A veteran and a fine father

Check out this link to a Boston Globe story about my father

https://www.bostonglobe.com/metro/obituaries/2014/11/26/blasi-longtime-revere-high-baseball-coach-formerly-led-state-coaches-association/xa7uUxaeyfa1jtsHodQ3DK/story.html

Imagine you are this kid from the Greater Boston area with your heart set on attending college when a letter suddenly arrives in the mail from Uncle Sam ordering you to report for duty in 1954.

Albert John Blasi was from an Italian family and grew up in Revere, Mass. He lived for baseball and grew up watching DiMaggio, Williams and Yaz at Fenway Park. He wanted to coach and teach history and loved betting on the ponies. Gambling is like a second sport in Revere, which featured Suffolk Downs thoroughbred racing and the Wonderland Dog Track.

Those two betting establishments were a haven for gamblers like my father, whose other passion was sports.

He and his wife, Louise, attended Ted Williams’ final game of his career on Sept. 28, 1960. I was about six months old. Years later, my mom mentioned their visit to Fenway in passing.

He was drafted by the United States Army in 1954 and was sent to occupied Germany to help the country’s denizens get back on their feet after a brutal war. He served with the Big Red One, which was also known as the First Infantry Division during peacetime. The Fighting First took hell in World War II, landing at Omaha Beach on D-Day.

My father missed serving in the Korean war by a year. I missed serving in Vietnam by a couple of years. We were both lucky but always honored those who picked up a gun in a war.

He became a sharpshooter, but he had no intention of making a career in the service.

His baseball dream came true in Germany. He was playing in a pick-up game on the base when he drove the ball out of the park. A colonel saw him and was so impressed with my father’s baseball skill that the officer instructed the leader of Blasi’s unit to relieve him of certain duties so he could play for the post teams.

I have a picture of him playing catch with his post team at Zeppelin Field in Germany. The field was a rallying point for Hitler's armies. Behind my father is a destroyed swastika.

For the next year, he was living the dream — playing baseball in Germany and skiing in Austria.

He enjoyed lugging around a bat and glove instead of a Browning automatic.

After his two-year stint, he resigned from the Army with great joy. He was a civilian and America’s pastime made him a prisoner of his passion for the game.

My father told me the story about his last day in the Army.

“Anthony, the sergeant said, ‘We all know Al Blasi is leaving us and will miss the army.’ Everyone laughed in my unit.”

He headed home and straight to Suffolk University where he majored in history on the G.I Bill’s dime. He became a devoted teacher and ended up coaching the Revere High School varsity baseball team for 42 years.

He was also devoted to his four children and wife. He was a coach known for his kindness and devotion to his players and community.

To me, he was my dad and somebody I could always count on.

Albert John Blasi died of Alzheimer’s (also known as The Long Goodbye) on Nov. 8, 2014. He served his country, but more importantly, he loved all of us.

There is not a day when I don’t think about my parents — many times with tears in my eyes from a heavy heart.

Missing in action — forever

Albert John Blasi through the years

"He didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it."

                                   ~Clarence Budington Kelland

CAPE ELIZABETH — Lingering grief is like being buried alive in a shallow grave.

Melancholy is grief’s best friend, and if you immerse yourself in endless desolation, you will be consumed by your own sorrow — like a rotting corpse resting in the deep earth.

I won’t allow that kind of emptiness to rule my life. My father wouldn’t tolerate it, either. And I don’t have a choice — I have a family that still needs me despite my sadness.

My father, Albert John Blasi, died this weekend on Nov. 8, 2014 — another casualty of a cruel disease known as Alzheimer’s. He was buried with full military honors after serving a tour of duty during the occupation of Germany in 1954. Actually, he played baseball for the U.S. Army’s post teams. It was a good gig, and instead of lugging around an M-1 Garand rifle, he carried a bat and donned a glove on a baseball diamond somewhere in Europe.

