Missing Buckets

The Mohawks new softball season started for last Saturday night. We lost 15-3 and 13-7, which isn't so bad for a team that didn't practice much.

By our own admission, we stunk. We didn't hit well. We didn't field well. And when my eyes and my right hand finally agreed on exactly where to place the ball for strikes, the ball ended well beyond the left center field fence.

Not only did we play poorly, but we almost started our first games of the season short two players. We only had 8 of our guys were on the field, and needed 10 to start the game. We could play with 9 or even 8, but it would make for some very tired outfielders, especially since we play two 7-inning games. When that happens, you can do one of two things: forfeit or ask a player you know from another team in the league to fill in.

While forfeitures happen, it's not a cool thing to do because there's another team that's also making a commitment to play. Typically, you sign 15 or more guys on your roster to avoid situations like these. But life happens, so you do the next best thing -- try and grab a fill in player. That conversation between desperate manager and fill-in player goes something like this:

Manager (on cell phone with a regular player): Whaddya mean you can't make it tonight? You're at a what? A christening of your wife's 2nd cousin's 6th child? You gotta be kiddin' me.

(Manager closes cell phone).

Manager (to no one in particular): Oh great...now I only have 8. Hey potential fill in, you feel like playing tonight? I could use a guy.

Potential fill in: Sure. I'll help you out tonight. Where do you need me to play?

As a former manager, I've had to do this alot despite my best efforts to hand out a schedule and follow up with e-mail reminders. None of it ever worked. This is why I quit managing the Mohawks. But when I was the manager, there was always one guy I could always rely on to fill in for us in a pinch -- Gennaro "Gerry Buckets" D'Ambrosio.

Buckets was a retired union painter and one of the founding players of the softball league I play in. I met him about 9 years ago when he was in his early 50s and nowhere near past his prime athletically. He could hit, field and run better than alot of his younger contemporaries, and hardly ever missed a game. From the stories I heard, the play I witnessed was nothing compared to how good he was when he was in his 20s and 30s. Back then, the older timers tell, there was none better that Buckets. All agreed that he was a "gamer" -- a good, reliable, team player.

This was the reason why we asked him to join the Mohawks in 2004. That year, when me and my friend Dave decide to "overhaul" our team, we brought in a bunch of new players we considered gamers. Buckets was one of them.

Or at least I thought so until he rang my door bell one night before the start of the 2004 season to borrow some money. I gave him a $20 and he was really grateful for the cash, promising me he's pay it back the next day. I didn't see him again for the next 6 weeks. I later learned from his best friend Donnie that he went into rehab to get treatment for his drug habit. According to Donnie, he was a recovering heroin addict who fell off the wagon when his wife of 25+ years died of sudden illness. She was the love of his life.

When he returned after his rehab, the first place he came to was to the ballfield to ask me and Dave if he could rejoin the team. Our instinct was to say no because we feared the other players would object to having him around. Who's to say he won't go on another bender and steal money from someone's wallet when they're not looking? On Donnie's advice, we let him stay on under the condition that he stay clean. Donnie reminded us that before this instance, he had been clean for years and that we could trust him to stay that way.

But we didn't keep him because we felt sorry for the guy. Dave and I kept him because we needed good, reliable players. He was a gamer. While he was a sweetheart of a man who certainly deserved a second chance, we really didn't know much about him, except from what Donnie told us. All we really knew was that he could play. What we didn't know was how much playing ball meant to him, particularly since the death of his beloved wife. He needed to play. It made him happy.

It didn't take long for Buckets to show his appreciation. A few games into his return, he was regularly going 6 for 8, slapping singles and doubles to all parts of the field. We had him hitting sixth by the end of the year, which is the baseball equivalent of the cleanup hitter. He drove in lots of runs from the 6-hole, and was a probably our most valuable player the year we won the league title the following year.

