Frozen Soldiers
Dedicated to my father
RIP Lance Corporal Riley (B. 1920-D. 1966)
Born into a time frame that propelled him into WW II, my dad, Bob S. Riley, would join the Army under the buddy system.
At a time in history when young men went to war to fight not on political expediency or ideology or specter of an education, but on patriotic zeal and passion for freedom, was the watchword, the call that emblazoned young men’s heart. . If it meant dying in a blood strewn battlefield of foreign soil, filled with stench of death and mangled madness, then if that was where freedom lay, then freedom would be found. For what price is too much for freedom?
After receiving basic training, he had an opportunity to attend OCS( officer candidate school) though he only had an 8th grade education. My dad passed on the opportunity as he wanted to be in battle with his friends and if dying was his fate, then he was sold out to that fate.
Patton Speaks To The Troops - England, May 31, 1944
"Now I want you to remember that no bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. You won it by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country. Men, all this stuff you've heard about America not wanting to fight, wanting to stay out of the war, is a lot of horse dung. Americans traditionally love to fight. ALL REAL Americans, love the sting of battle. When you were kids, you all admired the champion marble shooter, the fastest runner, the big league ball players, the toughest boxers . . . Americans love a winner and will not tolerate a loser. Americans play to win all the time. I wouldn't give a hoot in Hell for a man who lost and laughed. That's why Americans have never lost and will never lose a war. Because the very thought of losing is hateful to Americans. Now, an army is a team. It lives, eats, sleeps, fights as a team. This individuality stuff is a bunch of crap. The bilious bastards who wrote that stuff about individuality for the Saturday Evening Post, don't know anything more about real battle than they do about fornicating. Now we have the finest food and equipment, the best spirit, and the best men in the world. You know . . . My God, I actually pity those poor bastards we're going up against. My God, I do. We're not just going to shoot the bastards, we're going to cut out their living guts and use them to grease the treads of our tanks. We're going to murder those lousy Hun bastards by the bushel. Now some of you boys, I know, are wondering whether or not you'll chicken out under fire. Don't worry about it. I can assure you that you'll all do your duty. The Nazis are the enemy. Wade into them. Spill their blood, shoot them in the belly. When you put your hand into a bunch of goo, that a moment before was your best friends face, you'll know what to do. Now there's another thing I want you to remember. I don't want to get any messages saying that we are holding our position. We're not holding anything, we'll let the Hun do that. We are advancing constantly, and we're not interested in holding onto anything except the enemy. We're going to hold onto him by the nose, and we're going to kick him in the ass. We're going to kick the hell out of him all the time, and we're going to go through him like crap through a goose. Now, there's one thing that you men will be able to say when you get back home, and you may thank God for it. Thirty years from now when you're sitting around your fireside with your grandson on your knee, and he asks you, "What did you do in the great World War Two?" You won't have to say, "Well, I shoveled shit in Louisiana." Alright now, you sons of bitches, you know how I feel. Oh! . . . I will be proud to lead you wonderful guys into battle anytime, anywhere. That's all."
Dad was a foot soldier in Patton’s Army and as such saw more than his share of bloodshed. Tired, hungry with death all around he would witness horrible atrocity. He would lose many of his buddies on the plains of battles and in the forests of fights. He would show heroism on many occasions and was awarded many medals.
He also drove tanks, blew up bridges and did whatever it took to advance the cause for which he was called. He single handily took out a German bunker when under fire, by attacking it despite the imminent prospect of death sailed on to his mission. Tossing hand grenades into the bunker, he wiped out German soldiers who would have surely taken out many more Americans. For this he was recognized.
He came home and was never wounded during all of the battles. His friends did not. He came alone. But he came home with the images of soldiers on the battlefield frozen in time, those who would not have families so that others may. He came home scarred and battle weary on the inside like most do. One cannot kill others and not be affected by it. He often lamented having to kill young boys barely teenagers, that Hitler threw on the battlefield in a desperate attempts to stop the advancing Americans.
