Take Me Out to the Ballgame

Last week, I gazed outside my eleventh story office window and watched the rain fall steadily down.

An old Tom Petty song that I must have heard a thousand times before, played in the background on a small transistor radio that keeps me company in my office. Lost in the perfect daydream, I wondered if they would get the game in tonight.  I hoped so.

That solitary thought magically transported me back to my Pony League baseball games played as a teenager.  It seemed my mom did wash every other day in order to keep my grass stained uniform looking clean for my next game.  My dad would race home from his work responsibilities at DuPont in Wilmington, Delaware, an hour away, to see his oldest son compete in his weekly Marlton recreation council (REC) baseball games. 

These games were just that - games.  They were mostly two hour diversions from my chores and school work both of which I avoided at all costs.  However, for the first time in my life I was part of something.  I was part of a team and a teammate to my fellow ball players.  Did you ever see the movie – The Sandlot?  Well, it was exactly like that.  At this young age, baseball meant everything to me. 

Back then, all I wanted to be was the next Johnny Bench.  From about age 13 to age 15, that’s all I cared about!   Not a lot to ask for.  It wasn’t like I wanted to be Pete Townshend or Bruce Springsteen.  Well….not yet anyway?

Like me, Bench played catcher.  For most boys my age he was The Catcher.  Even though he played for the enemy team, Cincinnati Reds, (aka The Big Red Machine) he was my favorite non-Philly player.  I would never be caught rooting for the Reds over my beloved Phillies, but I watched his every move in awe, anytime the hated Reds would face my Phils.

I was only a teenager then. 

I knew nothing about the stock market, 401-k plans, mortgages and networking.  I collected baseball cards.  I read Baseball Digest more than my high school textbooks.  And I always rooted for the Phillies to win.  I was just one of a thousand kids growing up in the shadow of the home baseball team playing across the Delaware River.  And I was truly lucky, blessed with some winning Phillies teams in the mid-late 70’s.  My Dad on the other hand had suffered through many losing seasons when he was my age back in the mid 50’s. 

Decades later, it is painfully clear that I was born to be an accountant and not a ball player.  However, from the naïve eyes of a thirteen year old boy, it was fun to dream about one day playing in the Major Leagues, however improbable that dream would have been.

Back in the day, a youngster’s sports calendars followed the professional teams’ regular season schedule.  That meant baseball was played between June and August, football was played in the fall and so forth.  Nowadays, kids participate in Fall Ball, playing baseball well into football season, when we would have been playing touch football in between parked cars on

Kennington Drive

. During the winter months, kids now play indoors, honing their skills with Hit Doctor and other training camps.  Back then we would have been setting up lawn chairs and playing street hockey emulating our heroes from the Flyers.

Back then, me and my friends played baseball only for bragging rights at school come Monday morning.  This past weekend while surfing through the cable TV stations, Marie and I stumbled upon the Little League World Series Sectional games being played in Williamsport, Pennsylvania covered on ESPN.   How cool is that!  Can you imagine if one of the Marlton teams back then had made it to that level?  I watched these kids compete for hours.  It really took me back.  I marveled how big and athletic these kids were! 

About two months ago, my seventy year old father emailed me and my brother-in-law about getting some tickets to an upcoming Phillies game before the summer ended.  I told him that Lauren and I would love to join him for a game.  So, he logged onto StubHub and purchased the tickets.  For weeks leading up to the game, he told me all of the intimate details of his ticket purchase.  How the tickets were purchased.  How only a paper ticket was printed.  How he was worried that he might have gotten ripped-off, since he did not have an actual ticket stub, but only a piece of paper with Roy Halladay’s picture, listing our section and seat number.

(Note – Game day he brought all the Stub Hub emails, just in case we had a problem with the tickets at the CBP entrance)

Game day had finally arrived. 

We munched on hoagies in the parking lot before the game.  I had an awesome “catch” with my eleven year-old nephew, Will.  We sat around and talked about the things that were happening in our respective lives, enjoying the fact that tonight we had no cares.  We were enjoying a beautiful hot summer night, moments away from watching the Home Team on our turf, Citizens Bank Park.  Quite an upgrade from the Vet!

