33 Summers Chapter Four

1979 was a horrible year for my family. On January 17 my father's hardware store burned down and was a complete loss. On the good side the store was completely insured and was rebuilt in about seven months. The bad part was that for most of those seven months my father was home, with little to do to keep him occupied. My father being around the house was like an innocent person being sentenced to prison for my mother. My father played the part of the warden, constantly criticizing how she did things and how she could get more things done if she was more efficient. The ironic part of all of this was seeing my father give my mother advice on housework, though I had never seen him lift a finger to help out. Any little crisis that happened during this time was blown out of proportion by my father and my mother was always to blame. I remember the washing machine overflowed one time and my father hit the roof. He started yelling at my mother, "You idiot you put too much clothing in here and now all this water is going to ruin the floor." My mother had been using this washer for over seven years, without a hint of a problem, and all of the sudden she forgot how to use it? It seemed clear to even my eight year old mind that it just wasn't the case. My mother just cleaned up the mess without a word or a tear, as she usually did.

I wasn't helping the situation at home either. I was in third grade and I was starting to struggle in school, more specifically I was having trouble with math. I never really cared for math, unless it had to do with baseball statistics, and once I started to struggle I started to act out. Although I am not proud of the fact, if things didn't come easy to me I usually chose to quit rather than put in the hard work, the only exception was baseball. The fact that I had basically quit math did not sit well with the nuns at my catholic school. Sister Catherine, my third grade teacher, tried hard to give me the kick in the ass that I needed, but I definitely got my father's stubborn streak and rebuffed her efforts. She kindly offered to tutor me after school, but I already was sick of school so I wasn't keen on the idea of signing up for more. Then the school got my parents involved and I quickly changed my mind or more accurately had it changed for me. This would be the first time I can remember my father hitting me, but it wouldn't be the last. I knew I was in trouble from the moment I got home from school and my father said he wanted to talk to me.

"Jackie, Sister Catherine called me today and said that you are failing in math. What do you have to say for yourself?" he said.

Although he asked me what I had to say for myself he really wasn't looking for a response. He cut me off as soon as I started talking, though that may have been a blessing for I had nothing for an answer.

"Jackie I am not going to put up with this crap," he yelled at me. "You will do the work that is asked of you, without any questions. You will respect your teachers and shut your mouth. If you need help you can go see your mother that is what she is here for."

"And just to make sure you understand me," my father at this time started to take off his belt. "Come here," he growled. He bent me over his knee and smacked my butt five times with the belt. Tears came to my eyes, but I would not cry, I was trying my mother's way of dealing with my father. As it was happening all I could think was how much it hurt, and yet thank God for pants because at least that cushioned the blow a little bit. My father only said one more word to me that night, as he pointed to the stairs that led to my room, "March." I went up to my room and sniffled on my bed for awhile. Neither my father nor my mother came up to see me that night, as I went without supper and tried to sleep. I could hear my parents arguing a little later, though I could not make out what they were saying. I am pretty sure they were fighting about me.

The rest of the school year I stayed pretty much on track. Math was still a giant pain, but I plowed through the best I could. I stayed after school to work with Sister Catherine and she helped me out as much as she could. I stayed away from home as much as possible, which was strange because I hated school too. I really didn't have any friends, so I couldn't hide out at their house.

Spring arrived and my father wanted to start working on baseball drills with me. I was still holding a grudge about being belted, so I lied and said I had homework to do and I stayed up in my room. This would go on for another couple of weeks, before I broke down. I was trying to hurt my father, but my love of baseball broke my spirit just the way my father wanted it to.

"We've got a couple of weeks to make up for Jackie, so that means double the work," my father said before we started our first baseball lesson of the year. "And just remember Jackie, I'm always right."

In 1979 the United States was experiencing our second energy crisis in seven years. The 1979 crisis was brought about by production issues in Iran due to a revolution, which brought the Ayatollah Khomeini to power. This disruption led to shortages, high prices, and long fuel lines at stations. My father would complain mightily about the rise in gas prices, he was sure it was a conspiracy by the oil companies to gouge American consumers. It was just another thing to light his already short fuse.

I was now in my second year of midget league and was getting better game by game. With my father not working, we worked day and night on infield drills and my swing. I was easily the best and most serious player on my team. I played second base most of the time and occasionally played third base, my true love. By the end of the season I was scorching the ball unlike any other eight year old in the league. The kids would automatically back up when they saw me approach the plate, and at that age it was the ultimate form of respect. My dad and I would go out for ice cream at Fred's so often that year that I got sick of chocolate chip and switched to strawberry.

On August 2 of 1979, one day after my eighth birthday, Yankee fans across the nation, including my father, were rocked by the news that Yankee captain Thurman Munson died in a plane crash. Munson was at the controls of a twin-engine Cessna practicing take offs and landings. In his third practice run the plane missed the runway and crashed killing Munson and injuring two passengers.

I remember watching my father as the special report broke the news of the Munson's death. He stared blankly at the television long after the report finished and didn't say a word. As seriously as my father took baseball this was like losing part of his family, if he had cared about his family. He didn't say much that night and I didn't try to engage him in conversation.

In the next few days my father and I would talk about how much Munson meant to the Yankees. My father would tell how Munson won the Rookie of the Year Award in 1970 and the American league Most Valuable Player Award in 1976.

"It was more than the awards, Jackie, Thurman was the heart and soul of the Yankees, their leader. He played the game the right way, giving it all he had all the time," my father said in an unusually quiet way. "He wouldn't take any crap from anyone."

My father was happy when he heard that Yankee owner, George Steinbrenner, announced that Munson's uniform number 15 would be retired by the Yankees.

The Yankees would finish the year in fourth place 13 1/2 games behind the Baltimore Orioles. The Orioles would eventually go on to face the Pittsburgh Pirates in the World Series. The Pirates used the Sister Sledge song "We Are Family" as an anthem that was embraced by the fans. I heard "We Are Family" almost everywhere I went and grew to hate the song and the Pirates.

The Orioles jumped to a three games to one lead before the Pirates would come roaring back. The Pirates, led by Willie Stargell's three home runs, would win the last three games to close out the series. I remember waiting for the Orioles to do something to take the series, yet they always found a way to come up just short. The 1979 Pirates became the first team I really disliked. I hated their ugly black and yellow uniforms, which seemed to change every game like this was some kind of horrible fashion show. I disliked Willie Stargell because he just seemed old and fat to me. I didn't like Dave Parker either because he seemed so cocky. What I liked least of all though was Kent Tekulve and his goofy glasses and even goofier side arm delivery. It would become clear to me later in life why I hated Tekulve so much, because I never would have much success against guys who pitched side armed.

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