Spring Training

 

During the dark, frozen New England winter months my feet are cold, finger tips perpetually chapped, and as the sun sets days seem to draw to a close at 4 PM. As a counterpoint, I regularly have a conversation with myself in which I repeat this mantra, “but I enjoy the change of seasons, but I enjoy the change of seasons”. 

It’s true, I do enjoy the change. But as the first snowflake of the season flutters down to terra firma, my winter mantra switches to, “OK, been there, done that, on to spring!” Mother Nature of course pays no heed. So I trudge along for the next frosty months through whatever wintry mix she has on tap. By mid-February however, a month still famous for unleashing more than enough winter ‘events’ before and after crocuses pop up, it’s heart-warming news when Red Sox pitchers and catchers report to Fort Myers, FL for the start of spring training. Where I live, spring baseball is the light at the end of winter’s long, dark, frigid tunnel and a harbinger of sunnier, warmer ensuing months. It’s also another reason why baseball is The National Pastime.

It should then come as no surprise that the thought of baseball triggers all sorts of fond memories: going to the stadium as a kid with dad or mom, playing sandlot ball, seeing your team’s slugger hit one out of the park, even munching on Cracker Jack’s sticky mix, etc., etc. To drive this point home, my last Photo-blog post (A Thanksgiving Baseball Story) elicited a slew of comments many of which included writers’ baseball reminisces. I’ll share a few edited snippets from these feel-good stories. Enjoy.

From Marc, my best high school friend - 

What a beautiful Thanksgiving story.  It inspired me to look for my old mitt signed by Wally Moon of the St. Louis Cardinals.  It was the only lefty glove my Uncle Al from Brooklyn could find. I treasured it throughout my Little League days playing for Murray’s Stationary in Oceanside. I might have given it to one of my kids even though they are all right handed. While unpacking in my new residence I found a near brand new Mazuno glove (that's right, Korean made on the label).  I must have bought it years later to play catch with my son Dave. Now Dave's 7 yr old boy Walter enjoys the game. Last summer I played outfield to field balls hit by Walter with Dave pitching from the mound.  It gave me an immense sense of warmth as I could recall my father pitching to me as a kid.

I can't remember the last time I went to a game.  My girls came to enjoy baseball as a result of my stories following the Dodgers as a kid. Lisa went to see the Cards a few times when attending Wash U. Lindsey has seen the Giants at their new stadium in San Fran. 

Thank you Dave for taking me down memory lane. I have a fantasy some of us could gather for a spring training game watching the Dodgers play the Giants in Scottsdale/Phoenix

My very best

Marc

From my West Coast cousin Anne -

I went to all my brother Alan’s Little League games and probably most practices too. I loved baseball right from the start. But sadly it never occurred to my dad, or even to me, to learn how to throw or hit a ball. Such a shame. But this was way before Title IX and enlightenment.

Baseball has always been special to me because of the connection with my dad and Alan. When I was in those horrible teenage years, baseball was the “safe” place where we could always connect and talk. And that happened with both my kids too. Baseball has always been that place of connection for my family. Aren’t sports great! Thanks for sparking the memories!

Best,

Anne

From my friend Nolan - 

As a lifelong Brooklyn Dodger fan I cannot understand how you could even put on a hated NY Yankee (Phil Rizzuto) glove. Mine was a Duke Snider autographed glove and I cleaned and oiled it several times a year for many years. My uncle had a catch with me one year and he was showing off about how fast he could throw and the webbing broke. I hated him after that day. I repaired it and used it for many years after that (Little League, Pony League and my try out for the Martin Van Buren High School team). It survived in our garage until Hynda and I moved to our condo in DC ten years ago. There were certain things I was not allowed to take - the smelly old glove being one.

BTW, my father was an usher at the Polo Grounds and Yankee Stadium. He used to take me to the games when the Giants played the Dodgers. 

Nolan

Lastly, from my friend Steve - 

Loved the blog! I guess I've lost my old baseball glove but certainly appreciate how great you felt when you got yours back. BTW, growing up in Waterbury CT (the dividing line geographically between the Red Sox and the Yankees) and having lots of NY family, I was a big Yankees fan in the 50s and 60s. In fact the only Major League game I attended as a kid was at Yankee Stadium in 1961. Yes, I got to see one of my idols, Roger Maris, hit TWO home-runs that day in his quest for the all time record.

Warmly,

Steve   

Circling back to the present, on the calendar winter has officially only just begun. That means spring training is only ~60 days away. I can’t wait. 

Play ball!

                   

images - David Greenfield

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A Thanksgiving Baseball Story

 

All things considered, it’s merely a blip on the radar screen of what to be thankful for. Nevertheless, I was very grateful for someone’s thoughtful act of kindness. 

It reunited me with a cherished keepsake.

