Baseball with Dad. The American verity.
A Hard-hitting Intro to the Game
Square in the right eye. That's where the pitch hit me. (I'm a lefty-batter; so, the right profile got the brunt.) Third-grade, maybe fourth-, I don't recall. What I do recall is crying a lot, then my softball coach telling me to lie down on the bench and hold a glass of iced tea on my throbbing eye.
The only thing worse than the pain, was the humiliation: lying there like a weirdo with a glass of Nestea on my face. Shaking it off pretty quickly - pride overriding pain - I went right back into play, heading to my position, somewhere in the outfield: excellent placement for me, as getting nailed by an underhanded pitch was my best performance ever, on a baseball diamond.
Softball wasn't really for me. Dance and violin were my things. I liked the activity and energy of softball; yet, the uniforms and lack of glitter left me wanting. Ballet, gymnastics and Polynesian dance pulled hard focus at that age. For this eight-year-old, there was no contest between the fantasy of tutus, rainbow leotards and Tahitian skirts, and prosaic polyester knickers and a t-shirt. Bo-ring.
Fortunately for softball, it lost its worst player the day it gave me a black eye. Wait a minute. Was it personal? Did it edge me out with force? In truth, I was bound to quit the sport eventually. Softball just wasn't jazzy enough for the likes of Moi.
My dad seemed disappointed I quit; baseball was an overriding joy for him. He was rather pleased, nay, surprised, I'd made the team at all. I suspect, though, like when I kicked karate (boring outfits, also), one less extracurricular activity and its ensuing expenses had to please him. No matter, there was enough baseball out there for him, even if I didn't play.
Aside: It turns out none of my childhood pursuits would be a match for the sport where I finally did land: Irish step-dancing. Excess makeup, over-the-top bling and Shirley Temple curls?! Yes, please!
Baseball Zen
What I didn't appreciate at the time, about softball/baseball, was the leisurely practice of it: the blue skies, green grass and birds and little critters on the field. What is lovelier than a halted game, dozens of grown men standing about waiting, leaning on their bats and chatting with other players, whilst the whole stadium waits for a lone bunny, or a pair of doves, to clear the field? That, and when opposing players shake hands, hug or pat each other's butts, makes me really happy. The outfield bro-hugs, btw? Just perfection. Swoon.
Tina Belcher: “I never realized baseball had so much butt touching.” Louise Belcher: “That’s how they communicate, Tina. It’s like Braille, but with butts.”
All of this Summer-serenity was there for the taking … until those explosive spurts of speed and inertia. A body at rest stays at rest, until affected by an outside force: in this case, a bat, another player, or a ball to the right eye.
Baseball is a game of mellow excitement. Maybe that was the draw for Dad. He was a quiet man, a listener. In fact, he was/still is a renowned, clinical and forensic, child and adolescent psychologist, on both coasts: reigning champ of all quiet, listening professions!
“What do you think it means?”
Baseball is a game wherein one can sporadically sit in silence, with little noise but the scritching of a pencil on a stats notebook, maybe the persistent “Let's go, _____!” chant from an excitable child on the Upper Deck, or the distant call of a concessions vendor. Depending on where you're sitting, you might hear the measured rhythm of a groundskeeper's rake or practice pitches, and subsequent catches, in the bullpen.
In the universe of sports, it is relatively chill, akin to golf. Lots of leaning back, folded arms and brief chats with other players on the field or in the dugout … until there's that satisfying crack of a bat, the rip of a fastball and the spontaneous cheers of half a stadium, intermingled with the excited voices of the announcers in the press box. If it's a homerun, there's organ music! Nothing bad happens when organ music plays, except maybe vampires rising from their coffins as the moon rises.
In the stands, there's always enough down-time for friendly conversations, or light-hearted arguments. Sometimes, it’s sweet, baseball-movie charm, like Kiss-cams or cutie-cute Drew Barrymore in the Farrelly Brothers’ Fever Pitch. Sometimes, it's drunky-drunks blasted on grain-alcohol riot-juice and picking fights with the mascot. Hopefully, those folk are far from your seats and tire out quickly.
