It was a brilliant summer day with puffy cumulus clouds drifting over the Back Bay. Only one image of the proceedings remains, Dave "Boo" Ferris hurtling his body and the baseball toward home plate. Each time I sit near the spot of the point of view of that picture in Fenway Park, the big right hander drives off the rubber once again.
The year was 1944, and my Uncle Henry was taking me to my first big league game. It began at Frye's Cigar Store on the corner of Main and School Streets in downtown Brockton, Massachusetts. Yes, they had tickets available and my lifelong passion for the Red Sox had been ignited.
With the return from the war of Ted Williams, Bobby Doerr, Johnny Pesky, Dom DiMaggio and the rest there could be no doubt that an era of Red Sox baseball dominance filled with World Series trophies was about to dawn. My grandfather's daily summer exercise of two hours of uninterrupted pressing of his deaf ear to the Philco to learn of the latest exploits of our returning heroes as they mowed down the hapless Yankees would pay great dividends for decades.
The images of 1946 are vivid, the picture perfect swing, the grace of nonpareil middle infield play, a ball struck hard into the triangle causing ten thousand hearts to stop only to have life restored by the Little Professor gliding under the harmless sphere. And there were mighty men on the mound for the locals. Tex Hughson and Joe Dobson would join Boo in bringing glory to the home team.
I adored Bobby Doerr and practiced all of his graceful moves in my backyard. My dream was to play second base for the Sox but, as I could not bear the thought of supplanting him, poor Pesky whom I liked only slightly less would have to give way at shortstop so that I could team up with my hero in the middle. There were minor impediments to the dream such as lack of speed, power and talent, but they would be overcome by time, nature and practice. Acknowledging at least the size deficiencies, I would bat leadoff, followed by Johnny - moved, sensitively, to third base, the mighty Splinter, "The Big Cat Rudy York at cleanup, Bobby fifth, and Dom would be moved to the eight hole, also with due regard for his feelings for having to step aside in favor of the new rising star from Brockton. With that lineup, we would dominate well into the sixties.
But the impossible happened, Country Slaughter with reckless disregard for sound baseball raced all the way home from first. Don't you believe for a moment that. "Pesky held the ball!" That simply did not happen. Slaughter just erred by running when he shouldn't have. Honestly, that's it; you could play it again a thousand times. He should not have run. Oh, from the vantage point of almost sixty years, I guess the Cardinals probably can claim they won and that I'll have to grant them at least a nod. But it was not fundamental baseball; it wasnt, really, honestly, I'm telling you, cross my heart and hope to die.
It was only after that debacle that through overly intense readings of tea leaves and careful explorations of the entrails of small animals that had been killed on roads all across New England that `it' was divined. There was no curse from 1918 until October of 1946. Only after Slaughter completely screwed up was the curse discovered.
New England remained a strange place in the middle of the last century. It was still under the influence of the descendants of those who'd spotted a witches brew in Salem and who were ever at the ready to see the hand of Satan working its evil. Predestination was the accepted orthodoxy of the controlling tribe, and they were ever capable of working backward to find a preordained reason for every sin. And why did Slaughter run? The devil made him do it. It mattered not that. "Pesky held the ball" which as I said he did not do; Johnny did nothing wrong. Satan made Enos commit the sin of bad baseball. The search for reasons was on.
What was in those dried entrails? Success in 1918 and failure in '46. Babe Ruth and Harry Frazee, even a dolt could connect those dots. The curse was born. And so it grew. How could Bucky "xxxxxxx" Dent have hit that ball over the Green Monster? Of course, the devil guided and speeded his swing. How could solid Bill Buckner have missed that grounder? I've watched that play a thousand times and swear that there was a bad bounce. Oh, they'll tell you otherwise, but it wasn't till well after the nine hundredth time that I saw that Satan's handiwork was evident. Look for yourself; you'll see it if you look carefully enough even if it takes you all winter, it'll be worth the effort.
How could heroes like Yaz, Dewey, and the ever calm and resolute Spaceman not prevail? The clear sighted Radatz, the finesse around the bag by Dr. Strangeglove, the ever calming Jimmy Piersall, and the smoking bats of Rice and Lynn, the power of the Golden Boy and Junior, and the wondrous left arm of Mel Parnell and so many other stars too numerous to be named that what all New Englanders knew - it could only have been a curse. They knew and, with the full complicity of the Evil Empire, convinced the inhabitants of every Middlsex village and town, as well as those in hamlets from Portland to New London and beyond that we were forever doomed.
