Sometimes the poorest man leaves his children the richest inheritance. ~Ruth E. Renkel
REVERE, Mass.— A handful of former Revere High School baseball players gathered at Tony Conigliaro Field behind the school. Strong sea breezes whipped around the chilly park as temperatures hovered in the low 60s.
Gray-haired players shook hands and soon stories about the late coach Albert Blasi were being traded like valuable baseball cards. Round after round of one-upmanshipabout my dad’s life dominated the conversations as venerable players desperately tried to reel off buried memories of a man who coached the Revere Patriots for 42 years.
Those hidden recollections were buried by the weight of time, but surfaced during Al Blasi Day on a windy Monday afternoon.
Revere High School paid tribute to a man who loved the game and all his players. I am grateful to the school and the people who attended the event.
It is hard looking at the baseline in front of a bench. It doesn’t take much to remember my father, dressed in baggy blue pants and a rumpled blue jacket with Revere stamped on it, pacing up and down with a score book in his hand.
They raised the flag with my dad’s name on it next to the Stars and Stripes. I don’t how my dad would feel about all the hoopla or seeing a flag waving in the breeze with the name,”Blasi” on it. An honor guard saluted as a recording of the national anthem played behind the backstop.
And on that day, the clouds gave way as the sun made a splendid entrance and lit up the field with young athletes who never knew my dad.
But that’s OK with me because change is inevitable as we all fade from the picture.
Just seeing that flag wave in the breeze took the chill out of the air and made me feel proud of my father.
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Thank you all for coming. I won’t take the long way around barn and my dad always made it point to get to the point — except when it came to sports.
So please permit me to speak for a few moments.
REVERE, MASS. — Despite a lifetime of passion for America’s pastime, Albert John Blasi believed baseball was more than a game played with a bat and a hard ball.
He saw the sport as way to mold and inspire young men, bring people together and instill pride and devotion in his community.
His values and sense of the greater good were forged by his strong Italian heritage and a community that always had his back. He carried his reverence for humanity whenever he stepped onto the baseball diamond or in a classroom, and his moral compass served him well while he was stationed in Germany with the Big Red One in the1950s.
Now, I know everybody has an Al Blasi moment, and whenever I hear a well-told yarn about my dad from his former players, I perk up with pride.
After all, he coached for 42 years without being run of town. I have to believe his long tenure is due to a supportive community and administration, and I can’t thank this city and residents enough for their support.
I could spend 24 hours regaling all of you with stories about Coach. Every story is priceless. But I won’t do that so breath easy.
Those stories about a teacher and a coach will be retold for decades by the young men and students he met in school or on a baseball field. But today is about a community that comes together to honor a man who shared so much of himself with his students and players who have gone on to do great things.
I see many familiar faces here today. You know, whenever a student would shout “Coach” or “Mr. Blasi” from a passing car, a proud smile always filled my father’s face. He loved being remembered by his students and players. Seeing a familiar face never got old for him.
If you really knew Al Blasi, you had to realize my dad didn’t just live for the game. He also lived for his players. He connected with his players just like a batter connects with the ball with a swing of a hardwood bat.
When he asked me to be the bat boy for the team, it was an opportunity of a lifetime to spend those moments in the bright son with my father at wind-blow Curtis Park. Those memories of coach are resurrected every spring whenever I cover a game and watch those young coaches pace up and down the baseline.
When an editor friend of mine heard I was going fishing with my son, Anthony, at one Maine’s numerous lake, he took me aside and told me this: “You know, fishing isn’t always about fishing. It is about the time you spend with your son waiting to reel in the big one.”
My father realized long ago that baseball wasn’t just about baseball. To him, the game was about his players and the community he loved so dearly.
Thank you Revere, players, supportive parents and administration for honoring my father. The Blasi family is grateful for this remarkable tribute.
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