Baseball is a game of mellow excitement. Maybe that was the draw for Dad. He was a quiet man, a listener. In fact, he was/still is a renowned, clinical and forensic, child and adolescent psychologist, on both coasts: reigning champ of all quiet, listening professions!
“What do you think it means?”
Baseball is a game wherein one can sporadically sit in silence, with little noise but the scritching of a pencil on a stats notebook, maybe the persistent “Let's go, _____!” chant from an excitable child on the Upper Deck, or the distant call of a concessions vendor. Depending on where you're sitting, you might hear the measured rhythm of a groundskeeper's rake or practice pitches, and subsequent catches, in the bullpen.
In the universe of sports, it is relatively chill, akin to golf. Lots of leaning back, folded arms and brief chats with other players on the field or in the dugout … until there's that satisfying crack of a bat, the rip of a fastball and the spontaneous cheers of half a stadium, intermingled with the excited voices of the announcers in the press box. If it's a homerun, there's organ music! Nothing bad happens when organ music plays, except maybe vampires rising from their coffins as the moon rises.
In the stands, there's always enough down-time for friendly conversations, or light-hearted arguments. Sometimes, it’s sweet, baseball-movie charm, like Kiss-cams or cutie-cute Drew Barrymore in the Farrelly Brothers’ Fever Pitch. Sometimes, it's drunky-drunks blasted on grain-alcohol riot-juice and picking fights with the mascot. Hopefully, those folk are far from your seats and tire out quickly.
Whenever there's a potential riot, I'm getting blasted on grain alcohol!
Most stadium experiences are, hopefully, a good memory. Folks just want to enjoy a pleasurable game-day and dream big for their team. A childhood friend started a lifetime of love at Dodger Stadium. There she was on the Jumbotron: all long, blonde hair, cheery blue-eyes, and her wide, brilliant smile. Her husband-to-be saw her, found her and that was it. Baseball is love, sometimes.
Of course, even though there is time for convo, laughter, love and selfies in the stands, for the most serious of fans, that time is spent checking stats, surveying the field and eagle-eyeing all player movements. That fan was Dad, oblivious to all but the theater of the game.
Do Not Disturb
Today, Major League games tend to run approximately two-and-a-half hours. Pitch-clocks, a timer ensuring pitchers deliver their pitches within a :15-:30 time-frame, depending on how many runners on-base, has shortened games a bit in recent years. Batters and catchers have similar time-restraints today. Games used to run longer, a lot longer, or at least it seemed that way, as a kid. I want to say, four or five hours, but that sounds wrong.
Hours and hours, Dad could spend at a game: overtime, extra innings and, wonders-of-wonders, the double-header (two games back-to-back). Heaven! Even sitting in the parking lot, inching his way out to the main road, was joyful.
In a planetary event, sometime in the 1980s, Mom's worst day and Dad's best day aligned when a San Diego Padres game went into extra innings … twenty-one innings in all. Pleading to leave was useless. Dad was pliable, malleable and patient to a fault, but not where baseball was concerned. “Thank goodness I brought my knitting,” was Mom's only relief. She talked about that “nightmare” for the rest of her life.
There was little difference at home: hours and hours on weekends, sitting in his leather club-chair, often falling asleep, watching any game televised. Two-way conversation was generally futile. Mom or I could chatter on any topic, uninterrupted, for minutes on-end, only to finally demand a response of some kind.
Hours and hours, Dad could spend at a game: overtime, extra innings and, wonders-of-wonders, the double-header (two games back-to-back). Heaven! Even sitting in the parking lot, inching his way out to the main road, was joyful.
In a planetary event, sometime in the 1980s, Mom's worst day and Dad's best day aligned when a San Diego Padres game went into extra innings … twenty-one innings in all. Pleading to leave was useless. Dad was pliable, malleable and patient to a fault, but not where baseball was concerned. “Thank goodness I brought my knitting,” was Mom's only relief. She talked about that “nightmare” for the rest of her life.
