Goodfellows52: Call it a wonderful night

Goodfellows52: Call it a wonderful night: "Sometimes I think life is just a rodeo. The trick is to ride and make it to the bell."    ...

Call it a wonderful night

"Sometimes I think life is just a rodeo. The trick is to ride and make it to the bell."

                       — John Fogerty - "Rock and Roll Girls"

LEWISTON, Maine — I was too proud to feel sad when my son was received a hand shake from the superintendent of schools on graduation night.

He quickly strode to the podium. His name boomed from the Androscoggin Bank Colisee’s loudspeakers for a split second in time.

It happened so fast. Nineteen fantastic wonderful years passed by without any fanfare. I didn’t have a moment to reflect as I continually pressed the button on my digital camera as he left the stage. I wanted to capture and preserve every moment — frame by frame — for this family’s history.

The Edward Little High School graduate returned to his seat with a smile on his face. We cheered from the stands, but I don’t think he could see us in that sea of proud, smiling faces.

He made it! And he passed with flying colors!

His grades were good enough to earn scholarship money, but his report card doesn’t reflect his good nature, humility and the way he handles all people with kid gloves and sincere respect.

When they look at Anthony’s grades, they won’t know how responsible or how devoted he is to his community and family. Those attributes come from being raised right in a loving environment and from teachers who went the distance for him.

I am still numb after witnessing this watershed moment in my son’s life. He is now an adult who has to think on his feet without his mom and dad hovering over him. If I had it my way, I would pay for a U.S. Marshal’s detail to watch out for him the rest of his life. 

Let’s call it protection.

I will always miss the little boy who cluttered the living-room floor with hundreds of Legos that caused us great pain when we stepped on the plastic pieces with our bare feet.

But tonight was his night to shine and bask in the glow of a remarkable achievement — getting a high school diploma and being accepted by a reputable university.

I am grateful I had the privilege of being a stay-at-home father during his formative years. I also understand there is no going back. I would be wasting my time spending hours rummaging  around past. 

Like my son, I am forced to go forward in life. I will carry those sacred memories of his childhood along the way as this family starts out on our next journey.

After taking numerous pictures and shaking hands with other students who graduated that night, I drove Anthony back to Edward Little for project graduation. All students were required to make an hour bus trip north to the University of Maine at Farmington.

I dropped him off on a perfect summer night, but I realized I would no longer be taking him to school. I was just another a parent in the crowd wondering where did those 13 spectacular years go.

I felt a bit of depression as I drove past Edward Little, but I put the kibosh on melancholy after witnessing his significant accomplishment.

This night belonged to him — and there was no room in the sweet summer air for depression or looking back because his next stop is college and we will be there — with a camera, of course.

Goodfellows52: Coach's day

Goodfellows52: Coach's day: Sometimes the poorest man leaves his children the richest inheritance. ~Ruth E. Renkel REVERE, Mass.— A handfu...

Coach's day

Sometimes the poorest man leaves his children the richest inheritance. ~Ruth E. Renkel

REVERE, Mass.— A handful of former Revere High School baseball players gathered at Tony Conigliaro Field behind the school. Strong sea breezes whipped around the chilly park as temperatures hovered in the low 60s.

Gray-haired players shook hands and soon stories about the late coach Albert Blasi were being traded like valuable baseball cards. Round after round of one-upmanshipabout my dad’s life dominated the conversations as venerable players desperately tried to reel off buried memories of a man who coached the Revere Patriots for 42 years.

Those hidden recollections were buried by the weight of time, but surfaced during Al Blasi Day on a windy Monday afternoon.

Revere High School paid tribute to a man who loved the game and all his players. I am grateful to the school and the people who attended the event.

It is hard looking at the baseline in front of a bench. It doesn’t take much to remember my father, dressed in baggy blue pants and a rumpled blue jacket with Revere stamped on it, pacing up and down with a score book in his hand.

