Goodfellows52: Great Scott, The Boomer is gone, and a Sox fan lam...

Goodfellows52: Great Scott, The Boomer is gone, and a Sox fan lam...: AUBURN ― Like any kid, I truly believed all my sports legends lived forever. All great athletes were immune to old age and death. Wrinkle...

Great Scott, The Boomer is gone, and a Sox fan laments

AUBURN ― Like any kid, I truly believed all my sports legends lived forever. All great athletes were immune to old age and death. Wrinkles and senility are for the rest of us, but icons like Joe DiMaggio, Ted Williams, Carl Yastrzemski and Bobby Orr are immortal, so I thought.

I was six years old when George Scott made his debut at Fenway Park for the Boston Red Sox in 1966. He was a big bastard with a wide, friendly smile, and one helluva of an All-Star first baseman. He was known to fans as The Boomer, and boy could he knock the ball around the diamond. I loved watching him perform during an unforgettable era when Curt Gowdy, Ken Coleman, Mel Parnell and Ned Martin called the games on the radio as listeners were bombarded by Narragansett beer commercials.

"Hey, neighbor, have a 'Gansett," blared all over the a.m. dial as Coleman gave me play-by-play descriptions of Red Sox games on my transistor radio.

Scott was my Big Papi during my childhood, and I marveled at his hitting power and his gold-glove performances

In 1980, I was visiting with a family in Yarmouth, Mass. I worked with a fellow bartender at Logan Airport.

When he invited me to Cape Cod, I just couldn't say no to a weekend in paradise. A trip to the Cape with a free-room-and-board offer during the summer was like having box seats along the third-base line at Fenway. We made the rounds at several local establishments at night and enjoyed the company of beautiful women. But during the day, my bartender friend decided to take his frustrations out at one of the local batting cages. My friend spent a hot summer's day murdering the ball with a 36-inch, wooden bat.

Watching my friend, who had the nerve stare down those mechanical fast balls, was entertaining. But to the left of us, we noticed a big man who was tearing the cover off the hard ball. Out stepped Scott from one of cages, sweat dripping from his brow.

We introduced ourselves and found an empty bench in the hot sun to talk about hitting and baseball. Scott was about 40 years old, but time and age did not diminish his swing or power. He certainly had no problem holding his own against a robotic pitcher.

Of course, the conversation was all about America's pastime. Spending a hot day in the batting cage for Scott was a treat for him. The first baseman discussed the science of hitting and what it takes to face pitchers whose fast balls could take skin off your forearms. Scott is the kind of guy you want to buy a drink and then spend the next hour talking about baseball.

The game was his life and the sport was good to him, and he never forgot that. He played in the majors for 13 years and retired in 1979 at the age of 35. He also played for the Yankees and Royals and won eight Gold Gloves. He was a member of 1967 "Impossible Dream" team that thrilled this seven-year-old Sox fan when Boston won the American League pennant.

If the gentle giant could have defied old age, he would have played baseball for all eternity. 

George Scott, a genuine human being who thrilled Fenway's Faithful, died last Sunday at 69.

It was privilege meeting The Boomer, and we were all lucky to watch one of baseball's  finest perform in a Red Sox uniform.

Scott's booming presence on the diamond made a lasting impression on me as a child and as an adult.

So long big fella. You were one of the best.

Goodfellows52: First installment: Philadelphia Freedom and walkin...

Goodfellows52: First installment: Philadelphia Freedom and walkin...: "Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to ...

First installment: Philadelphia Freedom and walking on hallowed ground

"Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time."

— Winston Churchill, late British prime minister

PHILADELPHIA/GETTYSBURG —After traveling 1,200 miles through six states, countless cities and towns, and visiting the country's finest moments in its young history, I remain convinced America is still a good idea.

We visited a world-class city — Philadelphia — and stepped quietly on hallowed ground at Gettysburg, giving this family a refreshing look at our country. 

Taking pictures at Independence Hall and listening to the park service's lecture gave me a whole new perspective about the founding fathers who penned the phrase: "All men are created equal." America has been a tough act to follow after that one powerful and emotional statement was written on that hot July day.

