The Greatest Day in Baseball

The Greatest Day in Baseball

by Lisa Marie Crane

Many Years Ago

Play ball! Those words (often thought to be the last two words of our national anthem) conjure images of peanuts, hotdogs, lazy summer afternoons, home runs, and stolen bases. Fans roar or jeer as hometown heroes round the bases or drop a high fly ball.

Autumn brings the finale of the season — the World Series. Die-hard fans camp out in front of the TV or dig into their life savings to buy a ticket. Old-timers remember the greatest games, series, or players from their youth: the Miracle Mets, the ’55 Dodgers, Joe DiMaggio, Sandy Koufax, or the Phillies (do you remember) of 1980.

Yes, big-league baseball thrills many a fan but the game the goes down in my Hall of Fame was played on an old grass field in a Little League park by a bunch of kids in scruffy uniforms fielding with their fathers’ gloves. And the greatest player of all time is my brother Joe.

Joe ate, drank, and slept baseball. He could quote statistics back to the first-ever league game. Baseball greats decorated the walls of his room and his card collection was his pride and joy. Greatest games? He’d give you the play-by-play. Greatest players? Joe knew everything from their earned-run averages to their mothers’ maiden names. 

Joe carried an old red transistor radio everywhere with him. I’ll never forget sitting in a rowboat in the middle of the Great South Bay fishing — my father and I reading our books, and Joe with his ear glued to the radio hoping to pick up the faint static of the Phillies playing the Mets.

To put it simply, Joe loved baseball.

Now Joe played baseball too. From the Minors to the Majors to the Seniors in Little League, he never missed a game. Standing out on that crabgrass field talking it up, Joe was in heaven.

There was only one problem: Joe lacked the natural talent necessary for immortality. In other words, the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. That never stopped Joe. He gave his all playing right field for six years, stepping up to challenge the pitcher and swinging at those impossible pitches. His teammates dubbed him “Joltin’Joe.” Once in awhile, he’d get a walk, but mostly he went down swinging. 

I was the designated fan in my family that year. Dad was managing my brother Paul’s team in the Majors and Mom was home with the little kids. I sat in the stands at either brothers’ game, looking up from my book when Paul pitched or when Joe got up to bat.

It was a typical game. Joe played right field and kept the statistics from the bench. My friend Barbara and I chatted in the stands checking out the local talent (we were fourteen). The seventh inning came and Joe was on deck. Barbara and I and the rest of the six or seven fans glanced up to see who was up and went back to our conversations. It was only Joe. He’d either walk or strike out — nothing to get excited about.

Joe took a couple of practice swings then stepped into the box. The pitcher tossed a good one right over the plate. He wasn’t worried. It was only Joe. Joe sized it up and swung, and, for the first time, connected with the ball. It sailed high over his head and into foul territory.

“Strike one,” called the umpire.

Barbara and I looked up at the crack of the bat. Could it be that Joe had finally hit one?

“Way to go, Joe!” we cheered. 

This was an event. Joe had hit the ball. The pitcher wound up and lobbed another. CRACK! Joe smacked it again! Barbara and I jumped to our feet. The rest of the crowd looked up. The ball veered to the left and drifted into foul territory. Barbara and I hooted and clapped wildly.

The pitcher leaned back and put his arm into the next one. Joe’s team lined up against the fence in the dugout. The ball sailed over the plate where Joe stood ready. POW! The ball doubled back into foul territory again and the crowd went wild.

“Joe, Joe, Joe, Joe!” the crowd chanted.

Three fouls but Joltin’ Joe was still in the game. Joe bent into his stance. The pitcher glanced at his manager, nodded to his catcher, and hurled the ball. We held our breath. The ball whistled through the air. The Senators hung on the fence. Joe’s gaze held steady. He swung. 

WHAM! Joe smashed the ball with all his might. The ball rocketed over his head, the catcher reached up — and caught it. Joltin’ Joe had fouled out.

