Baseball, Life, and Other Stuff

Beach Behavior

What is it about being on a beach that makes people act differently than they otherwise would?  For example, you never see your neighbor suddenly run out the back door and begin digging holes in his yard.  Yet, at the beach, people will begin large-scale excavation projects.  Building a sand castle is one thing, but the vast majority of beach-goers are content with building a sand pile and not a very stable or functional sand pile at that.  They work furiously at digging a hole for no apparent reason and then just as suddenly as they started, they stop, sit, and fall asleep in their chairs.

You can tell someone who has worn himself out on the end of his plastic shovels:  He is the guy with his head draped over the back of his beach chair, a tee-shirt over his eyes, his mouth hanging open and his belly hanging out.  You never see your neighbor sleeping in his back yard in such a fashion and for good reason:  He would be too embarrassed to be seen this way.  In his back yard.  For some reason, however, this is perfectly acceptable beach behavior and folks don't mind if thousands of other people see them in such a state.

What's acceptable on the beach as opposed to the back yard can be confusing, but then apparently, I'm easily confused.  A young lady came running up to Martha and me on the beach.  She was perhaps 24 or 25, green eyes, dark hair, a few freckles on her cheeks above a sparkling smile.  "Scopes" was written across the rear of her cute little  red shorts and her black midriff top contrasted in an interesting way with her bronzed skin.  Not that I really noticed her or anything.  Anyway, she asked us if "We would like a picture?"  I was about to say "Absolutely!" when Martha said "No."  After she left, Martha explained to me that this girl wanted to take a picture of us.  That is a different thing altogether.  I thought she was going to give me a picture  of herself.  It was an honest mistake.

The Legend Continues!

Adrian O'Connor, editor of the Winchester Star and author of the excellent weekly column entitled, "The Valley Pike," took time this week to sit down with New Market Rebels former (it is strange to use that word!) hitting instructor, Mo Weber for an interview.  The result was Wednesday's Valley Pike.  Obviously, Adrian enjoyed talking to Mo and I can tell you that Mo certainly enjoyed talking to Adrian.  I'm keeping it short so that you can hit the link and read the column, just as lover's of The Valley's history and people should do every week!

Hell Phones

I hate cell phones.  Or rather, I hate other people's cell phones.  It's not just the annoyance of being in on the conversation between Aunt Sally and Cousin Clem regarding Uncle Larry's goiter because I'm stuck behind them in the check-out line at the grocery store.

No, what I hate is thinking that I'm enjoying a personal conversation with someone when suddenly, that person's phone starts buzzing and he or she jumps to answer it.  Or I realize that the person is not paying attention to the conversation at all, he or she is just staring at me, hands below the table.  Then it occurs to me that that faint tippy-tapping sound is the texting that's going on beneath the veil of the tablecloth.

What I hate most however, is the instant communication that cell phones afford, particularly through texting, and especially by young people.  We all tend to be less circumspect and more emotional when we are young.  I, and the rest of my generation, was kept from spewing our emotions all over the landscape by a very powerful filter:  time.  We didn't have the means to instantly say whatever came into our heads, something that is much easier to do when the head that receives the message is faceless.  It's not quite as easy to tell little Cathy that she has cooties in person; or if you have to ask for little Cathy because her mother picked up the only phone in Cathy's house.  After all, when you see her, perhaps see her lip quiver when she hears your hurtful message, you might just start to relate to Cathy as a fellow human being.  With feelings.

Try getting married and saying whatever comes to mind right at any given moment to your spouse.  You'll soon be trying divorce, that is if you're still living.

Cell phones have become weapons.  Youngsters use them to wound each other with regularity.  Cell phones have become shields because youngsters use them to remain faceless or at least safely removed from peers and parents alike.

Kids, take heed:  Someone texted you that someone heard someone talking on his cell about what he heard being said about you in the cafeteria by the kid behind him who was talking on his cell phone?  You should not only think before you talk, you should think before you listen.  If you did, you might not need a text package at all.

Baseball Stuff

There has been a great deal about life and other stuff posted here lately rather than baseball, mainly because a great deal of life and other stuff has been coming at me lately.  I did get out to a Hagerstown Suns game on Saturday night, a belated birthday present from Becky and Jesse.  Belated, but most welcomed and enjoyed, nevertheless.  In the 8th inning we ventured behind home plate to talk to some friends who are long-time Suns fans and there, taking notes on a yellow legal pad was Pat Corrales.

Corrales, a former big-league catcher with four teams and a former manager of three, now works for Washington and he was in Hagerstown scouting future Nationals, since Hagerstown is a Washington affiliate.  Immediately, I thought back to the 1970 World Series.  Corrales had not received an at-bat but in the 9th inning of the 5th game, with the Orioles needing only one more run to become World Champions, Sparky Anderson sent Corrales to the plate.  He grounded out--to Brooks Robinson appropriately enough--and Baltimore won the World Series . . .

