With all the recent death,
suffering, sadness, disloyalty and
regret, I’ve been just a tad down in the dumps. Can’t imagine why. Well,
yes I can, I just wrote why. So to boost my spirits I decided to lay in bed
last night and think about funny things. Stories I’ve experienced or been told
that need to be put to paper, then typed on ’puter then posted onto Facebook
and my blog.
I need to laugh, and in turn
make ya’ll laugh as well. Next to hearing applause after I sing, making people
laugh is my bestest , most favorite, most fulfilling, sound and feeling ever.
But, really? You know where a
shit load of “the funny” comes from? My Dad. My Dad has NO ego. Just look at
what he’ll walk out of the house wearing - Pink Floyd “Buttafuco” style, worn
thin pants, a “Charlie Brown Christmas”, BBQ sauce stained T-shirt, and the
brightest colored Nikes he could get his hands on……four years old - but bright
as the day they were purchased!! (Yeah, Dad has boxes of unworn sneaks, he
waits to wear when the older ones fall apart – childhood issues, we all have
‘em).
When I say NO EGO. I mean it. He really doesn’t care what other people
think he looks like. Now, it helps he is still drop dead gorgeous and is
charming as hell. But most importantly, the man IS FUNNY. And, a KICK ASS
storyteller. And he’s lived an interesting life, to say the least. So once
again, I reiterate, when I really need a laugh I talk about, think about or
talk to my Dad.
(NOTE: Mommy is a shit-load
funny too, she just gets the bigger award for being able to deal with Dad’s
eccentricities all these years, but that is another story…..)
When we were kids, he was an
awful tease, which, it turns out, really helped to make Sissy and I able to
take a joke and make fun of ourselves with ease. He would threaten to “Rip out
our lungs and make us eat them.” If we didn’t do something we were told. If he
saw a bruise on our arms from any of the hundreds of sports we played, he would
push on it - hard and say, “Does that hurt? That doesn’t hurt does it?”
He would tickle us until we
peed. Really. UNTIL WE PEED. I absolutely love that. And I don’t give a fuck if
any of you think it’s weird. To laugh so hard you pee yourself? Well, if you
haven’t experienced it, let’s just say you haven’t fully lived.
So I am re-telling a story
Daddy tells me whenever I beg him to, which is usually at least once or twice a
month. You see, it includes some of my favorite and most treasured things in
the world:
1- Friendship
2- Baseball
3- Loyalty
4- Comedic Regret
5- Young Hot Baseball Playing
Guys
6- Revenge
(I am prefacing this story by
telling you guys I’m not going to be using correct punctuation for the
conversation parts of this tale. I just suck at it. And, I find it slows me
down. Don’t worry, you’ll be able to keep up. Just keep reading.)
1963. Pioneer league New York Yankees, Idaho Falls. My Dad Bob is pitching a gem of a game.
He is on fire. Slider is sliding, Cutter is cutting. Fastball above 93 and moving. Seriously. My Dad was
goooooood! The great Yankee left fielder Roy White once told me when I was just
a little girl:
ROY WHITE: Gia, don’t you forget, your Daddy could throw a
baseball through a brick wall.
I believed him. I had heard
about Daddy from a lot of different family members and others who had played
with him, and watched him play. Did I mention? He was gooooood.
In 1963 (and probably even a
year or so before that) Daddy made two of his best friends he has ever had, and
by coincidence played pro ball side by side with.
(NOTE: My Mom will always be Daddy’s best friend. Close seconds: Uncle Jimmy Bender, Peter DeMeo, My Uncle Ronnie
Zito, and Bob DeMatteo, it’s just this is a baseball story and I wouldn’t want
anyone to feel badly.)
So I continue. Outfielder
Steve Whitaker and Catcher Frank Fernandez. Both made it to the majors. (Both
terrific ballplayers – look up Fernandez’s career, especially his hitting, such a great read for all you baseball freaks/stat-heads
out there!!!)
In the beginning, Daddy hit
it off with Whit right away. Whit was affable, quick to smile, charming and had
an all around likeable persona.
Fernandez on the other hand?
Not so much. Staten Island born. Hard as nails. Quick temper. Intense
ballplayer, intense guy. Why in the world would my Dad not like him? BECAUSE HE
WAS JUST LIKE HIM. Neither of them had it easy growing up. They were both from
New York. They both played like it was the last game they would ever play, and
they did not like fucking around. They were there to play, not talk or make
nice. (With the exception of fans that came out no matter what.) Kinda’ like
Kevin Youkilis and Jorge Posada, I suspect.
But, as time went on, they
realized how incredibly fucking good
they each were. Whit was the
bridge that linked them all together, but the talent and intensity and most
importantly THE LOYALTY was what KEPT
them all together. So close, the three of them. They were three peas in a pod.
