Baseball, Life, and Other Stuff

The Final Pitch

This is the final entry for Baseball, Life, and Other Stuff.  Thanksto all who have faithfully followed me for 332 blog entries over the past two years.  I am moving on both literally and figuratively.  I now contribute to Seamheads.com, a premier blog site for all things baseball, and for those who wish to continue reading my musings on the grand old game, you may do so there.  I have also been asked to contribute to Baseball Digest.com and, as I wrote Wednesday, I will be hosting Baseball in the Valley, a weekly half-hour podcast on the Valley Baseball League beginning in May.  I will also be contributing to the Outta the Parkway podcast as well.  June will see me return to the Rebels' webcast booth.  Something had to give and that something was this blog.

I am also calling it quits out of respect to my readers.  When one runs out of things to say, one should quit talking, or writing, in this case.  Doing other wise might qualify me for Congress--eminently--but I wouldn't feel right if I couldn't give this blog, that is to say my readers, my best effort.

As I understand it, readers may still access any entry that has appeared here before.

It has been a great deal of fun for me.  I hope it has for you.  As I personally know the vast majority of readers, I don't think "good-bye" is appropriate.  We won't be visiting each other through these pages, but we'll certainly be visiting!  Thanks for stopping by.         

                                                                                    --Austin

Death and Youth and Ernie Tyler

All Baltimore Oriole fans know the name Ernie Tyler.  The long-time umpires' attendant at Memorial Stadium and then at Camden Yards died last Thursday.  His funeral is today.  Ernie began as an usher in the Orioles' inaugural year of 1954 and became the umpires' attendant in 1960.  He never missed a single game, working 3,819 straight until July of 2007 when he attended the Hall of Fame induction of Cal Ripken.  He was there at Ripken's request, which says something about both men.  It is estimated that Ernie rubbed up 350,000 baseballs during his tenure which lasted through this past season.

The Baltimore Sun's Mike Klingaman posted a touching obituary in which he quoted many former Orioles, but no quote touched me more than former Oriole catcher Andy Etchebarren's:  Ernie was a wonderful man who will bypass everything and go straight to Heaven.  I'm sure Ernie is already rubbing up baseballs for Dave McNally, Mike Cuellar, and Pat Dobson who are getting ready to pitch up there.

I knew that each of those 20 game winners that Etchebarren mentioned had died, but it stopped me short nevertheless.  McNally, Cuellar, Dobson . . . Mark Belanger, Steve Barber, Curt Motton . . . Curt Blefary, Moe Drabowsky, Elrod Hendricks . . . At these moments baseball is less a restorative and more of an echo; the echo of a boy yelling himself hoarse for every one of those guys.

Of course, my first and greatest hero is still with us, but when a certain third baseman leaves this world, I hope that I am alone when I receive the news.  I don't want anyone to see my crying like a child.

We baseball fans are pretty resilient, though.  Upon such occasions, we take out our memories and sort through them and trade them like baseball cards, those little pieces of cardboard which show our heroes frozen in a moment, forever young.  Slowly, but surely, that sudden sense of age and time recedes like the tide which we discover has not washed away the cleat marks of the ballplayers we adored.

When I was a boy, I thought that Ernie Tyler would always be on his little stool at the side of the backstop, that Chuck Thompson would always be in the broadcast booth, and that Brooks Robinson would always be at third.  Luckily, there's place inside me where that's still true.

Rest in peace, Ernie.

Another Hero Gone

Monday, Becky called to tell me that Major Dick Winters had died.  If you don't know who Major Winters was, you should.  He was the commanding officer of "Easy Company" of the 506th Regiment of the 101st Airborne Division made famous in Stephen Ambrose's Band of Brothers that was later turned into the HBO series of the same name. Portrayed so ably by British actor Damian Lewis, Winters was a warrior who never lost sight of his humanity nor the humanity of those around him, friend or enemy.  If you were to write a novel about a group of soldiers who were present at D-Day, Operation Market Garden, and Bastogne; who helped liberate Dachau and were the first to arrive at Hitler's Eagle's Nest retreat, any sane editor would turn down your manuscript as totally unbelievable.  Yet, Easy Company was there for all of it.

I have no intention of giving a history lesson today.  I urge you to read the book and watch the mini-series which is available on DVD.  Band of Brothers also has a Facebook Page through which you can keep track of Easy Company news.  That page posted an excellent piece on Major Winters' including a touching excerpt from his own book.

I feel inadequate in writing about Major Winters, for words, even as highly as I value them, are small compared to the actions of a man such as he.  I will say this, however.  As a young man, Dick Winters was what you would want your son to be like and as an old man Dick Winters was what you would want your grandfather to be like. 

Here's to Major Richard Winters:  May you finally have the peace which you have been seeking since those awful days of your youth.

