I wrote this in 2020. It’s a simple reminder of a time when learning about patriotism was an important part of my upbringing.
Happy Birthday, America!
Category: family
“PLAY BALL!”
It wasn’t a call that reverberated over the fences and throughout the neighborhood. No, it was more of a professorial urging by the umpire, “play ball”, and we did.
Today was the official opening of the new ball field, a garden like area nestled among stately homes, comfortably laid out in the family’s new backyard, with floral baselines, an ornamental outfield tree and even a mini brick wall, Wrigleyesque. For lack of a formal name, I’ll refer to it as Claybourne Field, or “the field” for short.
Such a difference from the ‘old field’, a simple front yard lawn on a busy avenue, a family lab of sorts, where a father and his two young sons bonded forever thru America’s pastime, baseball. A place where the boys learned to hit, run and throw and their dad/coach/umpire honed his parenting skills. *
Every new ballpark has some semblance of a pregame ceremony. Today was no different and I was truly honored to throw out the first pitch, three exactly, one to each boy and their dad. My own solo practice sessions leading up to the big day rewarded me with three perfect pitches, fastballs right down the middle.
Following the pregame festivities, it was time to start the first game on ‘the field’’. I played the pitcher position for both teams, guaranteeing me to be both the winning and losing pitcher, probably a first in baseball annals.
For two innings, I kept the offenses guessing with my repertoire of ‘stuff’: fastball, curve, knuckler, change up and even a hit batsman to keep the hitters honest and away from the plate. Oh, they hit me, alright, and even scored a few runs but the game was low scoring until the third and final inning when the floodgates opened.
The hitters, kids and dad, finally figured me out and sprayed hits all over the field. The tall, lanky first baseman sent shots whizzing by my ear. The small, spunky outfielder swung for the fences on every pitch, pointing where the ball was going each time. Such swagger! Such chutzpah, even. **
Not to be outdone, the dad/coach/umpire peppered the outfield wall and trees, often sending the spheroid out of sight with his brute strength, building a big lead. Not even my high leg kick delivery slowed the onslaught.
The third and final inning saw a valiant comeback effort by the boys stopped in its tracks when the dad snagged a wicked line drive for the final out and a 16-10 winning score.
Thanks for inviting me to join your game and be a young man, again, boys. It was fun to be part of your story and write about it. The autographed ball has a special place on my shelf and in my heart.
This is the third story chronicling my former neighbor and two sons and their love of baseball. See the links below for the first two.
Steve (062623)
* https://srbottch.com/2023/03/18/they-closed-the-old-ballpark-today/
** https://srbottch.com/2021/10/02/the-kid-he-called-it/
Find my stories at ‘srbottch.com’)
They Closed The Old ‘Ballpark’, Today…
The ‘boys’ came to play…
…but this time would be different.
Today would be their last game at the old ‘ballpark’, the grand finale, the wrap up, the capper. It’s time to move on to a bigger ‘ballpark’.
A bit melancholic, maybe, but Life is like that. Today’s celebration becomes tomorrow’s remembrance.
It didn’t matter that snow covered the field for this final game, it had to be played. They were paying homage to the field, itself, a patch of lawn where two young boys learned the finer points of baseball from their coach, a devoted dad who used the sport to teach his sons lessons about growing up, getting along and having fun.
Over summers, I spectated from the third base side, separated from the action by the street that divided our neighborhood, west and east, witnessing the growth of the ‘team’ from young boys first learning how to swing a bat to baseball fanatics becoming ‘sluggers at the plate’, albeit still youngsters.
Some epic games were played here, high scoring events, very high, as the ‘ballpark’ was in constant use during summer months. The whack of the bat on ball, plastic on plastic, closely followed by cheerful shouting as young hitters outraced the nimble fielder, their dad, for an extra base, or two, often winning with a tumbling slide.
It’s a bit sad when the last out of the last game is made. Players collect the bat, ball and bases, the gates are shuttered and the curtain comes down on the old ‘ballpark’. It’s time to move on. It’s the same with families.
Our young neighbors and the ‘team’ are doing just that, moving on. We’ve enjoyed their friendship for 10 years and wish them well, knowing they’ll do fine. They have strong values of faith and love for one another.
As for the ‘team’, when it was all said and done, they moved on, hand in hand, likely learning more lessons from their ‘coach’.
The new field will be nice but the memories of the old field, their first ‘ballpark’, will stay with them forever. Life is like that…
Steve (031823)
For Jonathan, Eva, Noah & Jacob
Winter Scarves: A Love Story
Scarf
So warm, this knitted scarf: a treasure beyond worth, that hides within each woven stitch her heart.*
* Copyright © Nick Ruff | Year Posted 2008
Winter winds blow cold in western New York, especially along the icy shores of the easternmost Great Lake, Ontario. And, while the calendar tells us the dates for ‘old man winter’, Mother Nature determines when it really begins and ends. In these parts, that can be anytime from November thru March, five long months, not three.
Even April has been known to harbor cold winds and wet snows.
Combating those elements and keeping the chill at bay becomes a daunting seasonal challenge. This winter I’m meeting that challenge head on, or should I say, ‘neck and shoulder’ on, with some degree of success. How?