There was little difference at home: hours and hours on weekends, sitting in his leather club-chair, often falling asleep, watching any game televised. Two-way conversation was generally futile. Mom or I could chatter on any topic, uninterrupted, for minutes on-end, only to finally demand a response of some kind.
“An ‘ugh’ will do”, mom would exasperate.
Ugh, he would dutifully respond.
I learned then, baseball was a great time to ask for things. Ugh doesn't mean, no.
Ugh, he would dutifully respond.
I learned then, baseball was a great time to ask for things. Ugh doesn't mean, no.
If he drifted to sleep whilst watching, and we tried to change the channel to, say, “Designing Women” he would suddenly awake and groggily say, “I was watching that.”
Mom said, he needed a hotel “Do Not Disturb” sign to hang around his neck during baseball season.
If he had to be out of the house during a game, sports radio was a faithful companion. Their faces weren't so familiar, but the voices of play-by-play announcers like Vin Scully, Bob Uecker and Dick Engberg were so familiar, it's as though they shared the backseat with my Hello Kitty backpack and me.
In October, after he'd exhausted all World Series analysis, pontification and coverage, he'd watch old games on ESPN. I didn't get it.
“You know who wins,” I'd judge.
“It doesn't matter,” he'd reply simply.
Mom said, he needed a hotel “Do Not Disturb” sign to hang around his neck during baseball season.
If he had to be out of the house during a game, sports radio was a faithful companion. Their faces weren't so familiar, but the voices of play-by-play announcers like Vin Scully, Bob Uecker and Dick Engberg were so familiar, it's as though they shared the backseat with my Hello Kitty backpack and me.
In October, after he'd exhausted all World Series analysis, pontification and coverage, he'd watch old games on ESPN. I didn't get it.
“You know who wins,” I'd judge.
“It doesn't matter,” he'd reply simply.
Pitchers and Catchers Report
By New Year’s, he'd start making his annual, happy observation: “Pitchers and Catchers Report” is coming, meaning the date the first wave of players, pitchers and catchers, report for Spring Training. Like a parrot, he would repeat it at regular intervals throughout Winter.
Pitchers and Catchers Report. Pitchers and Catchers Report. Pitchers and Catchers Report. Squawk!
When he wasn't working, watching baseball, doing yard work, helping Mom redecorate the house or taking us to Disneyland, or South Coast Plaza, he was reading.
Reading material fell into five categories: psychological books and journals; western novels; American Revolution non-fiction; baseball non-fiction; and, above all, The Sporting News.
Never was there a day I didn't see the old, analog, sports newspaper lying somewhere in the house. Even old ones couldn't be tossed until he gave the go-ahead, that he'd read every single word and stat. The Sporting News was where I first saw “Pitchers and Catchers Report” in-print.
Until recently, I'd always presumed it was a report about pitchers and catchers, not that they reported for Spring Training. Who knew “report” was a verb in this case?
I’d Do It Tomorrow
It was a lifelong obsession, baseball. As a post-WWII child, a Navy brat, Dad played in the streets of Honolulu, Brooklyn, Birmingham, Puerto Rico and, his eventual, permanent hometown of San Diego.
High school, college and the Air Force all supplied him fields and opportunities to play. Later, in his professional life, would play on the odd, hospital- or government-team. As much as he cherished his psychological work, he would've traded that professional life in mental health for a professional life in baseball, in a heartbeat.
My husband and he shared an affinity for the game: both playing in elementary school, high school and both lifelong, SoCal-team fans. Both had been young dreamers, fantasizing of the Major League life; and both were utterly disillusioned by the Major League players’ strike of 1994/’95.
During one of their regular, ocean drives down PCH, they chatted casually, whilst listenng to a Padres game, on the life of a minor leaguer: the long road-trips on a team-bus, the low pay, cheap motels, bad sleep, and the cruel elusiveness of the Majors.
My husband assessed,"At this point in my life, seeing how rough that life can be, I don't think I'd do it.”
