33 Summers Chapter One

Memories are odd little things. They can be happy or sad and illicit a whole range of emotions. Yet memories are one of the few things that are truly your own, for no two people remember the same event exactly the same way. Your previous experiences have an effect on the way you see and perceive things. The following are my memories, and you can take them for what they are worth, for it is what I have left to offer.

Jack Mathis

March 27, 2008

The first memories I have of my childhood are of me and my father, James Mathis, playing catch in the backyard. I was about 5 years old and even back then I can remember my father telling me that I would someday play for the Yankees. I'm not sure I believed him then or not, but the seed was firmly planted.

"Jackie if you listen to me, we can go all the way to the majors," he would say. "I can see you in pinstripes now."

I would hear that mantra the whole time I was growing up. Even then I could see my mom, Ellen, looking out the window shaking her head and smiling. Over the years that smile would fade away, and so would she.

"Jackie pay attention to what you are doing, not your mom," my father would say. "You always have to keep your eyes on the ball."

I know I didn't realize it then, but my father had a subtle way of brushing my mom to the side and making her insignificant. Unfortunately over the years he would be less subtle.

"You can't worry about the people watching you; they can't help you when you are on the field. Stay focused, that is the only way to succeed and reach our goals," he would say.

I would then pull my hat down so that it almost completely covered my eyes and throw the ball back to him as hard as I could.

"Thata boy, get angry," he would respond.

Anger and I would become real close in the coming years.

I was an only child born August 1, 1971 in the small village of Greenville, Rhode Island. My father always told me he was happy I was a boy, for he had no idea what he would have done with a little girl. He owned a small hardware store in town that did a decent business, but he never seemed happy with his work. He would come home and complain about his customers and how helpless they all were. He was an All-American baseball player at the University of Texas and even played in the low minors in the Giants organization before he blew out his elbow. Although his arm would be physically fine he never seemed to recover from the injury mentally.

My mother was "just a housewife" according to my father. She was a very quiet woman, even with me. She always made sure I was dressed in nice clothes and kept me well fed with home cooked meals, but she always seemed a little distant. That was probably because of my father, who ruled not only with an iron fist but also an iron tongue. If you stepped out of line he always came up with the perfect words to take you down a notch, the kind that stung and buzzed around in your head, like an angry hornet trapped in a glass jar.

The one thing my mother passed on to me was an appreciation of music, something my father said was a complete waste of time, probably because he had no talent in that area. She would often sing when we were alone, never when my father was around. I believe these were her happiest moments. She would sing James Taylor's "You've Got a Friend" to me at night sometimes, telling me the song was number one on the charts when I was born. She sang in her chorus in high school and dreamed of a career in music, a dream that was long dead and buried by the time I came around.

My dad and I would play catch like this all summer long, with my father dispensing his thoughts on various topics as he would do for years to come. It was 1976 and the country was celebrating its bicentennial. My father would tell me what a great country we lived in and how the opportunity was mine, I just had to grab it. I remember seeing the tall ships in New York and the huge fireworks displays across the country. The country seemed to get swept up in a wave of patriotism and my father was not immune.

The wave of good feeling quickly left my father when October arrived. The Yankees were taking on the Reds in the 1976 World Series. My father's mood often mirrored the fortunes of the Bronx Bombers. The Yankees were in the series for the first time in twelve years so that made my father happy, but the fact that they got swept, sent his emotions to the other end of the spectrum. I can remember him cursing at the Big Red Machine and especially their catcher, Johnny Bench.

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