We dutifully took our seats in the left field bleachers, nineteen rows back from the left field wall in close proximity to the home run foul pole.  At my Dad’s suggestion, we had all brought our gloves with the hopes of maybe snagging a home run ball off the bat of a Phillie.  I can’t even remember the last time I brought a mitt to a game.  Perhaps I was Will’s age tagging along with my Dad to all those games at The Vet, all those years ago.

When John Mayberry Jr. stepped into the batter’s box at the bottom of the third inning, I motioned to Will and said “Grab your mitt….here it comes”.  After a couple of fouled-off pitches, Mayberry ripped into an inside pitch sending it flying our way.  It bounced off the foul pole – Home Run!  We looked at each other in utter disbelief as the ball landed just to the left of our seats, immediately high-fiving each other, as well as the other fans in our section.  Home run for the Phillies!  Innings later I looked over at Will and wondered if he would remember this night 30 years from now?  Would he and his Dad talk about this night many years from now?

A lengthy rain delay and light show provided by Mother Nature soon followed.  As the grounds crew went about readying the field for play, my Dad and I chatted about a number of items we were experiencing when we were not in each other’s company away from the ball park.  Throughout the conversation he proudly pointed up to the stadium seats showing me where he and my Grandpop Martino saw the 1980 World Series Game # 1, along with the time he and my brother had tickets on the forty-yard line for the 1981 NFC Championship game against the Cowboys.  Chris got a signed football from Robert Newhouse before the game, as my Dad had received the tickets from an oil company supplier and client of DuPont located in Dallas. 

Of course, I knew these historic sports moments had taken place at the Vet, but they were special nonetheless.  Hearing my Dad tell me these stories all these years later made them seem even more special.  As we sat there, I imagined my Dad being more youthful and almost 40 years old, which means I would have been about 20 years old.  Time stood still.

Play had finally resumed and two and a half hours later, we all left the park happy.  The Home Team held on for another victory in what’s shaping up to be another magical baseball season.

Can the Phillies win another World Series Championship this year? 

This time around, I hope The Kerns can all attend a victory parade down

Broad Street

, something that due to work commitments and busy schedules eluded us back in 2008.

So, take me out to the ballgame with my Dad.  And remember, we Philly fans always root, root, root for the Home Team!

Go Phillies!

Maybe a Tiki Bar?

Those were my initial thoughts as I gazed upon my flip flops, rash guard, board shorts and beach towel lying in a pile next to my bedroom dresser.

It was Monday morning and the evil alarm clock just rang……

I smiled glancing at this beautiful mess on the floor.  Memories of a great beach weekend floated through my 6:30 am consciousness.

I thought back to those weekend trips Marie and I took with the Syds to destinations such as Williamsburg, Cooperstown and Cape Cod staying at bed and breakfast homes with names such as The Cedars, The Gray Goose and Mostly Hall.  We would return to the B&B in the late afternoon, sipping cocktails on those wrap-around front porches, fantasizing about owning of one of these fabulous “escape from the world” lodging establishments.  The Original Plan was for the girls to run the day-to-day B&B, while the guys would create a small local bookkeeping practice to help cover our operating cash flow.  Both couples were “pre-kids” and in our late twenties.  Life was nothing more complicated than enjoying a cool summer breeze sitting on a white washed rattan reclining chair with a beverage in our hands…… 

This past beach weekend with friends rekindled some of those long ago buried thoughts.

At age 50, our “career” lives now consist of the relocation of the corporate headquarters, unplanned acquisitions and mergers, offices closing, companies sold, downsizing and out-sourcing headcount options.  While our “personal” lives consist of college aged children, aging parents, dwindling mortgage and retirement account balances.  We now find ourselves sandwiched in between two generations sailing into our middle years.

