"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.