I also understand that our nation is sprinkled with dark episodes. The end of slavery and the pathetic treatment of blacks for another 100 years after the Emancipation Proclamation was signed by Abraham Lincoln remains an ugly mark in American history. The way we treated native Americans is another travesty for a nation that cherishes equality. And still, America continues to support other nations' oppressors and exploit workers overseas for our own gain and greed.

I guess we still have a lot to learn when it comes to understanding the Constitution and the basis for it — freedom and equality. 

But Americans have the opportunity to change our attitudes and still maintain our values by voting. That is the only way it works in a republic that separates the men from the boys in big-league governments.

I am not a flag-waver who drapes himself in the glory of one of the most powerful symbols on the planet. Those stars and stripes came at a huge cost and were earned through bloodshed, commitment, and a strong notion that "all men are created equal." More than a handful signers of the Declaration of Independence died in poverty after the American Revolution ended.

How many of us would give it all up for an idea that could make the world a better place?

Not many!

When we inserted that phrase in the Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776, our forefathers believed that the sanctity of all human life, freedom and the greater good were the priorities of a new nation that gave King George of England his walking papers.

America is a work in progress. Our wise framers of the Constitution designed the blueprint for our government that way. We have the privilege of criticizing and questioning our leaders without fear of reprisal. 

It took just four days restore my appreciation for a nation that is experiencing its highs and lows on a violent planet that also faces environmental peril.

There are moments when I think America is falling apart and coming to tragic end due to poor leadership and an endless economic recession triggered by greedy Wall Street and frivolous and cavalier banks. 

Still, a solemn walk through Gettysburg and a tour of Philly restored my faith in this nation.

In the coming days, I will discuss our whirlwind trip during a broiling week in July.

It really is a hot topic.

Goodfellows52: That Darn, Frigging Cat

Goodfellows52: That Darn, Frigging Cat: " In ancient times cats were worshipped as gods; they have not forgotten this. "                                       ...

That Darn, Frigging Cat

"In ancient times cats were worshipped as gods; they have not forgotten this."

                                                                                                                                      Terry Pratchett 

AUBURN, Maine — I watched through my binoculars from the back porch, hoping to catch another glimpse of the two perpetrators ravaging my garden.

I thought when I captured one groundhog that was tormenting my plants that would be the end of it, but I had hard evidence that the creatures had returned and witnessed them in the act twice.

A Have a Hart trap was set in the corner of the yard near my neighbor's fence to catch the bastards, which work in tandem. I trained my binoculars on the cage, and sure enough, the hairy groundhog began munching on a trail of broccoli. It sat on its fat ass enjoying its free dinner.

"C'mon, you son of bitch. trip that frigging trap so I can remove your fat ass from my premises, " I said to myself.

The groundhog kept gnawing away on the vegetable when a cat suddenly popped out from under the fence and behind the ravenous and unsuspecting groundhog.

I couldn't believe I was viewing the whole damn thing through my binoculars.

"What the fu-- is a cat doing there? Wait a minute, that's my fu--ing cat," I yelled from the porch.

The f-bombs continued to fly. I began carpet bombing my home with obscenities.

My stunned cat gave the shocked groundhog that look of  "what the fu#$@ are you doing here. This is my territory."

Both animals suddenly bolted in opposite directions. That darn cat ruined my chance to bag the bastard who has been swiping free vegetables from my garden.

"Thanks a lot, Tabby," I bellowed from the back porch.

Tabby is a great cat, but enjoys too much sex and brawling with other felines in the neighborhood. We have spent hundreds of dollars repairing his wounds after countless cat fights. He looks like Rocky Balboa after going 15 rounds with Apollo, and I am like Rocky's manager, Mick, cursing whenever we have to go to the vet and open our empty wallets.

And yet, he is like sentry patrolling the yard, keeping destructive critters off our property.

But at the end of this month, Tabby is going to be fixed, which means he won't like us for a month, and I will save money.

In the meantime, I will relentlessly pursue the two groundhogs. I have placed a bounty on their heads. 