“Oh, I'd do it tomorrow,” Dad replied without missing a beat.
He oft lamented, he just didn't have the talent. “Some guys have an arm and no heart. I had the heart, but not enough arm.”
In the 1990s, Rotisserie Fantasy Baseball became an enthusiastic addendum to his passion. The only time he would go to a bar, would be to meet his fellow owners to draft their teams (whatever that means). I'm not sure, yet, but this is likely not for Moi: so many numbers, so much math. Definitely a game of statistics, which he revered.
The last game he ever saw was a Padres home-game. The walk back to the car was longer than he remembered and he was disappointed the Padres lost, again. He carried the glove he brought religiously to every game - in case of fly-balls - and dissected the game with my husband as they walked slowly. Per usual, he channeled his inner-Charlie Brown and found pride in being a “true fan”, regardless of a team's standing. There was a strange honour in having lost, no matter how often. “Anybody can be a Yankees fan,” he'd say. Although, he did love Derek Jeter: Yankees shortstop from 1995 - 2014.
“Have you ever watched Derek Jeter run? He's so elegant, like a gazelle.”
High school, college and the Air Force all supplied him fields and opportunities to play. Later, in his professional life, would play on the odd, hospital- or government-team. As much as he cherished his psychological work, he would've traded that professional life in mental health for a professional life in baseball, in a heartbeat.
My husband and he shared an affinity for the game: both playing in elementary school, high school and both lifelong, SoCal-team fans. Both had been young dreamers, fantasizing of the Major League life; and both were utterly disillusioned by the Major League players’ strike of 1994/’95.
During one of their regular, ocean drives down PCH, they chatted casually, whilst listenng to a Padres game, on the life of a minor leaguer: the long road-trips on a team-bus, the low pay, cheap motels, bad sleep, and the cruel elusiveness of the Majors.
My husband assessed,"At this point in my life, seeing how rough that life can be, I don't think I'd do it.”
“Oh, I'd do it tomorrow,” Dad replied without missing a beat.
He oft lamented, he just didn't have the talent. “Some guys have an arm and no heart. I had the heart, but not enough arm.”
In the 1990s, Rotisserie Fantasy Baseball became an enthusiastic addendum to his passion. The only time he would go to a bar, would be to meet his fellow owners to draft their teams (whatever that means). I'm not sure, yet, but this is likely not for Moi: so many numbers, so much math. Definitely a game of statistics, which he revered.
The last game he ever saw was a Padres home-game. The walk back to the car was longer than he remembered and he was disappointed the Padres lost, again. He carried the glove he brought religiously to every game - in case of fly-balls - and dissected the game with my husband as they walked slowly. Per usual, he channeled his inner-Charlie Brown and found pride in being a “true fan”, regardless of a team's standing. There was a strange honour in having lost, no matter how often. “Anybody can be a Yankees fan,” he'd say. Although, he did love Derek Jeter: Yankees shortstop from 1995 - 2014.
“Have you ever watched Derek Jeter run? He's so elegant, like a gazelle.”
Charlie Brown's everyman approach to life, baseball and dogs was his purest school of philosophy, and he knew his philosophers. Don't blame the sun for getting in your eyes, Lucy. Put on some sunglasses and “do good catching”.
True fans watch, and play, in the rain, they sit behind a pillar if necessary, and nosebleed seats are great because at least you can see the whole field.
True fans never bet against their team and they don't leave a game early “because of traffic”.
True fans are crushed when their team doesn't make it to the playoffs; or, actually worse, makes it, then fails to advance to the World Series.
True fans can still enjoy the playoffs and World Series, even sans their team, rooting for “the better of two evils”; but they never, ever hop on the bandwagon and buy a new baseball hat, “just for the series”.
In their fifty-six-year history, the Padres have made it to the National League playoffs seven times; they've gone to the World Series twice; they lost both of those.
True fans watch, and play, in the rain, they sit behind a pillar if necessary, and nosebleed seats are great because at least you can see the whole field.
True fans never bet against their team and they don't leave a game early “because of traffic”.
