Swing and A Miss

A Story About my Dad and Tigers Baseball

Happy Father's Day! Miss you, Stinky.

nos·tal·gia:

a wistful or excessively sentimental yearning for return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition.

That yearning for me is about Ernie Harwell calling Tigers baseball on the radio circa 1974. Or rather, watching my dad listening to Ernie Harwell call a Tigers baseball game.

Watching my dad listen to a game was as entertaining as the game itself. The way his face lit up, with smile widened and eyebrows lifted at the crack of a bat. Or the disheartened frown and eye roll he’d express following a “swing and a miss”. The way he would clap his hands and then rub them together vigorously at a two-run homer. Or how he would grimace and swear with his signature – under the breath – “a**hole, son of a b*@!h” as an error was made.

I was raised in a Tigers household. I became a fan by osmosis. If it was summer and my dad wasn’t at work (which he too often was), he was listening to Tigers baseball on the radio. He was listening while driving in his car, while lounging in his Lazy Boy in the living room or sitting in the garage looking out at the summer sky. If the game was on, my dad was tuned in. I didn’t really know much about baseball then. I’d listen as Harwell announced a change up, or a slider or a breaking ball. I had no idea what those plays were or what they looked like, but I knew that my dad knew what that meant and that was enough for me.

I also liked the energy a game brought to the house. It wasn’t lively. It was quiet and contemplative. At dusk and on especially hot days, the roar of the crowd lulled my dad to sleep.

After my mom passed, when I became primary caregiver to my dad, I started to pay more attention to the game. Knowing the players was a way to connect. I could say things like, “How do you like Torres or Infante?” or “Did you catch Verlander’s no-hitter?” He’d ask me, “Who’s your favorite Tiger?” I’d say Inge (yes, Inge… for a time) and my dad would cringe adding, “That idiot?” Two weeks later he’d ask me the same question. I’d say “Inge” and he’d cringe and call him an idiot all over again. I wasn’t becoming a rabid fan, but I was really growing to love the game. Plus, it was a chance to show my dad that I cared about the things he cared about. It was a chance to bond.

My dad passed away as the Tigers were on their way to another Division Title. I couldn’t watch the post season. It was too painful. Not because the Tigers blew it (which they did!) I just missed my pops too much.

Some time later, I was running errands when I happened across Tigers baseball on the radio. I didn’t change the channel. It helped that the Tigers were winning. Dan Dickerson didn’t put me in the “way back machine” the way hearing Ernie Harwell did, but he helped to evoke enough good memories for me, that even though I had reached my destination, I sat in the parking lot and listened.

It was easy to imagine my dad saying something like “You know, when Scherzer was 8, he practiced 16 hours a day in an abandoned field in St. Louis with his Uncle Max… who he is named after… who really isn’t his Uncle... but his dad’s best friend… who coached Scherzer’s little league team...” This, of course is entirely made up on my part, but entirely like the kind of factual random information my dad would know about a player.

Sometime before my dad died, my brother gifted my dad a book, “The Final Season” about the last season the Tigers played in Tiger Stadium. Having lost his vision, I read to him from the book. He’d interrupt to share a similar story about a player. I always wondered where and when in his life he gathered all this information. He always knew enough to carry on a lively discussion with my brother over the phone or with his visiting buddy, Dean. It was always such a joy to see him talk baseball.

What I realized sitting in that parking lot is that I will always have a profound love for the game, especially the Tigers. Because, in the end, baseball isn’t really about baseball for me at all – it’s about my dad.

The Lady with Binoculars

 

Photos can be deceiving. This is Fryman Canyon. I rarely hike Fryman. It's not an overly birdy area and it's mostly LA's fittest and finest (or those working hard to be fit and fine.) It's a difficult hike. Not strenuous, but straight up for the first mile or so. Not sure what the grade is. I tend to go off the beaten path getting away from the crowds. I think that's a bit more intense. Still, you do see people on this trail as well. 