When Saturday night's game ended, he got up and quietly walked past us; limped past us actually, no doubt his knees barking from years of squatting behind the plate, and he left Municipal Stadium.  The adult in me let him walk past without a word, respecting his desire to get home and complete his reports.  Still, I felt that little-kid-thrill that a major league baseball player had just walked past me; and one who had been in the World Series no less.  It was all I could do to keep from saying, "Hey, Pat!" so that I could say a former major leaguer looked at me.

It never ceases to amaze me how rejuvenating the game of baseball can be.

Elvis at 21

Sarah and I took time this week to visit the Elvis at 21 photographic exhibit at the Museum of the Shenandoah Valley in Winchester.  The 56 photos on display were taken in June and July of 1956 by Al Wertheimer who had been hired by RCA records to take some shots of this guy whose contract they had just purchased for the phenomenal sum of $40,000.  The images are phenomenal, haunting really for a variety of reasons.

There's the shot of a long lunch counter in a Richmond hotel.  Grilled cheese sandwiches were $.20, ham and cheese were $.40.  At the far end of the counter is a young man flirting with a girl.  No one else but the counter man is present.  The young man, of course, is Elvis.

Sarah's favorite was of Elvis back at his parent's home in Memphis.  Shirtless and in his stocking feet, Elvis is sitting in an overstuffed chair playing the records that he has just cut for his former high school sweetheart.  She's wearing a white polka-dotted dress and is leaning toward Elvis from another chair, the record player in between them.  It is highly symbolic, for the music would come between Elvis and Normalcy within weeks and this separation would last for the rest of his life.  Normal would never be the same for the rest of us, either.

My favorite photo was actually a sequence of five shots of Elvis getting off the train at a Memphis suburb that was closer to his home than the downtown station.  He exits the train, a solitary figure, bounding across a grassy lot.  He stops to ask directions in the third shot.  In the fifth photo he is waving to the train, as he walks towards his destination.  If he only knew at that moment . . . and that's what makes these images so haunting.  We know.

There was Elvis at a segregated lunch counter, in rehearsal rooms with no air-conditioning, riding a train.  We know what happened to all of it.

I've always been fascinated by the moments right before the big moment.  It's not December 7th, 1941 that haunts us, for example; it's December 6th, 1941.  It was the last day of national innocence and that's the day we would go back to, that's the day in whose simple details and rhythms we would immerse ourselves.  We've all had days such as those December of 1941 days in our personal lives.  One day our life was one way and the next, it had changed course forever.   Elvis at 21 shows us the last innocent days of an American legend.

Elvis fans, photographers, and history buffs should take time to see the photos of Al Wertheimer.  So should people who can spot and appreciate ghosts.

For more information visit the museum's website.

The Passing of an Era

Today is the first time in 26 years that no one in the Gisriel household will be trotting off to the first day of school, which starts today for students in Washington County.  I began my teaching career in Carroll County during the 1984-1985 school year and retired from Washington County in 2004.  Well, I didn't retire so much as I just stopped going.  In any case, Becky began attending school in 1992, then Sarah began in 1997.  Becky graduated in 2005 and finally, Sarah concluded her high school career this past June.

Today does not feel weird in any way; in fact, it feels rather liberating.  No bus to meet, no boxes of tissues to take in, no special notebooks to buy because some anal-retentive teacher has to read assignments on college-rule paper as opposed to high-school ruled or whatever other kind of ruled paper is out there; no extra fees, no schedules to change, no gym uniforms to buy; no homework to check in the middle of the ballgame, no books to cover,  no back-to-school nights at which some administrator thinks it the height of communication to read the student handbook to all the parents.

Of course, I miss the school girls who used to live in our house, but they are alive and well in my memory.  I'm very proud of the adults that they have become.  In fact, all that public schooling--and parenting--is like spring training.  They are as prepared as Martha and I and Washington County Public Schools can make them.  Becky's real season of life has started in earnest as she was married last October.  Sarah's season opens up next week when she moves into Salisbury University for her freshman year.  I am anxious and excited to see all the "wins" that I hope my girls will earn.

Cool Collection!

It was my pleasure recently to view the most interesting, wide-ranging collection of baseball memorabilia that I've ever seen in a private collection owned and displayed by Bill Bowen of Martinsburg.  I met Bill at the Martinsburg Rotary last month when I was giving a talk on Safe at Home:  A Season in the Valley.  Bill invited me to view his collection and I am certainly glad that I took him up on it.  From gloves and cards to stadium seats and bar statuary with a baseball theme, Bill's collection is fantastic.