They raised the flag with my dad’s name on it next to the Stars and Stripes. I don’t how my dad would feel about all the hoopla or seeing a flag waving in the breeze with the name,”Blasi” on it. An honor guard saluted as a recording of the national anthem played behind the backstop.

And on that day, the clouds gave way as the sun made a splendid entrance and lit up the field with young athletes who never knew my dad.

But that’s OK with me because change is inevitable as we all fade from the picture.

Just seeing that flag wave in the breeze took the chill out of the air and made me feel proud of my father.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Thank you all for coming. I won’t take the long way around barn and my dad always made it point to get to the point — except when it came to sports.

So please permit me to speak for a few moments.

REVERE, MASS. — Despite a lifetime of passion for America’s pastime, Albert John Blasi believed baseball was more than a game played with a bat and a hard ball.

He saw the sport as way to mold and inspire young men, bring people together and instill pride and devotion in his community.

His values and sense of the greater good were forged by his strong Italian heritage and a community that always had his back. He carried his reverence for humanity whenever he stepped onto the baseball diamond or in a classroom, and his moral compass served him well while he was stationed in Germany with the Big Red One in the1950s.

Now, I know everybody has an Al Blasi moment, and whenever I hear a well-told yarn about my dad from his former players, I perk up with pride.

After all, he coached for 42 years without being run of town. I have to believe his long tenure is due to a supportive community and administration, and I can’t thank this city and residents enough for their support.

I could spend 24 hours regaling all of you with stories about Coach. Every story is priceless. But I won’t do that so breath easy.

Those stories about a teacher and a coach will be retold for decades by the young men and students he met in school or on a baseball field. But today is about a community that comes together to honor a man who shared so much of himself with his students and players who have gone on to do great things.

I can’t imagine the countless lives my dad touched during his tenure as a coach and teacher. He loved the diamond just as he loved being in the classroom. There are several shoe boxes full of black-and-whites of his players still sitting in his closet.

I see many familiar faces here today. You know, whenever a student would shout “Coach” or “Mr. Blasi” from a passing car, a proud smile always filled my father’s face. He loved being remembered by his students and players. Seeing a familiar face never got old for him.

If you really knew Al Blasi, you had to realize my dad didn’t just live for the game. He also lived for his players. He connected with his players just like a batter connects with the ball with a swing of a hardwood bat.

When he asked me to be the bat boy for the team, it was an opportunity of a lifetime to spend those moments in the bright son with my father at wind-blow Curtis Park. Those memories of coach are resurrected every spring whenever I cover a game and watch those young coaches pace up and down the baseline.

When an editor friend of mine heard I was going fishing with my son, Anthony, at one Maine’s numerous lake, he took me aside and told me this: “You know, fishing isn’t always about fishing. It is about the time you spend with your son waiting to reel in the big one.”

My father realized long ago that baseball wasn’t just about baseball. To him, the game was about his players and the community he loved so dearly.

Thank you Revere, players, supportive parents and administration for honoring my father. The Blasi family is grateful for this remarkable tribute.

Goodfellows52: Print copy by Globe photographer Jim O'Brien Umpi...

Goodfellows52: Print copy by Globe photographer Jim O'Brien
 Umpi...: Print copy by Globe photographer Jim O'Brien  Umpire Mike Caira listens politely as Revere coach Al Blasi dramatizes his claim that A...

A photo warms the heart during a brutal winter

Print copy by Globe photographer Jim O'Brien
 Umpire Mike Caira listens politely as Revere coach Al Blasi dramatizes his claim 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. This copy of the photo appeared on the front page of the sports section of the Boston Evening Globe dated Thursday, April 27, 1978.

“It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.” 

                               
                                                                        ― John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent

AUBURN, Maine — Whenever I open the shades and peer through the window, blinding snow and howling winds obscure my vision of a disappearing landscape that lies beneath 100 inches of god damn snow.