I still have a good shot at capturing them — if that darn cat of mine stays away.

For the moment, though, the two slippery groundhogs have been granted a reprieve from my cat.

Just a footnote

Despite my cat's best efforts to screw up my attempts to catch and relocate a pair of pesky groundhogs, I caught one of the varmints Sunday night. He was cute little bugger, so we took him for quick ride and gently released it at an undisclosed location away from homes. You should have seen this thing bolt down a well-worn path in the woods.

Right now, I feel like a cab driver dropping off rodents to their new homes.

But my son and wife won't allow me to permanently remove the cute rats, so I have become a great humanitarian and a good friend to all animals great and small.

Goodfellows52: Beached on the Fourth of July

Goodfellows52: Beached on the Fourth of July: " When you finally go back to your old home, you find it wasn't the old home you missed but your childhood. "   Sam Ewing ...

Beached on the Fourth of July

"When you finally go back to your old home, you find it wasn't the old home you missed but your childhood."

 Sam Ewing 

REVERE, Mass. — A wave of humanity shuffled past us as we sat on a stonewall facing Revere Beach on a humid July 4 night.

This was the place to spend an evening viewing fireworks from across the channel without the hassle of finding a parking space or dealing with a mob of rude people. Swampscot, Lynn, and Nahant were putting on blockbuster displays that could clearly be seen from Revere Beach. 

When we looked to our right of the beach, the town of Winthrop was also lighting up the skies just a few miles away, and yes, you could see Boston's incredible display, too. We watched it all from the comfort of a stonewall as gentle waves lapped the shoreline. There were also local, grand displays of explosives going off across Revere neighborhoods.

No Hatch Memorial Shell on the Charles River for three Mainers who avoid crowd scenes. The Boston Pops and its interpretation of the 1812 Overture by Russian composer Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky can transform a reluctant Patriot into a flag-waving citizen, but camping out two days to secure a front-row seat is not worth our efforts.

There were thousands of people wandering up and down Revere Beach boulevard as fireworks flashed all around us. Music blared from cars as traffic inched along the strip that is lined with several dives. State police patrolled the dark beach with their four-wheelers to keep the peace.

We were on a mission to seek out cool ocean sea breezes in the stifling city heat. There was a warm southerly breeze off the sandy shore, offering little relief to a sweltering public tempted to immerse themselves in the cool waters of the Atlantic.

A lot has been said and written about America's first public beach, and not all of it has been kind, but I still love the place, its fast food and the people who come from over the Boston area to spend a humid summer day.

The smells and crowds are notorious for triggering memories of the boulevard, which is one the best areas to jog or walk. And then there are beautiful woman who inspire any male runner or walker to go the distance. RHS teens staked their ownership of a stretch of wall that began in front of the MDC police station and ran all to the way Bianchi's Pizza. Kelly's Roast Beef was about a mile a way, but it was always worth the long walk to shell out a week's pay for a clam plate.

I was grateful to my family from Maine for sharing a wonderful July 4 and listening to my countless memories of beach that means so much to people who grew up in this city. We quietly watched the colorful flashes of fireworks up and down the surrounding shoreline on a typical humid night in Revere. There were hundreds of families doing the same.

Revere Beach has undergone so many restorations and transformations over a century. It endured the Blizzard of 1978, and even though the Cony Island of the East has passed into history, it is a part of me that I can't shake. Of course, I miss all those friends and family who once walked along its shoreline.

That's why I can't stay away from the place, especially on the Fourth of July.

Weather not a garden survives

"The trouble with weather forecasting is that it's right too often for us to ignore it and wrong too often for us to rely on it."  

— Patrick Young

AUBURN, Maine — Perhaps I should change the dateline of my blog to Seattle or Miami.

Maine is quickly becoming a rain forest or an Everglades. Soon, crocodiles and discarded pythons will roam Maine's streams and threaten the state's wildlife. Bugs will grow larger and more annoying, and sand traps will become quicksand as golf courses turn into raging rapids.