Once, when I was about 14 years old, I was wearing a surfers cross around my neck. To me it was just a symbol of rebellion at the time. My dad saw it and approached me. The cross was in the shape of a German Swastika of which I had not considered. Instead of insisting that I remove it, he simply told me that I was free to wear it if I liked, but he warned me that other soldiers may not like it. No long speeches of why, none needed, I removed it and never wore it again.
Unfortunately, my father died of a heart attack at the age of 46 when I was 15. I never got to know him as a man. I miss that. I’m not sure what would be different in my life had it been different but I do know this. He would tell me too never quit, never let someone take freedom from you, never lay down when it’s time to stand up, stand up, be proud for rivers of blood have been poured and “Give Em Hell” to those who would come against.
Sadly, my dad and all others who fought the good fight would be stunned by today’s events. To sit and watch planes flying into buildings by Islamic Terrorist and not to answer with all out war. Making politics out of attack would be an abomination to him and his friends frozen in times on battlefields afar. Political correctness and sensitivity is a joke and one that my dad would surely fight against. You see he also knew the enemies within the camp and like then, now he would if he were here and able, gather his buddies frozen in time of foreign soils and gather them together in and all out assault. I can hear his battle cry “ Give Em Hell”. May we not forget from whom we have sprung and may we most honor all of those living and dead by not idly forfeiting what others paid for.
Showing posts with label Inspiration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Inspiration. Show all posts
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Mrs. Marie Tye, A Teacher for The Times
Mrs. Marie Tye,
A Teacher for The Times
Mrs. Marie Tye, my 8th & 9th grade English teacher was my favorite overall. She possessed a number of qualities that made me feel that I was important. Not another student of the many she taught in her lifetime, but a student that she had confidence in and one worth teaching.
This was during a time in our country when teachers could actually mention God and the Bible in the classroom and not fear retribution. Morning prayers and the pledge of allegiance over the school intercom were daily rituals at school and no one was offended. This was all normal and no one believed their religious expressions were infringed on.
I was not brought up in an overtly Christian home so I had little understanding of biblical stories, books of the bible or things spiritual. I went to church off and on with friends that invited me but I didn’t have any knowledge of what it was all about. There was a picture of the Last Supper prominently displayed on the wall next to our kitchen table but that was the depth of what I knew.
Mrs. Tye was always dressed nicely and appropriately when she entered the classroom. She was no one’s fool as she had several children herself so trying to pull one on her was fruitless. Her facial expressions said it all. When she was perturbed at classroom commotion, she didn’t yell or threaten anyone with a trip to Mr. Havens, the school principal, where getting licks were unavoidable. She didn’t wave a board the size of Mt. Rushmore around as a warning. She simply would look at us and arch her left eye brow and silence would ensue. We knew! Mrs. Tye taught me that a lot can be said without saying it.
Mrs. Tye liked to test our knowledge on a number of subjects by having open quizzes. “Jeff, where can we find the Book of Deuteronomy?” she asked me. I was usually very good at these things, but I was stumped on this one. However, I took a stab at it and said, “In the library???” to which a portion of the class laughed. Mrs. Tye smiled at me and said” can anyone tell me where we can find the Book of Deuteronomy?” to which another female classmate correctly answered,” It is a book in the Old Testament in the Bible.” Mrs. Tye planted a seed in me that day about spiritual things broadening my horizons.
She also liked to conduct impromptu class spelling bees. I was an excellent speller and during elementary school I usually won most class spelling bees. On two occasions that I recall, only one of my classmates, Pat A. Phillips, could beat me when we had inter-class spelling bees. I was a visual speller, I could see the word in my mind, so I wasn’t prone to the rules such as I before e except after c. Although I relied heavily at times on my understanding of vowels, consonants, and syllables to get through, my visual ability was my salvation. If I had seen it, I could spell it.
One day the Book of Deuteronomy came back to haunt me in Mrs., Tye’s in class spelling bee. “Jeff” as she looked at me with a smile and look of re-assurance, “can you spell Deuteronomy?” Little did I know this would come back to me so soon. Trying to look as though I did my research by tracking down a Bible, I gave it a try by spelling it phonetically. “Du-Ta-Ra-On-Me Dutaraonme” it sounded and looked reasonable to me since we were talking about old things in the Bible. I was waiting for her to give me the eye brow arch of dissatisfaction, but true to her nature, she sweetly smiled, chuckled a bit at my attempt and asked the class if anyone could spell it. Again a female classmate got it correct. Must have been Pat A. Phillips! Mrs. Tye had taught me to not quit, keep trying, dig deeper to find the answers.