Today, I started the hike at 11:45am. I am hiking later because I'm working hard to take off the COVID 7 (not bad as COVID added poundage goes, but still a challenge.) If I go early there will simply be more bird activity and I know myself. I won't walk as fast or get the aerobic benefit of pushing myself because I'll be too distracted. By 11:45 the bird activity would be diminished for sure. Still, I had tossed my binoculars in the car, just in case. I would be so disappointed if I heard some Vireo or Warbler and didn't get a look. Birding FOMO is very real. 

When I jumped out of the car, nary a bird to be heard. Oh maybe the occasional House Finch or hummer, but definitely quiet. I contemplated bringing the binoculars. What would be the point? I could really focus on the desperately needed exercise. I AM SO OUT OF SHAPE RIGHT NOW. Then it dawned on me... you know, when you are surrounded by LA's fittest and finest, it is slightly embarrassing to be LA's slowest and out-of-shapest? If you bring your bins, Thome, you can stop whenever you want to "look at birds." They'll never know. Genius. So I grabbed the bins. Halfway up the first section - that's the toughest part - I was able to stop a few times to "look at birds" as the health conscious and scantily clad throngs sailed past me. 

After stepping off the beaten path to the less traversed trail, I thought I'd be golden. Half-way up I stopped to catch my breath for the third time. I was doing the bend-over-God-help-me-what-have-I done-thing, when I heard a young, 20-something gal talking on her phone speeding towards me. I thought, "Perfect! You got this, Thome. Look like a birder!" I pulled up my bins and pretended to look in the distance. The young woman smiled as she trucked past me, breathlessly. As soon as she passed I dropped my bins and bent over again. In an instant, I realized, she'll probably be curious as to what I was looking at. Sure enough, as she rounded the bend, I saw her look in that direction. The only thing to see - a few snags (barren trees) and a couple of distant homes. I saw a look of confusion come over her face. I knew she was thinking, "What is that woman looking at?" I laughed. 

Some genius. I surely didn't come off as a birder but as a creepy woman with binoculars looking into people's homes. Then I laughed again because I didn't care. Turns out I'm more comfortable being the creepy woman who looks into people's homes than the out-of-shape woman who needs to exercise more.

Have a great weekend! Get outdoors.

Three Out of Five

Three Out of Five 

I was in love with Jonathon Michael Simpson (Michael to his friends and family.) I was in love two weeks after he first sauntered over to me and said hello. He was tall, 6’3”. So handsome - dark tan skin, blonde hair, perfectly sculpted, like Michelangelo sculpted, arms. He was from California. I was from Michigan and I thought a guy from Laguna Beach who went by his middle name was just about the most exotic creature to show up at the car dealership on Plainfield where I worked nights as a receptionist to put myself through college. His brother was a salesman. He was a construction worker. He’d stop to visit with his brother in one of the six small cubicles that lined the showroom floor. Eventually he’d stop to visit me. When he asked me out the first time, I believe I peed myself a little. 

Guys didn’t pick me. Oh sure, there was Roy with the chipped tooth who drove a Monster Truck and there was Chuck who sold used cars, but we were just sleeping together and I had to promise not to tell anyone about it. No, guys like him didn’t pick me. Men didn’t pick me. Michael picked me. And at age 21, he became my first real boyfriend. 

And by “real” I mean I did have a boyfriend once in the 7th grade, Kevin Averman, but only because the two most popular girls in school said he liked me and I should date him because, well in their words, “Teresa think about it, there’s really no one else who’s going to pick you to go out.” So I said yes, but only on the condition that we never had to sit next to each other on the bus and we didn’t have to talk to each other at school. You see Kevin was a pasty redhead. Hypocritical, I know (as I am a pasty redhead myself!) But earlier that year I had written in a notebook that someday I would marry a tall, dark-skinned, Italian, Catholic named Michael. I was that specific. Kevin certainly didn't fit the profile and even though my Michael was a blonde protestant, he still fit three of the five traits. It was a sign. 

Soon, Michael was my everything. I was a great girlfriend. We went to the big lake every weekend because he missed the Pacific Ocean. We watched movies at his moms in the basement where he lived because he couldn’t afford his own place. And we went to bars. Lots of bars. Mostly bars. Because Michael liked to drink. A lot. He was a tolerable drunk most nights and an angry drunk occasionally, but then he’d only punched walls and not me. He was a gallant drunk… I guess. 