The Legend Lives On

Former New Market Rebels coach Mo Weber, who retired this past June, was presented his jersey at the Rebels Holiday Party on New Year's Day.  Weber's number "1" was retired on June 24th--his 87th birthday, but he was not formally presented with his retired uniform until Saturday.  How appropriate, since Mo's #1 was officially presented on 1-1-11.  When Rebels' President and General Manager Bruce Alger, along with assistant coach John Combs handed the display to Mo, he was rendered speechless.  That in itself made it a red-letter day on any calendar!

The sound on the video below is not the greatest (tiny cameras have even tinier microphones!), but it is plain to see that Mo was truly moved by the gesture.  If you listen carefully, you will hear him remark, "I'm short of words tonight."  He concluded by saying, "It's a very humbling experience . . . and to say a few words; I'm done!"  This clip may be technically poor because of the orange lighting, but that same lighting renders it symbolically rich, for there was indeed a warm glow that was felt by everyone in attendance.

Even if you are a first-time visitor to this blog and have no idea who Mo Weber is, I think that you will still take something from the presentation.  Here is a man who has given his life to baseball and in turn he received the ultimate compliment--he had his uniform number retired.  May we all be as passionate and dedicated to our respective callings as Mo has been, and continues to be, to his.

 

Wise Word for the New Year

A friend of mine recently made a very wise statement to me:  "Never forget where your joy comes from," she said.

Too often, adults subsitute distraction for joy.  We're so bogged down at work or worried about our 
children or distraught over the state of the world, that temporary relief from that stress feels like joy.  So we mindlessly watch TV or shop at the mall, but it's not the same.  We have forgotten the wisdom of our childhood.  For most of us, childhood was a moment to moment proposition from which we did not want to be distracted at all.  Not by our parents, not by school, not by anybody. Our joy was intense and immediate.

Never forget where your joy comes from.

Tuesday, I was working out at Extra Innings at a time when about fifteen, 8-12 year old boys were attending the December Vacation Clinic.  When the instruction was finished, a whiffle ball game ensued.  With the happy sounds of play emanating from the tunnels, I couldn't help but wander over to watch the action.  At one point, a boy was racing around the bases.  An instructor had the ball and was moving toward the third base side of home to apply a tag as the boy made an ill-advised dash for the plate.  As the instructor went to make the tag, however, the boy, without hesitation made a head first slide into home--along the rough indoor turf--avoiding the tag and scoring a run.  An out-loud laugh passed my lips at the same time that tears came to my eyes.  There was something about the way that boy reacted to seeing the fielder with the ball . . . I knew he was going to slide, rough turf or no.  It's what I would have done.  That's what made me laugh.  In that instant, I felt what he felt; his joy was my joy.  And it was not metaphorical.  It was real.  Unbeknownst to him, he had given me a gift of pure joy and it was overwhelming in a good way.  That's what made me misty.

For me, baseball has a way of distilling the years until that pure, sparkling childhood is left.  When I'm
talking to 87 year old coach-extraordinaire, Mo Weber about the game, neither of us are aware of the 34 years that separates us.  In fact, we're the same age, it's just that Mo has seen more games.  None of the Extra Inning staff has ever asked me, why at 53 years old I show up and do a baseball workout once a week.  They don't have to ask because they know why.  It's a time in which I can renew my joy, a joy that they are quite familiar with, a joy that is a great age equalizer.

Never forget where your joy comes from.

True childhood joy never dissipates.  In fact, it increases when one learns to share it and ultimately to give it away.  I'm so fortunate to broadcast New Market Rebel games on the web because I not only get to talk to the players and then watch them play, but I also get to "give" that night's game to the listeners.  I want them to not only see the plays, but also to smell the onions frying below, to feel the breeze waft across our broadcast platform, to listen for Molly the Rally Dog, barking in the background, to enjoy sitting with Charlie, Jay, Noah, Kevin, Andrew, C. B. and me at a ballgame.  Sure, their "seat" may be in Baltimore or Kansas City or Arkansas or California (and we had regular listeners in all four of those locations last season), but if they receive joy from the broadcast, then my joy is increased in limitless fashion.

Never forget where your joy comes from.

This entry isn't really about baseball.  It just seems that way because the examples are personal.  For you perhaps joy comes from singing or woodworking or tracking the stars; dancing, painting, teaching, sewing; working on cars, taking walks, studying history or literature or mathematics.  Whatever it might be, never forget where your joy comes from.

And never forget to give it to others.

May the New Year be a joyous one for you and yours.

 

George Washington's Christmas Gift

Of all the gifts we may receive this season, it is not an exaggeration to say that as Americans, the greatest gift was delivered 234 years ago tomorrow night.  That is when George Washington crossed the Delaware River and led his cold and hungry, but dedicated soldiers in an attack against Hessian mercenaries in Trenton, New Jersey.  This battle turned the tide of the Revolution, ultimately leading to an American victory--and our freedom.