Here’s how it played out.

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“Have you seen my _________ ?” I’ve posed this query to my wife on many occasions. You can fill in the blank with any number of items - keys, phone, wallet, etc. I seem to use that exasperating question more and more these days. Her go-to response: “when was the last time you had it?”, it being any of the aforementioned possessions or others currently MIA. This time it was a very old, well worn genuine leather Phil Rizzuto* autograph baseball glove which has been with me for over 60 years. It’s seen action starting with after school pickup games at the Parade Grounds Park in Brooklyn, summer vacations at a New Jersey bungalow colony, fraternity intramurals, and my Little League play for Blossom Heath Florists in Oceanside, NY.

These days I love slipping it on to ‘have a catch’ with two of my grandsons who are Big Time into baseball. 

 

Matan

Isaac

But where is that prized mitt now? Taking my wife’s cue, I remember last using it for a catch at Waltham’s Lazazzero’s Park when my two nearby grandkids had a Veteran’s Day sleepover two weeks prior. OK, I now know when I last had possession, but after almost turning my house upside down and shaking it, alas, no glove fell to the floor. I was at a loss, and quite upset. You might say, it’s only a glove, get over it, get another. Yeah, but this one with all its imperfections and battle scars, had special memories attached. It hurt to lose it.

At any rate, on Thanksgiving Day, filled with thoughts of all I was thankful for, my wife and I headed out for dinner at my daughter’s home. Our son and his family were already gathered. Suddenly I had a hunch for solving the mystery of the lost glove - is it possible the glove was inadvertently left at Lazazzero’s? It was a highly unlikely long shot, but still worth taking a small detour before our gathering.

Moments later after checking out the field and stands where the glove might be and even scouring the adjacent basketball court where I played a few games of 5-3-1 with my granddaughter, I walked back to the car empty handed and dejected. Nothing.

Suddenly, I noticed it perched on a nearby fence post! Some good soul believing the owner would come back, cared enough to rescue it. As expected, the glove was in rough shape - dirty, weather-beaten, and suffering nasty lacerations and missing parts probably the result of being used as a chew toy by some neighborhood mutt. It was in need of surgery and the ICU - but I had it back!

The webbing was detached, the leather dry & stiff from exposure to a soaking rain, and the strap was chewed/ripped off

Once home I quickly assembled my instruments and supplies - a leather remnant, rawhide, surgical scissors, upholstery needles, conditioner, and ‘leather scalpel’. Surgery was scheduled for the morning.

When all was set and painstakingly done, the glove emerged anew to resume its encore as Papa's prized mitt.

Looking back, I'm reminded of a friend's expression of thankfulness at this holiday time. Most important among her riches was having her husband back home. He had just been released from the hospital after days of intensive care when doctors worked to save his life from the ravages of a life-threatening systemic infection. He left severely weakened and battered, a shell of who he had been, but his wife was so happy to have him back, in any shape.

With family gathered around marking Thanksgiving 2022, I was truly thankful for all I had. In a small but appreciative way I was also grateful for what a thoughtful, caring soul did to help me get a cherished keepsake back home, regardless of the shape it was in.

I also couldn't wait to have the next catch.

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* Phil Rizzuto, 'The Scooter', spent his entire baseball career playing shortstop for the New York Yankees (1941 - 1956). During that span the team captured ten American League titles and seven World Championships. Many of those victories were against my Brooklyn Dodgers, which makes me wonder why my dad brought a Yankee shortstop autograph glove home for me. After his playing career, Rizzuto had a forty year career as a radio and TV sports announcer for the Yankees. He was known for his idiosyncratic, conversational broadcast style, and for his trademark expression, 'Holy Cow!'

images - David Greenfield

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A Row to Hoe

The Great Bridge
Brooklyn, NY

 My friend Ben* likes to eat. He grew up in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. There he developed a palate for some finer delicacies in life, among them were knishes, Nathan’s Famous french fries, and egg-creams. Ben may not be a foodie in the classic sense, but he is definitely a food lover. He once mentioned starting to think about his next meal even before finishing off the one on his plate. I couldn’t believe it at first, but as Covid entrenched itself in the landscape, one of its side effects was having Ben’s thinking rub off on me. 

It came about this way ….  with the pandemic’s onset, eating out became akin to flying the trapeze sans net. Of necessity then, on a daily basis my wife and I engaged in performance of the culinary arts. I must admit, after a brief trial and error phase I started enjoying dinner prep. Dishes were simple, but face masks, vaccines, incessant hand-washing, and social distancing were never recipe ingredients. And, since it’s always 5 o’clock somewhere, armed with a favorite beverage, cooking dinners actually became a pleasurable and chilling out time of day.