Mrs. Tye was the first teacher that I remember that had us memorize poetry. By this time in my education I had acquired a good memory of things and could use my visualization to learn. She usually gave us a week to memorize it and then each classmate would have to stand up and recite. One of the first poems I remember memorizing was Rudyard Kipling’s If:
IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
I memorized this by the end of the class in which she gave it. Mrs. Tye allowed me to stand up and recite it although I had a week to do so. I did so flawlessly to which she gave me the I knew you could do it smile. I didn’t win a trophy, plaque, or certificate for my efforts. Mrs., Tye aptly rewarded me with not only a poem with which I have leaned on through the years to remind me of where I come from and have been through, but a reward of satisfaction and confidence.
Mrs. Tye was the only teacher besides 2 others that were neighbors that came to our home to visit after my dad died suddenly of a heart attack on December 29th 1966. She showed me her humanness, compassion and concern that night as she reassured my mother now widowed with 5 school aged children that all would be well in time. Her devotion to her family, faith, friends, and a student named Jeff Riley, made her a Teacher for The times.
A Teacher for The Times
Mrs. Marie Tye, my 8th & 9th grade English teacher was my favorite overall. She possessed a number of qualities that made me feel that I was important. Not another student of the many she taught in her lifetime, but a student that she had confidence in and one worth teaching.
This was during a time in our country when teachers could actually mention God and the Bible in the classroom and not fear retribution. Morning prayers and the pledge of allegiance over the school intercom were daily rituals at school and no one was offended. This was all normal and no one believed their religious expressions were infringed on.
I was not brought up in an overtly Christian home so I had little understanding of biblical stories, books of the bible or things spiritual. I went to church off and on with friends that invited me but I didn’t have any knowledge of what it was all about. There was a picture of the Last Supper prominently displayed on the wall next to our kitchen table but that was the depth of what I knew.
Mrs. Tye was always dressed nicely and appropriately when she entered the classroom. She was no one’s fool as she had several children herself so trying to pull one on her was fruitless. Her facial expressions said it all. When she was perturbed at classroom commotion, she didn’t yell or threaten anyone with a trip to Mr. Havens, the school principal, where getting licks were unavoidable. She didn’t wave a board the size of Mt. Rushmore around as a warning. She simply would look at us and arch her left eye brow and silence would ensue. We knew! Mrs. Tye taught me that a lot can be said without saying it.
Mrs. Tye liked to test our knowledge on a number of subjects by having open quizzes. “Jeff, where can we find the Book of Deuteronomy?” she asked me. I was usually very good at these things, but I was stumped on this one. However, I took a stab at it and said, “In the library???” to which a portion of the class laughed. Mrs. Tye smiled at me and said” can anyone tell me where we can find the Book of Deuteronomy?” to which another female classmate correctly answered,” It is a book in the Old Testament in the Bible.” Mrs. Tye planted a seed in me that day about spiritual things broadening my horizons.
She also liked to conduct impromptu class spelling bees. I was an excellent speller and during elementary school I usually won most class spelling bees. On two occasions that I recall, only one of my classmates, Pat A. Phillips, could beat me when we had inter-class spelling bees. I was a visual speller, I could see the word in my mind, so I wasn’t prone to the rules such as I before e except after c. Although I relied heavily at times on my understanding of vowels, consonants, and syllables to get through, my visual ability was my salvation. If I had seen it, I could spell it.
One day the Book of Deuteronomy came back to haunt me in Mrs., Tye’s in class spelling bee. “Jeff” as she looked at me with a smile and look of re-assurance, “can you spell Deuteronomy?” Little did I know this would come back to me so soon. Trying to look as though I did my research by tracking down a Bible, I gave it a try by spelling it phonetically. “Du-Ta-Ra-On-Me Dutaraonme” it sounded and looked reasonable to me since we were talking about old things in the Bible. I was waiting for her to give me the eye brow arch of dissatisfaction, but true to her nature, she sweetly smiled, chuckled a bit at my attempt and asked the class if anyone could spell it. Again a female classmate got it correct. Must have been Pat A. Phillips! Mrs. Tye had taught me to not quit, keep trying, dig deeper to find the answers.