The rest of the nation is bone dry, and yet my yard resembles a rice patty or the Mekong Delta in Vietnam. I mowed my lawn, or should I say a wetlands where standing water is now home to one of the most  pathetic creatures in the world — the disease-carrying mosquito.

I never thought Maine had a monsoon season. Pine Tree inhabitants are waterlogged and the tips of their fingers look like prunes. The air is disgustingly humid and everybody feels like taking a shower every five minutes, and if you don't bath in this heat stay far away from me.

People in the Northeast are looking pale because the sun is shrouded by thick, water-soaked clouds. My Italian tan continues to fade away in the misty fog that blankets most of Maine.

And every night, when devastating thunderstorms roll around, I watch helplessly as buckets of water fall from the sky and inundate my garden, which is fast becoming a swamp.

For Maine, this is the seventh wettest June on record. For the state's sweaty and clammy residents, we are all playing cat and mouse with the weather as we try to get yard work done in between each soaking.

A Bermuda high is to blame for making life miserable in this part of the world. This pain-in-the-ass weather system has parked its rump off the East Coast, sucking up tropical weather  from the South that continues to drench New England. But in the Southwest, Americans are cooking eggs and cookies on scorched sidewalks in triple-digit temperatures. 

There are two hideous weather extremes at work in this great nation. Conspiracy freaks could have a field day with these screwy weather patterns. Ricky Nelson would have to change the lyrics to his "Garden Party" medley if he was caught in this weeklong downpour.

There is no question the lack of sun and torrential rain has stunted my garden's growth. Last year, I needed a wheelbarrow to bring all those succulent vegetables into the house each day. If our gardens don't see the light of day, then I am afraid this year's growing season is a washout.

But any farmer or gardener knows, we are all at the whim of nature, and it doesn't give a damn about any of us.

And that explains why growing vegetables will always remain a difficult challenge to those who work with soil and get their hands dirty every summer. 

Goodfellows52: This critter is grounded

Goodfellows52: This critter is grounded: "One touch of nature makes the whole world kin."                                                                     ...

This critter is grounded

"One touch of nature makes the whole world kin." 

                                                                 

                                                                        William Shakespeare

AUBURN, Maine — Here is another job I can add to my resume — trapper.

For several weeks, I noticed a nibble here, a nibble there as my broccoli plants were slowly being chewed to pieces. The phantom animal moved on to sample my cucumbers. 

What was next? My tomato plants! 

No way! This was my home and my garden was under assault. It was time to go to Defcon 5 and issue an APB on this elusive critter.

Whenever I turned my back, the culprit, which dropped in for breakfast, lunch, and dinner nearly everyday, is no stranger to gardeners across New England. 

Groundhogs are hated by green thumbs who the brave the elements, bugs and wildlife to grow vegetables. Groundhogs are the reason why makers of steel traps remain in business. There is no high-tech method to remove these scourges.

These fat bastards are said to be cuddly and cute, but let's remember it is a god damn rodent that is a nuisance as well as destructive. 

But it was time to throw down the gauntlet and take this sneaky rat out for a walk. I wanted to kill it, but my son, who has a kind heart and is a friend to all animals, persuaded me to cut the slovenly woodchuck a pardon. He said it would look stupid for big guy like me to beat up on a four-pound animal that is only guilty of doing what comes naturally to its species.

I cursed the groundhog's existence and threatened to the drop the fat fellow from a rope, but I listened to my family's common sense not to harm the gnawer, which treated my garden as its own personal smorgasbord.

My next door neighbor, Don, who often uses one of those effective Have-aHart traps to bag groundhogs, gave me permission to use his cage and trap the elusive bastard.

I set the trap, hoping this wasn't the brightest bulb in his family of adorable rats. But after a week, the varmint hadn't taken the bait. I figured the fluffy fat hairball knew what I was up to or found another garden to satisfy its insatiable appetite.

I had one more opportunity to capture the elusive groundhog. I decided to switch bait and go with a couple of sweet slices of watermelon to lure it into the trap.

I went to work Friday night when I received an urgent call from my wife. "Anthony found the groundhog in the trap," my wife said. "Wanna come home and see it."