My sainted mother watched a thousand games in both black and white and color. She knew the names of the wives and children of all of our worthies. She never believed for a minute - nor did I - the stories of their excesses while on the road - clearly, the knights of the keyboard were at their vituperative worst.
I remember well when television replay first came into use and visiting with her during an important game - they all were - when our center fielder made a spectacular catch to Ma's cheer of approval. Unbelievably, we watched the screen and she screamed, "My God, he did it again." There was nothing that those good boys could do wrong as far as she was concerned.
There was always a hint of respect when "The Baltimores" and "The New Yorks" were in town. Yogi and Whitey while surely nice lads from good homes drew her full measure of scorn and distaste, and that nasty Earl with his Raleighs in the dugout and his too smart tongue with all those swears - ah, you know what I mean...
After all the disapointments, I decided to make the far more exciting world of government manual and memorandum writing my career. It was selfish decision but the call from the glamour world of bureaucracy was simply too strong to resist.
In turn, my own sons, all the way from far off Virginia, absorbed the ambiance of the old park. The flashing Citgo sign, the rush from Kenmore Square, the brick façade of Yawkey Way, "Scoah cahd! Get yoah scoah cahd!", the smell of Fenway Franks and all the rest.
But a new day has dawned in New England; the Puritans no longer reign. A team resides in the Back Bay. No longer do twenty-five taxis deposit twenty-five individuals in the Bronx to face down what used to be their `betters'. Never again will "Who's your daddy?" and "1918!" rain down from beer blushed bullies. Now the stands will be silent as the patrons chew their nails. From now on they'll worry that Ortiz, Manny or Trot will smash the babe's bulbous bronze nose with a heroic swat. Now they must fear that their paper warriors will be hitting nothing but air as Pedro pulls the string on his changeup or that a weak grounder to Bellhorn from a Lowe offering will squelch yet another aborted rally.
There never was a curse, just the lunatic ravings of those who believed in Halloween. The scruffy boys from the Back Bay have exposed the empire and its curse for what it is, merely a tiny man with a too heavy check book and an overworked right arm howling at the moon from behind a pin striped screen.
RED SOX REIGN! RED SOX RULE!
Friday, October 29, 2004
Thursday, October 14, 2004
King of the Mantle
Often on rising in the morning, I look upon the pictures of my beloved ancestors – my parents, two of my grandparents, and a favorite uncle – and on many more evenings before retiring I try to visualize them as the living beings they truly were. Sadly with age the images fade, and I realize that when these photographs are looked upon by future generations the subjects will be little more than quaint antiques.
My father, Bill Brennan, collapsed while I was an infant and died before I was four. Thus the picture of the most important man in my life holds only miniscule meaning for me. My mother told that my father was a kind and gentle man. What does that mean? What would he have wanted to impart to his toddler son whom he saw but half a dozen times after he became ill? No one will ever know.
My mother’s portrait is of a vibrant woman of forty-eight years, full of life and still attractive. Yet the image in my mind’s eye is of an old and tired being who tried always to remind me of a past that had great meaning for her but which held not nearly so much cachet for me. Helen Sullivan Brennan raised me alone while caring for her failing mother and father, sacrificing her life for ours.
The proud fifty-six year old man, Henry Patrick Sullivan, gazing out at me was well over seventy when I came upon him. We shared a common address for his remaining years, and we lived in the same household for the final several years of his life. He was my daily companion and bestowed his wisdom generously upon me. There was no question that was beyond his best effort at an honest answer. He was a thinking man who saw a possible kindred spirit even in an eleven year old. When he died, a part of me expired and never fully recovered. But what was a thirteen year old boy to truly remember of such a short period of lucid discourse? Much, I hope.
The old woman in the small frame beside my grandfather’s, Nellie Carney Sullivan, is almost a stranger, remembered only as my demented and helpless roommate during her final months in 1944 and by the tales of her former strength told to me by my mother. In photos she is a worn out old woman after lifetime of drudgery and the loss of two sons and a granddaughter to violent deaths. According to all who knew her, she was never the same after the death of her youngest boy. It is both ironic and fitting that she shares a common cemetery plot with those three and her husband, Henry.
