33 Summers Chapter Two

1977 for many people will always be remembered as the year Elvis Presley died. Elvis was a shell of his former self at the end but still had amazing star power. Who else could get away with wearing sequined white jumpsuits and still be considered somewhat cool? His career is often looked at as two separate periods, the young Elvis and the old Elvis. The young Elvis had hit after hit on the music charts, starred in movies with the most beautiful women of the era, and was the essence of cool. The old Elvis liked drugs and fried peanut butter sandwiches too much, became a virtual recluse, and was defeated by his demons. Elvis hadn't had a top ten single since "Burning Love" in 1972. In 1977 the airwaves were being dominated by Debby Boone's "You Light up My Life" and Andy Gibb's "I Just Want to Be Your Everything," not quite up to the star wattage of Elvis. Years later, coincidentally, Gibb would lose his battle with drug addiction just like Elvis, so I guess they did have one thing in common.

1977 was memorable to me for three other reasons. That summer was the first time my father allowed me to swing a bat. I loved taking my cuts even though I rarely made contact. Even back then I was swinging from my heels, trying to hit it as far as I could. Sometimes when I did make contact the bat would cause my hands to sting, but that didn't faze me in the least, in fact I kind of liked it. My father always insisted I use a wooden bat. "Just like they do in the majors," he would say. My father would spend hours teaching me my swing, correcting things I was doing wrong. At first he was almost gentle and beamed with pride at his little boy. The problems started when I repeated the same mistake, which was something my father couldn't stand or understand.

"What is wrong with you, are you retarded?" he said more than once to me.

I responded at first with tears, but that just made him angrier.

"Boys don't cry. Crying is for babies and little girls," he said.

I would learn to respond to his insults with anger, which was something he was all too familiar with and strangely respected. I would grip the bat tighter and try to hit it right back at him as hard as I could. The scary part of all this is in a weird way his teaching style seemed to work with me, to some extent. When he insulted me it drove me to try to prove him wrong. He was harsh with me, yet I still craved his approval. I didn't hate him yet; hell I was like a dog just looking for a pat on the head.

The second memory of that summer was my mother's car accident. She was driving down Church St. in town when a cat crossed in front of her and she slammed on her brakes. She missed the cat, but unfortunately an older gentleman behind her didn't notice her braking and hit her from behind. My mother's head snapped forward and hit the steering wheel, leaving a nasty bump on her forehead and injuring her neck. She wore a neck brace for the next three weeks. She never complained about the pain I could see she was in. She still took care of me and the house, yet my father would still find fault and ridicule her.

"I just don't understand why the hell you would slam on your brakes for a worthless cat. I would have just run the damn thing over," he said. "Just another reason why women shouldn't be allowed to drive."

About a week after the accident I found my mother crying. It would be one of the few times in my life that I would see her shed a tear, though my father gave her many reasons to. When I found her I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing and turned around and left the room. Looking back years later I felt like I just left her there to twist in the wind all by her lonesome. I was only six years old at the time, but maybe just a hug would have helped ease some of her pain. This may have been the first time I let my mother down, but it would soon become a ritual.

The third memory was a much happier one, at least for my father. The Yankees were back in the World Series for the second straight year. The Yankees were able to win the series against the Los Angeles Dodgers four games to two. New York finished the series with the help of three home runs from Reggie Jackson in game six. My father was so happy after that game and told me that I could do the same thing one day. It was probably then that I first wanted to be like Reggie. He concentrated on hitting home runs and getting RBI, rather than worrying about his batting average. Reggie struck out a lot, but when he made contact people took notice. Reggie was a star and seemed to be able to do whatever he wanted. Reggie had the power in more ways than one. He was a star and he knew it and he wasn't going to take any grief from anyone. He was going to do it his way or he wasn't doing it at all. Reggie, at this time, was the young Elvis of baseball.

Follow this link to chapter 3.

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