think I ended up looking more like Farrah Fawcett.
Then there was a graduation (and quite a party), and a few years later a wedding, and then she was off to Florida. As I was growing older, she was the sister who maybe visited at holidays. Or the sister we visited during the summer. As a teen, I was more concern with the exploits of Alan Trammell and Kirk Gibson than the sister I knew mainly from photos and slides. I knew she was working in a bank. Then she was managing the bank. And I remember thinking how smart she must be.
In the early 90s she switched banks, transferring from Florida to California. I recall searching for apartments with her and our dad during a Monterey-style monsoon. I remember thinking how brave she must be.
A few years later she became a mom, not once, but twice. And I remember thinking how strong she must be.
I always marveled, during my trips to Monterey, how she was constantly learning, or picking up new hobbies and skills. She would be dying and spinning her own yarn, or running half-marathons, or turning her backyard into a garden that would make Adam and Eve quite jealous. I remember thinking how talented she must be.
In 2003, we lost our mom, and my sister was there with her in the final seconds. I remember thinking how courageous she must be.
When the need for a new career arose, she tackled the challenge like a middle linebacker, shedding blockers while studying, working, and raising two magnificent children. I stood with delight at her graduation from nursing school, and remember thinking how intelligent, brave, courageous, strong, and talented she certainly is.
Slowly over time, the sister I never knew became the friend I never had.
Today, my big sis turns 50. I know that our mom is looking down from heaven with both love and admiration.
I’m not sure, but I think Christy still talks to the bathroom mirror. If it could respond, I hope it says, “Happy Birthday, from your brother. He thinks you’re beautiful, wonderful, and amazing.”