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.