As interesting as the actual memorabilia was, the story behind many pieces was even more interesting.  For example, Bill showed me a ball that Satchel Paige autographed for him after warming up with it in the Miami Marlin bullpen when Bill was a kid.  In those days, you could sit near the bullpen and talk with the players relatively easily.  As neat as that story was, Bill then showed me the Marlins jersey that he purchased 50 years later on e-Bay of the guy who was catching Paige on that day.

Bill also showed me his autograph book that his mom had given him as a child.  After flipping past the signatures of Casey Stengel, Yogi Berra, Mel Allen, Billy Martin, and others, Bill showed me the prized page within:  To Billy, Best Wishes--a Pal, Mickey Mantle.  If you're a baseball fan, then you have a vicarious chill, just reading those words!

I was lucky enough to visit Bill's collection personally, but you can make a virtual visit by going to the antique sports' collectors website.  Thanks for sharing, Bill!

Scarred for Life

I had the privilege to share a table with Mr. Fred Almond at the Hanover Book Festival outside Richmond last Saturday.  Fred's book entitled Scarred for Life tells the unbelievable story of his journey to forgiveness.  When Fred was 11 years old, a burglar broke into the family's Los Angeles home, murdered his mother, and left him for dead after stabbing him 39 times.

I watched the reactions of folks who would casually ask Fred what his book was about.  They stood there in disbelief and it seemed to me their confusion stemmed not from the horrible facts of the crime, but from this amiable man, who could relate the story so casually and without a tinge of bitterness.  Indeed, that is the truly remarkable aspect of this story, for Fred Almond was as happy and easy-going as anyone you've ever met.  His attitude is a call to all of us and certainly puts our "bad days" into perspective.

Fred will be on I Survived this Sunday night at 9:00 EST on the Biography Channel.  I encourage you to watch that and to explore his website through which you may purchase his book.

Haunting Melodies

The Rebels' season came to an end one week ago tonight.  After a two hour rain delay, we finally began the game, which we lost, and then we gathered in the picnic pavilion for one last meal.  Few wanted to leave, least of all me, but when I did finally get into my van at 12:58 a.m., I switched on the keys and the following lines flowed forth from the radio:

Summer's over.  Our love is over.  To lose that love is such a sin.  Remember then.

For true fans, baseball is a summer romance, and to hear these words as soon as I made ready to leave was somewhat spooky.  The 2010 season was now consigned to the "remember then" category and here the radio was telling me to do so.

Stranger than that, the same thing happened to me last year.  I departed Rebel Park, stopped by the Shenandoah County Flea Market to say good-bye to our bus driver, Vic Moyer, and made one last stop at the Route 11 Potato Chip plant in Mt. Jackson.  I had stretched out my stay in the Valley for as long as I could and now, potato chips in hand, it was really time to head for home.  I got in the van and immediately heard, Paul Anka's, "The Times of Your Life," that begins:

Good morning yesterday.  You wake up and time has slipped away.  And suddenly it's hard to find the memories you've left behind.  Do you remember?  Do you remember the times of your life?

That was really spooky because spending last summer writing about the Rebels was indeed one of the great times of my life as I wrote about shortly after the fact.

For something like this to happen twice is a phenomenal coincidence.  If it happens next year, I may have to have my car radio exorcised.

I know it sounds a little bit crazy, but if you listen to the Earls, the original performers, sing "Remember Then" and you keep in mind your favorite baseball season instead of a former boyfriend or girlfriend, you'll hear this tune as a real baseball song.  And you'll probably be in tears by the time it's finished as already the Rebels' season is over and the summer of 2010 is more than halfway through.

Educational Jibber Jabber

Well.  Six Washington County schools failed to meet proficiency standards in 2010 as compared to 2009 when all schools met the standards.  The following paragraphs appeared last week in reporter Julie Green's article in Hagerstown's Herald-Mail:

Snow days, absences due to the H1N1 flu, students blowing off tests, a poor economy and the increasing thoughness in meeting higher goals were among the possible reasons school board officials discussed for declining results.

"But I don't want to portray to the public in any way that we're making excuses," Schools Superintendent Elizabeth Morgan said.

Upon reading Morgan's comment, I thought it only fair to do a little digging of my own and I discovered that, indeed, education officials were offering no excuses.

The principal of Soupy Sales Elementary School told me that the sun was in the eyes of his kids on test day, while board member Ronald McDonald stated that he found that an entire class had its collective shoes untied when taking the exam.  Indeed, a vice-principal who wishes to remain anonymous, from Moe Howard Middle School said that their entire 7th grade had called "timesies" right before the test booklets were distributed.

One teacher with whom I spoke suggested that "This year's kids are just dumber than last year's," but she was immediately fired for violating Board Policy which states, "Anyone declaring that the Emperor is naked shall be driven from the Empire."

Good thing Superintendents aren't required to pass an efficiency exam in irony.