Spring 1997 A discussion of how to handle old allegiances and childhood horrors in the face of changing times and values: ********************************************************************** John wrote: Boys, I need your advice. A heavy crisis has entered my life. Many of you are aware of the hatred I hold for everything that is "New York Yankees." Growing up in Brooklyn in the 50's explains that. I vividly remember seeing Yogi Berra hanging in effigy outside my apartment during the 55 Series. At first I was taken back with juvenile outrage, but then I felt relief and pleasure at the thought of the Yankee catcher unable to play the next day. Maybe they should string Mantle up too, I thought. I was absolutely confused to hear of Berra out there the next day. Overall, I pray that the Yankee seasons alternate between 0-162 last place finishes, and crushing defeats handed them in the last inning of the seventh game of the Series. This past weekend, my wife was in NYC on business. There was talk of a Yankee game. I warned her not to buy any Yankee stuff to litter our house. Not knowing the difference between Tigers and Lions, Cubs and Bears and the like, I'm sure that my warnings evaporated from her mind even as I spoke. She saw the O's club the Yanks 8-6 on Memorial Day. Last night she arrives home. My four year old now has a teddy bear dressed in a Yankee costume with a Yankee hat. My nine year old now has a Yankee cap and shirt. All three kids got Yankee cups all around. My stomach turned and I could feel my father's spirit spinning about in the cosmos, no doubt rushing to puke out his ghostly insides at the thought of his grandchildren fondling Yankee crap. So what shall I do? Do nothing? Perhaps but what of loyalty to the past and the pure hatred that must be kept alive in its honor? Stand my ground, talk a lot of wild eyed Sicilian talk, and toss the stuff in the garbage? And risk tears, shouting and alienation? Start a fire in the fireplace and when Kristen is gone, invent a new "toss and burn" game with the kids? Uhmmmm.... Wait for everyone to be gone and then just have the items "disappear"? When asked I can say what they always say: "I dont know...." So, what shall I do? Help me please... ********************************************************************* and Andy replied: John, I was hoping your dilemna re: ethical problems was going to be a good, well-deserved scolding of our red-neck, trapped in the 50's, neanderthal buddy with the sophmoric sense of humor from Snow Pea, Illinois. You can't imagine my chagrin and empathy to your plight when I read the real source of your horror. It brought back the memmory of tormenting demons I thought I had long ago burried somewhere in the dark vault that holds lost baseball cards and tattered scraps of autographs, mementos now faded like the memory of those heroes who once came late at night into our bedrooms through their magic, drifting on faint radio waves from heavenly places like Connie Mack Stadium and Forbes Field. You see, it was in similar vein that I remember committing my first mortal sin. As Cain slew Abel (or was it the other way around, or was that Baker batting out of order again? Well, anyway...), it was my first brush with fratricide of the soul and I failed myself miserably. I was 10 years old at the time. It was July. My father worked as a trainman out of northeastern Pennsylvania for the Delaware & Hudson Railroad. On ocassion, he would travel over a two day period to the railroad town of Oneonta, New York, a clean texas- leaguer outside of Cooperstown NY. On this particular day in reference, he told me that we would take a ride for a "picnic" and that I could invite a friend along. Swimming suits wrapped in towels, Tom Finn and I piled into the back of the 56 Olds and headed off into the azure skies of a fine summer ride. I don't believe Oneonta and Cooperstown were the original destinations either he or my mother had in mind that day. Interstate Higways 81 and 84 were still in some politician's pocket and the ride takes four hours by those routes travelling today's speeds. Nevertheless, somehow we ended up in Oneonta, gaping in awe at the places where Dad ate, slept, and smoked his camels when he was "working away". As a man who pays the rent by shoving out on the road when needs be myself these days, I know the simple joys of showing your loved ones a really good burger joint you've discovered on your travels, but that's not the story I'm telling here. No, it was on this magic day that we continued past Oneonta and headed into Cooperstown and the Baseball Hall of Fame, birthplace of baseball, the mightiest of all temples enshrining the spirit, grace and wonder of the all-time greatest heroes of the game. It was an unforgettable experience, one that I highly recommend for anyone within reading distance of this note between the ages of 8 and 98. Babe Ruth, Ted Williams, Ty Cobb, Tinkers, Evers, Chance. These are not names to be taken lightly and I assure you that neither Tom Finn nor myself did. If Baseball is an allegory of man's search to regain Paradise Lost from post Eden pitching woes, then I was touched by a vision of the pure soul that day. Maybe it never had a face, but I knew it then and still carry the memmory of it now, clean as a hook slide on a slap tag: Grace, God the holy Spirit, a Shortstop with power. Well John, I was awash in its glow as we neared the exit of our trip through Sanctum Sanctorum, when into our view came: The Gift Store. First you have to know: I was a Pirate Fan. Had been ever since Bill Mazeroski hit the shot heard round the steel mills. Roberto Clemente still remains the greatest player ever to play in my mind. Dick Groat, Bill Stuart, Don Hoak, Billy Virdon...... they all were giants, but it was sweet pivoting Maz who broke the back of the hated New York Yankees on that clear October day. Beat the Yankees! Beat Ralph Houk and Gil McDougal and Tony Kubek, and Mickey Mantle! Mickey Mantle was beat! Now maybe that smug Tommy Heck would just shut up. Now maybe my brother Billy would just shut up. Yes, I was a Yankee hater. So as I entered the gift shop still radiating with all the goodness and energy that is holiest on this earth, my mom gave me $5 and said, "Don't forget to buy something for your brother, too." And that's when I knew sin. Of course they had Yankee paraphanalia! Yankee teddy bears? The damn things were all over the place! Key chains, Ink pens, Pennants, Mugs, Magnets, all with that stupid interlocking NY. So what did I buy this New York Yankee fan, my brother, my sleepmate, my blood bonded partner for life? A little wooden Phillies bat. And my mom bought it when I said, "this is what he would like." The Horror. The Horror. Still it haunts me. Still it mocks me. It was sleeping when awakened once again by the tale of your plight. It is a darkness I carry for life. What advice can I offer thee, oh wedding guest? Take it from this Ancient Mariner Fan, a sadder but a wiser man: He playeth best, who loveth best All teams both great and small; For the dear Rotisserie God who loveth us, He made and loveth all. Andy ************************************************************************ and John replies: Andy, Great, great story. Did your brother clobber you with the bat? But what do I make of the ending? Do you mean that I should bury my past and love the Yanks, "all teams great and small". Or shouls I run out and print up Muskrat shirts and pass em all around "For the dear Rotisserie God who loveth us"? John ********************************************************************** to which Andy concludes My only advice for you and your Musrats is this: Drink Heavily.