Separation

23 years after the fact, The Future has separated from us. It is sending ripples throughout our lives. Not smashing waves borne of a hurricane, seeking to damage all that it touches. No, these ripples are like waves slapping against boats in the harbor following the wake of a larger, stronger boat. Look at me each crest seems to say. Look at me. And so we have. We have looked and taken note.

Our first separation came when The Future decided he was no longer a fan of the NY Yankees. He switched his allegiance to the Amazin’s. Many of our friends could not understand how we could let this happen. I still don’t understand the question. After all, he is still a baseball fan and we can still share the love of the game together. In fact, in the early years of his switch, he and I would drive out to Shea Stadium for a couple of games each year and those games are very special memories I can touch upon.

Baseball is a pastoral game, with highs and lows. Each game lasts approximately three hours. During the course of three hours, you talk about the players, the plays within the games, the various fans around you, and life. Basic declarations and simple stories. I basked in those special days, soaking up everything he did and said. I knew those days were limited, soon to be replaced by The Future going to games with friends. It was like being offered to drink from a 100 year old bottle of wine. The wine is limited, but that does not make it any less sweet. And you are left with the memories of having imbibed a sweet, rare vintage.

The second separation happened when The Future moved into an apartment when he was 20. He still lived close enough to come home to do his laundry, but he no longer lived with us. I was very familiar with the apartment he lived in for the first two years of this period. And he even had The Schatz and me over for dinner one night. A dinner he organized and prepared. It too hangs in the Pantheon of Memories. Sitting around a table I knew as well as my own, eating food he prepared himself, sharing laughter in a room that seemed filled with our laughter from over the years, it all had a warm glow. Life does not get any better than this.

And now we enter the spring of the most current separation. The Future has accepted a new challenge at a University. His second job after graduation from college, and he has chosen wisely.

The Schatz has been providing the play-by-play for Iona College’s men’s basketball team for over 25 years. And The Future has been by his side since he was five years old. In a testosterone-fueled Take Your Son to work program, The Schatz provided the team’s play-by-play and The Future provided the water and towels to the players on the bench. As he grew, so did his responsibilities. And to many of the Iona family, The Future was as much of a fixture in the program as was The Schatz.

When he enrolled as a Freshman at Iona, he began an unpaid internship as Manager. Although busy with the requirements of this position and the demands of his college degree, The Schatz and The Future still shared the same team, traveling with the team, living and breathing the ups and downs of a program. And when he graduated, he became the Video Coordinator of Iona. We continued to be a family of Iona.

Now, The Future is part of another family. The Schatz and I are thrilled he is moving up in his chosen career, yet, we mourn the loss of one of the common denominators of our family. We recognize that he is fortunate to now be a part of arguably the best basketball conference in the country. But for the first time, we feel the ache of a child that is leaving.

The Future stands between then Head Coach Jerry Welsh and Assistant Coach Jim Bostic, circa 1994.

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Baseball

I love sports. I am a sports fan. I follow a lot of sports. It is no surprise to many that I married The Schatz. I suspect that our marriage would not be as successful as it is if The Schatz did not love sports. Although we talk of many things, our conversations are often about sports.

My father taught me the finer points of Boxing and Golf. My brother taught me Basketball. I learned Baseball and Football from my Godfather. I picked up Tennis on my own. I tried to teach myself Hockey, but struggled. The Schatz opened my eyes and introduced me to the New York Rangers. I still follow all of these, with one exception. I no longer follow professional Basketball, having replaced it with College Basketball. (I favor the unpredictability of College Basketball over the more staid NBA.)

I love the consistency and movement of sports. Each sport has its own unique rhythm, and I especially love that moment, just before play begins. Baseball players walk around, pounding their gloves, joking with each other, and then suddenly, without warning, they set themselves. Out of mass confusion, two lines form, players distributed on both sides, with the ball in the center in Football. Hockey players in constant motion (as if magnets are pulling them from the underside of the ice), slow, then still, awaiting the drop of the puck. Tennis players stand, tennis racquet in one hand, bouncing the ball with the other, when, a hush descends over the stadium and they throw the ball up. Even golfers, slow their twitching, still the shuffle of their feet, just before the head of their club begins its upward swing.

My absolute favorite sport is Baseball. I love the sounds of Baseball. The crack as the ball finds the sweet spot on the bat. The thump as it lands in a glove. The guttural sounds the Umpire utters in calling Balls and Strikes. I love the whole package. The calls that the Vendors use to get your attention. Hot dogs, Popcorn, Programs. One word songs, complete with their own unique melody. The chants of the fans as they go through the roll call, over and over, until the player turns and acknowledges his name.

I love watching a well-executed play. 6-3-4. I love writing in my scorecard. F8. I love watching a Pitcher hit his rhythm. K. I love visiting other ballparks. Similar to attending another Church; it may be bigger or smaller than your home parish, but the order of the Mass remains constant.

Each team has its unique history, moments, triumphs and disasters. Despite my poor memory, I remember the final out of the Bucky Dent game with absolute clarity. Where I was, the feel of the sun, looking over and seeing a stranger, clearly celebrating after Frank Messer took what seemed to be an hour to announce the end of the play, I remember. The Schatz can remember Mickey Mantle hitting his 500th career homerun on Mother’s Day in 1967. Although his mother may not consider it much of a celebration. As the ball began its ascent, The Schatz jumped up in youthful exuberance. She in turn, ducked down to catch his leg, encased in a full cast to prevent it from smacking the concrete of the stadium.)

My first grown-up vacation was by myself. I drove to Cooperstown and checked into the famous Otsego Hotel. The next day, I took myself over to the Hall of Fame and wandered the halls. It was the middle of the week, and the Hall was pretty much empty. I took my time and I can still remember the hushed reverence as I entered the areas of the plaques. It was as if no one else existed in the world. Outside, a storm was at it’s height, I could hear the rain hit the roof as I soaked up each plaque. I had truly come to Church. (By the way, since my first visit, the Hall has undergone renovations and now, the area dedicated to the Plaques truly resembles a Cathedral.)

Sunday the season opens again. Sunday night I will watch the first pitch, and the last out. And for the next seven months, I will hang on the rhythm of my favorite sport. No matter what, I am a Baseball fan.

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