I have this great picture of him playing catch at Zepplin Field where Hitler’s Nazis rallied during World War II. Behind my father is a destroyed, concrete swastika — remnants of the Third Reich.

There were hundreds of mourners at his wake and a police escort accompanied the hearse to the cemetery where he was buried in Peabody, Mass.

I still have the flag which was draped over his coffin on that cold day. It sits in a case that rests on top of a curio cabinet that I bought for my parents long ago. Call it a shrine, if you like, but it doesn’t alleviate the pain that goes along with my father’s loss.

That takes time, sometimes counseling, and a begrudging acceptance, and there is no closure — just a deep wound that never heals.

He was a teacher, coach and father whose integrity, loyalty and compassion made him a respected member in a city just outside Boston, and his reputation as the Revere High baseball skipper for 42 years extended well beyond the borders of the Greater Boston area. Boston Globe writer Martin Pave did a wonderful job with his half-page article about my dad.

It is an anniversary that no one in our family cares to celebrate. The memories are painful and his permanent absence has left us all with a sense of longing and sadness.

The new normal is impossible to get used to, and there is not a day I don’t think about him or my mother. The house at 17 McClure Street has been sold, and that’s a different kind of sadness.

I knew hanging around my home recalling his last moments on earth would trigger paralyzing grief and a strong bout of depression.

That wasn’t going to happen. I did that for four years as I watched his beautiful mind and precious memories slip away as the Alzheimer’s slowly progressed.

So I spent this weekend visiting the ocean and walking trails along the coast with my son who came home from college for the weekend. He made these past few days bearable.

I grew up in a seaside community and I have always found the turbulent waters of the Atlantic a calming force in my life. We are all connected to the sea. 

The late President John F Kennedy said, “We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea — whether it is to sail or to watch it — we are going back from whence we came.”

Maybe that is why we headed south to visit one of our old stomping grounds — Fort Williams in Cape Elizabeth. It offers stunning views of the coastline and made me feel a helluva lot better to see the cold salt water lap against the shoreline and breath in the sea air on a chilly, windy November day.

For the next hour, I thought about my father, but in a positive way, avoiding the misery that accompanies grief.

Somedays are harder than others, but I have come to terms with his death, and although I miss him every day, I feel I was lucky to have parents who gave a damn about their four kids and put them first in their lives.

That feeling of loss never goes away as my grief subsides and acceptance takes a firm hold.

I see my father in my son and in my sisters’ children, too.

He lives on in all of us, but I still miss the man who stood for something good.

That will never change.

A flag for my father

Shifting the Sun


When your father dies, say the Irish,
you lose your umbrella against bad weather.
May his sun be your light, say the Armenians

When your father dies, say the Welsh,
you sink a foot deeper into the earth.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Canadians,
you run out of excuses.
May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the French,
you become your own father.
May you stand up in his light, say the Armenians.

When you father dies, say the Indians,
he comes back as the thunder.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Russians,
he takes your childhood with him.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the English,
you join his club you vowed you wouldn't.
May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Armenians,
your sun shifts forever.
And you walk in his light.


Diana Der-Hovanessian

AUBURN, Mass.— A five-hour round trip and a heart-warming graduation party over the weekend kept my mind off the conspicuous absence of my late father on this special day.

If you are a father who has been a guiding light to your children and made sacrifices for the sake of your union, you deserve this one-day tribute — Father’s Day — that rolls around each June. But any more than 24 hours of celebrating fatherhood and most dads lose interest and find it annoying. They want to go back to sports page or the last two innings of a Red Sox game. 

A one-day fuss is all we need.

Good fathers really don’t rely on an at-a-boy or a slap on the back for a job well done. Good food, a tie, socks or a trip to a local eatery will satisfy the most dedicated fathers.

We are not looking accolades, but a good beer always brings a smile to our worried faces.

It is a tough job, but we are obligated to do it — and it is a one-shot deal in our short lives. Good fathers know this and that’s why they want to get it right. There are no do-overs.