I can’t speak for all New Englanders, but this has certainly been the winter of my discontent and February has been a complete whiteout. Weekly snowstorms drift in and I feel like I have been carpet bombed by Mother Nature.

Obscenities litter my white front lawn. A line of six-foot high hedges, which act as a barrier to outside world, are buried under seven feet of snow. Their branches protrude through the white powder, crying out for help. Trenches surround my home, making my yard look like the Battle of the Marne during World War I. I am expecting a sniper to take a shot at me as I burrow through snow to get to the oil pipe or the porch.

I feel like a freakin’ groundhog.

I have given up on shoveling my other driveway. The remains of a broken shovel rests against a wall on my deck in the freezing cold. It was good shovel that has become another casualty in the war against snow. I will miss it.

Old Man Winter has been merciless to this region of America. There has been talk that people on the West Coast are frustrated because the Northeast is hogging all the snow.

Really!

I have a few choice words for my fellow Americans in Washington and Oregon. So what’s stopping them from showing up in my neighborhood with huge dump trucks to haul away this white crap.

I don’t wear snowshoes and don’t enjoy trudging through six feet of snow. I remain huddled inside and have gone on a cleaning spree — again.

I have been going through my parents’ personal items since my father’s death last November. I feel like a ghoul as we divide up their belongings. I would do anything to avoid this grisly task.

My father would have despised this winter. He was the Revere High School baseball coach for 42 years. Spring and summer were his favorite seasons. Baseball was his thing and you can’t play America’s pastime in the snow. I can still hear him cuss with each shovel of snow. He hated the stuff.

My mother, who passed four years ago, kept all the clippings of his coaching career. This basket of hard copies from my past is a treasure trove to a son who was the team’s bat boy and had the opportunity to hang out with his dad on the diamond as a child.

As I sifted through the clips as another storm set down a new coat of — you guessed it — fresh snow, I discovered a copy of the photo and clipping that "Boston Globe" reporter Marvin Pave and I were hoping to find to run with a well-written feature story about my dad’s life that appeared last November in Boston’s largest daily. It was a remarkable tribute to a good man who gave a damn about the right things in life.

I pulled the front page of the "Boston Globe Evening’s" sports section dated Thursday, April 27, 1978 from the pile of clippings. My loving mother had saved the faded newspaper all these years.

Globe photographer Frank O’Brien took the photo of my father having words with an umpire during a Revere baseball game against the Arlington Spyponders. It was a banner photo of my dad coming to bat for his team.

The next day at Revere High School a couple of teachers called me into the history department’s room and pointed out the photo of my father. We all had a laugh. My father was amused and quite popular for a few days.

I have a print of the black-and-white photo. It was given to me by my sisters and apparently purchased by my mother nearly 36 years ago. These possessions have  become precious artifacts of my past.

Finding that photo of my father and the old sports front of the Boston Evening Globe made a winter’s gloomy day bearable to a son who still wishes he could spend one more hour on a baseball diamond with his father.

Goodfellows52: A reminder from winter

Goodfellows52: A reminder from winter: Snow provokes responses that reach right back to childhood. Andy Goldsworthy AUBURN, Maine...

A reminder from winter

Snow provokes responses that reach right back to childhood.

Andy Goldsworthy

AUBURN, Maine — We have felt like the prisoners of Zenda for the past 14 hours as a blizzard sputtered in the Gulf of Maine and pummeled the Pine Tree State with more than two feet of snow in some areas.

We got tired of looking at each other. We eventually found something to do as the winds howled outside and the snow piled up.

We were inmates in our home and wondered if the warden ordered a lockdown because Mother Nature dished out a can of whoop ass to the good folks of Maine. The streets are deserted and remain impassable — unless you are driving bulldozer. Only a fool would take a chance at getting behind of the wheel of a car during this stubborn storm.