That same year we won the league title, I had some major renovations done on my house, and would often show up at games bitching about the work being done. Buckets asked me who would paint the house after all the sheetrock work was done. When I said I didn't know, he offered his services. The area that needed to be painted is roughly 1,250 square feet, and E. and I knew that we would probably end up doing the work ourselves because it would have cost us nearly $5,000 to do the job. Buckets did it for $1,400. We supplied the paint, the brushes and fed him breakfast and lunch for two weeks. He did painted the house and kept Chester company when he was on a break. Even though we insisted on paying him much more, he would not take a dime more than his asking price.

He did some great work on our house. In fact, I wish he was still around because I probably would have hired him to paint our basement as well. Buckets passed away in early 2007 at the age of 60, after going into the hospital for surgery on his lungs. He was a heavy smoker and I thought that he went into the hospital to get treatment for cancer or emphysema. I never got a full explanation of what caused his death other than that the surgery was supposed to be minor, routine procedure. He never made it out of the operating room.

But why I really wish he was around is because he was a great guy and a great team player. He was always ready with a handshake, a smile, and an encouraging word, especially on those nights when my pitches couldn't find the strike zone, even if you drew me a map. It was nights like last night where the Mohawks really could have used Gerry Buckets.

Yeah Buckets. If you're around, we could use another player.

Father Doesn't Know Best

Yeah...we're both Mets fans and we're representing the Red Sox this year. So what? It's not like he's playing for some other team like the Indians!

These shots are from last Sunday's game. On the left, Rick and I were having a little strategy session over near 3rd base, while the Pirates were making a pitching change. I asked him to try and steal home, on next wild pitch because our team was only up 6-4. Given the way we were hitting, I figured we needed to score more runs anyway we can.

Rick argued that he should stay put at third and let the new pitcher try and get out of the jam on his own. "If he's wild, I'll walk right in. If he's not we still have the bases loaded for the top of the lineup."

I was unbowed. I insisted on the steal.

He listened to me and took off for home when the Pirates pitcher uncorked a wild pitch. The ball hit back stop and bounced a foot from the catcher who was waiting for Rick as he chugged for home.

Walking back to the dugout, he shot me glare that said "I told you so." When the frame ended without any more runs scoring, I got a "Nice job, Dad!" from under his breath. He was pissed.

And he was right. I should have listened to him about not stealing home. My blunder allowed the Pirates to climb back into the game and tie it up in the 6th inning. The game ended in a 6-6 tie because of the time 2 hour and 15 minute time limitation. We could have won the game.

I tried apologizing to him after the game because he seemed pretty upset. He wouldn't let me. He gave me a hug and said, "It's just a game, Dad. You did your best."

Then he asked me for a few bucks for some candy and a soda.

What? Did you think he'd let me off the hook that easy?

Taking A Breather

Sometimes life gets in the way of writing. I'm no different than anyone in this respect.

There are hurdles like work, baseball games, school projects, and other obstacles (like Youth Center vans) that take priority over the really important task of blog writing. I just need to work through them and, unfortunately, I haven't been able to post as much as I'd like to.

But I'll get back to it. I know I will. Just as sure as the sun rises and trains delay on the Long Island Railroad, I will find another Don Zirkel to rant about. I will have something to share about myself and my family and friends.

But for now, I'm taking a breather, sitting on the bench and watching my teammates do their thing.

Peace and love to all on this fine April 15, 2008. Hope all is well for my friends out here in blogland.

A Weekend I'd Just As Soon Forget

How bad was this weekend? It took me more than three days to write about it; that's how bad.

Let's just say that if this were a typical, Monday morning conversation between two friends in New York, it would start with the wave if a hand followed by the statement, "Bah, you don't want to know." Then that person would proceed to recount the events in chronological then non-linear order.

Really it was that bad.

Okay, so here's the wave...

And here's the "bah".

And now for the agita.

The chronological summary goes something like this. Friday: 13 and his friend leave their school bags in the Lindenhurst Youth Center which closed early for the whole weekend. Saturday: 13 has a meltdown over a prank gone wrong while playing baseball with his friends; 13 lost his palette expander; The last post I wrote at Jonestown stirred a bruising flame war in comments. Sunday: I smashed my Jeep into the Lindenhurst Youth Center van.