It didn’t matter. The crowd roared. Joe’s teammates ran out and slapped him on the back. Barbara and I bounced up and down and hugged each other. After six years of living and breathing for the game, Joe had finally hit the ball.

World Series come and go. Every year brings new heroes and miracle plays. But when it comes time to vote for the most valuable player, my vote still goes to Joe — and any other kid who loves the game and gives it all they’ve got. 

So go out and root for the home team, but don’t forget the Little Leaguers living in your house, the kids who give all they’ve got in baseball, ballet, piano lessons, or math. They’re the real Hall of Famers in my book —right up there with Joe. 

All the Lonely People

All the Lonely People

Have you heard about the loneliness pill? According to researchers at the University of Chicago’s Brain Dynamics Laboratory, loneliness can be cured with medication. Scientists have determined that loneliness weakens immune systems leading to illness. People going through transitions, leaving for college, changing jobs, moving to a new community, or losing friends and family when aging, become socially isolated. Chronic loneliness can affect the brain and body. 

Today, more people live alone, fewer are getting married, and fewer married couples are having children than ever before. In former days, people were surrounded by family as they aged. In our mobile society, family members scatter. Getting together happens less often. Family safety nets disappear. Growing older when alone is twice as daunting as when surrounded by family and friends. Loss of mobility, hearing, sight, or even purpose, isolates seniors which can lead to depression.

Loneliness can strike anywhere. Adults can feel lonely in a crowd or at a party.  Children can feel alone at school. Teens can feel alone online. Feeling unwanted, unneeded, or useless, even temporarily, causes stress and sadness. 

Loneliness is daunting. In the classic Beatles’ song, “Eleanor Rigby,” Eleanor is socially isolated, sweeping up rice at the church after a wedding she didn’t attend, waiting at the window for someone who will never come. Father McKenzie “writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear,” darns his socks alone. Both lonely people, working at the same church, neither offering the other company. The chorus lays it all out, “Ah, look at all the lonely people. Where do they all belong?”

 

Belonging is the key. All people need to feel necessary and wanted. How can we make this happen? We must connect. Wouldn’t it have been wonderful if Father McKenzie had asked Eleanor’s opinion of his sermon? What if they had shared a quiet supper after the wedding? At the end of the song, Father McKenzie walks away from the grave of Eleanor. No one came to her funeral. He wipes Eleanor from his hands just as he does the dirt from her burial. If he had used those same hands to reach out in friendship to Eleanor, he might have cured both his loneliness and hers. 

Before we turn to medication, we should turn to one another to make connections that support those who are lonely. Do we make time to visit elderly friends? Do we call our scattered family members? Do we invite our new neighbors to join us for supper? Do we open the doors of our clubs, churches, and community centers to everyone? Do we walk outside the doors and welcome people in? Are we looking for the lonely people? 

During times of high risk for loneliness, times of transition, we must reach out to those around us. Loneliness is cured by connection. If you are lonely, reach out. If you know someone who is lonely, reach out. Making connections lifts the spirit and supports physical health. Look for the lonely people and help them belong. No pill necessary.

Historic Memories

Historic Memories

We were enjoying a day in Historic Philadelphia with our fifteen-year-old grandson, Phillip. We had visited The Declaration House where Thomas Jefferson penned his masterpiece. We watched a movie about the Birth of Freedom at the Constitution Center. We took photos in front of the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall. While waiting to tour the rooms where Independence was declared, I overheard a conversation between a mother and her teenage daughter.

“This is so boring. Why did you make me come here,” groaned daughter.

“I thought you might learn something, “ replied Mom.

“I won’t learn anything because I won’t remember any of this,” said the teen.

As I listened, I thought about our day with Phillip. He had listened patiently to the guides and his grandparents as we related American historical facts. Perhaps he wouldn’t remember any of it. But while touring, we had also related our memories of our times in these places.