One hot summer night, two years into the great romance, Michael was way too drunk to drive home. This was a problem because he had a manual transmission. So there, in the parking lot of some random bar in Grand Haven he taught me how to drive a stick. I managed to drive us home safely, grinding gears only half the way. He was surprisingly proud of my accomplishment. He wasn’t proud when I landed a 3.9 my junior year of college or when I got promoted to office manager at my second job. He was enormously proud, however, that I drove a stick and got us both home safe. He was so moved by the experience in fact, that there, in the driveway at 3:00 am, he grabbed my hand got down on both knees and asked me to marry him. I believe I peed a little. 

In fifteen seconds a hundred things ran thru my mind. First, he had told me once he left a guy for dead in California and I spent an inordinate amount of time watching “America’s Most Wanted” looking for him. Even though he never hit me, I was a little afraid to say no in this moment, but is that reason to say yes? I should say no. But I’ve told him I loved him. Why would you say no to someone you love? I should say yes. But if I said yes, then I’d have to tell the children I haven’t even had yet that their father drunk proposed. And who wants to tell that story the rest of their life? So no. But then again… he had 3 out of the 5 traits (tall, tanned, Michael.) So, I swallowed hard and I said, “Yes, I will marry you.” 

The sex that night! I mean the sex that follows a marriage proposal is fantastic, right? This. Was. Not. Fantastic. This was “ew” alcohol breath and okay yep, and we’re done. 

Morning came. He was hungover. I was quiet. I was a little excited to tell my mother I was getting married. But he didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything. Then the day passed. And another. No mention of the proposal. No let’s go pick out a ring. No let’s find a date. Nothing. At first I was hurt. Then I was angry. By fall, I was relieved. Six months, countless Al Anon meetings and one police station visit to file a restraining order later, I left Jonathon Michael Simpson. 

Here’s the thing, I do appreciate the list my 7th grade self-made. Although she could have added a few more qualities like respectful, smart, funny, etc. She could have even added her own career and financial goals. But that’s okay. She was young. No. What she missed… What I missed is that this list should never have been about the kind of guy that would pick me, it should have been about the kind of guy I wanted to pick… The kind of guy that made me want to be a great girlfriend because he was a great boyfriend.

Eventually, I did figure it out. And I picked a great guy. We’re happily married. As it turns out, he’s a tall, dark-skinned, Italian, Ex-Catholic, named Fred. Four out of five. Not bad.

 Mogen David

originally published in ArtPrize Anthology

“How are you today, Bob?” someone in the retirement community would inevitably ask my dad. “Crabby!” He would respond without hesitation. This was always followed by a good laugh from the person doing the asking. It was all in the delivery. Despite his desire to communicate a “bah humbug” demeanor, my three-hundred-pound, wheelchair bound dad was really more teddy than grizzly bear. And at Christmas, despite his Ebenezer Scrooge ways, he was always more Santa Claus. He never wanted to put up a tree. He didn’t want family to make a fuss. He just wanted to give presents. 

He was always that guy who would slip you a $2.00 bill, or give you a candy bar, or made sure you grabbed “a pop from the riffy” the minute you walked in the door. His generosity, even on this small scale, drove my controlling, slightly neurotic mother nuts. The complexity of that relationship is best saved for another day. This is meant to be a heartwarming story, not a lesson in dysfunctional families. 

Moving on. 

After my mother passed, my father moved in to a small, one-bedroom apartment in a complex for retirees. He wasn’t much for social activities with the old folks. He didn’t like bingo or travel shows but his quick wit, kind heart and impressive storytelling abilities during communal mealtimes made him a favorite between workers and residents alike. 

Each Christmas, he would ask me to buy a dozen or so small presents that he could gift to the staff. This included perfumes, chocolates, flavored coffees, lotions, etc. In addition to the various sundries and treats, I always had strict orders to buy a pint of bottom-shelf whiskey for Mike, the janitor and apricot brandy for Cheryl, his caregiver. When I’d arrive with presents in tow, I’d have to review all the gifts with him.