And to think, the weekend has started quite well for me. I was in the City on Friday night jamming with JaNamo and Joe. My cousin Louie and his girlfriend were in town from Minneapolis for an education conference/seminar. When I got the call from E. that Sean had left his bag, I was pretty calm and told him that we would get the bags back on Sunday. (queue the ominous forshadowing music.)

It just got worse. The next day a battle royale broke out on ball fields of Lindenhurst. Our dear 13 got into a scrum with one of his best friends, Matt, after a prank went awry. 13's test of the hypothesis that friends won't get mad if you toss their mitt onto the backstop went horribly wrong. One thrown bottle of Gatorade later, followed on by a few thrown punches, and a blind-side tackle, found me pleading with 13's pubescent sensibilities to let his anger go; that the friendships he's building now will probably be the most important in his life. He's known the kids he runs with since kindergarten. "Why ruin a good thing?" I asked.

He bit. Reason prevailed. Apologies were delivered. Hands were shaken. All that was left to do was to find a quill pen and a parchment for the peace treaty signatures. When it was over, I smiled at Matt's mom in that he's-really-not-my-son sort of way. But not long after he was back in the good graces of his peeps , he fell back onto my shit list by losing his palette expander. I'm not sure why their needed for braces, but at $275 a pop to replace them, you can be damn sure they're important. So, important that I cajoled the manager at the McDonald's on Sunrise Highway and N. Monroe Avenue to let me sift through his garbage. Seven bags and lots of fast-food gunk later, I gave up.

But that's not all. Some of you had ring side seats for a bonafide flame war between one of my best blogger friends Kelso and the Progressive Traditionalist over a post I wrote over at Jonestown. Thankfully, another blogger friend of mine, David B. Dancy mediated the conflict.

Again, reason prevailed. Apologies were delivered. Hands were shaken. A tacit agreement to disagree was reached. Peace reigned in Jonestown until the next provocateur posted anew.

I was happy again. So happy in fact that as I was tooling down E. Gates Avenue on my way to the village library, I decided to stop over at the Youth Center to see if anyone was home. I parked my ride in front of the town's van and jumped out to bang on the door. Someone was there! Awesome. I picked up the bags, threw them in the truck and called Sean to tell him the good news. Right after I hung up, I started the truck, put it in reverse and backed up without looking, forgetting that the van was behind me...



POW!!!!



I probably could have drove away from it since the only significant damage to my car was a busted tail light assembly, which I replaced myself. But had it not been for 13, I'd of never had gotten into the accident. It was my second fender bender in two months. Can you just smell the rate increase coming? But I did the right thing. I told the guy in the Youth Center about the accident, who contacted his boss, who called me to settle the matter the next day. I could have walked away virtually scot-free were it not for my own conscience.

13's response was classic. When I told him that technically he's responsible for the damage, he did his best Cheney impersonation, "So?"

Okay, someone tell me. Is this not the face only a mother could love? Because after this weekend, his mother was the only one that did.

Over at Jonestown Today.....

Old men getting kicked out of shopping malls for wearing offensive t-shirts? Yes, this did happen folks, in the only place that it can -- Long Island, NY

No Mall For Old Men

And Then He Kissed Me...

Last Thursday, one my favorite bloggers in the 'sphere, The Cunning Runt, posted this brief message to homophobes, aiming his invective at The Tonight Show host, Jay Leno.

Well, as good posts do, it got me thinking about a "homophobic" experience I had way back in the Fall of 1981. I was at a party that my brother and his roommate were throwing at their place on 12th Street and Avenue A in New York City. I was out of my depth at this shindig because I was probably the only 18-year old in the room. These were mostly my brother Joe's friends, which means they were all 5 to 7 years older than me.

So there I was having the time of my life with all these "grown up" folks. I floated around in a bunch of different conversations on my way to and from the beer cooler and hors d'oeuvre table. Eventually, I ended up talking to this one guy who seemed pretty cool. As I recall, we talked about alot of things of interest to us, including music. I was really into The Beatles at the time. I became a huge fan and took up the guitar largely because of the murder of John Lennon.