Mrs. Tye was the first teacher that I remember that had us memorize poetry. By this time in my education I had acquired a good memory of things and could use my visualization to learn. She usually gave us a week to memorize it and then each classmate would have to stand up and recite. One of the first poems I remember memorizing was Rudyard Kipling’s If:
IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
I memorized this by the end of the class in which she gave it. Mrs. Tye allowed me to stand up and recite it although I had a week to do so. I did so flawlessly to which she gave me the I knew you could do it smile. I didn’t win a trophy, plaque, or certificate for my efforts. Mrs., Tye aptly rewarded me with not only a poem with which I have leaned on through the years to remind me of where I come from and have been through, but a reward of satisfaction and confidence.
Mrs. Tye was the only teacher besides 2 others that were neighbors that came to our home to visit after my dad died suddenly of a heart attack on December 29th 1966. She showed me her humanness, compassion and concern that night as she reassured my mother now widowed with 5 school aged children that all would be well in time. Her devotion to her family, faith, friends, and a student named Jeff Riley, made her a Teacher for The times.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Happy Ville
Happy Ville
Welcome to Happy Ville the sign read. Please check your glumness at the door before proceeding, it continued. Sadness, anger, bitterness, crying, depression shall not enter these gates. Happy Ville will provide joy, peace, tranquility, fun and laughter and will be your ever present companions.
Upon depositing my baggage upon the outskirts of Happy Ville, I proceeded through the gates. God met me there. Not like I pictured Him sitting on a big white throne, hurling lightning bolts at everyone on Earth. He was personal, jovial, a warm presence with a sense of Supreme assurance. We walked on for a while just chatting about good things. He listened very well to all I had to talk about. I could talk of none but good for I had checked my baggage at the door. I told Him how I remembered my mother and how she loved to laugh and he nodded his head in an understanding manner.
God pointed to a beautiful house, tall and majestic, laden in gold. The finest of architectural details were well apportioned on the outside. Looking at the house, I felt an overwhelming peace enmesh my soul. I heard laughter emanating from within. I heard my mother’s voice. I ask God if I could take a peak in and He escorted me to what appeared to be a window. He, with a smile on His face said for me to go ahead and peer in, taking great delight in my child like enthusiasm. The window was more like a cloud, yet transparent. I peered in and saw my mom arrayed in beauty of white, fully herself in appearance and with joy abounding.
We walked on and the further we walked the more beauty of Happy Ville was revealed. Water fountains that sounded like calm winds gently blowing through the air. Gardens of flowers and roses of every kind and color, more brilliant than the colors of a rainbow lined the walkways. There were strands of towering trees gently swaying as I walked by. I noticed a gardener busy tending the garden. He whistled beautiful old Gospel songs as he went about his work. I ask God who he was. God called him over and I instantly knew him. My dad gave me a hug that wrapped me in warmth much like a gentle fire feels when sitting next to a fireplace on a cold winter morning.
Everything was draped in a peace that was difficult to understand, yet I knew. The tranquil quietness was pierced with bursts of more laughter and harmonic singing in the distance. The sound of children merrily playing echoed throughout Happy Ville. There was no cold or heat in the air only a feeling of contentment embraced me. I looked up into the bright beautiful skies above and saw birds of every kind peacefully soaring and playfully indulging one another. There was no sun yet the light that prevailed over Happy Ville was bright enough to blind but I could see perfectly.
God was wonderfully enchanted with how I appeared while we were walking. I could tell He was well pleased with my excitement at all of what I had seen and heard. God was like a doting father with his child that he loves and adores and only wants his happiness.
As we strolled further along the walkways, more and more people began to appear onto me. I suddenly heard my name being called out from behind me in an old voice I once knew. “Jeff”, the old voice with a hint of Dutch German in it called out. As I turned to see, I saw my old friend and mentor, Art Haar. Art had been 90 years old and was now as lively and jovial as could be. With his rotund belly, steely hands, and grandfatherly gaze he looked me in the eyes and said, “I know longer have to kick sand in the devil’s face, Jeff.” With that he gave be a big hug and as he always would tell me” I love ya.” I laughed with him as we remembered those times we met and talked about better things that he now had. How wonderful I felt.