We each recalled visiting Philadelphia with our school classes when the Liberty Bell was still housed in Independence Hall. We had stuck our fingers in the crack. We toured the Federal Mint and watched real money being made. We threw pennies on Ben Franklin’s grave for good luck.

I recalled a trip with my California cousins. We bought soft pretzels and toured Betsy Ross’s house. We visited the site of Ben Franklin’s house and printing shop.

All thirteen of us stood at the base the statue of John Barry with the famous clocktower of Independence Hall looming over us. We were hot and tired but happy.

Many years later, my fiancé and I traveled into the city to buy our engagement ring. We wandered into Independence Square and asked someone to take a photo of us with the clocktower behind us to mark this historic day. We toured holding hands and grinning shyly at one another. We return every year to recreate our happy day.

We made many memories at Independence Hall. Once, I ranted about the lack of a plaque for John Adams, the Atlas of Independence, on the site as my son and husband drifted slowly away pretending they didn’t know me. My daughter fainted during the tour when she was eight. Three-year-old Phillip had a bout of illness when we visited again with those same California cousins. We crowded around the same statue to recreate memories of our childhood days.

This trip, Phillip listened attentively to the tour guides who spoke of American history and to his grandparents who shared family history. He might not recall all the stories of history but we hope he will remember the stories of our lives. The teen who complained to her mother might remember something too — the mother who loved her enough to share a meaningful day with her.  

Before we left, we threw pennies on Ben Franklin’s grave for good luck — the good luck of sharing family memories and love.  

Digitized Care

Digitized Care

In 1964, My father lost a leg to cancer. He didn’t slow down one bit. He spent the next 30 years on crutches raising six children, coaching Little League, volunteering, running for office, and traveling around the world on business. In April 1993, he had emergency by-pass surgery. This slowed him down — slightly.

My sister’s wedding was scheduled for June and my father was determined to walk her down the aisle. Not yet back to full strength, he drove 400 miles to the wedding. As a small concession to his recovery, he rented a wheelchair for walking long distances. On the wedding day, which was also my parent’s 38th anniversary, Dad walked my sister down the aisle. He enjoyed the rest of the day in the rented wheelchair. 

Flash forward twenty years. Still on crutches, Dad had slowed down a bit due to severe gout. He applied to his health-care system for a wheelchair. They responded that since he had returned a more-sophisticated wheelchair twenty years earlier and was now applying for a simpler one, he must have “gotten better.”  Request denied.

We were stunned. But being the family we are, we asked him if he had grown a new leg since we last visited. We were also angry. No one had examined my father or even asked him any questions. He had been denied sight-unseen.

Patients today, despite huge technological advances in care, have become less and less visible to the healthcare system. A patient consults a doctor who arrives carrying a computer. She taps at the keyboard while symptoms are described. While they chat, the doctor orders tests, forwards information to other doctors. makes notes in her records, and sends a prescription to the printer. Her data is analyzed by insurance companies and healthcare systems who decide if the care should be covered or denied.

The introduction of computers has made medical care more efficient but less personal. Abraham Verghese, physician, educator, and author of many books, worries that the “human connections” of medicine are being lost in the digital age. Time-harried doctors can’t look at their patients, listen to their stories, or know who they are. The cornerstone of medicine — one person caring for another — is lost when computers step between patient and doctor.

After struggling two more years on crutches, my father finally got his wheelchair.  His caring doctor who knew him well, resubmitted the application, clearly stating my father’s condition and his need, and his request was approved. We still laugh about the “new” leg but also wonder how many others don’t get the care they need. Many people remain unseen — those without families, insurance, advocates, or money. 

Doctors are people. Patients are people. People are not data. When healthcare policies are based on data alone, much is lost. Digital medicine cannot replace the compassion a good doctor offers his patients. Health does not happen without caring. 

Pleasant-ly!

Pleasant-ly

My father was a card-carrying member of the Grammar Police. He infuriated his children, who were just trying to make an argument for getting their way, by insisting on correct grammar at all times. He loved nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, and obscure tenses that nobody ever needs to use — as I often insisted. Dad earned his commission from his mother, a first-generation immigrant who loved words and English — her second language.