Thinking about the next meal while still chewing the last one may be quirky and humorous, but there’s nothing funny about not knowing where that next meal will come from. That’s what millions of our citizens, old and young, face daily despite America’s food production cornucopia. Adding insult to injury, much of the harvest goes to waste. That’s where those who have a row to hoe come in and play a role. Willing Hands plays that role.

A row to hoe
Do you have one?
Some folks don't,
making food
a sought after commodity

Willing Hands is an organization based in New Hampshire/Vermont’s Upper Valley. It receives food donations from partner farms and orchards and distributes them to over eighty local community service agencies. They in turn serve their constituencies  fighting the good fight to end food insecurity  and waste.

Mikey @ work
Willing Hands Farm Coordinator

Grow-A-Row is a recent Willing Hands initiative. Grow-A-Rowers are Upper Valley gardeners who earmark a row of their gardens’ produce for Willing Hands. It’s a great idea that expands upon the already existing network of 80 plus participating farms and orchards. This past summer the concept was introduced to my Eastman Community Garden in Grantham, NH. It was enthusiastically embraced. 

Aside from the total tonnage of collected produce the overall program has amassed since inception, my small group of vegetable gardeners donated almost 250 lbs during its first partnership experience this past summer. I’m confident the dedicated rows will grow in number next summer. 

a typical week's donation from Eastman gardeners

Circling back to my friend Ben, being the food lover he is I know he’ll appreciate this Willing Hands and Grow-A-Row story. After all, it’s about food! But more importantly, it’s a story about helping those without enough to eat and about the satisfaction of those who do sharing their bounty. That’s a win-win. In fact when I next get together with Ben to catch up over lunch, the Grow-A-Row story will be one topic of conversation. Of course, once our sandwich orders are brought out, the first topic most likely will still be, ‘what’s for dinner’. 

* In the spirit of the 1950s TV show, Dragnet, featuring Jack Webb as Detective Joe Friday, the name has been changed to protect the innocent.

images - David Greenfield

cartoon - courtesy of the New Yorker magazine

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Crossing the Road

 

The Dark Side of the Road

It ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe

If'n you don't know by now

......

When your rooster crows at the break of dawn

Look out your window and I'll be gone

You're the reason I'm a-traveling on

But don't think twice, it's all right

I'm on the dark side of the road

Bob Dylan © 1963

Could Dylan's lyrics contain a key clue demystifying "Why the chicken crossed the road?" Maybe yes, maybe no. Regardless, this existential question has been posed a million plus times and surely there's been an equal number of answers. I'm sure you know a few. But are you at all curious what the conversation, or pecking about, might have been if the bird was interviewed on the other side? Probably not. So, I developed a theory based on a recent chicken sighting.

The birds of my thesis were not perched at a crosswalk waiting for the little white chicken to appear in the traffic light signaling it's now 'OK to walk' across the road. They were already on the other side of the road having their 'conversation'.

Nugget

Kebab

                                   

                                                                         

To protect their identities, in this post the names have been changed. Let's call chicken on the left Nugget and the one on the right   Kebab. Here's how the conversation went .....

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Nugget: "Hey, it's nice and warm on this side. In fact, it's too warm. I'm schvitzing."

Kebab: "Yeah, me too."

Nugget: "You know, I had a strange dream last night."

Kebab: "So, tell me what it was and I'll tell you what it meant."

Nugget: "I remember a party. There were lots of people chirping away, drinking, and noshing. Some were even double dipping. They all seemed to be having a good time. It started to get late and I was ravishing for some seeds or insects to munch on. With dinner time rapidly approaching, I imagined the partygoers were getting hungry as well. Suddenly it happened - I felt a hand grab my neck, there was  swooshing sound with a gust of wind, and I felt this blow to the back of my neck. 

Then everything went black!!"

"When I regained my bearings, I sensed I was in a different place, a different world. I couldn't see anything, and lo and behold, I also completely lost my sense of smell! I couldn't hear very well either ..... and it was hot, real hot!!"

Kebab: "That's really weird, I had the same dream."

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photos © David Greenfield

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Dystopia, USA

 

In the television series The Handmaid's Tale,  women are severely subjugated in a dystopian, totalitarian society. If you haven't tuned into this program as yet, don't bother. With the Supreme Court's recent decisions expanding gun rights in NY .....

Expressing oneself using a weapon is happening all too often, supplanting previous forms of engagements such as friendship and bipartisanship. 
Gun Country exhibit - Addison Gallery of American Art, Concord MA, March 18 - July 31, 2018

breaking down separation of church and state in Maine .....

reversing established law of Roe v. Wade, and in anticipation of forthcoming decisions relaxing environmental protections and ending marriage equality ....

                   

                                         

there's no need to start watching TV. We're now living in that dystopian world.

