A force of nature, the 9
inning allegory playing out at Boston’s Fenway Park, April 20, 2012, the 100th
birthday bash. Those yesterdays of 1912 dusted off, Tris Speaker making
contact, a clutch hit in the 11th inning, whopping the Highlanders
from the Big Apple.
No imitative Ring Lardner, Joe E. Brown’s
“Alibi Ike” Coop’s “Pride of the
Yankees”Redford’s Natural “ could capture the renaissance enchantment.
A divinity
as in Bogy and Ingrid Bergman recognized their destiny, the twins
Philip&Julius Epstein penning “Casablanca”
Their grandson Theo, playing the
general manager’s role before committing
to the Windy City. His pops Leslie, English Department Chairman, Boston
University..
III
John Updike’s New Yorker portrait of Ted Williams in his “Adieu kid”. A 19 year old
lean&hungry Caesius out of San Diego, metamorphosing into “the greatest
hitter who ever lived.”
Tom Yawkey, the owner, capitalizing on the Babe Ruth Sultan
of Swat persona, Williams
a capricious Nester Achilles who as a Marine pilot played
our his interior nemesis while preserving his timing, left handed swing, wrist
power eyeing the ball&the hurler’s
motion, knowing the fans were also
waiting his return from 2 wars.
IV
A baseball addict from the 1912 pioneering yesterdays at Ebbets Field knew Rancho Mirage was playing out in the reality scenes of Bedford Avenue when the relative Landstown Street behind the green monster at Fenway..the kids waiting with their baskets to catch home runs...
A pageantry here that belies the history, their former
manager Terry Francona getting the largest ovation as he walked in from center
field. Big Poppy (David Ortiz) wheeling Bobby Doer (92) and Johnny Pesky (89)
in their wheel chairs.
A double feature....Burt Lancaster’s “Field of Dreams” and
Marquez’s “Hundred years of Solitude”. As these dreaming alumni spread eagled
from all the exits unto the grass, their profiles flashed on the electronic
screen.
The famous immortals
the well known the ordinary the lesser known and the obscure.
“I thought he was
dead”
V
Unnumbered unnamed uniforms, the ownership going to no
expense to recreate the 100 years. The logo on caps, every detail from “central
casting” The grape juice containers in a toast to these heroes, kids idolizing
their own dreams in their idols who made it from their own little league
dreams.
“I wanna marry you, Zooey of New Jersey. Franny,”
read one sign. The innocence of the miracle playing out brings tears to “Great
expectations” as the planet revolves on its moral axis. Here the dreamer and
“making it to the Major Leagues” was coalesced in the invisibility of Fenway’s
“Field of Dreams”
VI
The vicarious experience is multifaceted. Didn’t Dom
DiMaggio, Joe D’s kid brother joining Bobby Doer and the “Pesky Pole” shortstop
in their eternal quest to the “adieu kid” was coming up for his last ups in the
ninth inning. David Halberstam’s “Friends”
Therefore the myth of
the Prometheus and its allegorical place in the psyche may be gut wrenching in
adolescence..”Eat wheaties, the
breakfast of champions”
The Babe Ruth gloom an doom was finally broken in 2004. The
84 year old drought broken. Fired manager Terry Francona reliving his Verdi
Grand Opera.
Pedro Martinez’s appeared in the historic uniform,. His
poise on the mound indispensable in the tech messaging Blackberry aps of
today’s digital marketplace..
Christie’s auction of Julius Caesar’s bust and Picasso’s six and a half million $
abstract.. Nestor and Achilles of the
Holy Grail. Homer’s “Odyssey”
Ted Williams in his Hamlet like sulking, his brain waves on
his goals...”to be the greatest hitter of all time” . Selfishly or not, wasn’t the game a unifying
challenge.
Get the”w” Tempers
flaring, Ty Cobb spikes flashing , the 21st century Yankees 9 zip in
the sixth, 24 hours later. Yogi Berra’s “it
ain’t over till it’s over” never discouraged, making one of the greatest
comebacks of all time.....15-9.,completing the Hundred Years of the “Field of
Dreams”..
VII
Emotions running high. A new brain trust with Bobby
Valentine, the former Met and Japanese master mind, getting booed as he trotted
out to the mound, signaling for a reliever from the bullpen.
Shades of the Brooklyn Dodgers own 1912 pyrotechnics. Hugh
Casey Fat Freddy
Fitzimmons in the war(WW2) time years at Ebbets.
VIII
Caroline Kennedy, JFK’s daughter, and Ted’s niece, threw out
one of the first pitches. Neil Diamond not in attendance for his “Sweet
Caroline”/
You had the feeling that “Chariot of the fires” was playing
out. That the underdog “Nation” had seen “Casablanca” and it was time to move
on as they say by the knothole kids, sitting in the bleachers.
IX
A pleasure principle,
being with old friends, reliving our youth, growing up. Mortality not on the
awakening field of Fenway. Life was
still long.
These were mirror of
ourselves. Our heroes prancing up and down. Pounding their mitts, breaking
bats, spitting tobacco juice, powdering their grip, knocking the dirt out of
their spikes.
Steroid enhancing testerone like injections not on the
menue. Although the Texas born pitching star Roger Clements, was not present. A
no show, obviously.
“Alibi Ike” playing out, Joe E. Brown waving his hands,
hitting his chest with those cues in hit
and run dramatics.
X
Meanwhile those grown up knothole kids a long way from
Chavez Ravine and Bedford Avenue’s simulcast sipped their grape juice. The Mad
Russian mudged Ish Kabibbel . “Bases
loaded. Going for the distance. What say Ish?,” scanning his amigo’s
scorecard. .
Park yer Carcus and Leches Pete speechless ”Bigger than Jackie Robinson stealing home on
a squeeze bunt. The dust from his spikes, drifting up toward the grandstand.”
The four exiles from Brooklyn touched their cups for the
toast. A blessing to their stamina and endurance in circumventing their own mortality
as “the Field of Dreams was playing out. Their stub clenching yesterdays, long
since vanished into those watersheds of adolescence and schoolboy alliances.
XI
There were stains of drips on their scorecards. Were they
tears? Or grape joice? Either way they were relics of growing up. Carl Furillo,
“Cookie” Lavagetto, Pete Reiser smashing into the center field wall, ‘Ducky”Joe
Medwick, once of the St. Louis Cards Gas House gang. Leo pouncing from the
dugout “Nice guys finish last”
One immortal, the
other just glad to be alive.
XII
“But enough,” said Leches Pete. “There’s no place for
sentimentality in our “Field of Dreams”“Right, Park yer Caracas?”
“I agree,” said the grown up kid, beholden to only
knuckleball hurlers. “What do you think, Ish?”
“I go with the crowd. I never been a rebel. An original
thinker,” said Ish Kabbible. “And you the Mad Russian? What do have to say for
yourself?”
“Pray continue, you Gods of baseball. We’re in
your debt, forever.”
The city that never sleeps, April 22, 2012