I continued my father’s commission by slyly correcting friends during conversations and by shouting at the radio and television when grammar mistakes were made: Live fearless-LY! Not less calories — fewer! Got milk? No, Do you have milk? I carried a virtual Sharpie to correct misusage in signs, “Let(apostrophe)s go.” I erased commas and corrected spelling as I strolled the mall and rewrote scripts while watching movies. I especially jumped on misused words: You have fewer coins but less money. It is between two friends, not among them. I walked my beat with diligence and felt smug in my GC — grammatical correctness. 

As a parent, I introduced my children to words and usage. As a teacher, I didn’t have the same control since children come to school already speaking. I gently reinforced correct grammar in verbal exchanges and wielded my red pen judiciously. 

One day, while exercising my red pen, I tuned the radio to an interview show. The calming tones of Mr. Rogers filled the room. The host asked Fred about his childhood. Fred had been a quiet boy, overweight, lonely, and often ill, spending hours  in bed playing with his toy soldiers in, he noted, “the land of counterpane.” 

Then came a seminal moment in my life. The host asked Fred if gazing out the window during his illness triggered his imagination. I gasped. Every good grammarian knows that “The Land of Counterpane” refers to a Robert Louis Stevenson poem and has nothing to do with windows. A counterpane is a bedspread. I waited for Mr. Rogers to refer to the poem or correct the host, but he didn’t. He paused and said that yes, being alone so much did trigger his imagination. 

I put down my pen. Mr. Rogers, an intelligent man, an accomplished musician and composer, well-versed in child psychology, and an ordained minister surely could have corrected his interviewer and been well-justified. But Fred chose to be pleasant instead. 

In the movie Harvey, Elwood P. Dowd. an older gentleman whose best friend is an imaginary six-foot rabbit is asked by a doctor why he persists in his delusion. He answers, “Years ago my mother used to say to me, she'd say, ‘In this world, Elwood, you must be… oh so smart or oh so pleasant.’ Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.”

That day, in my quiet classroom, I decided to be more like Fred. I maintain my commission with the Grammar Police but have abandoned my club of correctness. Now instead of being oh-so-correct, I try to be oh-so-pleasant when editing or conversing. Speak well but live pleasant-ly. Fred, Elwood, and I recommend it. 

(Writer’s note: I am still working on this!)

You Are [Not] Special

 

You are [Not] Special

In 2012, David McCullough, Jr, a teacher at Wellesley High School, gave a commencement speech which made national news. He told the graduates who had been “pampered, cosseted, doted upon, helmeted, [and] bubble-wrapped” by the many adults in their lives, the awful truth: “You are not special. You are not exceptional.” This admonition struck a chord with many because it countered Mister Fred Rogers catchphrases: “You are special,” and “You’ve made this day special by just your being you.” 

Mr. McCullough asserted that many young people feel entitled to specialness because they had been indulged by parents, affirmed by teachers, and serenaded by Fred Rogers. Parents ensured that their children got the very best, that they were at the front of the line, that they did not fail. Teachers praised every small effort. Mr. Rogers told them that he liked them “just the way they are.”

Mr. McCullough noted that there were thousands of graduates with equal or superior credits and that they were not the center of the universe despite what their parents, teachers, coaches, and almost every adult in their lives had told them. He told them that true worth is not measured by accolades but by genuine achievement. 

Mister Rogers did tell them that they were special. He did like them just the way they were. But he did not mean that they were exceptional or more worthy than anyone else. He sang, “You are my friend, You are special, You’re special to me.” In his songs and on his shows, he was telling children that they had a friend, someone who was looking out for them, someone who accepted them as they were. They were special because he cared for them.

Some children watching Mister Rogers did not have secure lives with loving parents. His gentle voice and close attention might have been the only affirmation they got. Many children who watched did have happy families. Fred taught them to appreciate everyone, even those who are different, because “everybody’s fancy, everybody’s fine” and everyone is worthy of friendship. That’s how you are special — because you can have friends and be one.