SCARVES!
Not just any scarf, mind you, but homemade scarves, in a variety of colors, sizes and designs, patterns, as they’re called.
Scarves long enough to cross in front and drape down, keeping my torso warm, or scarves to wrap thickly around my neck as an even stronger barrier against the weather. Scarves that are a bit wide and can be converted to a shawl, a ‘man shawl’.
And it goes without saying that while these scarves are functional, keeping the elements out and the warmth in, they are a fashion statement, as well, not that I’m concerned about looks. But who doesn’t mind occasional flattery, some ‘oohs and aahs?
These scarves, a dozen by count, are knitted by my wife as a hand therapy exercise. I’m the beneficiary and each time I wear one, which is daily, it may be cold, but I feel wrapped in a layer of love, something else to keep me a bit warmer.
Mother Nature may win the war, as she often does, but with the help of my scarves, I occasionally win a battle.
Do you have a favorite scarf? Tell me about it. And stay warm…
Steve (030923)
Carl G. Bottcher & Sons, Painters
If you lived in central Massachusetts and wanted to freshen up your home or office with a clean, colorful coat of paint, there’s a good chance that you called the Carl G Bottcher & Sons painting company.
If a church needed to spruce up its rectory or a pharmaceutical lab needed to make those gray walls grayer, Carl G Bottcher & Sons would often get the bid call.
If a color or stain needed to be perfectly matched, Carl G Bottcher & Sons had the expertise and eye to do it, before the age of computer generated color matching.
The Carl G Bottcher & Sons painting company was renowned throughout central New England for painting the interiors and exteriors of fine homes, offices and churches. It was a union shop started by my immigrant grandfather in the early 20th century.
From Grandfather, to father and uncle, to brother, the Carl G Bottcher painting name survived and flourished, adding color and beauty to neighborhoods around the Worcester area for more than a hundred years.
My last surviving brother, Carl, recently passed. He was approaching 89 and was a proud successful 3rd generation painter using the same surname, Bottcher, a name that had been well known and respected in the local painting scene.
At various times, all four of my sibling brothers and I worked for the painting company. Upon learning the trade, Carl ventured off to begin his own company, propagating the painting Bottcher name into the 21sf Century.
Other Bottchers, including brothers, uncles, cousins and nephews, dabbled in the painting trade, as well, in Massachusetts and on the west coast, Oregon, but the Carl G Bottcher name was the progenitor of all to follow.
With my brother Carl’s passing, the name may have ended its run. However, when the Northeast fall season blesses us with its full palette of colors, I like to think the painting Bottchers in Heaven were enlisted for advice. And when the ‘pearly gates’ open to greet you, you might just see a few angels in painters overalls. Carl would be the newest with the cleanest pair.
R.I.P., brother…
Steve (022223)
‘Fire In The Hole”: Male Bonding?
Ratatat! Ratatat! Ratatat! Bang! Bang! Ratatat…and on and on for the ‘longest brief moment’. And loud! Oh, was it loud!
The old man next door came out of his house as the police arrived. At the same time, my sister burst into my bedroom like a SWAT officer looking for the perps.
She found them, two perps, 16 and 21, my future brother-in-law, pending her inquisition, and me, quietly having a nervous laugh at the ruckus we caused. A few long strips of firecrackers tossed out the bedroom window into the neighbor’s yard on a hot summer night, and a sister’s wrath, can do that, make you nervous, and laugh.
“Sounded like gunfire”, the old man told the officers.
In 1963 shootings were extremely rare. No, this was just a case of old-fashion ‘male bonding*’, not to be confused with ‘boys will be boys’.
“Am I wrong”, as Seinfeld’s George Costanza would often ask
* male bonding or male friendship is the formation of close personal relationships, and patterns of friendship or cooperation between males. (Wikipedia)
Generally, male bonding occurs when there’s some common goal to be achieved by struggling together: surviving a challenge, winning a game, meeting a target, something that brings two or more men together in achieving and strengthening a relationship. Surviving the verbal blows of an enraged sister might be a good example.
Then, there’s the action of professional golfer, Tiger Woods, who made news this week when cameras caught him passing a female hygiene product to a fellow competitor whom he had just out driven, suggesting that his foe hit like a girl, weak. They were bonding, according to the apologetic Tiger.
Was it innocent? Probably. Funny? Not really, at least not for public consumption. ‘Male bonding’? No, it was crass, locker room stuff. Even the firecracker affair rose to a higher level.
As to that episode, I think the ‘perps’ learned a lesson in growing up. My future BIL and I did bond and had a good summer. My sister married him and he’s done well by her for 58 years.
What’s your take on Tiger’s behavior, and your favorite memory of bonding? Surely, you have one. All stories are welcome.
Steve (021923)
To my. sister & brother-in-law. you’ve ‘bonded’ well
The ‘Kid’, He Called It
He didn’t point, only the great Babe Ruth did that. No, he didn’t point, instead the ‘kid’ just called it, he called the shot.
I witnessed it, and have played it over and over in my mind’s eye. The ‘kid’ called his own shot.
