My Best Play in High School Baseball

This past week I’ve been enjoying a Christmas present from my sister, the history of Baseball, a set of DVDs put together by Ken Burns.  Having loved baseball, playing sandlot ball with my friends and practicing in a neighbor’s back yard until the sun went down and we could no longer see the worn-out baseball, a ball we’d salvaged with black cloth tape to hold it together; baseball has been an important part of my life.

Baseball was a means of getting through childhood, a chance to be the greatest ball player in history as long as imagination opened that door to the future. Mike Palermo and I tossed the ball to or at each other for hours on end.  We could hear the voice of Mel Allen, as if he were paying attention to our antics, announcing each dive at a sharp grounder, the pivot and transfer of the ball, each impossible toss over to first base.  Top Yankee scouts were on hand waiting for a chance to sign us, holding up our uniforms with pin-stripes; that’s how good we were in Mike’s back yard.

In Little League, I played for B and B Sunoco one year, then the next for Pittsburg Plate Glass before my family moved to Houston, Texas.  That was the same year the Mets and Colt 45s became expansion teams so it was easy to make Houston my replacement “favorite” team.  The Yankees would have to be number two from then on.

Next came high school baseball where I learned that some guys could play the game better and I had to accept that perhaps Cooperstown was only a pipe dream. 

I did actually get to be on the high school baseball team for Madison Senior High, their B team; but it was still a chance to play.  I’d watch the really good ball players and figured out fairly quickly that openings for the next level up were not in the cards.

I wasn’t a power hitter, not much of a threat unless you counted singles or an occasional double.  I threw sidearm to three-quarter overhand which drove coach Ashmore nuts.  It didn’t matter to him that my throws were accurate to first base; he said I was hiding the ball, making it more difficult for the first baseman to see.

I was playing Shortstop and threw a ball sidearm style over to first, again.  Coach Ashmore shook his head as he said something towards the dirt.  He then took the Fungo bat, tossed a ball into the air preparatory to hitting one over my head so that I’d have to go chase it down and made contact with the ball.

Normally such a swing would have launched the ball in a sweeping arc far into left field where I’d have to run to the fence and retrieve it, a reminder not to throw side-armed while playing infield.  Instead, the ball was hit on a line several feet above my position; but I timed its flight perfectly as I leaped, fully extended and snagged it, my body suspended momentarily high above the playing field.  I’d caught it cleanly, much to his surprise, and a huge smile graced my face as I landed, tossing the ball joyfully back to him.

Coach Ashmore wasn’t as pleased as I was.  He may have acknowledged my singular act of athleticism; but that didn’t keep him from attacking another ball with his Fungo bat, this time making sure the ball reached the fence. 

Here I am, in my seventieth year on this spinning planet and this one play came to me as the best play I’d ever made…and it made me smile for having done a great job.  I find that more than remarkable.

You may have guessed by now; I was never that good at playing the game of baseball.  That hasn’t deterred my love for the game; I still savor nearly every aspect of it.  What my experience as a mediocre ball player in high school did was point out the reality of life and how we should appreciate those moments when everything does go right.  For most of us, that doesn’t happen all that often.  

At the end of the year, I got a “Letter Sweater” since I was a member of the team and it’s still hanging in the closet next to the Dress Greens I wore as a member of the U.S. Army Reserves. For some reason I no longer fit into that uniform; it must have shrunk.

Do you want to hear about my best shot in the game of golf?  It involved hitting the hubcap of a passing car…Never mind…

Toenails and Super Glue

 

I don’t have sufficient funds to go and let professionals perform various services which means I’ve learned to become industrious and creative.   Take for example this morning when I jabbed my big toe into the base of a piece of furniture tearing up a portion of the toenail.  If I had plenty of money and the inclination to do so, I’d go see a podiatrist and let that individual remove or repair the damaged portion of toenail.

But there’s quite a bit of Scotch and German ancestry working against wasting hard earned money; I’ll fix it myself.  …And in the past, I’ve been successful repairing this kind of minor damage.  We keep a small sheet of clear flexible plastic, the kind that wrap small items onto a piece of cardboard when you purchase those items.  I’d cut a piece of plastic into the shape of a which ever nail had been damaged, sand the edges down and then place a few drops of Super Glue on the nail.  A few minutes of pressing and waiting; good as new and twice as strong.

A little more sanding around the edges and you can put a pair of socks on without snagging the torn-up nail.  That was the plan this morning…and it should have worked, having done it many times in the past. 

I opened a fresh tube of Super Glue, cut out a piece of plastic, shaped the plastic to contour with the nail and was satisfied that all was ready.  While sitting on the edge of the bed I made sure to have a couple of Kleenex tissues handy just in case along with a three by five index card to place the opened tube of Super Glue to prevent any from getting on the night-stand table.

The Super Glue covered the broken nail; but it also managed to spill over and coat the side of my big toe while I was applying the pre-cut plastic toenail covering.  That’s when I noticed the glue had also failed to unite with the top of the toenail or the plastic; however, it had come in contact with my fingertips.