It is now 7 p.m. Eastern Standard Time and the snow is still whipping around thanks to 35-mile per hour winds that built tall drifts that resemble mountain range on my street.

The snow plows have made several passes and a few of the behemoths came to sudden stop when they hit a wall of snow.

Lucky New York City! The Big Apple was spared and weathermen are issuing mea culpas as I write, but the rest of New England took one in the kisser.

My stalwart son and I decided to brave the icy wind and grab a shovel to clear the walkway to the front door of our snow-white home.

Before we stepped outside, we pried open the door, which was barricaded by two feet of frigging snow. Stepping outside and into the wind felt like a fusillade of glass shards, giving us second thoughts, but the walkway couldn’t wait, especially if we wanted our a mail and the paper.

For nearly 30 minutes, we were like a pair of jackhammers whacking away at two feet of the white stuff. The cold reminded us that we belonged inside our toasty home.

The snow on the walkway was as tall as the Great Wall of China. I thought about a stick of dynamite to blast an opening to the street, but explosives would make everybody nervous.

But we were so close to a breakthrough that we kept shoveling until we made it to the street.

Today was a “potato, corn and shrimp chowder” day, which took the chill out of bones and triggered several boyhood memories.

Tall tales

For the past 14, hours, Anthony endured stories of the Blizzard of 1978 — a storm that knocked Boston and surrounding communities on its asses for two weeks.

Of course, this was the perfect time to bore my son with tall tales of a snowstorm that nearly snuffed out the Blasi family.

Despite his annoying looks, I reeled off snippets of the greatest storm in my lifetime. Thanks to the snow, there was no place for him to hide.

It was Feb. 6, and there was that quiet that is familiar to any coming New England storm. You know you are in harm’s way when everything goes silent and the skies slowly darken.

The blizzard plowed into the Massachusetts’ coastline late in the morning. I sat in my parents’ cozy cellar listening to a Boston AM station — WRKO. I soon switched to WBZ when the flakes started falling. At first, the weatherman called for 6 to 12 inches. Two hours later, the snow totals began to rise: 12 to 16; 18-24; 25-30 inches.

They weren’t wrong. The storm stalled off the coast and delivered snow that shut down the Greater Boston area. Cars and trucks were stopped in their tracks on Routes 128 and 1. People lived in their cars for hours before help came.

Thirty six hours later and there was over two feet of snow on the ground. My Uncle Tony could not leave his house and my grandmother’s home next door became impregnable thanks that to huge drifts that reached the rooftop of her home.

Our first priority was getting to my uncle’s home. It took four men and over an hour to get  to Uncle Tony’s front door. Mr. Martinetti — a big man with powerful arms — was like Big Bad John slinging iron in a coal mine.

I was an 18-year-old who shoveled for the eight hours that day, helping 17 relatives clear the snow from their driveways on McClure Street. For two weeks, Revere High School was shutdown because it became an emergency shelter. Loud U.S. Army Huey helicopters landed all over the city and a handful of tanks roamed the streets. Revere was now under martial law after Revere Beach became flooded during the height of the storm. It was intimidating to see an armed National Guard patrolling the main streets of Revere.

For an entire week, people were forced to walk every where. No vehicles were not allowed on the road. Bread and milk were scarce for a few days because of panicked people making food runs.

But everybody helped out despite the snow and cold.

Months later, when I began a small landscaping service to pay for college, I mowed lawns along Revere’s coastline that sweet summer. I soon discovered hardened star fish and other marine life being broken apart by my lawnmower. These were the yards that were flooded by the rising tide during the Blizzard of 1978.

Sometimes it takes a storm — and home-made chowder — to bring calm and allow us to look back those special moments of our past.

'Tis the season of hope and remembrance

"Remember, hearts will never be practical until they are made unbreakable."

-  the Scarecrow on the "The Wizard of Oz"


AUBURN, Maine — A pair of Geminids meteors streaked  across a dark, cold Maine sky, and in instant, I had this absurd thought that my deceased parents were chasing each other around the cosmos.