True fans are crushed when their team doesn't make it to the playoffs; or, actually worse, makes it, then fails to advance to the World Series.
True fans can still enjoy the playoffs and World Series, even sans their team, rooting for “the better of two evils”; but they never, ever hop on the bandwagon and buy a new baseball hat, “just for the series”.
In their fifty-six-year history, the Padres have made it to the National League playoffs seven times; they've gone to the World Series twice; they lost both of those.
His theory was SoCal players, including San Diego Chargers football (now, L.A. Chargers) rarely win the Big Prize because “the weather's too nice here, life is too easy”. I never thought that made sense, but he believed it.
For comparison …
In their sixty-four-year history, the Angels have made it to the American League playoffs ten times; they've gone to the World Series once, and won.
In their 124-year history, the Red Sox have made it to the American League playoffs twenty-five times; they've gone to the World Series thirteen times; they've won nine times, including enduring an eighty-six-year drought known as The Bambino's Curse, starting in 1919 when the Red Sox traded Babe Ruth (TheBambino) to the New York Yankees.
So, regardless of his team's performance, at the end of each season, Dad would reiterate proudly, “Well, the Padres have been disappointing me for over fifty years. Go, Pods.”
For comparison …
In their sixty-four-year history, the Angels have made it to the American League playoffs ten times; they've gone to the World Series once, and won.
In their 124-year history, the Red Sox have made it to the American League playoffs twenty-five times; they've gone to the World Series thirteen times; they've won nine times, including enduring an eighty-six-year drought known as The Bambino's Curse, starting in 1919 when the Red Sox traded Babe Ruth (TheBambino) to the New York Yankees.
So, regardless of his team's performance, at the end of each season, Dad would reiterate proudly, “Well, the Padres have been disappointing me for over fifty years. Go, Pods.”
We're Talkin’ Baseball
My parents call the North Shore of Boston home now. The area was an annual holiday destination: Salem at Hallowe'en is addictive, once you've experienced it. Marblehead is simply perfect. Boston-proper is heartening and exhilarating. It is as steeped in history as its harbor was in tea, in 1773. It is, for this writer, the greatest metropolis in this great nation; yet, that's another post.
So, whilst dad was never a Red Sox fan, the town was something very special to our fam. Moreover, as a Babe Ruth devotee, he respected the Sox’ first claim to The Bambino: 1915 - 1919. (Well, after his brief, inaugural stint with the then-minor league Baltimore Orioles in 1914.)
Sure, The Sultan of Swing graced New York's Polo Grounds/Yankee Stadium much longer than he did Boston's Fenway Park: 1920 - 1934, interestingly, the entire stretch of Prohibition, plus one year. Still, for whatever reason, Dad couldn't bear the Yankees. So, he stuck with The Boston Babe.
Now, as the 2024 MLB official season starts, I imagine Mom's once again talking to an open Sporting News as he reads it in his chair, or attempting conversation as he watches the Red Sox, Angels and Padres, by whatever means available, along the peaceful shores of Salem Harbor. Do Not Disturb.
It's As Simple As That
Like truffles in an egg carton, a child growing up with so much baseball in the air is bound to become somewhat infused. There were spurts of interest: the short-lived, childhood softball endeavour; a brief flirtation with softball in college (only to switch to Model U.N. after a professor proclaimed her disgust that I'd “waste time” on a sport); ball-girl tryouts in college; and, a longer, actual flirtation with Single-A ball (minor league): going to games with a friend, hoping the cute players would notice me in the stands.
I say, “me”, because the friend was a dude, btw: my bestie, at the time, and fellow Disneyland cast member. I didn't need another chick pulling focus. Driving out to watch the Palm Springs Angels was good old-fashioned fun and he was an excellent wingman, helping Moi to “pass notes”, as it were. By the end of that season, I only ever talked to one player; he just wasn't that into me. The Desert League then became boring quickly. I don't like the desert anyhoo, no matter how cute the players.