While wiping away the glue that had managed to stick to the fingertips, the Kleenex stuck to my fingers and then, in turn, stuck to the fingers on my other hand.  (stop laughing, it’s not over yet)

The old solution for removing Super Glue was to apply Nail Polish Remover; but the new and improved Nail Polish Remover does absolutely nothing to Super Glue.  Apparently, they’ve changed the formula to get along with the Save the Earth crowd.  Fortunately, we do have some Goo Gone that comes in a can similar in appearance to the old Lighter Fluid products.

I was able to free the big toe from the one next to it, remove the particles of Kleenex from the top of my toenail and from my hand.  I then got some paper towels from the kitchen and squirted a healthy portion of Goo Gone onto the neatly folded paper towel.  That stuff has a powerful odor; but does a great job dissolving Super Glue from between stuck toes and fingers.  I also used it to remove the Super Glue from all the other locations.

The chunk of toe nail that got snagged had become welded back down so as to be reattached to the toe.  I then sanded the rough edges down and came to a realization, no plastic covering was needed this time.  I then sanded off Super Glue that had dried on the sides of my toes and fingers as was permitted without sanding down to blood vessels. 

Christmas Magic

 

There was a challenge handed out the other day, what did your family do at Christmas?  A handful of memories floating around so I’ll start with writing a wish list.  This was done either on Thanksgiving or very soon thereafter.

We’d jot down, in our very best handwriting, items we considered worthy of asking Santa for. It didn’t matter if the requests were based in reality; but as a rule, these items had been seen on television or in one of the many catalogs, catalogs which many folks referred to as Wish Books.

After completing the assignment we’d place our lists on a plate along with some cookies and a bottle of Coca-Cola.  The idea was to make sure the Big Guy was rewarded for having traveled over to our house and considered our requests.  We were told that Santa wore magic mittens and that while holding up our notes to be read, those mittens would catch the pieces of paper on fire; proof that he’d read them would be ashes left on the plate.

We didn’t need an alarm clock to get up the next morning as we all raced to the dining room table to witness the miracle which had occurred during the night.  There would be a scorch mark on the china and a small clump of burnt up ashes.  It was the beginning of the Christmas Season, official and verified.

My folks must have been gluttons for punishment as they’d also told us that Santa was the one who decorated our Christmas Tree, that all we had to do was pick out a good one, keep it watered out behind the garage until Christmas Eve and then haul it inside to the living room; Santa would do all the rest.  Once the tree was in the living room it was easy to convince us to get to bed.

I should mention that I learned some of my locksmith trade vocabulary from my father, who never was a locksmith, as he struggled to get the trunk of the tree to fit inside the classic tree stand.  Apparently, other trades, auto mechanics and carpenters come to mind, use similar vocabulary to express frustration.  I later found these magic words remarkably similar to terms used by police officers.

I can’t imagine how late my folks stayed up that night putting lights, ornaments and tinsel on the tree as they also put together bicycles, doll houses, wrapped and sorted gifts to be put under the tree and… I almost forgot, fill our stockings and hang them at the end of our beds.  It makes perfect sense, now that I’ve gotten older, that my folks would want to sleep a little later on Christmas morning as our excitement level climbed slightly higher than the Empire State Building.

We were to wait in their bedroom while my father made sure Santa had actually come.  That translated means he went to the living room and plugged the extension cord into the wall so the Christmas Tree lights would be on when we came in.  Remember, the night before when we’d gone to bed that very same tree was bare; but as we entered the room it was dazzling, pure magic.

In my teen years, having pretty much figured out the Christmas magic thing, I remember hearing my father carefully open the door to my room as he carried a stocking to place on the end of my bed.  As he did his best not to make a sound I smiled and respectfully called out to him as he exited, “Goodnight, Santa”.  He smiled back and accepted the fact that I was no longer a little boy, and, as I recall, he even winked back. 

Taking Care of Families in Need

 

Several years ago, there was a story printed, or perhaps I might have heard it from the pulpit; some of the details have left my memory so I’ve taken ‘creative license’ to replace that which I’ve forgotten.  Accept my apology for not remembering the original author.

A congregation was asked to donate an extra portion during the Christmas Season to help families that were struggling.  The challenge was given the week of Thanksgiving with the intent of having enough money collected before Christmas to offer relief for several families; a fine meal with all the trimmings, new clothing and shoes, some toys for the children and such depending on how much money could be collected.

One family had a meeting when they got home from church to consider various ways they could help with this wonderful project.  The father said that after getting home from work he’d collect fire wood and sell it.  The mother would take in laundry and use that income to add to their contribution.  Their son said he’d collect empty soda bottles and redeem them at the store while the daughter would baby sit. 

They did this for the entire month of December leading up to the final week and collected a little over fifty dollars which they proudly handed over to their minister.  The father knew their contribution was probably smaller than most since he wasn’t one of the more affluent members of their congregation; but he wanted to know how much had been collected, thinking perhaps he could figure out a way to make up the difference by cutting down on some of his regular expenditures.

The minister sat quietly considering the moment as he tried to explain the situation in a way which would make sense. “We’ve received just over forty dollars in contributions so far, you being the only ones to have taken up the challenge.”  The minister sat silent for a few more moments before continuing his thoughts.