Grief does strange things to people during the holidays, but I am old hand at managing melancholy.

If you live long enough, you get really good at dealing with heart-wrenching loss. Now that my parents, Al and Louise, are gone forever, I work feverishly to fend off sadness — especially during the Yuletide.

Say what you will about the holiday, but the last thing I want to be remembered as is an Ebenezer Scrooge wannabe who spreads endless grief in his wake.

Christmas is no humbug. Old Jacob Marley found that out the hard way. Dickens’ wretched character was condemned to roam the night wrapped in heavy chains to atone for his indifference to his fellow man. Scrooge was taken out for a walk by the three spirits on Christmas Eve and given a comeuppance he never forgot for ignoring forlorn souls drowning in endless poverty.

Nobody wants to be the guy who spoils everybody’s good cheer with his poison personality. For me, holidays are for gathering up what’s left of our family to celebrate another year of good food and cheer.

There is a huge emptiness we all face everyday, and that void gets deeper during the holidays.

Perhaps, Christmas is like a role call of who is still here and serves as reminder that every day you reach for your morning cup of coffee is a good day — and you only have so many on this earth.

Thanksgiving and Christmas are two holidays that trigger our worn-out memories of the past. Sentimentality rises to the top when decorating the tree, wandering around crowded store aisles or preparing a traditional holiday dish. A special ornament your late mom gave you makes your eyes water as you place it on a tree. Christmas songs chime about the specialness of the holiday, but many face this day with a heavy heart.

I still browse the aisles marveling at those innovative toys. Another new line of Legos — my son’s favorite gift under the tree— is introduced to shoppers. Then I remember he is now behind of the wheel of a car and those plastic building blocks of his childhood no longer amuse him.

Alas, my son is 18 and his adult toys consist of skis, watches, a cell phone and history books. His childhood slowly disappeared with each inch he grew.  The little boy who meant so much to us has grown into a fine young man, and while I am proud of him, I miss the inquisitive child who built these intricate toy ships with Legos that littered our parlor floor.

This will be our first Christmas without my parents, and while I have done an impressive job of spreading good cheer, there is that ever-present emptiness.

Look, I have seen the face of depression and watched loved ones disappear into that long tunnel of desperation. I won’t allow grief to swallow me whole. The long walk back from slipping into that dreadful darkness is too steep for me to climb.

So I will buy the presents, make the shrimp linguine, enjoy a holiday meal with my sisters and grieve for my father — all at the same time. The two-hour trip to Boston will be a welcomed diversion from the daily  chore of missing a man I admired all my life.

We will make merry on Christmas Eve, but we will also notice the empty chairs on that special night.

And there’s not a damn thing we can do about our heavy losses except embrace the memories of them, and of course, raise a toast to all who are present at the dinner table for another holiday.

Goodfellows52: A few kind words about my dad in the Boston Globe

Goodfellows52: A few kind words about my dad in the Boston Globe: The guy in the middle is Albert John Blasi, who was on a troop ship heading to occupied Germany http://www.bostonglobe.com/metro/obitu...

A few kind words about my dad in the Boston Globe

The guy in the middle is Albert John Blasi, who was on a troop ship heading to occupied Germany

http://www.bostonglobe.com/metro/obituaries/2014/11/26/blasi-longtime-revere-high-baseball-coach-formerly-led-state-coaches-association/xa7uUxaeyfa1jtsHodQ3DK/story.html

AUBURN, Maine — I will be spending Thanksgiving with my family in Massachusetts. But when I look to my right after we sit down to eat, my dad won't be in the parlor with a plate of food in one hand and a remote in the other watching a football game at my sister's home.

His absence will be conspicuous. He was the life of the holidays and was usually surrounded by his family.

Losing a mom or dad just before the holidays is like getting sucker punched in a street fight. It hurts like hell and the pain never disappears. And after you get walloped, you want to take your anger out on the guy who just delivered the knuckle sandwich.