To fathers who don’t take an interest or simply ignore their children all together, then you should be water-boarded by people who are morally bankrupt like yourself.

I have no respect for abusive or disappearing dads who don’t understand the responsibility of raising a child they created. When fathers fail because they don’t give a damn, we all pay for their stupidity and their callous nature toward their children.

Society bears the brunt when a precious child is ignored. The human cost is high for all over us thanks to distant dads.

My father was a highly intelligent man who tried to be there during those watershed moments in his children's lives. Sure, he had faults, but he was there for us. He was the guy bringing up the rear and made sure there was food on the table and clothes on our back. He worked hard as a schoolteacher and coach and kept a marriage together for nearly half a century.

That’s why I missed the gray-haired man who gave so much to his family, community and country. I wanted to see him working the room and talking to relatives about sports and this crazy, mixed-up world at Saturday’s party. He died nearly eight months ago of Alzheimer's, and there is not a moment I don’t think of him, especially on my the first Father’s Day without him.

My father had the kind of loyalty that you never see in our Congress — where 535 guys and gals run the show with the “what’s in it for me” attitude.

That is why he never considered being a politician. Telling the truth and being truthful with his students and players was his way of life.

I am lucky I have a son to remind me of my father.

Two weeks ago, I ordered a flag case for the flag that draped his coffin when he was buried with full military honors on Nov. 15, 2014. My son helped me write the engraved inscription. Albert John Blasi served with the Big Red One — a unit that served with valor during D-Day at Utah Beach on June 6, 1944 — during the occupation of Germany in the 1950s.

He wasn’t at the party on Saturday and there was no need to call him to wish him happy Father’s Day on Sunday. His house is sold and McClure Street in Revere, Mass., seems empty to me.

But my dad’s spirit and smile were present in the faces of my nieces and nephews, and of course, my sisters.

He lives on in them and I was lucky to have known him for 55 years.

All I can do to honor him is continue to be a good father and carry on his loving legacy of commitment to family. That was his inheritance to me and it is worth a small fortune to any good father.

A few kind words about my dad in the Boston Globe

The guy in the middle is Albert John Blasi, who was on a troop ship heading to occupied Germany

http://www.bostonglobe.com/metro/obituaries/2014/11/26/blasi-longtime-revere-high-baseball-coach-formerly-led-state-coaches-association/xa7uUxaeyfa1jtsHodQ3DK/story.html

AUBURN, Maine — I will be spending Thanksgiving with my family in Massachusetts. But when I look to my right after we sit down to eat, my dad won't be in the parlor with a plate of food in one hand and a remote in the other watching a football game at my sister's home.

His absence will be conspicuous. He was the life of the holidays and was usually surrounded by his family.

Losing a mom or dad just before the holidays is like getting sucker punched in a street fight. It hurts like hell and the pain never disappears. And after you get walloped, you want to take your anger out on the guy who just delivered the knuckle sandwich.

But when you look at your immediate family and realize you have to soldier on without your parents, you have no choice but to carry on. Nature works like that, but that doesn't mean we have to agree with the laws of this strange universe.

Today, my father received another deserved tribute. Boston Globe reporter Marvin Pave, a talented writer with a kind heart, wrote a great piece about a man who gave so much to his country, community and family. He was adored by rival coaches and his players who would have walked through fire to play for him.

That kind of dedication and respect is earned by human beings who have genuine empathy and integrity. My dad demonstrated both qualities and wasn't a narcissist who believed the world revolved around him.

So if you've got a minute, check the above link to Boston.com and read a well-written piece about guy who gave a damn about the right things in our short lives.

Letting go of dad

"My father was my teacher. But most importantly he was a great dad."

Beau Bridges

REVERE/PEABODY, Mass. — He will no longer be seated at end of the couch with a newspaper in his lap and hot coffee in one hand.

