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.

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.

The 12 Essays of Christmas, first day: The endless memories

"Christmas, in its final essence, is for grown people who have forgotten what children know. Christmas is for whoever is old enough to have denied the unquenchable spirit of man."

~ Margaret Cousins (1905- ), senior editor at Doubleday Publishing Company.

AUBURN, Maine — Christmas has a way of reviving fond and painful memories that hibernate until the yuletide rolls around each December.

Loved ones fall away with each passing holiday. There are more vacancies at the dinner table and less presents to buy. The Christmas cards are scarce. Missing loved ones have a permanent place in eternity.

All that remains are hundreds of photographs of family members who won't celebrate a holiday that celebrates family.

For nearly two decades, I traveled I-95 South to visit my mom and dad to spend a rousing Christmas Eve with nearly two dozen people. Mom is gone and my father is valiantly fighting Alzheimer's — a disease that slowly and cruelly wipes away the brain's memories.

We packed the car with gifts and made room for Anthony as we hit the road and headed to my former home in Revere, Mass. 

Now, Christmas Eve is a big deal at the Blasi household. The festivities are usually held at my sister's home, allowing my mom and dad to escape the stress of cooking for an army of friends and family. Guests would come and go as turkey, ham, potatoes, pasta, a giant bowl of sauteed corn and of course  — the shrimp linguini — were served in a buffet setting.

The shrimp linguini was my responsibility. My sister's father-in-law, Pat, a banker, taught me the secret ingredients that went into making up this sumptuous dish that kept holiday guests coming back for seconds. People came from miles round to feast on shrimp sautéed in olive oil, butter, black olives and minced garlic and onion.

When Pat passed away, I inherited the task of preparing the shrimp linguini for holiday get-togethers. I brought in a pile of it for the guys in the sports department one year. I never seen such a bunch of chow hounds gobble up my good cooking in under an hour.

So for the past couple of decades, I am the go-to guy when it comes to whipping up a mouth-watering entree of shrimp linguini.

I am that good, and some say I am the best.

Christmas Eve dinners got loud as people began quarreling over politics or worse — the Red Sox. These arguments were so heated that I thought cousins and siblings might trade blows.

When a bunch of passionate Italians get together to discuss the world's woes or the Patriots' chances to win another win Super Bowl, all I can say is look out!

You just might get a ravioli in the face when engaging in verbal combat with my family.

But when the shrimp linguini was presented to the seething holiday celebrants, things quieted down and a temporary truce was established to keep the peace.

The celebration would last for hours. There were the uncles who served in World War II and the children who tore up the joint with toy guns as the they waited for Santa to appear.

After Anthony began walking, I started running at Christmas. Toddlers have no fear when they realize they are bipeds who can turn on a dime.

I enjoyed the adults, but spending an hour playing army man or scaring the bejeebers out of the little ones on a cold New England night was a rare opportunity for this six-footer to feel like a kid again.

The guests reluctantly slipped away in the chilly night after an evening of wine and good food.

This is the time of year when I take dozen of pictures and movie clips. It is also the season when I peruse hundreds of old pictures to see who made it to the other side.

I miss them all great deal. But if I choose to succumb to a miserable depression, then I will miss the present and those precious moments with my son and wife.

After all, this is the season of hope, and I still have plenty of that — no matter what the future throws at me.

All I can say is Merry Christmas.

Patriot games

    AUBURN, Maine — Sports bars will be packed with customers who will be three sheets to the wind by halftime. Pizza joints and liquor stores will experience their own version of Black Friday. 

   And the good citizens of America will open their homes to anybody with a six-pack of beer and a bucket of chicken wings, as we all gather to watch the New England Patriots and the New York Giants beat each other up in the Super Bowl on Sunday night.

   
   It is the Coliseum in the heart of Rome all over again — without the spears, axes and swords. There is no battle to the death in this matchup. These Spartans are spared and will head to the bank with cold, hard cash in their pockets. And the Game is in Indianapolis, but it still feels like the Coliseum.

   
   But I want no part of watching a game at a tavern. I don't want to listen to annoying, tipsy patrons give me their take on the game. Every bar-stool critic will offer his prediction with words slurred by booze. Back off you boobs. Tell it to someone who gives a damn.

  

    I haven't invited a soul to my house to watch the Big Game on a big TV. I have a small TV. I don't want friends or relatives distracting me when it is a critical fourth-and-2 situation on the 30-yard line for the Patriots. I don't want to feel pressured to make my home spotless or cook for 30 people who might leave my house in a stupor and get behind the wheel of a car.

   
   Keep it!

   
   I will be home watching the game with my son, Anthony, and wife, Terri, who won't holler at the television. They won't disown the Patriots when Tom Brady throws a rare interception in the first quarter.

   
    I won't be hammering away on Facebook during the game. I don't have an account. I don't need updates via email about a Game I am also viewing. My laptop will be off.

   
    Before I tied the knot, I watched games at local establishments. What I found just as amusing are intoxicated fans stumbling from one bar stool to another to get in some one's face about the Game. The noise level was insane and patrons were more focused on their chicken wings than the Game.

   
   Whenever I have been invited to enjoy the Big Game at some one's home, I couldn't concentrate with people carrying on about the weather or politics. 

   Too much background noise.

   
   So I will be home and I won't be alone. I will cook a good meal. I might have a libation as the Pats do their best to knock down the formidable Giants.

   
    I will not install huge signs on my lawn, buy a Patriots cap or shirt, or attach a bumper sticker with a Patriots logo on my vehicle. I don't need to proclaim my allegiance to New England by becoming a spectacle in my neighborhood. 

   There will be no body painting in my home. I am not the wacko auto mechanic David Puddy who scared a priest to death with his New Jersey Devils face painting in a heart-warming "Seinfeld" episode.

   I am a quiet Patriot who walks softly and carries a 12-ounce beer in his hand.
   

   I want quiet.

  
   But if you do show up at my home with beer and pizza in your outstretched arms Sunday evening, that just might get you in the door.