We skimmed along the water, the bright sun shining down on our mortal bodies, the wind flying through our now thinning hairline.   No worries…..as the boat motored on to our destination – Nat’s Cove.  This was the preferred sandbar destination of all the Monday through Friday working types.  It was here that an assorted collection of weekend pirates, sun worshippers, sailors, wenches, water rats and party animals assembled when they weren’t concerned with being serious career-minded attorneys, accountants, engineers, contract specialists and the like.  In this part of the world; smiles, waves, beers, wading in the water and relaxation ruled the day.  It was life on the water.  Life indeed!

It was like a Jimmy Buffett song had sprung to life right in front of my very eyes.  I had indeed found me a (temporary) home among my brethren folk!

I chatted aimlessly about a number of topics with my friend as she sat contently in her bright pink floating chair sipping a beer.   Her son starts college in two months, while my daughter returns to college entering her sophomore year.  We covered a lot of ground here.  I felt good that I was able to give her some scoop about kids attending college in the year 2011.  As we talked, I could notice her more relaxed body language and personal stress-meter rapidly decreasing.  It was like some battery charger was connected to her floaty chair so that with each sip of beer her blood pressure dropped 5 points while her “chillaxing” quotient raised 20 points.

However, when the conversation turned to our careers, I really envied her.  She remains committed to her career path with a passion that still exists all these years later.  Long hours in the office with many sacrifices made along the way by both she and her husband have afforded her family a very nice life.  However, I was struck by the fact that all this good fortune had not really changed her core beliefs.  She remains a kind hearted, fair minded, generous human being.  In these visible moments it was easy to see why she remains successful with her chosen profession.  When it was my turn, she was more than eager to listen to my life gripes; offering suggestions, encouragement and a different perspective on things.    

Later in the evening, we all relaxed in the living room continuing our off-the-clock

“I’m on vacation” - behavior.  Remember that scene from the movie “The Big Chill?”  After a few rounds of margaritas, beers and Licor ‘43’….the conversation turned from favorite rock bands, concerts and vacations to any regrets in life or what would we do differently.   A group therapy session ensued while our generation’s classic rock played quietly in the background.  It was refreshing to hear even from this group of over achievers (excluding yours truly) that there remained many open items on the group’s collective Bucket List that didn’t (only) include someday playing Pebble Beach!

Sunday was our beach day.

As we drove along

Atlantic Ave.

I began to notice the unique mom and pop stores that dotted the beach strand.  Surf shops, ice cream parlors, restaurants, personal service stores, etc….  Could I do something like this?

There is no doubt that that I was made for this beachcomber lifestyle….but my bank account….not so much….at least not now.  But what if we downsize and move to Somers Point?

While I remain this flip flop kinda guy in a winged-tip world, I do feel strongly that the tide is changing.

PATCO Train Conductor – “Last stop…..15^th/16^th Streets and Locust.  Train is out of service.  No passengers please”.

It was Monday morning.  I was ten minutes from the office.

How many more years until Lauren graduates Rider?  How many more years left on the mortgage?

Is it time to start over by the beach?  Maybe that Tiki Bar idea?

I would play Jimmy Buffett music non-stop on the restaurant’s PA sound system, while Marie made her world famous salsa and other to die for food specialties.  I would mix boat drinks and converse with the patrons asking them about their stay at the beach and sympathetically listen to them when they talked about the jobs they dislike back on the mainland.

My photography portfolio (including framed photos for sale) would adorn the restaurant’s walls.  My photography business card would be found at the cash register.  School Boy Heart photography services; family portraits, sunrise/sunset, family reunions and vacation DVD packages set to music available upon request.

It may be time to draft that beach business Mission Statement, develop a marketing plan and crunch some price-point numbers.

Yeah….maybe a Tiki Bar is in my immediate future.

If Tom from Michigan can start Wet Wendy’s in Cozumel, maybe it’s my time?

Then again, there’s always that floating twister raft idea I had in the ocean on Sunday afternoon. 

Whadda think Marie?   Sherry?

Stranded on a sandbar…..and lovin’ it!