In the late 90’s I was in the midst of a major career change. I’d reached the end of the road in non-profit management and began to look for something more fulfilling. I decided to become and elementary school teacher. Since I had graduated college nearly 20 years ago, I was required to pass the MSAT (Multi-Subject Assessment for Teachers) as a prerequisite for acceptance into the teaching credential program at Cal State Monterey Bay.  The MSAT is a massive test covering math, science, english and all points in between. The night before the exam, I stood on the bluffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Santa Cruz and said a silent prayer to the universe asking for strength and guidance. The next day I arrived at the test site armed with my sharpened #2 pencils, nervous but confident and determined to succeed.

About halfway through the exam, I came to the section on music. The first question read: “What is the primary function of the electric guitar solo in rock music?” It was at that moment that I knew I would pass the test, I knew I was going to be a teacher. The universe lobbed one over the plate and I hit it out of the ballpark! (The answer incidentally was “to highlight the guitarist’s technical prowess”, or something to that effect).

So, just what is the function of the electric guitar solo? To blow our minds? To offer us regular folk a glimpse into the divine? To provide a vicarious experience of rock stardom? I’d say all of the above. In many ways, rock and roll is the guitar solo. Take a ride on starship Stratocaster, blast off into parts unknown and never be the same again. Every fan of rock and roll has their favorite guitarist and solo. Many a cannabis fueled discussion has been had on this very subject. Here are some of my favorites, not in any particular order.

George Harrison- My Sweet Lord

George was a trailblazing and underrated guitarist. He invented a sweet, melodic and often copied style of slide playing. Like most of his solos, this one is short but oh so sweet. Unlike many rock guitarists, George didn’t play like he was getting paid by the note. His solo on My Sweet Lord gives me the shivers every time.

Jerry Garcia- Stella Blue (live)

Picking a favorite Jerry Garcia solo is like trying to choose my favorite Hawaiian sunset; they are all subtle, sublime and achingly beautiful; bursting with colors yet to be named. However, if backed into a corner, I’d have to go with Stella Blue. Jerry obviously felt this song quite deeply as his solos on Stella Blue were consistently heartfelt and achingly beautiful.

Neil Young- Down By The River

Neil is from the “ragged but right” school of guitar playing. His grungy guitar work here predates the Seattle scene by 20 years and served as an inspiration to Nirvana, Pearl Jam and their like. The beginning of his solo on Down By The River is basically one note, but oh what a note it is! Avant grade guitarist Henry Kaiser once said, “Neil Young puts more feeling into playing one note than most guitarists put into their entire lives.”

Keith Richards- Can’t You Hear Me Knocking

While he occasionally solos, Keith’s primary function in the Rolling Stones is as the most distinctive sounding and innovative rhythm guitarist ever to strap on an axe. The best Stones tunes are all built around one of Keith’s riffs. On Can’t You Hear Me Knocking, he plays five different variations on the opening riff. I bet he had a few more up his sleeve.

Mick Taylor- Can’t You Hear Me Knocking

The golden era of the Rolling Stones was 1969-73 which coincided with Mick’s tenure in the band. On this tune, after Bobby Keyes incendiary sax solo, Mick keeps the train rolling with a sweet, emotive and bluesy solo of his own. When the two of them team up to duet at the end of the song, it’s almost too much to take.

Jimi Hendrix- All Along The Watchtower

Jimi makes this Bob Dylan tune his own. His screaming, wah-wah drenched solos conjure up the darker aspects of the Sixties. There were no fancy high tech effects in Jimi’s day, he did it all with volume, feedback and a generous use of the tremolo bar, making his Stratocaster speak in a language that we’re still trying to decipher.

Eric Clapton- Little Wing

Clapton does to Hendrix’s Little Wing, what Jimi did to ‘Watchtower”. Clapton never seems to run out of ideas here. With each note his soaring solos grow more intense and build on the previous one. At the end of the song, we’re left spent and in awe. “Clapton is God” was a popular saying in the Sixties. It’s hard to dispute this, as Clapton’s playing on Little Wing is simply transcendent.

David Gilmour- Money

The weird time signature, haunting bass line and gritty Roger Waters vocal are all fantastic, but what really makes this tune fly is David Gilmour’s searing guitar work. His solo has two, count ‘em, two crescendos!  His screaming high notes and masterful use of  sustain keeps me on the edge of my seat every time. The intensity of Gilmour’s playing here is truly inspired.

We’re all from somewhere. Being from someplace is being of that place. Where I’m from is as much a part of me as the color of my eyes and the bouncy way I walk that my friends can identify me by from 100 yards away. I am from the much maligned, often lampooned, grossly misunderstood home of Bruce Springsteen, Frank Sinatra and the absolute best pizza on the planet, one of the original thirteen colonies, The Garden State, New Jersey.