As I turned back around I was suddenly standing in the midst of a host of others and great commotion of excitement was all around. I had never seen such a display of joyful anticipation in everyone’s face. Though I knew not their names, strangely I knew them all. I could sense whose mom, dad, brothers, sisters, husbands and wife’s they once were. The overflowing abundance of tranquil joy in their faces gave me an assured hope that all is well with them in Happy Ville
I could hardly contain myself and thought what a wonderful place Happy Ville is. There was no place like it. Time was gone and no one hurried. There was no day, no night, only the eternal light that never stopped shining.
God then told me that he wanted to show me something extra special. We entered into a great expanse. Untold millions through the ages filled this expanse, yet there was still more room. All eyes were directed toward one person walking amongst them. Though millions surrounded Him, it was as though He knew everyone personally, face to face. No one had a better view than another. I then asked God “Who is this?” “It is my Son in whom I’m well pleased” He replied. I gazed upon Him and knew that I was complete.
I awoke from the night. Still groggy from sleep, I realized that Happy Ville had been a dream. I lay next to my wife and calmness, peace, and happiness over whelmed me. Though a dream, it was real enough to allow me to escape for a while my mortal bonds and conflicts of this life knowing someday I will return to Happy Ville--Today I will have contentment---
Welcome to Happy Ville the sign read. Please check your glumness at the door before proceeding, it continued. Sadness, anger, bitterness, crying, depression shall not enter these gates. Happy Ville will provide joy, peace, tranquility, fun and laughter and will be your ever present companions.
Upon depositing my baggage upon the outskirts of Happy Ville, I proceeded through the gates. God met me there. Not like I pictured Him sitting on a big white throne, hurling lightning bolts at everyone on Earth. He was personal, jovial, a warm presence with a sense of Supreme assurance. We walked on for a while just chatting about good things. He listened very well to all I had to talk about. I could talk of none but good for I had checked my baggage at the door. I told Him how I remembered my mother and how she loved to laugh and he nodded his head in an understanding manner.
God pointed to a beautiful house, tall and majestic, laden in gold. The finest of architectural details were well apportioned on the outside. Looking at the house, I felt an overwhelming peace enmesh my soul. I heard laughter emanating from within. I heard my mother’s voice. I ask God if I could take a peak in and He escorted me to what appeared to be a window. He, with a smile on His face said for me to go ahead and peer in, taking great delight in my child like enthusiasm. The window was more like a cloud, yet transparent. I peered in and saw my mom arrayed in beauty of white, fully herself in appearance and with joy abounding.
We walked on and the further we walked the more beauty of Happy Ville was revealed. Water fountains that sounded like calm winds gently blowing through the air. Gardens of flowers and roses of every kind and color, more brilliant than the colors of a rainbow lined the walkways. There were strands of towering trees gently swaying as I walked by. I noticed a gardener busy tending the garden. He whistled beautiful old Gospel songs as he went about his work. I ask God who he was. God called him over and I instantly knew him. My dad gave me a hug that wrapped me in warmth much like a gentle fire feels when sitting next to a fireplace on a cold winter morning.
Everything was draped in a peace that was difficult to understand, yet I knew. The tranquil quietness was pierced with bursts of more laughter and harmonic singing in the distance. The sound of children merrily playing echoed throughout Happy Ville. There was no cold or heat in the air only a feeling of contentment embraced me. I looked up into the bright beautiful skies above and saw birds of every kind peacefully soaring and playfully indulging one another. There was no sun yet the light that prevailed over Happy Ville was bright enough to blind but I could see perfectly.
God was wonderfully enchanted with how I appeared while we were walking. I could tell He was well pleased with my excitement at all of what I had seen and heard. God was like a doting father with his child that he loves and adores and only wants his happiness.