He was the first family member you saw when you walked in the front door. Albert Blasi would look up from his sports section and smile when someone entered the parlor. There was usually a game or an old war movie on the TV.

“Hey, they are here. Good to see you all. Missed ya,” my dad said. “How was the ride down? Mom’s in the kitchen. Go see her.”

When I left Sunday morning to return to Maine, his reserved seat on the couch was vacant and will remain that way forever. I was still waiting for a hug and a chance to say goodbye. I walked up to the empty couch said aloud, “I will always miss you.”

My father, a dedicated educator and high school baseball coach for 44 years, died on a Saturday, Nov. 8 and was buried on the 14th at Puritan Lawn Cemetery in Peabody, Mass. He was 81. Taps was played by the honor guard. That’s when the tears began to roll down my cheeks. I watched through water-filled eyes as two fine young servicemen folded the American flag with care and precision. A sharp looking soldier walked straight toward me and presented me with the flag.

“I accept this with honor,” I said. The soldier stepped back after handing me the flag and slowly saluted it as we stared eye to eye.

My father, an Army veteran who served during the occupation of Germany, was honored for his service to his country.

He was an honorable man who believed all people should be treated with compassion and respect. That’s why hundreds turned out to pay their final respects to a man who not only served his country but made a difference in his community, classroom and on a baseball diamond.

How many people get to say that before their lives come to an end.

I spent nearly two hours at a funeral home as mourners shared their Al Blasi stories with family members who were grateful to see hundreds turn out to say goodbye to our father.

A mass honoring Albert John Blasi was held at St. Anthony’s Church. They say the church was brought over brick by brick from Italy. It is a magnificent structure with bells that can be heard all over the city and the inside of the building is lined with stained-glass windows and numerous works of art.

The funeral procession to the church and cemetery was led by a police escort as the Revere Police Department sealed off streets all over the city as a long trail of cars passed. The procession drove past my father’s home before we arrived in Peabody.

My siblings and I are now orphans with the passing of this wonderful man. My mom died four years ago, which was the first blow to her four children. Their absences have left us with a sense of endles longing for their return.

But it’s doesn’t matter how my father died. It is how he lived, and he lived life large and fulfilling. He was an educator who taught others to go forth in life and make a contribution to the greater good.

It has been said that we are not truly forgotten until the last person who knows us dies.

Considering what he has done for a multitude of people, I believe the memories of Albert John Blasi will live on for decades to come.

Albert John Blasi - A lifetime of love and devotion (Aug. 13, 1933 to November 8, 2014)

REVERE, Mass. — My mother suggested I become the Revere High School baseball team’s bat boy to spend quality time with my dad. I was a gangly, awkward 11-year-old, and his ballplayers never let me forget it. 

I was razzed by all of them, but I never met such a fine group of young men who remained devoted to coach. They were my heroes and loved by coach.

You see, my father’s second language was sports. He was also fluent in many of the language’s dialects such as football and basketball.

His knowledge of sports made him a diplomat in his community and around the world, and one helluva father who loved his children and wife. If you knew the difference between a football and a baseball and ignored hockey, you had no problem conversing with Albert John Blasi.

My father’s summer home was a baseball diamond, and he knew every inch of it — whether it was Curtis Park or Tony Conigliaro field. Sure, he easily held his own when discussing world issues, but Sports was his passion and cutting the lawn was left to me.

I spent the next two years retrieving bats and shagging foul balls that usually knocked out house windows at Curtis Park, making me the target of angry residents. But traveling to different ballparks with my dad was a privilege, and he did this for 43 years.

There was also another bonus beside the sound of shattered glass and cracked car windshields. I hung out with his players whose endless antics and humorous imitations of my dad made us all laugh. You could hear “Oh, boy” all around the locker room.

Of course, everybody has an Al Blasi story to tell, and those tales have been embellished over the years simply because of his positive influence on his family, students and ballplayers. 