Eventually, as an adult, baseball was of almost no interest: simply something I associated with visiting Mom & Dad, as it was always on, in some form, somewhere in the house.
Ergo, I'm not a complete newbie to the game; but I'm no Rain Man either. Although, I do admit to mild, OCD tendencies and am a bit of a dork. So, if I return here later this season with reports from my new, statistics journal, don't be surprised.
Also, I do have a bro-in-law bordering on savant where baseball is concerned. Moving to the next level of fandom so I can talk to him at fam events and, more importantly, irritate my sis-in-law, might be well worth the deep dive into America's pastime.
Autonomic-loyalties have lain with the Padres and the Angels, as loyalties to Dad, my husband and my hometowns: San Diego and Orange County. (The Angels, btw, - formerly California Angels, then Anaheim Angels - are an Orange County team, not an L.A. team, whatever they call themselves now. Don’t forget it, kittens!)
Anyhoo, like the Pull-Ups commercial sings, I'm a big girl now, still a California girl; but, for ineffable reasons, a Boston Red Sox girl. I've fielded some squinty-eyed queries and good-natured ribbing over it for the last year. It's been hard to explain, because I don't quite know how it hit me so hard and fast.
Maybe it was Dad's passing and his reunion with Mom in Boston. Maybe I'm taking up the relay baton, carrying on his baseball traditions. Maybe it's just damn fun and it helps me feel closer to him. Yeah, it's probably all that, said the shrink's kid with confidence.
So, I don't need to explain it anymore, to anyone. It's as simple as that.
Well, if it ain't the Queen of Suffolk County Yeah, best stay out of her way Yeah, you know she's here to stay She don't joke and she don't play She's tough like a tiger She's all dressed up She's soft like a kitten But she'll still mess you up Here comes the Queen of Suffolk County Yeah, she's the Queen of Suffolk County
I Get It!
As I learn more about the game, it's virtues and vices, it's heartbeat and history (Thank you, Ken Burns!!), it's intellectualism and it's most uncomplicated joys, I find myself oft turning to my husband and claiming, I get it!
I get it now, all of it: the gentle drone of a televised game on in the background, the greens and blues on the screen, the speculative chatter of sports-radio bros, the annoying sports-shouting at any given moment on ESPN, the search for any documentary available on your team (i.e., “The Game That Changed Everything: Yankees vs Red Sox, ‘04 ALCS”), the need for “just one more Red Sox tee”, the anticipation of Opening Day, the watching through your fingers during Playoff Season, the groans and cheers, the “What do I watch now?” lull of Winter, and, of course, the baited anticipation of “Pitchers and Catchers Report” and Spring Training.
I get it now, all of it: the gentle drone of a televised game on in the background, the greens and blues on the screen, the speculative chatter of sports-radio bros, the annoying sports-shouting at any given moment on ESPN, the search for any documentary available on your team (i.e., “The Game That Changed Everything: Yankees vs Red Sox, ‘04 ALCS”), the need for “just one more Red Sox tee”, the anticipation of Opening Day, the watching through your fingers during Playoff Season, the groans and cheers, the “What do I watch now?” lull of Winter, and, of course, the baited anticipation of “Pitchers and Catchers Report” and Spring Training.
I may not know fully what it means to be a Red Sox fan, but I'm finding out and having a blast doing so. To boot, being the history dork I am, learning allllll about the Red Sox, back to 1901, is sheer Heaven.
“Regret” is not part of the JennyPop patois. Moi is a strong believer in “You are exactly where you are supposed to be.” Regrets are pointless, as the past has passed. However, regrets can be useful to open windows on worlds you may have missed previously.
If I have one of few regrets, it is not taking advantage of baseball time with Dad. I don't know how deep I would delved into the game when he was alive, but I know now, I would've enjoyed sharing inside-baseball factoids with him, maybe even tracking stats. That is still to be determined …
One postseason afternoon in 2023, I found myself standing directly in front of the TV, hands behind my back, watching a Red Sox game. It hit me, at that moment, that's exactly what Dad would do. I always wondered why he stood there, frozen it seemed, so often.
