It ain't over till it's over
Today my son turns 36. Presumably we are at the point where my sharing this information will not embarrass him, but I am not 100 percent certain. I was thinking about him while driving to my mother’s house and listening to The Moth on the radio. The story I caught concerned baseball. My son loves baseball. To say he loves it does not begin to express the depth of feeling. I guess the selection of the baseball story relates to the month of October and the World Series. Sad to say, I do not know if the World Series has started this year or ended yet or which teams might be playing. I am not going to check. Instead, I am going to remember my son and his then teenaged friends climbing the fence around the high school field in the middle of the winter to practice pitching and hitting and catching. I remember the little league coach, of blessed memory, who encouraged them to “hit into the sprinklers” on the theory that the opposing team would not want to get wet. I have a memory of our plumber, the head of the varsity booster club, who would have the players go out on the train tracks to fetch lost balls, because balls were expensive. His son, my son’s former high school teammate, is the plumber now.
I’m not sure the source of my son’s love of baseball. Neither my husband nor I took any interest in team sports. This may explain why both our children were high school varsity athletes. My dad, though, was a big baseball fan. Even though he was a Brooklyn native, he favored the Yankees. Perhaps that was part of the contrary streak that seems to run in the family. My son might have inherited the baseball gene from him.
Twenty or so years ago I served on the Montclair, New Jersey, township council, a thankless position that I, nonetheless, loved. And there were some perks. In my capacity as council member, I got invited to a reception at Montclair State University for the opening of the Yogi Berra Museum and Stadium. Yogi and Carmen Berra were there. So was Phil Rizzuto, and I was able to bring my dad, the lifelong Yankees fan, with me. My dad met that great Yankee, Yogi Berra. Dad was so happy, grinning like a kid the whole time. Makes me glad that I was able to do this nice thing for him during his lifetime, and I have this lovely memory.
My mom has lost her memory. That is why I was driving to her house earlier. It’s where I am now. I cannot seem to stop writing about it. Alzheimer’s sucks. Reading about it isn’t close to the same as being with someone who does not recognize her bedroom or the people around her and involves a whole bunch of behaviors I do not even want to talk about. Before Alzheimer’s she used to call each of her children and grandchildren on their birthdays to sing happy birthday. She has a beautiful singing voice. Now she cannot tell one day from another. My son came to visit her last week. In the moment, she seemed to enjoy the visit. When he left she forgot he had been there. Today, I trust he is celebrating. Not only is it his birthday, but it’s a gorgeous October day. A year or so ago, her made the switch from baseball to softball. I hope he finds time to play ball with some friends.
Hope to see you at the ALTE Zoom event tomorrow. For the link email altetogether@gmail.com.
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