PHILADELPHIA PHUTILITY

 

 

The Philadelphia Phillies blew a baseball game in the final inning last night. That’s unfortunate, but not notably so. In fact, it has already happened eight times in this young season. Losing is an art form for the Phillies, the only professional franchise IN THE WORLD to have lost over 10,000 times. They hold the record for longest losing streak, too – 23 games in 1961.

When ahead in the final inning, they lose by way of home runs, errors, strikeouts, etc. Basically, they lose in all the usual ways. And once, in 1964, just once, they lost in an extraordinary way – the opposition stole home to deliver a 1-0 verdict. For non-baseball fans, stealing home in a major league game is like a total solar eclipse; it happens a couple times a year somewhere in the world, but rarely.

 

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I recently read a long article in the New Yorker (is there any other length?) about an author’s personal recollections of his grandparents. It’s touching and meaningful and made me ponder my own lack of such familial connections. Three of my four grandparents were deceased before I was born. I only knew my maternal grandfather, Joseph Nemerov, who died when I was nine. By all accounts, the man known to me as “Grand-Pop” was a beloved patriarch, friendly and easy-going, a hero to my mother and her siblings, and also to my father who wholeheartedly embraced him to fill a parental void in his life.

I’m certain I loved Grand-Pop, but my recollections of time spent with him are almost nil. His images in my mind are like disparate photographs, not films or even short videos. I recall the vacation boarding house where we joined him in Atlantic City, but I don’t picture him in any of my memories from there. I vaguely recall being in the backseat of a car he drove; I recall him presiding over a Passover Seder, though honestly, my memory may not be as much my own as based on a photograph I’ve seen. I remember the morning he died because I heard my mother and aunt sobbing in the kitchen downstairs when I awoke. Not knowing what to do, I stayed upstairs and tried to play a baseball-themed board game on my bedroom floor.

I’m sure I was upset about Grand-Pop’s death, and also confused, but what I most remember is feeling ashamed to be concerned about my lack of breakfast. I chose to remain hungry and alone upstairs rather than go downstairs amidst the crying adults.

 

*****

 

One of the few one-on-one experiences with my grandfather I recall, a full-blown memory with time, place and appearance, is tied to the worst historical moment in Phillies’ history.   Given the number of bad moments they have accumulated in their 125-year existence, that is saying something.

Despite their history of futility, in 1964, the Phillies approached the end of the season with a large lead in the National League standings. The city was abuzz with anticipation of the World Series where the Phillies would seek their first title since 1915. In my grandfather’s kitchen, with him and his radio, I remember settling in to listen to the entirety of the late-September game between the Phillies and the Cincinnati Reds. (Only weekend games were televised in that era; the radio was still prominent).

I recall Grand-Pop’s shock of white hair and vivid blue eyes. I also remember the square, brown pattern on the linoleum floor in the kitchen and white appliances. I remember the rounded radio, shaped like a toaster, and the familiarity of the sounds at Connie Mack Stadium, the beer and peanut hawkers (“Peanuts here, peeeeenuts!”) that intruded into the background of the broadcast. I recall the familiar ads for Ballentine’s Beer (“Hey, get your cold one”) and the sonorous voice of the team’s long-time announcer, Byrum Saam.   Sitting comfortably beside my grandfather at a card table, we rooted for the home team. It didn’t occur to me then that where he was born, in Ukraine, loyalty to a baseball team was as likely as my rooting for a sports team based on Mars. Most likely, he feigned interest for my sake.

Were this a story in the New Yorker, I would explain in great detail something profound about my interaction with Grand-Pop that evening. But other than the sense that I enjoyed his easy-going company (we played a card game, either “War” or “Casino” while we listened) my specific memory is what happened in the game. It was a tense, scoreless tie until the final inning, when Chico Ruiz, an infielder for the Reds, STOLE HOME to win the game for Cincinnati, 1-0. I remember trying to explain what had happened to my grandfather. “By” Saam better conveyed the amazing moment with his tone of voice – something startling and rare had occurred, but for the WRONG TEAM.

At that moment, it only seemed the Phillies had lost one game, and their unaccustomed position atop the standings wouldn’t be threatened.   Only as the next two weeks unfolded, and they lost ten games in a row, did it become clear Ruiz’s audacity had sent the team into a tailspin from which they never recovered.  The St. Louis Cardinals swooped in like birds of prey to win the title on the last day of the season. Though painful to the Phillies, I didn’t sense a personal connection in that moment, but the intervening half-century has rendered the memory significant to me.

 

 

*****

 

I’m sorry I don’t have more memories of my grandfather. In that era, his presence at every one of my little league games could not be assumed like nowadays. My youthful lack of perspective prevented me from taking more note of the times we did spend together. I hope circumstances will allow me to make more of an impact when I’m a grandfather. At present my only “grandchildren” are dogs. Stella, Boris and Bea definitely love me but I’m doubtful about my place in their long-term memories.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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