Dad, however, had the most playtime, and on field interaction with Fernanadez,
well, because he was Dad’s catcher. My Dad still talks about how no one caught
like Fernandez. No fear. The man had no fear. They had that perfect chemistry.
Fernandez put down the signs, Dad threw and they rocked it together. How
Fernandez kept Dad calm in those days if he had to visit him on the mound, I
will never, for the life of me, understand. Mommy and I laugh. Oh, do we laugh.
Once my Dad gets (and I’m talking much more “back in the
day” - he’s calmed down a lot
since them - ahhheeeemmm) frustrated, annoyed, perturbed. Well, needless to say
we had a lot of weird art hung on even weirder locations on our walls in
Centerport. Dad, however, would warn you……..
DAD: Walk away now I’m gonna punch that Goddamn wall.
US: ‘Kay…… (BOOM – Plaster sort of explodes)
MOM: Happy Now? Feel better you maniac?!!!
DAD: YES, as a matter of fact it did.
So we laugh, ‘cause Fernandez
had to calm Dad down. In a ballpark. In 110 degree heat. On the field. With
lots of people watching. And, no wall to punch. Fernandez, well, he had a gift.
On that day in ’63, Dad
is pitching his gem. A guy gets up against him (from now on called #77), in
like the second inning, and Dad strikes him out on three pitches. Dad thinks
nothing of it. He’s in the zone. He’s feeling good. He is doing his job,
Fernandez is doing his. All is right with the world.
Couple innings later #77
gets up again. Dad strikes him out for the second time! Not on three pitches,
but none-the-less, it happens. Dad does not give #77 another thought. See, it was only the 2nd out of
the inning, and there was a guy on first that had looped one into shallow
center. Dad was interested in getting the 3rd out. That was all.
Okay. So couple innings after
that. #77 back up. Fernandez
throws a sign, slider, outside, Dad throws the pitch. The guys taps a little
roller down the first base line, Daddy jumps off the mound, scoops it and flips
it to the first baseman for the third out.
And THAT is when Dad hears it.
#77: Fuckin’ fat pig.
DAD: (In his head) Did that guy, that hack, that no talent
piece of shit just call me a fat pig? Because I got him out three times, with
no fan fare or showboating? Jesus Christ! No. Nonononono.
Let me digress for one moment
here. If you read any of the great baseball columns written about my Dad during
his career, he was most likely described as, well, “The Stocky Right Hander” ,
“The Hefty Righty With A Rocket Arm” “The Yankees Top Pitching Prospect A Bit
Chunky, But The Real Deal”. You noticing a pattern here? Yeah. My Dad was a big
guy. He had been a chubby kid, but,
was always an outstanding athlete. He defended any awful names referring to his
slight girth, that mean kids could come up with, with either beating them in
whichever sport they were playing, or knocking them the fuck out. Because, even though Kid Daddy was a bit stocky, he
was strong as fuck. And, because he had such a tough childhood, thanks to his FUCKING
INSANE FATHER, he had some pent up
anger that he could unleash at any moment as needed. It also made him a tough
competitor. And, let’s be honest, the man loved to eat. Still does. (While we’re speaking of this, thanks
for the lovely genetics Dad. Thunder thighs are all the rage.)
I continue. Daddy walks
back to the dugout and he is STEAMING!!! He sits next to Fernandez, who had not heard the rather cruel and
unnecessary comment #77 had made. He glances at my Dad for a moment, his
eyebrows kind of furrowed, chewing like a maniac on bubble gum. But, Fernandez
says nothing. My Dad sits quietly but breathing pretty heavily, for give or take a couple of minutes just
stewing, marinating, fermenting in some serious anger.
Finally Dad spoke.
DAD: You see #77?
(Fernandez glances to the outfield, nods once). Next time he’s up. I’m
gonna’ hit him right in the fucking head.
FERNANDEZ: (Pauses, spits some bubblegum juice)…… O.K.
Not another word said. Not
one word.
Game continues and I bet you
can see where this is going.
Ninth inning one out. #77
gets up to the plate. Frank puts down no sign just kind of sits his glove a
little between his legs skimming the dirt. The rage in Dad has hit epic proportions.
(In Dad’s head…LOUD) He
called me a fat pig! I didn’t do nothing to him. Mother fucker!!!!
And Dad lets it fly.
Daddy explains it like this.