The last picture is that of my hero, my Uncle, Henry Francis Sullivan, he had moral principles of the highest type and demonstrated them many times. The most important example was when we sat alone in St. Edward’s Church in Brockton, MA as the congregation was called upon to rise and recite its pledge not to attend movies or read books forbidden by the Archbishop. I sat with him because I was protected by his great courage in the face of extraordinary peer pressure to conform and renounce the use of reason.
They are all gone, none for less than two decades at this writing and, in the case of my father for more than two generations, but they live in my heart and mind to extent that I can recreate their images in my consciousness.
Why am I writing about these people in such a public forum? They were important to me, and because I am nearing the time when I am expected to supplant them on a mantle somewhere. But I have come upon a means to communicate with my own grandchildren and theirs that will provide an opportunity for them to know me that was never afforded my deceased loved ones and which they and I can never change.
Human beings have ever attempted to communicate from beyond the grave, and art and religion have been their two most obvious vehicles. The cave painters of France had to think that others – even far in the future – might admire their art. Sophocles, based on the reaction of contemporaries, could not have helped but dream that his plays would give pleasure and enlightenment long after he was gone.
Shakespeare was confident in his ability to write immortal lines, while Dickens, writing novels almost until the day of his death, had to believe that his work was not in vain. The same could be said for many other great writers and artists.
As for religion, half the world believes in a resurrection in which they will be reunited with those who went before and those who will pass later, but belief in an after life in which we will be united with our all of our loved ones assumes of course that we all get off at the same stop.
But what of those of us lesser beings not so confident of meeting up with those we love? Amateur artists and diarists through time have hoped that their works would at least inspire their loved ones to preserve their efforts, and many were right. Scholars constantly troll through diaries of those who lived in the times they study, culling tidbits that show either the sentiments of the era or a prescient view of the future.
But we live in an age of technology. My ancestors lived in the beginning stages of this epoch, and they’re photographic portraits gave them great advantage over those just one generation before them. How are we to view the changing world of science and what can it do for us in maintaining some semblance of reality for our relatives yet unborn?
With no thought of mantle time or of being remembered after I pass from the scene, I exploited one of the technologies that are just now becoming available, `on demand publishing’. When I retired from government service, I decided to become a novelist. Where I developed the chutzpah to attempt this trick, I shall never know. But with the help of a couple of texts on writing, I dashed off the first book that was destined to be the first rung on the climb to fame and fortune.
In re-reading this low tech thriller, I was confident that it was quite good and that royalty checks would soon be overwhelming my mail box. Fantasies of Hollywood and the intellectual and arts circuits mesmerized me as I shipped chapters off to dozens of agents. These were short lived dreams, however, as the first returns came in. “No”. Not for us.” “Good luck elsewhere.” These and many that simply were never answered were my reward for many months of hard work.
Descending from a long line of dreamers with concrete in lieu of ordinary gray matter, I was too obtuse to take no for an answer, and I shipped queries off to dozens more agents and publishers. As the empty hooks were hauled in, even I began to think that getting a novel published might not be as easy as I’d suspected.
The first adult decision I made was to throw out that first book and to write a more exciting, if not better, thriller. And I did. I won’t dwell on the fact that this effort received the same reception in the market place.
An even more mature decision was made after chucking that masterpiece into the landfill. Since I found myself unable to compete in the popular market place, I would regroup and truly examine my place in the world of letters. The result was my novel; A Tattered Coat Upon A Stick. While I recognized the book as flawed, at that moment, it represented my absolute best effort at literature. My insecurities prevented me from properly vetting the work with friends and relatives, and my need to place the book in time and place that somewhat diminished it as a work of art. Despite this, I thought it was quite good.
The book was sent off to agents and publishers without any of the false confidence of the earlier pulp and soon came home with similar messages. “Bug off little man!” None the less, I was pleased. I had written a book that I thought had merit. I kept it for later reference. Shortly thereafter, the world of `on demand publishing’ came to my attention, and I quickly took advantage and self-published it.
Without dwelling on the difficulties gaining recognition of self published books, the book sold only because I worked hard at presenting it around New England where it is set. The number of copies in circulation far exceeds my friends and relatives and all of the reviews have been extremely favorable. As stated, it is flawed but represents a powerful statement on American justice.