I knew I could not leave work and told her that the old fat bastard would have to spend the night in our yard in a cage. 

It was not a happy critter.

The next morning Anthony and I paid the groundhog a visit. It hissed at me at times when I approached it and was not pleased with the cage's accommodations. 

We threw a sheet over him, lined the SUV with newspapers and headed to the outskirts of a state park. The groundhog was held in incommunicado until we reached our secret destination six miles from our home to set the voracious critter loose.

I placed the trap on the ground. I had Anthony on standby with a Bufford Pusser-type bat in his hand just in case the animal turned on me and wanted to pay me back for its apprehension.

I lifted the lid, and after a few seconds of hesitation, the groundhog bolted out of the cage like bullet of gun and headed for cover in the Maine woods.

"Look at 'em go," I said.

It wanted no part of us, but I am surprised it didn't give me the middle figure.

The best part of this adventure was being with my son. We cracked jokes and laughed all the way home.

It was a cool way to have a father-and-son moment and get up close and personal with nature.

I am sure this groundhog wouldn't agree.

Goodfellows52: A gardener and the Boston Bruins hit pay dirt

Goodfellows52: A gardener and the Boston Bruins hit pay dirt: “Gardens are a form of autobiography.”                                                    ―   Sydney Eddison ,   Growing Older ...

A gardener and the Boston Bruins hit pay dirt

“Gardens are a form of autobiography.” 
                                                 ― Sydney Eddison, Growing Older with Your Garden: How to  Garden Wiser as You Grow Older

AUBURN, Maine — The dirty deed is done.

I am not talking about the Boston Bruins dealing out a can of ass-whooping against the Pittsburgh Penguins. The Big Bad Asses from Boston won four straight, and I am confident the Stanley Cup is theirs just as sure as the late U.S. Gen. George S. Patton took Palermo and beat British Gen. Bernard Mongomery to capture Messina during the Sicily campaign in World War II.

Kudos to my beloved Bruins who have the skills, talent and the finesse to beat the Blackhawks for the Stanley Cup, which begins Wednesday night.

When I mention dirt, I am talking about my garden, which I planted last week. I also planted flowers next to the miniature windmill to brighten up the place, but I prefer plants you can consume at the dinner table.

I like really good dirt. I like the texture of good soil.  I enjoy eating fresh vegetables that grow in good dirt that is not polluted by fertilizers or pesticides. When I see that dark, rich black gold mixed with a year's worth of compost churn under the blades of a powerful tiller, I want to plunge my hands into the soil and begin planting.

That's why I like getting my hands dirty each spring. I have played in dirt all my life, and I think I am a better man for it.

My garden will feature summer squash (from seed), egg plant, zucchini, 18 tomato plants, broccoli, lettuce, Swiss chard (from seed), spinach (from seed), and carrots (from seed). My garden is like an old variety show from 1970s, and the stars are vegetables.

But I must warn all amateur gardeners that varmints are out and about and will wreak havoc on all green thumbs. The groundhogs have already bushwhacked my place, and my lettuce seedlings took a hit. I have now placed a bounty on the furry bastards. These nuisances better be looking over their shoulders.

I am not sure about our climate this growing season. April resembled March and May looked helluva lot like April. June has been an up-and-down month that continues to confound me. The monsoons are upon us and I am hoping my garden will hold up this season.

Farmers understand they are at the whim of nature and there is not a damn thing gardeners can do about it, either. The little varmints like aphids and Japanese beetles will come to know the swift hand of natural poisons.

So we roll the dice and take our chances, hoping our gardens yield a bumper crop that saves us some dough and provides us our recommended daily serving of organic vegetables.

Gardening is a dirty business, but amateur farmers like us have to do it.

Besides, we are going to love our vegetables. I guarantee it.

Goodfellows52: Serving his country and playing baseball in occupi...

Goodfellows52: Serving his country and playing baseball in occupi...: “ Without heroes, we are all plain people, and don't know how far we can go ”   Bernard Malamud My father's uniform sports ...

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.