When my father and the rest of the team sat in silence during a long bus ride home after Revere lost the championship game to Braintree, I wanted to give him a hug and all of us fought back the tears.

Early Sunday morning practices featured a Donuts with Dad day. My father bought coffee and donuts for the team despite the searing sun at Curtis Park. While my father swung a Fungo bat, it was open season on cinnamon donuts for the team.

When Big Al argued a call, suddenly turned and walked away, he drew the ire from an umpire.

“Where do you think you are going,” the flustered ump said.

My father’s response was quick: “I am going for a cup of coffee and donuts.”

He even made the front sports page of the Boston Globe with a poster-sized photo of my father pointing to the spot where the umpire allegedly missed the call.

If we scrounged up every Al Blasi story, we would be here for days. There is a reason why you are all here today. My dad this gift of reaching people, and I believe he is respected for his empathy and kindness toward his fellow man.

When he retired, Al and Louise went out for coffee to get away from it all each night. Look for any coffee shop in Revere and you might see the pair nursing a cup of java. He also enjoyed his new role as a caring grandfather who had no problem getting down on floor and playing with our children. He tried to spoil all of them. I have got pictures to prove it.

But if you think my dad, a man who served his country as an U.S. Army sharpshooter in an outfit called the Big Red One and later took advantage of the GI Bill to become a history teacher and eventually one of the finest high school baseball coaches on the diamond, was a one-dimensional man, then you never really knew him.

Albert John Blasi was born August 13, 1933 during the height of the Great Depression to Italian immigrant parents. He was a child during World War II and just missed the Korean war by one year when he was called to serve with the Big Red One — a unit that served with distinction during World War II. He was eventually shipped overseas during the occupation of Germany in 1954.

His service to his nation is why he is being buried with full military honors today in Peabody.

But he was not enamored the Army. Just when you thought Big Al was condemned to KP duty and endless drilling, he was rescued by colonel who witnessed my father pulverize a baseball with his mighty bat. Big Al was picked up on waivers to play for army company teams. Instead of lugging a .50 caliber machine gun or a bazooka, he carried a bat until he got home — just like Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio did during their service to their country in World War II.

My father was a maverick in the army and taking orders just wasn’t his style. When a Lieutenant drove up in jeep and ordered Big Al to go to another part of ridge to fight a forest fire somewhere in the Midwest, he replied, “Hey, Lieutenant, why don’t you go over there, sir. You have the jeep.”

While serving in Germany, he looked up his brother Lieutenant Rocco Blasi who was taking a refresher course at an officers club in Austria. My dad, an enlisted man, walked into the officers-only club to reunite with the Rock, but a few unlucky souls put up a fuss. Rock stepped in and made sure nobody had a problem with his younger brother. The issue was closed thanks to Rock’s menacing powers of persuasion and intimidating stature.

My father left the Army as a Specialist Third-Class, and despite serving with distinction, he never looked back and eventually obtained a masters in history. 

His army uniform, adorned with various service ribbons, still hangs in my closet.

Back in the states, Big Al attended Suffolk University, married Louise Davis and had four children who sometimes drove him up a wall, but I know he loved all the melodrama.

He was dedicated to his community and quietly went the distance for his students and his family. He was a man who helped others without any fanfare.

I will always be grateful to my three sisters who urged me to accompany my father at the Shurtleff School’s reunion in June, 2012. He kept an eye out for his ball players who were supposed to attend the event. Thank god for Richard DeCristoforo, who showed up and made my father’s night.

My father’s loyalty, integrity and sense of justice are beyond reproach, and we loved him for what he stood for in a world with the prevailing attitude, “What’s in it for me.”

But you know what I will miss about him?

Whenever we visited my mom and dad, my father always walked us to the car and gave me a hug before we returned to Maine.

“Make sure you call us when you get home,” he said.

But he said that to all his children because he always put his family first.

His infinite love for his family, community and his work in the classroom will be Albert John Blasi’s legacy.