But on the other hand, perhaps we should watch

Viewing portrayal of the handmaids' dystopian alternate universe and realizing we're close to 'this is us', could just be the spark to ignite a firestorm of citizen proaction. That's what will be needed to re-establish the type of society we long for - a 'We the People, All Men (and Women) are Created Equal' democracy. We've taken our form of government for granted far too long.

* Gun Country exhibit - Issues of gun ownership, culture, and violence continue to divide the United States. Gun Country​ explores representations of firearms in the Addison’s collection in order to examine the historical underpinnings of the country’s gun fascination. On view in the Museum Learning Center, these objects are shown together for the first time and serve as an invitation to a community discussion of the pervasive cultural iconography of the gun in America.

photos © David Greenfield

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A Modest Proposal

The number of guns in the US outnumber people. Even if new legislation could halt sale of a single additional weapon, over 400 million handguns and rifles would remain on the street! That’s bad news. 

Even worse, these weapons, including millions of assault weapons designed purely to kill during war, would still be accessible to individuals whose inner demons lead them into committing unspeakable crimes. 

What to do? Here’s a modest win-win proposal. 

Our government should sponsor a generous buy back program. It could be patterned à la Australia’s successful 1996-97 program when close to a million guns were removed from the streets. Those weapons were then destroyed. 

Inspired by the words of Isaiah 2: 3-4, 'beating swords into plowshares', most were likely melted down and repurposed into useful tools. We should do the same. But if we already have sufficient 'plowshares and pruning hooks', as a Plan B the guns could be shipped to Ukraine to aid its fight to save democracy and its sovereignty. 

In either case, for an outlay just peanuts compared to the billions the Feds are appropriating in aid to Ukraine, this modest proposal would jumpstart transition to a safer American society and could significantly aid Ukraine in its most critical mission and at the country’s most critical hour. Truly a win-win.

photos © David Greenfield

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An Interlude

 

We didn't start the fire

It was always burning, since the world's been turning

We didn't start the fire 

No, we didn't light it

Billy Joel wrote these song lyrics about a world he saw on fire back in 1989. He was in a recording studio and met a Gen Xer who lamented it was a terrible time to be 21. Joel replied, 'Yeah, I remember when I was 21 and thought that was an awful time. We had Vietnam, drugs, civil rights problems, and everything seemed to be awful.'

All true, the fire started long before.

That was then, and it was bad, but there's certainly no shortage of awful stiff today. In case you've been Rip Van Winkling since '89 and were just awakened, you'd peer above your face mask at a landscape pockmarked by pandemic, a major land war in Europe replete with war crimes & decimated cities, a megalomaniac armed with nukes scheming behind his reimagined Iron Curtain, global climate at the threshold of the ICU, extremism on the rise right and left, racism, democracies and truth on life support, a no longer supreme Court (the lower case 's' is not a typo), inflation, and fears of a worldwide recession, etc., etc., etc. And I haven't even gotten to the obscene, repeated mass slaughter of innocents with guns, lots of guns, military guns, always in the hands of disturbed citizens. 

We didn't start this fire

It was always burning

Given the enormity of the conflagration, as well as hindsight that it has always been and will likely go on, and on, and on, it's easy to petrify into inaction, grudgingly accepting the status quo.

Wait! Mr. Joel also had another take on the fire. His song continued with this lyric:

but we tried to fight it

Trying to fight is the right thing to do even if it feels like the Sisyphean labor of eternallly pushing that boulder up the slope only to have it repeatedly roll down to base. It's hard, very hard .... and draining.

So now is a good time to invoke guidance from Ethics of our Fathers (Pirkei Avot) - a compilation of maxims from Rabbinic tradition. Chapter 2:16 teaches, 'It is not up to you to finish the task, but you are not free to avoid it'. In the face of the current ginormous inferno, even a salve of Pirkei seems inadequate. Understandable ..... but unacceptable.

So I offer a solution, an interlude - a brief 'palate cleanser' before you begin your fight in the manner of your choosing.

Splash cool water on your face or take a hot soak, whatever it takes to recharge your batteries. Then rejoin the good fight.

Don't like getting wet? Here's another interlude suggestion before you swing into action. I just experienced it in real time but you can do so vicariously. Let yourself be carried away to the magical island of São Miguel, the largest of the Açorean archipelago located a few hundred miles west of Portugal's coast (Majesty-of-the-Açores). 

Enjoy seeing some sights, meeting the most friendly, courteous people .... and a few four legged friends (mostly cows which easily outnumber the locals). Then, soothed by the thermal waters and refreshed, fly back to join the fire brigade.

Ciao

We didn't start the fire

but we tried to fight it

photos © David Greenfield

Visit my web site anytime to view other Galleries, Photo-essays, and read previous blog-posts, then kindly share on social media. Thank you.