As we strolled further along the walkways, more and more people began to appear onto me. I suddenly heard my name being called out from behind me in an old voice I once knew. “Jeff”, the old voice with a hint of Dutch German in it called out. As I turned to see, I saw my old friend and mentor, Art Haar. Art had been 90 years old and was now as lively and jovial as could be. With his rotund belly, steely hands, and grandfatherly gaze he looked me in the eyes and said, “I know longer have to kick sand in the devil’s face, Jeff.” With that he gave be a big hug and as he always would tell me” I love ya.” I laughed with him as we remembered those times we met and talked about better things that he now had. How wonderful I felt.
As I turned back around I was suddenly standing in the midst of a host of others and great commotion of excitement was all around. I had never seen such a display of joyful anticipation in everyone’s face. Though I knew not their names, strangely I knew them all. I could sense whose mom, dad, brothers, sisters, husbands and wife’s they once were. The overflowing abundance of tranquil joy in their faces gave me an assured hope that all is well with them in Happy Ville
I could hardly contain myself and thought what a wonderful place Happy Ville is. There was no place like it. Time was gone and no one hurried. There was no day, no night, only the eternal light that never stopped shining.
God then told me that he wanted to show me something extra special. We entered into a great expanse. Untold millions through the ages filled this expanse, yet there was still more room. All eyes were directed toward one person walking amongst them. Though millions surrounded Him, it was as though He knew everyone personally, face to face. No one had a better view than another. I then asked God “Who is this?” “It is my Son in whom I’m well pleased” He replied. I gazed upon Him and knew that I was complete.
I awoke from the night. Still groggy from sleep, I realized that Happy Ville had been a dream. I lay next to my wife and calmness, peace, and happiness over whelmed me. Though a dream, it was real enough to allow me to escape for a while my mortal bonds and conflicts of this life knowing someday I will return to Happy Ville--Today I will have contentment---
Monday, July 27, 2009
Play Ball
Play Ball
Tryouts! This must be a misprint I thought as I read the ad in the local newspaper. I was 50 years old and in SW Florida they had tryouts to play senior men’s softball. The ad read tryouts for the upcoming league would be held at BMX Park. I had quit playing ball at the age of 39 thinking I was getting too old and ran the risk of serious injury. However, having played since I was 6 years old, the love of playing the game would never leave me.
Curious, I told my wife that I was going to go to the tryouts. I jokingly laughed and said this will be funny to see a bunch of old geezers trying out. What would it be? To see who could get their wheelchair to 1st base the fastest? My mind danced around with visions of elderly people with dementia running around a ball field repeating over and over, I got it, I got it!
I dug out my old ball glove and made a quick trip to Wally World to find a bat. When I last played wooden bats were the bats of choice as aluminum bats had not yet become popular among players. There were no wooden bats so I picked the cheapest aluminum bat I could find.
Arriving at the park for the try outs I was a bit nervous. Though I was a good player when I played, some rust had accrued now that I was the ripe old age of 50. I didn’t want to embarrass myself. Slowly, I approached the entrance to the field where numerous players were shagging fly balls, while each took turns batting. There were 2 others walking around with clip boards taking notes. I walked up to one and asked what the routine was. His heavy Brooklyn accent was difficult to understand. Being a Southern boy, I needed someone to speak a little slower. I was instructed to go into the outfield and shag some balls and then wait until it was my turn to bat. He took note of what positions I played or desired to play.
Standing in the outfield waiting for my opportunity to impress those around me with my fielding prowess, I was transformed. I was taken back in time like Ray Kinsela in Field of Dreams. Freshly mown grass, the smell of leather, popping of gloves as fly balls were fielded, and the idle chatter of players reminded me of days gone by. Instead of seeing middle aged men, I now saw boys. Men will always be boys, and boys will always be boys. The fun and love of playing ball was not lost today. Instead of seeing men with gimped up knees, and slowing gaits I saw boys with enthusiasm, lightning speed, laughing, kidding one another. Some had sunflower seed pouches protruding from back pockets, while others had their favorite dip of bubble gum. The intensity of competition was evident as balls were fielded and tossed back in. This was serious business.
A lot of the players were either retired from the North, like New York, Jersey, or snow birds. Snow birds were the ones who came to live in Florida from April to November and return back to their Northern home the remainder of the year. They got the best of both worlds. Playing slow pitch softball in the grapefruit leagues in Florida was heaven come to earth.