My next effort, Au Revoir, L’Acadie, is, I believe, a far better novel from a technical standpoint. It, too, is a novel about historical events in New England. With more confidence in my ability and standing, it was vetted among my friends whose comments improved it greatly. That the book was not self published represented a major step forward in my career as a writer. I won’t dwell on how close it is to the bottom of the commercial pile, but it is out there for sale. The critics have been even kinder than with the first book.
One kind reader, Jacques L’Heureux of Columbia, Maryland, became enthused about this novel that describes the tribulations of Franco-American characters as they suffered through the Great Depression. He voluntarily set up a web site for me in order that his ethnic counterparts – and others – could become familiar with this almost forgotten but vital period in their history.
But it has been through my frustrating efforts to sell my books that I have come to see that modern technology holds the key to my place on the mantle and how I will fight to maintain the heights for at least one additional generation.
When living in retirement in Massachusetts, I was fortunate to find a niche in the lecture circuit and was able to collect a few modest honoraria and sell quite a few books by singing for my supper. It was fun and I became quiet proficient, but it soon became evident that cracking the ceiling to the next level of commercialism was not going to happen as result of turning myself into an itinerant peddler.
During this extraordinarily difficult phase of book marketing I came across the following:
“To write books is easy, it requires only pen and ink and the ever-patient paper. To print books is more difficult, because genius so often rejoices in illegible handwriting. To read books is more difficult still, because of the tendency to go to sleep. But the most difficult task of all that a mortal man can embark upon is to sell a book.”
Felix Dahn - paraphrased by Sir Stanley Unwin
Having suffered more than Willy Loman over these many years, I can certify without equivocation that Mr. Dahn was right. What to do next? My books are good; ask my readers. I was growing older and more of the same old song and dance patter was out of the question, but I was not about to give up as a man of letters – although I must admit that fame and fortune are no closer now than when I embarked upon this journey.
As I’d stumbled upon the `on demand’ publishing business and only serendipitously came upon my web master, Jacques, so I tripped over blogs. I’d heard of these strange things but had no idea what they were or how one might be established. One day as my wife, Barbara, and I shared a wonderful day in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor with Jacques and Maryann L’Heureux, my host described these strange entities and steered me to Google.
Obviously, dear reader, as you read these lines you know that a blog was created, and I thank you for your time. Would you like to buy one of my books? I’m sure that they are still in print and easily available to such a discerning person as you.
Just as important, dear greatgrandchild, are you really certain that you wish to make room on your mantle for a more current occupant? Have I not entertained you enough to postpone that awful decision until the next spring cleaning?
Perhaps I should explain my outrageous nom de guerre, WildBill944. The nickname emanated from my youth when I was really wild. The 944 was the winning number in a lottery in which I won a real live pony. In 1946, I won the little beast and brought it home to my Tipperary neighborhood in Brockton, Massachusetts. My Uncle Henry – my hero – bought the ticket for me and suffered more by having to lead the work crew of my Uncle Joe, my grandfather and him in converting our little summer house in the back yard to a stable. Fortunately for all, the madness of my life as a famous equestrian ended quickly and `Babe’ departed for a new life elsewhere.
Like any good salesman, all I need is one more renewal. Would you also kindly consider another term for my love, Barbara, and the five folks whose cases I’ve also pleaded? Thank you for your continued love and support. See you on the other side if you happen to get off at my stop.
Love,
Wildbill944
.
My father, Bill Brennan, collapsed while I was an infant and died before I was four. Thus the picture of the most important man in my life holds only miniscule meaning for me. My mother told that my father was a kind and gentle man. What does that mean? What would he have wanted to impart to his toddler son whom he saw but half a dozen times after he became ill? No one will ever know.
My mother’s portrait is of a vibrant woman of forty-eight years, full of life and still attractive. Yet the image in my mind’s eye is of an old and tired being who tried always to remind me of a past that had great meaning for her but which held not nearly so much cachet for me. Helen Sullivan Brennan raised me alone while caring for her failing mother and father, sacrificing her life for ours.
