Giving thanks for some wonderful memories

“Traditions are our roots and a profile of who we are as individuals and who we are as a family. They are our roots, which give us stability and a sense of belonging - they ground us.” 

                                                                                        — Lidia Bastianich

AUBURN, Maine — A holiday tradition vanished with the death of my father.

But when you are the survivor, you long for the custom that brought you closer together with a parent.

I was fortunate to be raised in Italian neighborhood with nearly a dozen relatives on one street. Thanksgiving meant a stream of cousins and uncles, a smorgasbord of home-made food and booze — particularly fine wine.

There were traditions within traditions and one was rooting for your high school during Turkey Day football games across the state of Massachusetts. 

For nearly 50 years, you would find my father and me at a wind-blown, frozen football field watching Revere High School confront the Winthrop Vikings on a brisk Thanksgiving morning.

Spending a cold morning at Harry Della Russo Stadium or Winthrop’s ocean-side field was the prelude to a dinner for 20 relatives all vying for sumptuous meals and share a shot of Anisette to take the chill out of those football fans returning from the game.

During the games, we lamented about the cold and spent a couple of bucks on hot chocolate. There were adults who were seen reaching inside their jackets for  their flasks filled with rye or brandy.

I envied them. I found hot chocolate didn’t stop the shivers triggered by the biting cold. But a belt of brandy might be just what the doctor ordered in sub-zero temperatures.

Back in the day, the Div. I teams from the Greater Boston Area drew big crowds. The game gave former RHS football players like me a chance to catch up with former classmates as well as hang around my father — Albert John Blasi.

Big Al coached the Revere Patriots baseball team. He believed in supporting the football team and the game gave him the perfect excuse stay out of my mother’s way in the kitchen. My father did not find slaving over a hot oven a palatable way to spend the morning. Making soup or salad was the extent of his culinary skills.

Those talks in the car before we got to the field were precious to me. I watched my dad flip around the AM dial looking for other high school football scores as we raced home for a round of pasta, fish and Turkey.

Thanksgiving Day mornings watching high school football came to a slow stop when age caught up with my dad and the death of his close friend, Robert Marra. My father and Mr. Marra were fixtures in the stands. Both are no longer with us and a tradition disappeared with them.

The memories are sometimes painful, but I know I was lucky to have those significant moments with a father who loved his family and community. Going to a high school game would not be the same without my dad.

Thanksgiving traditions sometimes fade away with time, but those memories of my father standing in the cold watching a game come alive every holiday.

For that, I am thankful.

Coach's day

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.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

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 can’t imagine the countless lives my dad touched during his tenure as a coach and teacher. He loved the diamond just as he loved being in the classroom. There are several shoe boxes full of black-and-whites of his players still sitting in his closet.

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.

Going to bat for my father

 "The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires."

- William Arthur Ward

SAUGUS, Mass. — They lined up to shake his hand, hug him, and gently kiss him on the cheek. He struggled to remember the names of his former students as they paraded past him like all those rewarding years he spent in the classroom and on the baseball diamond.

His precious memories of his students had disappeared over the last few years. He felt frustrated and alone in a sea of faces that no longer looked familiar to him.

He apologized for a memory that was slowly being stripped away by Alzheimer's, but his students would hear none of his explanations. 

Their outpouring of kindness and understanding was overwhelming: "Don't worry about it. We're glad you are here. I love your father. He is the greatest. How's he doing? I will check in on him. I am so glad he came. Your father is a great guy. You look a lot like him."

All they wanted to do was pay homage to a fine teacher. 

They gathered around to honor Albert John Blasi, a retired 79-year-old history teacher and head baseball coach at Revere High School for over four decades. He was asked to attend the Class of 1972's reunion at the cozy Continental on Route 1. He was the only invited teacher to go to the get-together.

His blank stare and any trepidation he was feeling was replaced with an appreciative smile as he reluctantly greeted former students who surrounded him.