There was big Jim Dollar. Standing 6’4” weighing 250 pounds, he was the epitome of the game we all loved. He played the game with passionate exuberance. A spirited and fiery field general that barked out orders to those under his charge, He ignited the passion and competitive drive that we all had. He liked to win as much as anyone but to him winning was in the trying. Losing was not as important as the effort put forth and if we lost due to poor effort we heard about it. He reminded me of many coaches I had through the years never quite satisfied, winning or losing. “Winners never Quit and Quitters never Win.” was his daily mantra.
There was Bob Faulkner, equal in physical presence as Jim Dollar. Bob’s passion was as great as Jim’s but his tactics were different. Bob was cunning, a true discerner of talent. Bob’s observant skills of player’s strengths and weakness made him an outstanding coach and player. He was gifted with selecting the perfect palette of players, enmeshing the correct balance, of power, speed, ability, emotion and camaraderie amongst players. His teams played like a finely tuned orchestra at Carnegie Hall. Bob was the maestro of softball.
Fast Eddie, Eddie Steinwahn, was an elementary school principal. Eddie and I played next to each other in the outfield. We quickly bonded as fellow outfielders, vowing to never let a fly ball hit the dirt, not in our territory. This was blasphemous! Eddie had blazing speed for a man in his late 50’s and endowed him with the ability to catch up to fly balls that others may not be able to. Equally gifted running the bags, he was a hard out to come by and was always a leadoff batter. A consummate cheerleader on and off the field, Eddie’s gift for encouragement and his always present, “will get em next time” attitude was a reminder there would be other days.
Dave Joseph was a power hitter. Strong, agile and defining the word competition, he lived sports. Besides softball, he refereed hockey and other sports. He was a product of Buffalo, NY, the frozen tundra as I often chided him. When he stepped to the plate mostly as a cleanup hitter, we often saw balls sail over 300 foot fences. He and I would bond off the field as well. We played together in the Florida Half Century League, a state league with monthly tournaments. He and I would room together when our wives’ did not make it. We shared our beliefs, our faith, our weakness, and disappointments like true friends do. We still enjoy a great friendship of encouragement and support today.
Going to those tryouts gave me a fresh approach to the cycles of life. Meeting new people, playing a game I love, interacting socially on and off the field invigorated my spirits. The soul of the game is still alive in me and others. Age has not defied us our passions. It has rather spurned us on to take on new challenges, not to quit. This elixir we call playing ball cannot be matched by other potions. Many players had lost their wives through death so ball became their companion, a healing salve to mend the wounds of loss. Standing on a field taking in all that life has brought us, remind us of who we really are. Just boys with dreams and hopes, now aging men, we count the blessings of our lives and the opportunity to play again. In our minds, we still hear the roar of the crowd gathered, we feel the freshness of the breeze on our face, the warmth of the sun on our brow as we gather to------- Play Ball.
Tryouts! This must be a misprint I thought as I read the ad in the local newspaper. I was 50 years old and in SW Florida they had tryouts to play senior men’s softball. The ad read tryouts for the upcoming league would be held at BMX Park. I had quit playing ball at the age of 39 thinking I was getting too old and ran the risk of serious injury. However, having played since I was 6 years old, the love of playing the game would never leave me.
Curious, I told my wife that I was going to go to the tryouts. I jokingly laughed and said this will be funny to see a bunch of old geezers trying out. What would it be? To see who could get their wheelchair to 1st base the fastest? My mind danced around with visions of elderly people with dementia running around a ball field repeating over and over, I got it, I got it!
I dug out my old ball glove and made a quick trip to Wally World to find a bat. When I last played wooden bats were the bats of choice as aluminum bats had not yet become popular among players. There were no wooden bats so I picked the cheapest aluminum bat I could find.