The proud fifty-six year old man, Henry Patrick Sullivan, gazing out at me was well over seventy when I came upon him. We shared a common address for his remaining years, and we lived in the same household for the final several years of his life. He was my daily companion and bestowed his wisdom generously upon me. There was no question that was beyond his best effort at an honest answer. He was a thinking man who saw a possible kindred spirit even in an eleven year old. When he died, a part of me expired and never fully recovered. But what was a thirteen year old boy to truly remember of such a short period of lucid discourse? Much, I hope.
The old woman in the small frame beside my grandfather’s, Nellie Carney Sullivan, is almost a stranger, remembered only as my demented and helpless roommate during her final months in 1944 and by the tales of her former strength told to me by my mother. In photos she is a worn out old woman after lifetime of drudgery and the loss of two sons and a granddaughter to violent deaths. According to all who knew her, she was never the same after the death of her youngest boy. It is both ironic and fitting that she shares a common cemetery plot with those three and her husband, Henry.
The last picture is that of my hero, my Uncle, Henry Francis Sullivan, he had moral principles of the highest type and demonstrated them many times. The most important example was when we sat alone in St. Edward’s Church in Brockton, MA as the congregation was called upon to rise and recite its pledge not to attend movies or read books forbidden by the Archbishop. I sat with him because I was protected by his great courage in the face of extraordinary peer pressure to conform and renounce the use of reason.
They are all gone, none for less than two decades at this writing and, in the case of my father for more than two generations, but they live in my heart and mind to extent that I can recreate their images in my consciousness.
Why am I writing about these people in such a public forum? They were important to me, and because I am nearing the time when I am expected to supplant them on a mantle somewhere. But I have come upon a means to communicate with my own grandchildren and theirs that will provide an opportunity for them to know me that was never afforded my deceased loved ones and which they and I can never change.
Human beings have ever attempted to communicate from beyond the grave, and art and religion have been their two most obvious vehicles. The cave painters of France had to think that others – even far in the future – might admire their art. Sophocles, based on the reaction of contemporaries, could not have helped but dream that his plays would give pleasure and enlightenment long after he was gone.
Shakespeare was confident in his ability to write immortal lines, while Dickens, writing novels almost until the day of his death, had to believe that his work was not in vain. The same could be said for many other great writers and artists.
As for religion, half the world believes in a resurrection in which they will be reunited with those who went before and those who will pass later, but belief in an after life in which we will be united with our all of our loved ones assumes of course that we all get off at the same stop.
But what of those of us lesser beings not so confident of meeting up with those we love? Amateur artists and diarists through time have hoped that their works would at least inspire their loved ones to preserve their efforts, and many were right. Scholars constantly troll through diaries of those who lived in the times they study, culling tidbits that show either the sentiments of the era or a prescient view of the future.
But we live in an age of technology. My ancestors lived in the beginning stages of this epoch, and they’re photographic portraits gave them great advantage over those just one generation before them. How are we to view the changing world of science and what can it do for us in maintaining some semblance of reality for our relatives yet unborn?
With no thought of mantle time or of being remembered after I pass from the scene, I exploited one of the technologies that are just now becoming available, `on demand publishing’. When I retired from government service, I decided to become a novelist. Where I developed the chutzpah to attempt this trick, I shall never know. But with the help of a couple of texts on writing, I dashed off the first book that was destined to be the first rung on the climb to fame and fortune.
In re-reading this low tech thriller, I was confident that it was quite good and that royalty checks would soon be overwhelming my mail box. Fantasies of Hollywood and the intellectual and arts circuits mesmerized me as I shipped chapters off to dozens of agents. These were short lived dreams, however, as the first returns came in. “No”. Not for us.” “Good luck elsewhere.” These and many that simply were never answered were my reward for many months of hard work.
Descending from a long line of dreamers with concrete in lieu of ordinary gray matter, I was too obtuse to take no for an answer, and I shipped queries off to dozens more agents and publishers. As the empty hooks were hauled in, even I began to think that getting a novel published might not be as easy as I’d suspected.
The first adult decision I made was to throw out that first book and to write a more exciting, if not better, thriller. And I did. I won’t dwell on the fact that this effort received the same reception in the market place.