“Show me what you got,” he’d say, clapping and rubbing his hands excitedly. I’d hold up gift after gift. “That’s nice,” he’d say, “I think Sue, the cleaning lady, will like that.” Or “Hide that one! I want Jessie, from the kitchen, to have that.” On and on he’d go. When it came to the chocolate, he would usually offer a “You paid how much for that?” Spending money on good chocolate was lost on him. “Why buy Godiva when Three Musketeers are just as good?” After he approved each purchase, I’d display them on his cedar chest. Then, without fail, as I was leaving, he’d motor his scooter over and peruse them all over again. No doubt he would re-organize and look over them each morning until all the gifts were gone. 

One year he phoned me a few weeks before Christmas and asked me a question. “Do Jewish people still drink that Mogen David wine for Hanukkah?” “That Mogen David wine?” I chuckled. Why on Earth did he want to know this? He then added, “Will you please go pick up a Hanukkah card and, if they drink that wine, pick me up a bottle of that, too?” That was an interesting request. “Why?” I asked. “There’s a Jewish guy that lives here. Everyone is always throwing Christmas up around here and there’s that one lone Jewish guy. He should get something Jewish.” 

Taking my orders, I went investigating on his behalf. (My Catholic upbringing left me unable to answer the question myself.) Lo and behold, I learned from a friend that some Jewish people, especially older Jewish people, like the sweet wine. I went to the local grocer and picked up a bottle of Maneschewitz (similar to “that Mogen David”). I phoned to ask if he wanted me to sign the card. He gave me an emphatic, “No! Just bring it to me. Cheryl will fill out the card.” I couldn’t imagine what personal message he wanted Cheryl (his caregiver) to write that I couldn’t, but I didn’t ask. I brought the wine, a Hanukkah card and Hanukkah gift bag a few days later. 

A few weeks later I stopped over to my pops. I realized I had never asked him about the Hanukkah gift. “Hey Dad, did that guy like his gift?” I asked. “I don’t know,” he said. “You don’t know?” I pushed. “Nope,” he responded. He seemed to be communicating in that half conversation, non-forthcoming way that my husband uses when he wants to drive me slowly insane. I kept pushing. “Well, did he thank you?” While I knew there were some curmudgeons that lived in this community of senior citizens this seemed like such a nice gesture. I thought surely, he was thanked. After a pause, he offered quietly, “He doesn’t know it was me.” I was confused. 

My father explained. The gentleman that he gifted the wine to was the neighbor in the apartment next door. I was surprised. I knew immediately that this was the cranky guy that did not like my dad. This was the guy that kept his television so loud that it bled through the walls. This was the guy who made it so my dad had to wear earplugs in his own apartment. This was the guy who, after repeated requests to turn down the volume, left my dad with no other option than to call the management and complain. This was the guy that was so unhappy he was called out for his loud television habit that he stopped talking to my dad. He continued. “I didn’t tell him it was me. Why would I do that? He doesn’t like me.” My father shared this in a very matter of fact way. There wasn’t anything to talk about. Everyone got presents and this guy should, too. End of story. 

I was speechless. 

A few months after my father passed, I attended a lecture given by a Rabbi. He explained that in Judaism the act of giving is called a mitzvah. He shared that giving anonymously is one of the higher forms of mitzvah. As he spoke, I couldn't help but think of my father. I cried. 

I once read an inscription in one of my dad’s old yearbooks. It read, “Hey Bob! I know I don't know you well, but thanks for the candy bars!” My father had a compulsion to give his whole life. I sometimes wanted him to stop. I felt like he was doing it for the wrong reasons; that he was doing it for acceptance. I thought it was unhealthy. (I am my mother’s daughter, after all.) I learned otherwise that day. 

Over my lifetime I watched my father give. Yet it wasn't until that moment I realized that in his giving, over and over again, year after year, I saw that his generosity was not something he did, but something he had become. Through his lifetime of mitzvah he became not only the giver, but also the gift.