“I’m gonna hit a home run, Steve“, he said with the naive clarity, confidence and high pitch of a young boy. Such Chutzpah.
I can still hear the classic October sound of bat on ball, plastic on plastic. ‘WHOMP’! The ‘kid’ called it and true to his word, the ball flew over the single tall arborvitae behind the pitcher and rolled into the street, a bonafide homer per the arbitrary ground rules set by the ‘pitcher/umpire/announcer’ dad.
A Frog, A Hog & A Dog, #2: A Hot Summer Day
By Grandpa
For Ben & Summer
Oh, what to do on a hot summer’s day…
That was the challenge facing the FROG, the HOG and the DOG on a hot summer day…
The first day of summer was so hot and the three friends, the frog, the hog and the dog were doing what good friends like doing on hot summer days, or any days, they were enjoying being together…
The day was too hot to hop, too hot to stomp and too hot to romp, nevertheless, the three friends knew just what to do…
The frog, the hog and the dog gathered along the edge of a nearby pond under a huge shade tree. While cooling my feet in the pond waters, I watched them from afar with my trusty binoculars, as they tried their very best to stay cool…
The small friend, the green frog, sat on a lily pad in the pond, which helped cool its smooth skin…
Sometimes, it would slide into the water for a refreshing swim
The small frog thought that staying wet was the perfect way to stay cool on a hot summer day…
The big friend, the pinkish hog, flopped its rather big body in the muddy edge of the pond under a gigantic shade tree…
Because the hog was so big and so heavy, it sank into the soft mud, way up its wide sides, over its bottom and nearly covering its curly tail. The hog found the muddy water cool and comforting…
The big hog thought that laying in the mud on its side…
on its belly…
and on its back…
was a perfect way to stay cool on a hot summer day…
The medium size friend, the black and white dog with thick long hair, decided just to lay on the ground and rest…
The tall green grass nearly covered the dog’s eyes, nevertheless it could still see its friends by the pond, preferring to stay on dry ground, itself, deep in the blanket of soft, cool grass.
The dog thought that laying down and letting its tongue hang out the side of its mouth…
was the perfect way to stay cool on a hot summer day…
And while the frog, the hog and the dog relaxed under a shade tree, on a lily pad, in the mud, and on the grass, they could still see and speak to each other, friend to friend to friend, all about the fun times they have together, even when it’s hot…
And that is how the three friends, the frog, the hog and the dog stayed cool on a hot first day of summer…
What do you do with your friends to stay cool on hot summer days?
Steve B
June 2021
A Frog, A Hog and A Dog, #1: A Story About Friends
For Ben & Summer
This is a story of three very different friends, a FROG, a HOG and a DOG, and the fun they had when the rain stopped and the sun peeked from behind the clouds.
The smallest friend, a FROG, had smooth green skin and made funny noises with its throat, ‘Ribid’, ‘Ribid’!
The biggest friend, a HOG, had rough, pinkish skin and made grunting noises with its nose, ‘Grunt’, ‘Grunt’!
The medium size friend, a Dog, had skin covered with thick black and white hair and made barking noises with its mouth, ‘Woof’, ‘Woof’!
It didn’t matter to the frog, the hog and the dog that they were different, they just enjoyed each other’s company, especially when the rain stopped, because you know what you have when the rain stops…
PUDDLES!
All sorts of puddles: BIG and SMALL puddles, WIDE and NARROW puddles, DEEP and SHALLOW puddles. oodles and oodles of puddles…
And what do you do with puddles? The frog, the hog and the dog knew…..
Jump in them!
Stomp in them!
Run in them!
First, the frog jumped in a puddle and made a small splash. After all, the frog was the smallest friend. But the frog was having too much fun to be concerned about the size of its splash. Look at that big frog smile!
Next, the hog squatted it’s bottom in a puddle and made the biggest splash. After all, the hog had the biggest bottom.
The hog was having so much fun, so it splashed in another puddle.
This time the hog stomped up and down on its hind legs snd waved its front legs, which wasn’t easy because the hog was so big. Puddle water splashed everywhere…
Just look at that happy hog face…
Finally, the dog ran into a puddle, one way, then the other, before flopping down and rolling around and around. The dog was covered with muddy puddle water from the tip of its nose to the end of its tail, except for one spot. Can you find it?
The dog had so much fun. Just look at that happy dog face…..
As I enjoyed watching the frog jump, the hog stomp, and the dog run through the puddles, I was distracted by the cheerful sounds of children playing in the distance.
With my trusty binoculars, I was able to see a boy and girl playing in their own puddles. They wore the perfect boots for jumping, running and stomping, a blue pair and a pink pair.
I wonder who they were…
Do you play in puddles with your friends?
If You Can’t Be There, Then Write A Story: #2, ‘Daisy The Dog Makes A Friend
The first story was a hit with the grandchildren. The video of our son reading it demonstrated they had great interest and even were able to decipher the sketches as to who was who. It was fun writing and illustrating the story. So much so, that I’m trying my hand at it, again.
As a reminder, the story is based on real events, all the way down to the staring.
Enjoy and any tips to help my sketching are appreciated.
Steve
S'amusing 