Wally's Wall

My father wrote this poem sometime before I was born.  It is a classic tale of baseball closing the gap between father and son. For years it has sat in our living room. I think it is time that it is shared with the world.

Night Games

by: Barry Gorman

In the electric August

darkness we’d lay on

the four-poster mahogany

bed, He & i, hands

laced behind our necks,

and listen to a liquid

radio voice falling

from the Philco.

The voice drifting in

and trailing off like

an infant’s nighttime cry.

He’d curse the black plastic

box, sliding it back and

forth on the bedside

night table like a

rook on a chessboard,

until the fluttering

voice cleared itself

to relay jingled tales

of 6-4-3 doubleplays and

long flys to center.

i’d pepper him with too

many “whys?” He’d quiet

me with too few “shuhhs!”

He’d lecture, i’d listen

and learn of innings

and outs and things in

between, while outside

the window fireflies

flashed signals in

night games of their own.

This post is long overdue. But, as the old saying goes, better late than never. It was a little less than a month ago when I attended a Portland Sea Dogs game. As I mentioned in an earlier post seeing the Sea Dogs is a tradidition whenever we go to Maine. The Sea Dogs were playing the Erie Sea Wolves and were not expected to do well. They were second to bottom in their division and the season would be winding to a close within the coming weeks. However, tradition stands and as is tradition the Sea Dogs for the eighth year in a row now, the Sea Dogs landed victory during our visit to Hadlock Field.

But unlike the previous seven years, this game also brought about something more. More than getting lost in the sights, sounds, and smells of the ballpark. It was the souvenir I got this game which was perhaps the most exciting. Many fans wait their entire lives for one of these coveted souvenirs. Others have stories of just how close they came. Of course I am talking about the foul ball.

It was the fifth inning the Sea Dogs were tied with their opponent and all of the elements were put in place for the event to happen. The people sitting right next to us had left the previous inning to get good ‘ole ball park food. Those directly behind us too had left. I was a little taken aback when the ball went foul. It was headed directly toward us, I had to reach over my Mom in the seat next to me in order to try and get a hold on the ball. I managed to tip the ball while trying to make an in air catch. The ball then fell to the ground and rolled under the seat next to my Mom. At which point I collected the souvenir I waited eight years for. There is something special about catching a foul ball at a baseball game. It is like you enter a special club. For the briefest of moments you are a part of the play of the game. My Dad who has waited over 50 years to catch a foul ball was thrilled. Baseball always brings out the kid in him and he went around telling all of our family and friends about my catch. Or well, sort of catch. It was very cute to watch.

There is nothing quite like a baseball game. The sights, the sounds, the events. This was my eighth year watching the Sea Dogs and my eighth year since I officially accepted  I was a Red Sox fan. Eight years and I am never looking back. Until next year…

As I previously mentioned, I was born into a family of Red Sox fans. I am not exaggerating in the least, every single member of my immediate family is a Red Sox fan. My brother was the first and only individual to commit the unspeakable sin and marry outside of the Nation and into the Empire (it was practically a real life Romeo & Juliet tale). Yet, he is still one of the biggest Sox fans I know. Unfortunately, unlike most of my family, I was born in New York. It goes without question that life as it pertained to sports (and lets face it when it comes to Boston, there is not much else) was often difficult. Many of my school yard pals used to tease me for my loyalty to Boston. They were often relentless. Their strongest argument and most asked question was always “Why don’t you root for the Yankees, after all, you live in New York.”

Over time I have come to reflect on that question. I guess that is what baseball is to some us, an extension of our geographical location. Fandom is based on the closest city to where we live. While that may be how it started, it is not necessarily the way it is anymore. The world has changed, people move all the time and as such so have the fans of various sports branched outside of the original hometown. It is not odd to find a Boston fan in Texas or a Yankees fan in LA. There are even a few Mets fans in Upstate New York. Ok so that last one really does not strengthen the argument per say. However, as we as a society changed so too have the fans of sports. Our loyalties are not necessarily to a town anymore, rather, they are to our family. Although, sometimes we as youngsters chose a rival team of our fathers as our way of rebelling. As for my case. I threw my stock in with Boston. Perhaps, it was my way of rebelling against my peers. Whatever the reason, I see being a fan as holding onto something greater than just a team. It is a bond with family, friends, and yes, even rivals. We tied to something greater than ourselves, not a location. Maybe my friends don’t see it that way. But who am I kidding? They are Yankee fans after all.

And this story is no different. I was as they say “born into it.” The love of Boston and more specifically Boston sports was instilled in me at a very young age. However, while I always knew to like the Boston teams I never truly loved any of them until rather recently and there seems to be no better time to be a fan of the Boston dynasty. I write this post while watching a Sox game on ESPN, it is the bottom of the tenth with no score against the Rays. I find something very relaxing about listening to baseball game. There is something about tradition here. It is like experiencing the game the way our fathers did with the radio. Although the invention of HD adds a new layer, making games that much more exciting to experience from the comfort of our own homes. But I digress. That is me talking as the Red Sox baseball fan I am now, not the one I was.

I was only a lukewarm baseball fan growing up. That in itself is long story probably better saved for a later date. At the very least, I always knew to like the Red Sox. Red Sox good, Yankees bad. If I knew nothing else about baseball that was enough. For me, it was enough.  I couldn’t understand what real baseball fans, like my father, got all worked up about. It was only a game. Life didn’t revolve around it. But that all changed for me on one warm summer night in Portland, Maine and that is where my story begins. Watching the Portland Sea Dogs, AA affilate of the Boston Red Sox, was not my first Baseball game. I had the privilege of watching a Florida Marlins game from a box seat around the age of eight. It was a fun experience. But not one I had the maturity to fully appreciate. There was something different though about the Sea Dogs game though. Maybe it was the fact it was the first time I was seeing more than four Boston fans in the same place. Maybe it was the how the minor league park mirrored its major league affiliate. Maybe it was the fact they won. Whatever the reason, something changed in me that night and before I had walked out of those gates to leave the stadium and head back for the beach I had become a full blooded, honest to goodness, spin your life around your team, Red Sox fan. And that is where it all began…