It is easy to forget that moments from so long ago touch us directly.  I would venture to guess that most Americans think of the famous painting of Washington standing in a Durham boat, but don't know why he was crossing the Delaware or about the battle that followed.  We need to take a moment on Christmas night and put ourselves in one of those boats . . . A nor'easter is sweeping in bringing with it rain that turns to sleet that turns to snow . . . men who had been soundly defeated and driven from New York and across New Jersey are undertaking a mission based solely on their faith in their commander . . . they are allowed no fires when they disembark lest they alert the Hessians of their presence; two men freeze to death on the march . . . they are behind schedule . . . and somehow, those 2,400 men achieve a victory that alters all of human history.  The chills do not proceed from the imagined cold, but from the reality of their accomplishment.

Take a moment and give thanks to George Washington and his soldiers.  Among other things, they gave us the freedom to celebrate Christmas.

For a thorough discussion and excellent read, check out David Hackett Fischer's Washington's Crossing.  Fischer examines not only the battle, but its historic legacy.  I highly recommend it.

 

Up on a Rooftop

Is anyone else not feeling the Christmas spirit?  It dawned on me recently why I'm not.  Christmas music and Christmas television shows and Christmas sales have been going on so long that all the "wonderful" has gone right out of one of the most wonderful times of the year.  Local radio station Mix 95.1 FM, for example, has been playing non-stop Christmas music since the beginning of November.  Stores have been stuffed with tables and racks and displays of pre-packaged Christmas gifts to the point where I feel bloated just walking through those places. . . .  Just buy this crap and check another person off the list!  Don't think!  Of course, it's hard to think while stores pump our ears full of some alternative band's alternative version of "Jingle Bells" that is so hideous, it would make Santa want to jump, not down, but off the nearest chimney to an icy, but eager death.  We should all be grateful if the Grinch stole this modern Christmas.

There was a rhythm to Christmas when I was a boy, a slow but steady march toward the Big Day.  Right after Thanksgiving, the first Christmas cards would arrive.  I got to open any that included "& Family" on the envelope, because as an only child, that was I!  Soon decorations began to appear throughout the neighborhood.  Then came the Friday that we made green and read construction paper chains to put on the elementary school tree, and there was that special night that How the Grinch Stole Christmas was broadcast for the one and only time that season.  In another week, the entire neighborhood was decorated, and I knew we were getting really close to Christmas when my mom started baking cookies.  Turn an 8 year old loose with the sprinkles and the kitchen becomes a blizzard of red and green sugar crystals!

It took forever, but the last day of school finally arrived and we bound off the bus, with cards that we had made for our parents.  The next day was Christmas Eve!  The High Holy Day of Anticipation.  What was Mom wrapping back there?  What would Santa bring?  Would he leave presents for me at Grandma's, too?  Always, right before bed, my dad would stop, a surprised look on his face, and he would shush me.  He'd look at me and say, "I think I hear something on the roof!"  I loved that tradition, long after I knew that there were no reindeer knocking about our rooftop, because it was a call to believe in hope and in joy. It was the one thing that connected this Christmas to all the Christmases that I had ever known or that I ever will know. . . .

. . . Ah, so that's it.  As I write this, I realize what is truly wrong with these modern Christmases.  I'm being asked to believe in excess and gluttony; and I'm being asked to believe that stuff can fill all our empty places as though our souls were stockings simply to be filled with things.  But filling is not the same as fulfilling and so I refuse to believe the new Christmas Story.  I'm going to cling to the belief that if I listen hard enough on Christmas Eve, I'll hear something on the roof.

Follow Your Passion

On a whim yesterday, I asked my Facebook friends if anyone had a suggestion for a topic for today's blog.  I received a single response; a single response that said so much and reminds us of what this day, and all our other days are about.

Jill Lively, mom to Jay Lively, our color analyst on the Rebel webcasts and a former Rebel, wrote to say the following:

Follow your passion; life is so short.  Just lost my 45 year old sister to pneumonia.  The thing everyone remembers about her is her spunky spirit, smile and contagious laugh.    She enjoyed every day and was passionate about her daughters and her work as a coroner/nurse.  Her life was far from easy, but you would never know it from talking to her.  Her love/life/legacy in 45 years is far greater than most people achieve in 100.  God bless Julie for the lessons she taught all of us . . .

I am struck by certain words in Jill's description of her sister:  smile, laugh, enjoyed, passionate.  I can't think of another word that I would want to describe my life.

Jill, I never met your sister, but after reading your words, I'm sorry that I never had the chance.  Take heart in the fact that her life is still touching people, even strangers.  Smiling, laughing, enjoying life, and being passionate about our endeavors is the most fitting tribute that any of us can pay to Julie and to those, living or deceased who have touched our lives.  Let's resolve to do so.