An even more mature decision was made after chucking that masterpiece into the landfill. Since I found myself unable to compete in the popular market place, I would regroup and truly examine my place in the world of letters. The result was my novel; A Tattered Coat Upon A Stick. While I recognized the book as flawed, at that moment, it represented my absolute best effort at literature. My insecurities prevented me from properly vetting the work with friends and relatives, and my need to place the book in time and place that somewhat diminished it as a work of art. Despite this, I thought it was quite good.
The book was sent off to agents and publishers without any of the false confidence of the earlier pulp and soon came home with similar messages. “Bug off little man!” None the less, I was pleased. I had written a book that I thought had merit. I kept it for later reference. Shortly thereafter, the world of `on demand publishing’ came to my attention, and I quickly took advantage and self-published it.
Without dwelling on the difficulties gaining recognition of self published books, the book sold only because I worked hard at presenting it around New England where it is set. The number of copies in circulation far exceeds my friends and relatives and all of the reviews have been extremely favorable. As stated, it is flawed but represents a powerful statement on American justice.
My next effort, Au Revoir, L’Acadie, is, I believe, a far better novel from a technical standpoint. It, too, is a novel about historical events in New England. With more confidence in my ability and standing, it was vetted among my friends whose comments improved it greatly. That the book was not self published represented a major step forward in my career as a writer. I won’t dwell on how close it is to the bottom of the commercial pile, but it is out there for sale. The critics have been even kinder than with the first book.
One kind reader, Jacques L’Heureux of Columbia, Maryland, became enthused about this novel that describes the tribulations of Franco-American characters as they suffered through the Great Depression. He voluntarily set up a web site for me in order that his ethnic counterparts – and others – could become familiar with this almost forgotten but vital period in their history.
But it has been through my frustrating efforts to sell my books that I have come to see that modern technology holds the key to my place on the mantle and how I will fight to maintain the heights for at least one additional generation.
When living in retirement in Massachusetts, I was fortunate to find a niche in the lecture circuit and was able to collect a few modest honoraria and sell quite a few books by singing for my supper. It was fun and I became quiet proficient, but it soon became evident that cracking the ceiling to the next level of commercialism was not going to happen as result of turning myself into an itinerant peddler.
During this extraordinarily difficult phase of book marketing I came across the following:
“To write books is easy, it requires only pen and ink and the ever-patient paper. To print books is more difficult, because genius so often rejoices in illegible handwriting. To read books is more difficult still, because of the tendency to go to sleep. But the most difficult task of all that a mortal man can embark upon is to sell a book.”
Felix Dahn - paraphrased by Sir Stanley Unwin
Having suffered more than Willy Loman over these many years, I can certify without equivocation that Mr. Dahn was right. What to do next? My books are good; ask my readers. I was growing older and more of the same old song and dance patter was out of the question, but I was not about to give up as a man of letters – although I must admit that fame and fortune are no closer now than when I embarked upon this journey.
As I’d stumbled upon the `on demand’ publishing business and only serendipitously came upon my web master, Jacques, so I tripped over blogs. I’d heard of these strange things but had no idea what they were or how one might be established. One day as my wife, Barbara, and I shared a wonderful day in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor with Jacques and Maryann L’Heureux, my host described these strange entities and steered me to Google.
Obviously, dear reader, as you read these lines you know that a blog was created, and I thank you for your time. Would you like to buy one of my books? I’m sure that they are still in print and easily available to such a discerning person as you.
Just as important, dear greatgrandchild, are you really certain that you wish to make room on your mantle for a more current occupant? Have I not entertained you enough to postpone that awful decision until the next spring cleaning?
Perhaps I should explain my outrageous nom de guerre, WildBill944. The nickname emanated from my youth when I was really wild. The 944 was the winning number in a lottery in which I won a real live pony. In 1946, I won the little beast and brought it home to my Tipperary neighborhood in Brockton, Massachusetts. My Uncle Henry – my hero – bought the ticket for me and suffered more by having to lead the work crew of my Uncle Joe, my grandfather and him in converting our little summer house in the back yard to a stable. Fortunately for all, the madness of my life as a famous equestrian ended quickly and `Babe’ departed for a new life elsewhere.
Like any good salesman, all I need is one more renewal. Would you also kindly consider another term for my love, Barbara, and the five folks whose cases I’ve also pleaded? Thank you for your continued love and support. See you on the other side if you happen to get off at my stop.
Love,
Wildbill944
.
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