Mr. McCullough told young people to live worthy lives. Mister Rogers did too. He welcomed everyone into his world. Everyone in his neighborhood has a place and is respected. Mr. McCullough told the graduates that a fulfilling life was not “something that fell into your lap” but was something that was earned through honest effort. Mister Rogers told children that life would be fulfilling when you treated everyone like a friend.

Mr. McCullough ended his speech with the hope that the graduates would “discover [that] the great and curious truth of the human experience is that selflessness is the best thing you can do for yourself. The sweetest joys of life, then, come only with the recognition that you’re not special. Because everyone is.” 

Mister Rogers would agree. 

(I encourage you to read McCullough’s book, You Are Not Special… and Other Encouragements and to watch Mister Rogers Neighborhood on PBS or online.)

Harry Potter and The Soul of America

 

Harry Potter and the Soul of America   

In Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Dementors, dark creatures who feed on human happiness board the Hogwarts Express: “Dementors are among the foulest creatures that walk this earth … they drain peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them… every good feeling, every happy memory, will be sucked out of you.” A Dementor’s kiss will not kill you — it will suck out your soul.

What is the soul? Socrates defined the soul as the animating force of reality. The Bible defines it as the living breath of creation. The soul defines a person’s very being. People have individual souls. Nations also have souls — animating forces that define them as one people with common beliefs. 

In The Soul of America: The Battle for Our Better Angels, Jon Meacham defines the soul as a “belief in the existence of an immanent collection of convictions, dispositions, and sensitivities that shape character and inform conduct.” The soul is “the vital center, the core, the heat, the essence of [American] life.”

What is animating the soul of America today? What values do we hold in common? Who and what is shaping our national character? What defines the essence of American life? 

Political animus is battering the American soul. Fractures in the government and the nation chip at our common values until our unity is shattered. Attack replaces debate. Fractions replace consensus. Fear replaces convictions. 

Edmund Burke wrote, “No passion so effectively robs the mind of all of its powers of acting and reasoning as fear.” The current political atmosphere feeds on our fears. Meacham writes, “Fear feeds anxiety and produces anger… Fear is about limits…  Fear points at others, assigning blame.” A nation’s soul withers when fear rules. Can the American soul be saved?

To defeat the Dementors, Harry summons a Patronus, an embodiment of hope. Will hope also save our American soul? Eleanor Roosevelt wrote, “Surely, in the light of history, it is more intelligent to hope rather than to fear, to try rather than to not try.” Meacham writes, “hope… breeds optimism and feelings of well-being… hope is about growth… hope looks forward, toward the horizon… hope points ahead, working for the common good. Fear pushes away; hope pulls others closer. Fear divides; hope unifies.”

Harry summons his deepest hopes and defeats the Dementors. His soul is safe.  Meacham concludes, “Hope is sustaining. Fear can be overcome.” Hope triumphs over fear wherever people listen to one another, work together for the collective good, or walk forward with a common goal. As long as citizens summon their deepest hopes to defeat their fears the American soul is safe. We must not allow anger and fear to direct our actions. A unified purpose, based on common convictions, animates our American soul and shapes our American character.

Harry Potter’s teacher explains: "You can exist without your soul, … But you'll have no sense of self anymore, no memory, no...anything. There's no chance at all of recovery. You just — exist. As an empty shell. And your soul is gone forever…lost." Will America lose its soul? We must remember our common purpose as a nation and rely on our “better angels” to guide us. 

Eleanor Roosevelt wrote, “The course of history is directed by the choices we make and our choices grow out of the ideas, the beliefs, the dreams of the people.” Harry learns, “It is our choices … that show what we truly are.” 

Our nation is shaped by its choices. Let us choose hope. 

(All quotations are from The Soul of America: The Battle for Our Better Angels by Jon Meacham (2018) and the Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling.)