Take me back to the ball game

"You always get a special kick on opening day, no matter how many you go through. You look forward to it like a birthday party when you're a kid. You think something wonderful is going to happen."

- Joe Dimaggio

     AUBURN, Maine — Whoever thought a short story  about one spectacular moment in Red Sox history could resurrect a dormant memory about my deceased mother's past.

      The fond memory had been shoved aside to make room for the daily deluge of life's experiences that cram my crowded brain.

Songs, smells and certainly pictures of the past can also pry memories loose. Strolling the isles of an indoor flea market sends me down memory lane, too. All it takes is a rotary phone or an old Philco radio to trigger recollections of family members who have passed away.

This book, "Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu," has now become a treasured possession. It was graciously given to me by my sister, Brenda, a year ago. 

The article detailing Ted Williams' last at-bat at Fenway Park on Sept. 28, 1960 was written by the late Pulitzer-prize winning author John Updike, and it first appeared in "The New Yorker" on Oct. 20, 1960. The 52-year-old magazine piece was turned into a book and published in 2010.

Updike writes about his fascination with baseball and Williams, who was also endearingly known as "The Splendid Splinter" and "Teddy Ballgame." It is indeed a splendid book about Williams' last hurrah at Friendly Fenway.

The storied moment, when Williams smacked his 521st home run in last at-bat in his 19-year career, is still talked about by the Fenway Faithful.

Decades later, my mother mentioned Williams' parting shot in passing at the kitchen table. She told the tale with a wide smile. I have spent hours in the kitchen listening to my mother's stories about her childhood and marriage to my father. My dad, on the other hand, left the storytelling to my mom, and she could spin a good yarn.

      

What I forgot was that my mother was THERE when The Splendid Splinter cracked one out of the park and into the record books. 

I know baseball fanatics who would trade their homes — or their wives for that matter — to witness Williams make his final round trip around the diamond. I know I am romanticizing this extraordinary moment in Major League Baseball's history. It is like watching "The Natural" all over again, and Williams is my parents' Roy Hobbs.

I was rolling around in a crib when my mother and father witnessed history on a cloudy September day in Boston over five decades ago.  My dad, whose memory is disappearing as Alzheimer's gets the upper hand, doesn't remember who babysat me. My mother was our living reference. When we had questions about our family's history, she was the go-to person until she passed away two years ago on a warm March Monday.

I cling to this memory of my parents catching a glimpse of Williams' final performance at Fenway Park. I need to hold on to those memories of my mother since I can no longer hold on to her in this life. I remember when she spoke about Williams and his home run. She just smiled as her eyes lit up the dinner table.

Williams' Fenway farewell in September 1960 is just another opportunity to remember my mother and keep her close to my heart.

But if Ray Kinsella could grant me one baseball wish, I would ask the Iowa farmer to find me a seat at Fenway on that September day to see — my parents together again as they watched Williams hammer out a piece of Red Sox history.

Get over it, Pats fans

"Listen, I don't mean to be a sore loser, but uh, when it's done if I'm dead, kill him!"

- Paul Newman as Butch Cassidy in the movie, "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."

AUBURN, Maine — There was still snow on the ground Monday morning. The wood stove was hot as hell, providing comforting heat as I ambled toward the coffee pot to pour myself a hot one. Our silly cat was clawing at the door. I reached for the morning newspaper in the cold air.

Nothing had changed since Sunday night when the New England Patriots lost a heart breaker to the New York Giants. It's been seven days, and if you are still brooding or whining, get some professional help. There are plenty of shrinks in the phone book.

I didn't turn to the bottle for a little Southern Comfort or call my family in tears. No finger pointing from my sofa seat. No loud cursing. No banging on the stop sign outside my home on a quiet street in Mayberry RFD.

I am betting some fans wanted to throw themselves off a bridge Sunday. 

Not me! I hit the sack and drifted off without any tossing and turning.

I was over the Patriots' loss as soon I flipped the television channel to watch Masterpiece Theater on PBS. OK, I am a snob and enjoy watching British-made mysteries.

It's not that I didn't give a damn. I am not a disgruntled fan shopping around for another NFL team to root for next season. I will always be a Pats fan. Hell, I grew up in the Greater Boston area in a town that is a stone's throw away from Fenway Park.

Give up on the Pats? Never, god damn it! I am from Massachusetts, god damn it! That's like turning my back on the Bruins, Celtics and Red Sox. That would make me a communist, a traitor or even worse — a member of the Republican Party.

Look, Tom Brady and the rest of his crew marched off with a truck load of cash that you or I will never see in this lifetime. Nobody died and it was game that kept us all on the edge, especially when Brady launched a long-distance pass into the end zone. I knew it was a long shot, but that didn't stop me from acting like Pollyanna while the ball sailed into the air. I crossed my fingers and promised to give up four-letter words or never touch a drop of dark beer.

Well, not really.

Sure, watching New York take one Giant step past the Pats left me gut shot with a hole the size of cannon ball. But my wounds quickly healed with a strong cup of coffee and the love of a good woman.

I made no plans to travel to New York to disrupt the Giants' celebration. I am not a sore loser. I wish the Giants and Eli well in their next endeavor.

Of course, there will be THOSE fans who want to make a villain out of Wes Welker and label him a Bill Buckner, who was crucified by overzealous Red Sox fans who seemed to take pleasure in punishing this man.

So Welker didn't catch the ball and there were other dropped passes during those crucial 57 seconds. You know that that means — these guys are human. Anybody can screw up. Leave this man alone. He probably feels worse than any rabid Patriots fan covered in face paint.

You feel let down by the Pats' loss. Get a frigging life. Remember, knucklehead, it's a game. Accept it!

In Boston, it was sad to see that a handful of people were arrested after the game for acting like morons. So your team loses a close one, and that gives you an excuse to turn over cars and shoot up the neighborhood? Forget jail. Stick them in a deep hole in the woods.

Look, New England, we took it on the chin this time.

The best remedy for our broken hearts is to throw our full support behind the Celtics or Bruins.

Better yet, spring training is around the corner. Before you know it, the Boys of Summer will be back on the diamond and the memory of that cold day in Indianapolis will fade in the summer sunshine.