David Colella, a fellow teacher and a wonderful person, made my father feel comfortable as we looked for a table to be seated. A handful women also helped make my father feel at ease. I wish I could remember their names. Colella gave me his address and promised to check on him. 

His former students regaled him with countless stories of how a young teacher with a baritone voice and crew cut inspired them. They spoke about his charisma, dedication, integrity and sincerity, all necessary prerequisites for a teacher to motivate and prepare students for the world beyond the classroom.

And everybody had a story to tell about my father.

Big Al was an icon at Revere High School, and his name continues to be bandied about by grateful students and baseball players who share their passion for America's pastime with Coach.

It is obvious why the Class of 1972 sticks together and clings to their fond memories of RHS and my dad. They are survivors of a turbulent era that included Vietnam, Watergate, civil unrest and an endless cold war.

"Mom would have enjoyed coming with you, " I said to my father, who continued to stare across the table.

"You know, I was thinking the same thing, " he said.

My mother had passed away two years ago. We don't talk about it because I think my mom's passing is too painful for both of us.

At the behest of my three sisters, I agreed to become dad's chaperone. I was nervous about serving as his guide. But any apprehension I was feeling ceased when his former students also welcomed me to the reunion.

I understood this might be our last hurrah together, and my sisters intuitively knew this, too. I am grateful to them for persuading me to accompany dad.

My father scanned the growing crowd of RHS alumni. He was looking forward to seeing his former ballplayers who brought him great joy. 

"I am kind of disappointed. The ballplayers are not showing up," said my dad. "I thought they would come."

"Dad, it doesn't matter. You have made many of your former students' day," I answered. "There is still time for them to show."

Just before I was about to throw in the towel, Richard Decristoforo appeared in the lobby. I spotted the gentle giant from across the room. God don't make 'em any better than this guy, and that could be said about the entire Decristoforo family. They are top-of-the-line human beings who cherish my father.

Richard was one of dad's favorite athletes, and Coach was adored by the Decristoforo family. This mutual admiration and respect has continued for decades.

Richard saw me. I pointed to my father, and after a few moments, he rushed over to see dad. My father's eyes widened and a fond smile reappeared. Richard hugged him, and a 45-minute conversation ensued about baseball and family. It was reunion within a reunion, and neither one of them wanted to part company when dinner was served.

Their conversation opened a time portal, and suddenly I could see Coach and the team's captain standing behind the iron backstop at windy Curtis Park in Revere 40 years ago. They reminisced about Sunday morning practices when my dad brought donuts and coffee to his players. I never missed a Sunday practice as the team's bat boy. But I do miss those hot, summer practices when my father swung a fungo bat like a baton.

My dad had brought along a couple of huge frames containing the Revere Journal's pictorial of the 1972 and 1973 RHS baseball teams. The over-sized frames had been hanging up in my dad's cellar for years.

My father presented the 1972 portrait to Richard, whose jaw dropped as his eyes never left the portrait.

Richard hugged my father. "Wow! This means so much to me, coach," said Richard.

I just smiled. Richard turned to me and said he too would stop in to visit with him. I couldn't thank him enough for speaking with my dad.

We never ate dinner together. My dad became antsy and wanted to head home. I knew better not wear him out and agreed to leave early, but we didn't make it to the exit for another hour.

My father's entourage cornered us at the door. Another long and sweet conversation began in between photo shoots. They wouldn't let him go.

The polite women packed us dinner before we quietly slipped away into the humid night.

I pulled out of the parking lot and headed down Route 1 toward Revere.

"I can't understand why everybody wanted to see me. I was just doing my job," said my father.

I paused for moment before I responded.

"Dad, you are a part of their past and they got a chance to reconnect with it because of you," I answered.  "You didn't just do your job. You went above and beyond the call of duty in those classrooms, and that is why you still command their respect."

"I guess you are right," he said.

I knew I was right when I saw the admiration and gratitude on his students' faces after he entered the room on a warm Friday evening.