For this fortunate son, the stories of my father continue

The caption reads: “Umpire Mike Caira listens politely as Revere coach Al Blasi dramatizes his clam that Arlington’s Ron Valeri was out trying to steal third base during yesterday’s game. Blasi lost the argument and Revere lost the game,2-1. 

Editor’s note: This is a poem by Diana Der-Hovanessian called “Shifting Son.” It is a poem that has never left me and now has more meaning since my father’s death.

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 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 British,

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.

LEWISTON, Maine — It appears the positive impact of my father’s legacy as a great baseball coach and an adept teacher will follow me like my shadow for the rest of my life.

His dedication to teaching and his community was what made him an icon in Revere, Mass. — and the endless stories about the big man with a deep voice and reassuring smile are still bandied about well beyond the borders of Massachusetts.

I have always been proud my father’s solid reputation and integrity because I loved the guy. He played baseball and other sports in the U.S. Army during the occupation of Germany in the mid 1950s. He missed the Korean war by a year, but instead of lugging around the M1 Garand rifle, he carried a bat and glove during his two years in the service.

He passed nearly five years ago and his absence still hurts like the nagging pain of a human joint ravaged by arthritis. Alzheimer’s was merciless when it claimed him, and anybody who is forced to endure “The Long Goodbye,” well, my heart goes out to you.

When you care about someone that much, there is no letting go.

The other night, I was assigned to cover a mixed martial arts event at the Androscoggin Bank Colisee. Fighters come here to mix it up — and these free-for-all battles are not for the faint of heart.

I was introduced to a man by the name of Nick Disalvo, who is a co-promoter, lawyer and a 1995 graduate of Revere High School in the Bay State

I was stunned when I learned he was one my father’s students and a player for the RHS baseball team. I shook Disalvo’s hand.

“I loved your father and respected him,” Disalvo told me.

“Yeah, I still miss him. The emptiness never leaves,” I said.

We spoke in a darkened Colisee as workers rushed to get the ring ready for the amateur fighters. We shared memories of my father for 30 minutes. Mr. Disalvo went on and on about my dad and how he taught Disalvo the game. 

Whoever thought I would be discussing my late father with one of his dedicated ballplayers in the middle of Lewiston, Maine.

I didn’t want him to stop talking about my dad. Every story Disalvo shared about my dad brought him back to life.

Disalvo’s kind words about Albert John Blasi quelled my fading grief and eased my pain. I was grateful to Disalvo for his reverence for my dad.

Everybody who played for Big Al always has a story to tell — and hearing their appreciation for my father never gets old.

He has been dead for nearly five years, and yet his influence on his students and players continues to this day.

I once read that you are never really dead until the last person who knew you dies and your influence on the living stops.

I know I have not heard the last from his players or students because Albert John Blasi, a big man with a kind heart, coached the RHS baseball team for 43 years.

And they still talk about him to this day, which makes me a fortunate son who was raised by a father who loved his family, school and community.

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.

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.

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.