“Baseball Blood”

It’s the official start of Baseball season in the USA! America’s favorite national pastime is in full swing. Batter up! Somewhere between love of family and good old American and Italian values comes our crazy love for baseball. It’s a close second to the love of family and on most days higher than our beloved religion. Not God Almighty, but the church. I can’t remember the last time we willingly went to mass on Sunday. But, if Mickey Mantle or Babe Ruth were preaching I’m sure we would have had front pew seats.

My father’s Uncle Carl Furillo played for the Brooklyn Dodgers. You might know him as the “Reading Rifle” Or “The Arm” Or “Skoonj.” He was on the 1955 World Series team with such greats as Pee Wee Reese, Gil Hodges, Jackie Robinson, and Duke Snyder. He was surely one of my father’s heroes and it didn’t hurt his ego that it was his uncle.

My grandfather Nick Furillo played in the minor leagues before he got the call for duty in World War II. Like so many talented men of his generation his dreams got cut short due to the war. He traded in his baseball bat and glove for a rifle and a prayer. Before he left he taught his younger brother, Carl, how to play ball!

On Saturday’s and Sunday’s I was sure to hear Harry Kalas on the tube and see Mike Schmidt on third. Tug McGraw was my favorite and I guess it’s no wonder that his country music singing son, Tim, is my favorite singer. That’s a double hitter of success for you.

Right smack dab in the middle of “It’s outta here!” and “Janine can you come change the channel for me?” was my father lying on the couch enjoying the game. I was the remote and at times the gofer. That’s what little girls with curls were for their adoring father’s in the eighties.

There’s just something about baseball that always brings a smile to my dad’s face. He coached my brother’s baseball teams for years. And, every year I would throw on my helmet and fetch the bats! I loved the boys like every other girl. But, being in the dugout made me a stand out. I was the best they ever had!

My Poppop Nick would come to the field with a cigar dangling from his mouth and throw fast balls and curves like no young kid had ever seen before. The Diamond is where my family loved to be. The men played and the women cheered them on.

Those hot summer days were special to me and my family. So much so, that I have some of my happiest memories when I think about family and baseball. Whenever my dad brings out the baseballs signed by the 1955 World Series Dodgers and Carl Furillo cards I can’t help but feel proud. I had nothing to do with it, but it’s still part of my family history. It’s my name.

Just seeing my dad light up when he coached little league is a highlight in my memory reel. My brother was an excellent player until he got injured and couldn’t play anymore.

To this day the kids I grew up still talk about Mr. Furillo and what a great coach he was to them. To me, he was just my baseball loving dad. And, don’t argue with him because he knows everything about the game. Just ask him.

In 1989 I sat at my grandfather’s funeral. He was only seventy years old. I sat next to Carl, his brother, at the viewing waiting for the long line of admiration, respect, family and friends to end. They were both husky big boned men. They had hands that made the baseballs look like marbles. They were country boys with parents who spoke broken English and came from Naples, Italy. They just wanted to give their kids the American dream. And, what better way then a baseball legend and a brother who taught him the game that he couldn’t play for himself.

Every single time I watch “Field of Dreams” and Kevin Costner is pitching to “Shoeless” Joe Jackson, I can’t help but wonder if that’s the kind of reunion my family will have. Carl died only two weeks after his big brother, Nick. It ignites a surge of emotion in my soul. Baseball isn’t always about winning it’s about the love of the game. Sometimes it’s just about the love of family.

I played baseball with my brother so many times on the grass behind my grandparent’s house between the deck and my Poppop’s garden that I can’t remember how many times he struck me out. Right there in Old Baseballtown we created some more family history. It was our time to dream and my Poppop’s time to teach us.

There’s nothing more American than this dream and nothing more family to me than baseball.

It’s in the ball, the bat, and the blood.

"A Simple Wish"

I sat with my arms folded on the kitchen table. There were crumbs of plenty from the bread we broke and pasta piled high. The fresh mozzarella melted in our mouths. The meal was good, the conversation was interesting, and the company was great. It was a dinner celebration for my Poppop’s 87th birthday.

It was spur of the moment. Getting everyone in the family together is hard. So, I kept it simple and just invited my grandparents. At dinner my Poppop pulled out his own cheese. Yes, his very own Locatelli. Mine wasn’t good enough. He got his from the House of Cheese in South Philly in the Italian Market. Well, one could still call it that, but there are only a few good stores left. Just a little authenticity along the fish, fruit, and Japanese fan filled sidewalks.

He joked that my cheese was not as good. Not as sharp and tasty as his. I laughed and let it go because whatever makes him happy makes me happy. He’s probably right anyway.

We shared stories about my great grandparents. Poppop’s father froze to death out on the family farm. Nobody knew he was out there for a couple of days. He must have hit his head in a bad fall. He was only seventy-five. Nobody should die like that.

“He was strong as an ox.” Poppop said.

“He was a gentle giant.” Nana chimed in.

His mother lived till she was ninety-six. A long life for sure, but beat by her older sister who made it to the ripe old age of one hundred and one.

And, my great grandmother's healthy diet consisted of killing the pigs and draining the blood. You know what she did with that blood? She fried it and ate it.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing, that’s gross!” I shouted!!!!

But, she did. They all did. It was different times. But, they lived long. Who says pork is bad for you?

I think I have some good genes. Here’s for hoping. Oh, and I won’t be eating any blood, or killing any chickens in my backyard.

Dinner served! The plates were hitting the table and the forks were in hand. The family history class would have to resume in a little while.

After Poppop sprinkled on his beloved grated magic, we all sat in silence. That’s a good sign when everyone is eating and not talking. At least for the cook! In this case, that was me. I haven’t been making spaghetti and meatballs for sixty some years like Nana but I did well and got the thumbs up. Mission completed.

After we ate we were onto the desert. Cannoli’s! That put a smile on everyone’s face. Halfway through desert I realized that I forgot a cake and forgot to sing “Happy Birthday” to my lovely guest of honor! I had no time to leave and come back so I rummaged through my kitchen junk drawer and found some candles! Voila! I stuck one in my Poppop’s half eaten cannoli and we sang Happy Birthday in harmony!

“Make a wish, Pop!” I shouted.

“I wish for one more year.” He said.

"You better wish for breaking the family record and hitting 102 because I'm not even close to done with you yet." I declared.

I felt my eyes well up with tears. Here sits the man that always bought me chocolate treats, yelled at me to let up on my lead foot, and poked fun at me (in a loving way) my entire life. And, he’s wishing for just one more year?

While he was wishing…I was praying.