DAD: I let it go and I swear, I wanted to hit him dead
center in the head. Now, I didn’t go full blown. I held back just a little, but
within the tiny little speck of time the ball left my hand, I knew it was going
to hit him straight in the fucking head. And just a like a millisecond after
that, I literally saw the ball rotating in slow motion right towards this
fuck’s noggin, (not unlike the way Ted Williams could see the seams, turning)
And I knew right then I should have never done it, and would never
do it again. ‘Cause honestly, I thought, I just killed that guy.
Batting helmets were about as
sturdy as Saran wrap back then. And Goddamn if Dad didn’t bean that
fucker……..hard. So hard, the ball came back to the mound after it bounced off
#77’s helmet.
#77 slowly got up, and, he
was pissed. He shook his head
briskly, like clearing out the cobwebs, and started to charge the mound.
Except, Fernandez was right there to get in front of the guy, stop him, hold
him back.
FERNANDEZ: Don’t go out there you fucker. You walk down and
take your base.
Dad picks up the ball and
moves towards #77.
DAD: Come closer muther fucker. I’ll hit you twice as
hard before you get half way to me. Count on it. Let’s go.
Fernandez guides #77 down to
first. #77 is brooding, stunned, but #77 knows he made the right decision.
Because #77 looks, well, scared.
The umpire almost does
something, almost, but changes his mind because there are only two more outs in
110 degree heat on the field, and, Dad gets them on a double play on the next
pitch anyway
Fernandez walks out to the
mound to shake Daddy’s hand and they start to head toward the clubhouse
together. They pause to wait for Whit. He runs in from the outfield. Everyone
hits the showers. No one says anything, except along the lines of “Great game
Spanky”, (Dad’s nickname, did I
mention he was stocky?) “Good game guys”, “You hit the shit outta’ that
ball!” ya’ know, regular baseball
chatter.
Later on, the three of them
are sitting at a local bar. Drinking ice, cold mugs of beer. Fernandez is
flicking peanuts into his mouth. Dad, inside, is still feeling kind of shitty.
(Inside Dads Head: I’ll never do that again. That was stupid, that was
dangerous. Can’t let my temper get that crazy. Fuck.)
DAD: (To Whit & Fernandez) Hey you guys. Know why I
fucking hit that guy in head?
WHIT: No. I was going to ask, but I figured you had your
reasons.
FERNANDEZ: No. And I really don’t care. You musta’ really
wanted to.
DAD: (Pausing) Well, as he ran down to first he called me
a fat pig.
WHIT: (Bitterly Laughing) What? NO SHIT? That stupid
little prick!! He fucking said that to you? Muther fucker. Sunofabitch!
Fernandez wasn’t laughing. He
was kinda’ red in the face and squinting, breathing heavy, much like Daddy had
earlier in the dugout.
FERNANDEZ:
(Sputtering) That fucker called you that? He said “Fat Pig”? He said that to you? You should told me I woulda’
kicked him in the fucking dick after he went down. You didn’t tell me that? Why?
DAD: You didn’t ask.
FERNANDEZ: I’M NOT SUPPOSE TO ASK.!! That’s the game! I’m YOUR catcher, your teammate. Fuck, I’m your FRIEND!! I don’t ever need to ask!! But if you HAD told me…..
DAD: You know what’s weird? I feel bad about hitting him
in the head. I will NEVER do that
again.
FERNANDEZ: Spank, I got news for you, If some muther fucker
ever says anything like that to you again, and, you DO NOT hit ’em, I’ll fuckin’ knock him out where he stands.
I don’t give a fuck. I wish that fucker walked in here right now. He’d be done.
Over. No one talks that way….
WHIT: Never say never Spank. He’s right, just throw right
at his balls. Cup doesn’t do shit. Or, even better, his fucking elbow. That
hurts like fuck!
FERNANDEZ: Hmmmmm. Yeah, that could work. I accept that.
DAD: Okay. The fucking balls, or elbow. Just not in the
head.
WHIT: Well, let’s drink to the most precise pitch I’ve
ever seen a fucking guy throw! Spanky, you couldn’t do it again if you tried!!!
Actually if anyone could? It would
be you!
DAD: (Laughing) Probably not guys. Probably not.
FERNANDEZ: (Chugging down his beer, wipes his mouth with the
back of his hand) Okay. But I’ll still knock a guy out if I ever hear anything
like it. I hear anything CLOSE to
that! I swear to fuckin’ God I will.
And, that night they drank,
ate, laughed, talked the game and cruised girls.
And, the next day, they
played another game together. And the day after that. And the day after that……
It was the best time of their
lives.
What’d I tell you? Doesn’t the
story have some of the best, most favorite, treasured things in it, like EVER?
Friendship, Baseball,
Loyalty, Comedic Regret, Young Hot Baseball Playing Guys, and Revenge.
But mostly……Friendship.
No comments:
Post a Comment