Baseball remembered

The death of Hank Aaron this week, although sad, stirred up some fun family memories for me. Baseball was a big deal in our family. My father was born and raised in the Bronx, so there was no doubt he was a rabid Yankees fan. With their Murderer's row, Pee Wee Reese, Mickey Mantle, and Roger Maris, who wouldn't be. My mother for one! Her family lived in Brooklyn, so naturally, they loved "dem bums," the Brooklyn Dodgers' well-earned nickname. My Uncle and Aunt were such devoted Dodger fans that in 1945 they planned their wedding around the Dodger's home schedule. They wouldn't tie the knot until the team was on the road, so they didn't miss a home game.

My father and brother could spend hours watching games on TV. Besides rooting for their teams, my father used the time to teach my brother reading (sports pages) and math (baseball is all percentages, ratios, and statistics). I became a fan when I developed a crush on Roger Maris, and I discovered the prizes that came in the Cracker Jacks I ate when we went to the stadium.

When my brother was old enough, he became a Little Leaguer, with my Dad as a coach. One coaching benefit we loved were the boxes of Wrigley's gum (usually Juicy Fruit), we received weekly. We all devoured that gum; I have the cavities to prove it. Along with the uniforms and equipment, the league also sent my brother a metal athletic cup. My sister, young and sports naïve, opened the box, looked at the equipment quizzically, and asked why he needed a gas mask. My brother turned purple and quickly left the room, while my sister got a quick education from my mother. For once, I just watched without saying a word.

My father dragged my sister and me to many of my brother's games and practices. We learned to keep the official score (which impressed future boyfriends), we called up the "on deck" batters and handed out the few sticks of gum we hadn't already pinched. My father, usually extremely competitive, was the most compassionate coach. If a kid wanted to pitch, he let him, even if he was terrible. He really didn't care if the team won; it was more important to teach sportsmanship and share his love of the game. The parents appreciated him and presented him with a well-deserved "Best Coach" trophy at the end of the season.

When we moved to Tucson, we assumed we were not only in a physical desert but a baseball one as well. We were pleasantly surprised when we learned we had arrived at the spring training home of the San Francisco Giants (previously of New York). We went to a number of their games; one where my brother caught a foul ball hit by Willy Mays in a charity game played against the cast of a western filming in old Tucson. At that game, I got to see Paul Newman's blue eyes, up close and personal. It was worth sitting in the blazing sun for that glance into the bluest eyes I had ever seen.

Living in Los Angeles, I was lucky to attend numerous Dodger (previously of Brooklyn) games. I still love the game, even without the Cracker Jack prize. Los Angeles and the Dodgers are both models of diversity, so Cracker Jacks were replaced with nachos when Fernando Valenzuela was pitcher, and sushi, when Hideo Nomo pitched. Even with my love of sushi, Dodger Dogs, beer, and peanuts still rule at the stadium for me. Thanks, Dad, for teaching me to love the game.