Serving his country and playing baseball in occupied Germany

“Without heroes, we are all plain people, and don't know how far we can go”

Bernard Malamud

“Without heroes, we are all plain people, and don't know how far we can go”

 Bernard Malamud

My father's uniform sports three citations for his service to his country

Big Al Blasi pays a visit to his daughter's house

Anthony stands in front of a P-51 Mustang at the Brunswick Air Show. 

Anthony and Terri stand in front of an M-60 tank in Augusta.

Anthony and I on the deck of the U.S.S. Massachusetts - an old World War II battleship that now rests at Battleship Cover in Fall River, Mass.

A pair of bombing can't keep a proud and good city like Boston down.

AUBURN, Maine – There's a classic black-and white picture of my dad speaking with the opposing coach and his good friend Joe Bevere after Revere played Chelsea in a high school baseball game.

Big Al is wearing his traditional team cap, baggy pants and rumpled blue coat at wind-blown Curtis Park – a shabby baseball field battered by endless, cold sea breezes and summer humidity. An MBTA train used to rattle past the outfield as it raced toward Boston to drop off passengers.

The field is gone, but not my memories of my father's unforgettable moments on the diamond and that wonderful, old dusty field that was removed from my past to make way for a new school.

I sometimes stare at the picture that rests on my desk at the Sun Journal. I fondly remember moments when I served as the team's batboy and all the young men who played ball for my father.

My dad knows baseball like a sailor who is able to maneuver his vessel in a harbor with his eyes shut.

Big Al's knowledge America's pastime has served him well as a baseball skipper who coached the Revere Patriots for nearly 43 years without being run out of town.

What I often forget is that he was drafted and served his country during the Korean War. But Pfc. Al Blasi, and his brother, U.S. Army 2nd Lt. Rocco Blasi, missed serving in Korea by this much. Both of them ended up being stationed in Europe as the world rebuilt war-torn nations from the ground up.

They were both lucky, and they knew it. Europe was like a vacation on the Maine coast compared to slugging it out with the North Koreans and Chinese.

His outfit was the fabled Big Red One, a division that served with distinction in World War I. In the second war, the Big Red One was the first to fight the enemy in North Africa and Sicily. The division was also the first on the beaches of Normandy and captured the major German City – Aachen. The Big Red One remained in Germany until 1955 and was later redeployed to Fort Riley in Kanas. A movie starring Lee Marvin was made about the division's heroics during the second war.

There were no tales of combat for my father, but there were plenty of stories about him playing baseball in Germany. He was sort of like Joe Dimaggio who played ball in Hawaii to raise the country's morale during World War II.

Big Al owned the plate whenever he was at bat. He could hit, and when a high-ranking officer witnessed my dad's hitting prowess, he chose my father to play for the company's baseball team.

Life got a lot easier in the Army for my dad. Picking up a bat and glove was easier than carrying a BAR (Browning automatic rifle) or bazooka. He proudly served his country, but he brushed off the idea of making the military a career. 

But he did answer the call to duty and eventually became a sharpshooter. While he did not face the perils of combat, he witnessed an infantry unit bivouacking after a night of patrolling. The men were sleeping when American tanks on maneuvers came rolling through the German woods. Men ran for their lives and climbed thick trees to escape the blind, roving monstrosities that tore up the landscape.

Big Al was once given a lift from his uncle, Air Force Maj. B.J. Murano, who was a pilot who saw action from the seat of a B-24 in Italy during World War II. He also flew 100 missions in a fighter called the P-51. Murano flew my father home in that storied fighter that eventually became an icon of air superiority in that era.

My father rarely spoke about his experiences in the Army. He moved on and was busy working two jobs and raising four children. There was no time for the dedicated teacher and high school baseball coach to spend days spinning yarns about his tour at the local VFW Post.

After my mother died, he began speaking about his tour of duty, but Alzheimers has made it impossible for my dad to recall all those interesting moments in the service. The words don't come easy and he is frustrated, and I am saddened that his memories are quickly disappearing as this horrible disease progresses.

A few years ago, my dad wanted to sell his uniform for a few bucks. I pleaded with him to give it to me. My other siblings were not interested in it, but for me, it was a piece of his past and this country's history, and I didn't want to see the uniform in a stranger's hands.

I had worn his uniform at a Halloween party when I was in high school. 

There are three ribbons of citations sewn on the 60-year-old jacket. I had no idea what they stood for, so Anthony and I turned to the Internet and spent the next 30 minutes researching and identifying each ribbon. Those ribbons include the President's Unit Citation, Army of Occupation Citation and the National Defense Citation.

When I visited him a year ago, he gave the uniform to me and said, "What the hell are you going to do with it?"

I just smiled and didn't answer him. I think we both understood why I wanted his uniform in my possession

I am preserving his uniform to honor him, because that's what sons do for their fathers who give a damn about the right things in life.