 

Queen of Mayfield

The road of Life is marked by many milestones and, all too often, many tombstones.  Barbara Billingsley's can now be added to the list of the later.  Better known as June Cleaver to the millions of fans of Leave It to Beaver, Billingsley died Saturday. Perhaps what made her the iconic Mom to my generation was because she often spoke the sweetest words that a child in trouble could hear:  "Ward, I think you're being too hard on the boys."

"Ward," of course is Ward Cleaver, June's husband played by Hugh Beaumont.  Interestingly, of all the 277 entries that I have posted to this blog up to today, a very early one from February 16, 2009 marking what would have been Hugh Beaumont's 100th birthday remains Martha's favorite, and one of mine, too.

As I alluded to in that post, Leave It to Beaver was not about a simpler time, it was about a better time.  Indeed, every week we were introduced to some very complicated times in Beaver's life.  During one episode for example, he and his friends all agreed to stick out their tongues when the class picture was taken, but as it turned out, Beaver was the only one who carried through on the promise.

Leave It to Beaver dealt not with simple times, but with simple solutions; solutions still available to us, should we summon the courage to use them.  Be honest.  Be respectful.  Do the right thing because it's the right thing to do.  Look out for your brother.  Look out for your children.  Were we to embrace these solutions, it would not make the world any less complicated, but it would certainly make the world better.  Barbara Billingsley helped teach all of us that through her portrayal of June.

When I watch Leave It to Beaver now, I identify still with Beaver because that child is still in me, but I also identify with Ward and June because I am now a parent.  Ward often had a hard time explaining life to Wally and Beaver, because life is a hard thing to explain.  After all, Beaver stayed true to his word and stuck out his tongue, but his friends forsook him and he was left to face the punishment by himself.  How does a father explain that?  Turns out, fathers can do a great deal when mothers have faith in them.  It was always clear to me, even as a boy, that Ward wouldn't have been such a good father, if June weren't such a good wife and mother.

Here's to June Cleaver.  Thanks, Barbara Billingsley for bringing her to life.

 

 

We'll Meet Again . . .

Having written about Williamsport's WWII Days and the USO dance that was part of the activities last year, I did not intend to write about it again this year.  The dance once again proved to be so moving, however, that I cannot help but comment upon it.  The band Jump Alley performed swing music for three hours inside the Springfield barn in Williamsport's Byron Memorial Park.  Jesse and Becky joined us, and as Jesse noted, the inside of that barn looked like "a time capsule" with war posters, swing dancers, and G.I.s all about.

The atmosphere was indeed inspiring, but two moments stood out as truly moving.  At one point, the band called for all the WWII veterans to assemble on the dance floor.  Perhaps a dozen men came forward.  They were instructed to face the crowd and not the band, as many in the crowdtook photos of this distinguised group.  I turned to Becky and said, "Remember this moment so that you can tell your children that you saw a group of World War II vets; because by the time your kids are old enough to appreciate it, all these gentlemen will be gone."  Indeed, I felt privileged just to be there and add my salute to the applause that they received.  Jump Alley then told the vets that the next song was especially for them and they proceeded to play "This is the Army, Mr. Jones," which was greeted with smiles of recognition by the former G.I.s as they returned to their seats.  Then, magic filled the barn.

The lady swing dancers, who were in period dress, spontaneously sought out those veterans and led them to the dance floor.  For a minute or two, they were not old, nor even young, but ageless.  And the old boys remembered all the moves on the dance floor, too.  As they came off the floor, I overheard a nearby vet thank one of the dancers, who was perhaps in her 30s.

"It was my pleasure," she said, adding, "It was an honor."

For their last number, Jump Alley played "We'll Meet Again," a melancholy song with a happy tune that suggests that one must face an uncertain future with a certain degree of optimism--even if you have to fake the optimism.  The song must have carried a profound meaning for those men when they were 18, 19, and 20 and wondering if they would ever meet their friends and sweethearts again.  And now, in their 80s and 90s, these men must again contemplate that song that now applies in a different way to their lives.  As the band played, the crowd spontaneously joined hands in a large circle and sang along.

In a small, small way, this recognition of our veterans was a continuation of the World War II story.  I certainly felt that I had witnessed a moving historical event, even if it was one of those tiny anonymous events that will never find its way into any kind of history book.  But I saw it and took a small part in it and I'm proud to have done so.

Please take 6 minutes and 30 seconds and view the video below.  It begins with footage of Vera Lynn, the English singer who originally made "We'll Meet Again" famous, and concludes with a live performance on British Rememberance Day.  Listen and give thanks to the boys who for 225 years and counting have fought on our behalf.