Arriving at the park for the try outs I was a bit nervous. Though I was a good player when I played, some rust had accrued now that I was the ripe old age of 50. I didn’t want to embarrass myself. Slowly, I approached the entrance to the field where numerous players were shagging fly balls, while each took turns batting. There were 2 others walking around with clip boards taking notes. I walked up to one and asked what the routine was. His heavy Brooklyn accent was difficult to understand. Being a Southern boy, I needed someone to speak a little slower. I was instructed to go into the outfield and shag some balls and then wait until it was my turn to bat. He took note of what positions I played or desired to play.
Standing in the outfield waiting for my opportunity to impress those around me with my fielding prowess, I was transformed. I was taken back in time like Ray Kinsela in Field of Dreams. Freshly mown grass, the smell of leather, popping of gloves as fly balls were fielded, and the idle chatter of players reminded me of days gone by. Instead of seeing middle aged men, I now saw boys. Men will always be boys, and boys will always be boys. The fun and love of playing ball was not lost today. Instead of seeing men with gimped up knees, and slowing gaits I saw boys with enthusiasm, lightning speed, laughing, kidding one another. Some had sunflower seed pouches protruding from back pockets, while others had their favorite dip of bubble gum. The intensity of competition was evident as balls were fielded and tossed back in. This was serious business.
A lot of the players were either retired from the North, like New York, Jersey, or snow birds. Snow birds were the ones who came to live in Florida from April to November and return back to their Northern home the remainder of the year. They got the best of both worlds. Playing slow pitch softball in the grapefruit leagues in Florida was heaven come to earth.
There was big Jim Dollar. Standing 6’4” weighing 250 pounds, he was the epitome of the game we all loved. He played the game with passionate exuberance. A spirited and fiery field general that barked out orders to those under his charge, He ignited the passion and competitive drive that we all had. He liked to win as much as anyone but to him winning was in the trying. Losing was not as important as the effort put forth and if we lost due to poor effort we heard about it. He reminded me of many coaches I had through the years never quite satisfied, winning or losing. “Winners never Quit and Quitters never Win.” was his daily mantra.
There was Bob Faulkner, equal in physical presence as Jim Dollar. Bob’s passion was as great as Jim’s but his tactics were different. Bob was cunning, a true discerner of talent. Bob’s observant skills of player’s strengths and weakness made him an outstanding coach and player. He was gifted with selecting the perfect palette of players, enmeshing the correct balance, of power, speed, ability, emotion and camaraderie amongst players. His teams played like a finely tuned orchestra at Carnegie Hall. Bob was the maestro of softball.
Fast Eddie, Eddie Steinwahn, was an elementary school principal. Eddie and I played next to each other in the outfield. We quickly bonded as fellow outfielders, vowing to never let a fly ball hit the dirt, not in our territory. This was blasphemous! Eddie had blazing speed for a man in his late 50’s and endowed him with the ability to catch up to fly balls that others may not be able to. Equally gifted running the bags, he was a hard out to come by and was always a leadoff batter. A consummate cheerleader on and off the field, Eddie’s gift for encouragement and his always present, “will get em next time” attitude was a reminder there would be other days.
Dave Joseph was a power hitter. Strong, agile and defining the word competition, he lived sports. Besides softball, he refereed hockey and other sports. He was a product of Buffalo, NY, the frozen tundra as I often chided him. When he stepped to the plate mostly as a cleanup hitter, we often saw balls sail over 300 foot fences. He and I would bond off the field as well. We played together in the Florida Half Century League, a state league with monthly tournaments. He and I would room together when our wives’ did not make it. We shared our beliefs, our faith, our weakness, and disappointments like true friends do. We still enjoy a great friendship of encouragement and support today.
Going to those tryouts gave me a fresh approach to the cycles of life. Meeting new people, playing a game I love, interacting socially on and off the field invigorated my spirits. The soul of the game is still alive in me and others. Age has not defied us our passions. It has rather spurned us on to take on new challenges, not to quit. This elixir we call playing ball cannot be matched by other potions. Many players had lost their wives through death so ball became their companion, a healing salve to mend the wounds of loss. Standing on a field taking in all that life has brought us, remind us of who we really are. Just boys with dreams and hopes, now aging men, we count the blessings of our lives and the opportunity to play again. In our minds, we still hear the roar of the crowd gathered, we feel the freshness of the breeze on our face, the warmth of the sun on our brow as we gather to------- Play Ball.
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