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.

A risky game that is not right for every kid

"You have to play this game like somebody just hit your mother with a two-by-four."

Dan Birdwell

"I like to believe that my best hits border on felonious assault."

                                                                                                                                                Jack Tatum

We watched a bunch of big men wearing 20 pounds of equipment pummel each other on a Sunday afternoon.

I know a stadium is not the Colisee in Italy, where gladiators fought to the death to entertain for their blood-thirsty Roman masters, but in football there are career-ending injuries and a lifetime of pain that comes with being slapped around like a heavy bag in a sweaty gym.

Large men play this game for big money and all the trappings that come with wearing a uniform in the National Football League. There are lucrative contracts and stardom for NFL players. The perks are numerous and that is why daring young men don shoulder pads to joust with opponents on artificial turf. They know there is danger, but these guys still suit up for Sunday.

In the course of four quarters, men with no necks slam into each other at a velocity that frequently does great harm to the body. This is organized violence on huge scale and it is also why I am grateful my son had no interest in putting on a football helmet.

He told me he was not interested in knocking around other human beings on Saturday afternoons and Friday nights.

My response: “Good! You will live longer. That makes you smarter than me.”

I  told him that if you don’t enjoy hitting people or getting hit, don’t play a game that requires brawn and the desire turn yourself into a human battering ram. So he became a swimmer, a thrower in track and a ski patroller during high school, and I am still so damn proud of him. He is his own entity and he exercised sound judgement.

I, on the other hand, loved the game and I found it fun to make a good, clean hit and knock the other guy to the ground with a huge smile on my face.

There is cautionary tale here for parents who might feel disappointed if their child is interested in the soccer or the swim team.

Any parent who makes the misguided attempt to live through their children is an idiot. It really is that simple. Push a kid into a certain sport and I guarantee you that your child will rebel in kind and his or her frustrations will manifest itself in many ugly ways.

Not every kid is cut out to throw around a pigskin or get down in the trenches with linemen who are hell bent on opening up holes with brute force.

Football, whether it is Pop Warner or high school, is a punishing sport, where the timid have no place on the gridiron. Sure, there a lot of nice guys who play football. As a sportswriter, I have met boxers and Mixed Martial Arts fighters who are kind and affable, but athletes of this caliber also understand there is an aggressive instinct —  or grit — that is required to participate in these rough-and-tumble sports.

If dad thinks his son is wimp because he shunned football to play golf or baseball, then dad needs to see a shrink.

There are a risky moments in all sports, but the percentage is higher in all contact sports. Still, with the raging debate over concussions in football, parents should think twice about their children’s participation in the sport.

As a lineman, I suffered two concussions, a bad sprain and a broken thumb playing football. The second head injury came when I played for the Norwich University football team. A swollen brain convinced me that it was not worth the punishment anymore, so I gave it up in college.

Do I have any regrets?

Absolutely none! 

It was an easy choice for me to walk away when it came to preserving my health, knowing all along I would never be an NFL lineman. I was quick and tough, but I didn’t have the speed or the bulk.

As for my son, I never second-guessed him about his decision. He is comfortable in his own skin and we avoided those trips to the emergency room that I often made as member of a football team.