Ask Señoracosa about this. I was awful. Not that I'm any good now, but back then, it took a great degree of patience and a great tolerance for pain to listen to me butcher John Lennon's "Imagine". I think it sounded something like this --



La Señora sat through more of my performances than she cared to remember. It was her encouragement that gave me the courage to play a song for the guy I was talking to.

But as I put the guitar down and looked at my friend for a reaction to the song I played, he grabbed me by the face and kissed me.

My reaction to the kiss was as immediate as it was tense. I remember thinking that I wanted to kill that motherfucker and it took my brother and a few of his friends to restrain me from getting at him. I was born in Manhattan, but was very much the homophobic Queens boy (save the snark for later). Guys just didn't do that kind of shit to each other where I came from. No fucking way.

Eventually, I ended up out on the street. Joe had walked out with me along with my brother George. Did I mention that my brother George was at the party, too? He was. But he was no where near me when the kiss went down. He was having way too much fun to care about what was going on. But as Joe bodily pinned me against a parked car, to keep me from running back inside to kick the kisser's ass, it was George who set me straight.

Yes, that George; the one I describe in the Fairy Princess. For the record, he was very out about his homosexuality, which many people found intimidating and scary. As a little kid, I didn't know any better and enjoyed his antics in a linen sheet. As a teenager, not so much. In fact, while I never disavowed that George was my brother, I tried really hard to keep separate his world from mine back then.

But on that one Autumn night in 1981, our worlds collided and mine was forever changed. The first thing George said to me was to cut out the macho, Queens bullshit. It's an act that doesn't play well in Manhattan and if I persisted in my behavior, he would have personally escorted me to the "A" train back to Lefferts Boulevard.

I protested because I felt that I was the aggrieved. After all, I was just hanging out, trying to have a good time, and some guy I was talking to kisses me.

That's when George clued me in on a very "adult" understanding of homosexuality. He let me know regardless of whether one is gay or straight, if you pay enough attention that person at a party, that person will find you attractive.

This was all news to me. And as George rattled on about what an ass I'd been at the party, I realized I had no idea how naive I'd been about people in general let alone the gay community.

Gay men have feelings? Who knew? Gay men like to get laid? What? Gay men make inadvertent assumptions about sexual orientation? Whoa.

I can help but think back at how fortunate I was to have experienced the whole event. Yes, it was very 'icky" moment for me to have been kissed by another man, and I imagine that it would still be now...

unless, of course, it was this man doing the kissing.










But still I am not a gay man, and man-crushes notwithstanding, I never will be a gay man.

What's more is that I have no issue with or resentment for anyone's sexual orientation because I am comfortable living in this skin as a heterosexual.

In a world where there is so much more to fear, like war, disease, and climate change, the least of my worries is a gay man who inadvertently makes a pass at me. Sadly, there are too many people -- particularly people in positions of power -- who seem to think that homosexuality is something to be cured or eradicated. Sadly, there are people like Jay Leno who use poor humor as a weapon to demonize and demoralize the gay community.

Sadly, there are way too many people like me whose misunderstanding and lack of compassion pushes them to abject violence against gay men and women. Again, I consider myself fortunate because someone stepped in and prevented me from hitting the kisser, pointing me instead to better way of dealing with this type of situation.

So, thanks Cunning Runt for reminding me of this moment in my personal history, and for reinforcing the lesson that the measure of a person is not only defined by his or her accomplishments, but also by how well or poorly that person engages the wider world around. Let's face it. Anyone can be a dick regardless of their sexual orientation. On that fateful night in the Fall of 1981, that dick was me.

Lazy Sunday...

I got nothing. I have a few ideas in the hopper that I hope to blast out in the next day or so.

But not today.



Today, it was all about helping coach Rick's baseball team and watching the NCAA basketball. I also checked out the episodes two and three of the HBO Special "John Adams."

Lazy enough for you? Here's a little more.

An 80s music video. It's an oldie and a guilty pleasure of mine. I caught it the other day as I was flipping through the XM stations while driving around town running errands. There aren't too many Madonna songs I like, let alone stop my flipping. This is one of them....enjoy.