Commenting on the realization, I asked my husband, “What is this? Why did he do this? Why am I standing here like him? So weird.”
“It's called hope,” he concisely concluded.
Dear Old Dad would be thrilled I'm finally paying really close attention. He’d be slightly disappointed I'm not a Padres fan. Yet, he'd be relieved, at least, I'm not a Yankees fan. Ha!
About two weeks before he passed, he and my husband were on one of their PCH drives. The Beatles were playing on Sirius: Dad's fave band for his lifetime. He didn't recognize the music at all, but commented only, “They're okay.” Keeping the curious conversation going, my husband then switched to MLB Radio, to talk about the Padres. Dad didn't know who they were either.
I don't think I can do The Beatles thing. Sorry, Daddy. I can, however, do the baseball thing and carry your torch.
Go, Sox, 2024! Anything can happen with a new season!! Do good catching, guys.
“Regret” is not part of the JennyPop patois. Moi is a strong believer in “You are exactly where you are supposed to be.” Regrets are pointless, as the past has passed. However, regrets can be useful to open windows on worlds you may have missed previously.
If I have one of few regrets, it is not taking advantage of baseball time with Dad. I don't know how deep I would delved into the game when he was alive, but I know now, I would've enjoyed sharing inside-baseball factoids with him, maybe even tracking stats. That is still to be determined …
One postseason afternoon in 2023, I found myself standing directly in front of the TV, hands behind my back, watching a Red Sox game. It hit me, at that moment, that's exactly what Dad would do. I always wondered why he stood there, frozen it seemed, so often.
Commenting on the realization, I asked my husband, “What is this? Why did he do this? Why am I standing here like him? So weird.”
“It's called hope,” he concisely concluded.
Dear Old Dad would be thrilled I'm finally paying really close attention. He’d be slightly disappointed I'm not a Padres fan. Yet, he'd be relieved, at least, I'm not a Yankees fan. Ha!
About two weeks before he passed, he and my husband were on one of their PCH drives. The Beatles were playing on Sirius: Dad's fave band for his lifetime. He didn't recognize the music at all, but commented only, “They're okay.” Keeping the curious conversation going, my husband then switched to MLB Radio, to talk about the Padres. Dad didn't know who they were either.
I don't think I can do The Beatles thing. Sorry, Daddy. I can, however, do the baseball thing and carry your torch.
Go, Sox, 2024! Anything can happen with a new season!! Do good catching, guys.
2 ... 3 ... 4 … Tessie, Nuf Ced-McGreevey shouted, We're not here to mess around! Boston, you know we love you madly Hear the crowd roar to your sound! Don't blame us if we ever doubt you, You know we couldn't live without you, Tessie, you are the only only only, -ly.
*Tessie in it's original form: as the Royal Rooters Fan Club rally-cry, at the 1903 World Series, when the Red Sox were still called the Boston Americans. Tessie was adopted from a 1902 Broadway musical: “The Silver Slipper”. Empirically, the alpha version is the Dropkick Murphys’ Irish pub rock anthem of 2004.
Follow all the 2024 season with Yours Truly (@JennyPopCom on IG or right here at jennypop.substack.com) starting with Opening Weekend at Angels Stadium: Boston at Anaheim! Go, Sox! Go, Angels! Go, Padres!
But, mostly, go, Sox!!!
*Keep eye for a follow-up, post-season post: Part II, as it were. I have a feeling there will be a lot of stats, useless trivia, scorebooks and pertinent factoids about fave players ... read, Jarren Duran.
Follow all the 2024 season with Yours Truly (@JennyPopCom on IG or right here at jennypop.substack.com) starting with Opening Weekend at Angels Stadium: Boston at Anaheim! Go, Sox! Go, Angels! Go, Padres!
But, mostly, go, Sox!!!
*Keep eye for a follow-up, post-season post: Part II, as it were. I have a feeling there will be a lot of stats, useless trivia, scorebooks and pertinent factoids about fave players ... read, Jarren Duran.