“You see”, he looked heavenward for assistance as he struggled to further explain, “…your family was on my short list of those who could have used a little help during the Christmas Season”. 

I’m sure there are many among us who could use the message contained in this story as we approach the day we celebrate the birth of our Savior, Jesus Christ.

Five Frank Twenty Six Nights

 

A friend sent me a video link that explained how the television show, 1Adam 12, was made; details about the characters, use of actual police incidents and tidbits that might have been missed otherwise. It set my mind off on a trip into the past; having served and retired as a patrol officer for the Houston Police Department.

The last eight or nine years of service was on night shift patrol out of the Northwest Sub-Station. There were two separate shifts included with the designation, Nights; Early and Late.  Early was from 10pm through 6am while Late was from 11pm through 7am.  This would accommodate folks getting off on Evening Shift or folks coming on Day shift the following day. 

When I first transferred to Nights I was assigned Lates and it took a few months to move to Earlies.  Getting off at 6am meant a world of difference since I also was a full-time locksmith during the day.  I would joke that I got my four hours of sleep every day whether I needed it or not.  I was burning the candle at both ends and got away with it, the light at the end of my retirement schedule being already on the calendar.

I’d have to admit my mind and body were unaccustomed to working all night.  Those last couple of hours were torture as I strained to stay alert to the end of shift.  I remember the first week riding by myself and pulling off to the side of Antione, pretending to set up on an intersection to catch red light violations.  Actually, I was so tired I was fighting just to stay awake as the pre-dawn hours clicked away.

You can imagine my panic when I was awakened by a beam of light coming through the front window of my patrol car, the sun had been up; but for how long?  Shaking the cobwebs from my head I realized I’d fallen asleep and should have already gone home.  I drove to the station, filled up the patrol car with gas and walked in the back door. 

The Station Sergeant greeted me, half laughing since he knew I was new to night shift work.  “You can’t fill out an overtime request for… over sleeping’, pausing as he finished those last two words.

He had me and all I could do was blush for proving I was human.  If you’ve never worked night shift then hold your judgement; it takes considerable time and effort to get your body accustomed to it.  I don’t think I ever mastered that part of life.

Each night when most officers would look for a place to have a meal; instead, I’d go find a quite secluded spot to park my patrol car.  I’d call out as if at a place to eat to make it official and then take a thirty-minute nap. 

I did this for several years until my supervisors got on a war path looking for a way to make things difficult.

I should backup and explain that we’d gotten a new Captain, the same guy who’d tried to get me fired for insubordination several years earlier when I was working downtown; but that’s a whole other story…

I was comfortably setup, protecting a warehouse loading dock from potential burglars, when the Sergeant tapped on my window with his flashlight.  He accused me of calling out at a fictitious location; but in actuality I’d simply used the hundred block address from the Stop and Go store on the other side of the intersection. 

In either case, it really didn’t matter since sleeping on duty was a violation, minor as it might be; but a violation of the regulations.  I suspect, and this is only speculation, that he wanted me to become insubordinate, raise my voice or some such behavior that would seal my fate.  That didn’t happen.

While at the station in the Captain’s office…doesn’t that seem strange, that the Captain would be in his office at 3am?  Where was I…while at the Captain’s office I thanked the Sergeant for being concerned for my well-being, enough that he would go searching for me when I’d already given my location to the dispatcher.

We also had a new Lieutenant who may not have had a clue as to my history with this particular Captain.  He sat listening with a puzzled look on his face, wondering why anyone would be upset with a night shift officer taking a nap while called out to eat.  I think he actually laughed when I mentioned how it touched my heart that the Sergeant was concerned for my well-being.  He could see what was going on and was impressed with my response.

Instead of getting me riled up and in deep trouble, something that in all likelihood would have gotten me fired, they placed an official letter of reprimand in my already monstrously large personnel folder.  From that night on during my last year before retiring I had to be especially careful about taking naps on duty. 

Before moving on…the Sergeant who went out of his way looking to catch me sleeping on duty; that fellow should have remembered how he’d fallen asleep in his patrol car one night in the middle of an intersection, that several police units were dispatched to an “Officer down” and that everyone laughed it off as just one of those things, that we’re there to take care of each other.  Yeah, that guy…

Moving right along…my call sign for many years on night shift was 5 F 26, pronounced Five Frank Twenty-Six as the title indicates.  Every rare now and then, when we were short-handed, I’d be assigned as 5 F 10; but with the understanding that I’d really be in the same basic area, just that I would also be covering the adjoining beat.

An hour or so into the shift the dispatcher called out, Five Frank Ten, waiting for me to respond, Five Frank Ten…still waiting and then calling out, Five Frank Twenty-Six?  It dawned on me, she was calling for me to respond as a rash of mike clicking filled the air, my fellow officers getting a chuckle.  Having a great dispatcher was one of the benefits on our shift.  She knew each officer and did her best to stay on top of her job without being bossy.

I’ve ramble on a bit; but having watched the video on 1 Adam 12 brought back so many memories.