But when you look at your immediate family and realize you have to soldier on without your parents, you have no choice but to carry on. Nature works like that, but that doesn't mean we have to agree with the laws of this strange universe.

Today, my father received another deserved tribute. Boston Globe reporter Marvin Pave, a talented writer with a kind heart, wrote a great piece about a man who gave so much to his country, community and family. He was adored by rival coaches and his players who would have walked through fire to play for him.

That kind of dedication and respect is earned by human beings who have genuine empathy and integrity. My dad demonstrated both qualities and wasn't a narcissist who believed the world revolved around him.

So if you've got a minute, check the above link to Boston.com and read a well-written piece about guy who gave a damn about the right things in our short lives.

Goodfellows52: Letting go of dad

Goodfellows52: Letting go of dad: " My father was my teacher. But most importantly he was a great dad. " Beau Bridges REVERE/PEABODY, Mass. — He will n...

Letting go of dad

"My father was my teacher. But most importantly he was a great dad."

Beau Bridges

REVERE/PEABODY, Mass. — He will no longer be seated at end of the couch with a newspaper in his lap and hot coffee in one hand.

He was the first family member you saw when you walked in the front door. Albert Blasi would look up from his sports section and smile when someone entered the parlor. There was usually a game or an old war movie on the TV.

“Hey, they are here. Good to see you all. Missed ya,” my dad said. “How was the ride down? Mom’s in the kitchen. Go see her.”

When I left Sunday morning to return to Maine, his reserved seat on the couch was vacant and will remain that way forever. I was still waiting for a hug and a chance to say goodbye. I walked up to the empty couch said aloud, “I will always miss you.”

My father, a dedicated educator and high school baseball coach for 44 years, died on a Saturday, Nov. 8 and was buried on the 14th at Puritan Lawn Cemetery in Peabody, Mass. He was 81. Taps was played by the honor guard. That’s when the tears began to roll down my cheeks. I watched through water-filled eyes as two fine young servicemen folded the American flag with care and precision. A sharp looking soldier walked straight toward me and presented me with the flag.

“I accept this with honor,” I said. The soldier stepped back after handing me the flag and slowly saluted it as we stared eye to eye.

My father, an Army veteran who served during the occupation of Germany, was honored for his service to his country.

He was an honorable man who believed all people should be treated with compassion and respect. That’s why hundreds turned out to pay their final respects to a man who not only served his country but made a difference in his community, classroom and on a baseball diamond.

How many people get to say that before their lives come to an end.

I spent nearly two hours at a funeral home as mourners shared their Al Blasi stories with family members who were grateful to see hundreds turn out to say goodbye to our father.

A mass honoring Albert John Blasi was held at St. Anthony’s Church. They say the church was brought over brick by brick from Italy. It is a magnificent structure with bells that can be heard all over the city and the inside of the building is lined with stained-glass windows and numerous works of art.

The funeral procession to the church and cemetery was led by a police escort as the Revere Police Department sealed off streets all over the city as a long trail of cars passed. The procession drove past my father’s home before we arrived in Peabody.

My siblings and I are now orphans with the passing of this wonderful man. My mom died four years ago, which was the first blow to her four children. Their absences have left us with a sense of endles longing for their return.

But it’s doesn’t matter how my father died. It is how he lived, and he lived life large and fulfilling. He was an educator who taught others to go forth in life and make a contribution to the greater good.

It has been said that we are not truly forgotten until the last person who knows us dies.

Considering what he has done for a multitude of people, I believe the memories of Albert John Blasi will live on for decades to come.

Goodfellows52: Albert John Blasi - A lifetime of love and devotio...

Goodfellows52: Albert John Blasi - A lifetime of love and devotio...: REVERE, Mass. — My mother suggested I become the Revere High School baseball team’s ...

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.