At the young age of 22, I decided to “go west young man” and seek fame and fortune in The Golden State. At first I was simply dazzled by California. All of those Beach Boys and Eagles songs that I had listened to incessantly all my life seemed to come alive daily right before my eyes. That and all of the girls looked like Joni Mitchell. California was everything that New Jersey wasn’t. I had made it to the promised land and was never going back.

I made a lot of new friends back then and like me, they were mostly from somewhere else. None of them had ever been to New Jersey, let alone ever met anyone from there. I felt so exotic, like an indigenous tribesman from the Amazon Basin. I’d often be asked, “You’re from Joisey?” Joisey? Where the hell does that come from? I can honestly say that I’ve never, ever heard anyone who’s from New Jersey pronounce the state’s name like that. And how about that buffoon from Saturday Night Live back in the 80’s with his inane catch phrase, “You’re from Jersey? I’m from Jersey!”, spoken in a voice like Elmer Fudd on helium. Then there are the tried and true misconceptions that Jersey is an industrial wasteland overflowing with toxic waste. Of course none of this stuff is true. As a transplant to California, I suddenly found myself defending New Jersey’s honor against those who would dare take the birthplace of The Boss  in vain. It’s true that Jersey’s industrial corridor is ugly but if that’s your only impression of the state, well you’re missing the point. Northwest Jersey is filled with farms and forests. My sister lives up there and her yard is regularly visited by bears. The Jersey coastline ( “the shore”) is beautiful. The Pine Barrens in the central part of the state are vast and sparsely populated. My hometown of Caldwell is a quaint and peaceful place, reminiscent of the fictional Bedford Falls in the film It’s A Wonderful Life. Angelo’s Barber Shop occupies the same place on Bloomfield Ave. that it has for decades. My dad and older brother still get their haircuts there. Some of the tastiest corn and tomatoes you’ll ever eat are grown in New Jersey.  

Jersey people are “real”.  When I’m back there visiting, there’s something reassuring in the way folks ask, “Eh, how ya doin’?” It’s a refreshing change from the “have a nice day” nonsense that I hear too much of on the west coast. There’s no beating around the bush in New Jersey though, people will usually tell you exactly what’s on their mind. That brusqueness is often mistaken for rudeness, another Jersey misconception. However, you haven’t been told to “fuck off!” until you’ve been told by someone from Patterson.

For a while when I first relocated, I really wanted to be from California. I was so enchanted with my new home. I pushed my Jersey heritage into the background, not disavowing it but also not exactly boasting about it either. But the older I get, the further into the past my life in New Jersey recedes and the deeper my appreciation grows for being from there. My parents still live in the house that I was raised in. My siblings all live in the state. My roots there are deep. I was raised with a strong sense of pride in who I am; an Italian-American from New Jersey. That pride still lives in me. Through the years, things would come up from time to time to remind me just exactly where I was from.

Like millions of Americans, I was glued to my tv set while the tragedy of 911 was unfolding. I remember watching these two eyewitnesses being interviewed on the streets of Manhattan. Listening to their heavy east coast accents, it hit me hard; these guys could be my brothers! It was my people who were suffering. One of my actual brothers was working in Brooklyn that day, he watched in real time as smoke billowed from the Twin Towers.

After Hurricane Sandy devastated the Jersey coastline, one image that’s permanently burned into my psyche is that of a rollercoaster sitting in the Atlantic Ocean off of the amusement pier in Seaside Heights. One of the highlights of my family’s annual trip to the shore as a kid was to ride that very rollercoaster. Like I said, being from someplace is being of that place.

The Mafia and Jersey are synonymous in many peoples minds, and rightfully so. The Mob does have a rich and colorful history in the Garden State. The Sopranos was one of the most critically acclaimed tv series of the past 25 years. I loved that show mostly because while watching it I felt like I was hanging out with my Jersey pals. Listening to Tony and his crew talk  was like eavesdropping on one of my aunts and uncles conversations. The producers of that show really did their homework as every cuss word and slang term for food (mozzarella cheese is “mootzadell”) was absolutely spot on. If you lived in Jersey though, The Mob wasn’t just an abstraction. About ten years ago I sat around my younger brother’s swimming pool one summer day listening to my mom and two of her sisters nonchalantly tell the story of how my Aunt Lizzie and Uncle Sal wanted to have the abusive husband of their daughter “wacked”. Evidently my uncle knew a guy who knew a guy… That same uncle nearly got wacked himself once. As a younger man he was drunk at a wedding and mouthed off to a guy who, unbeknownst to him, was “connected”.  I think my aunt saved him from sleeping with the fishes.

New Jersey is often the butt of jokes and misconceptions. That just stiffens my resolve and makes me all the more want to defend it, to tell people what Jersey is really like. For starters, only someone from New Jersey knows that you never refer to taylor ham as pork roll, or for that matter even knows what taylor ham is. A whole pizza is a pie, and eating it with a knife and fork or asking for your pie to be topped with broccoli could get you wacked. A massive sandwich on a soft roll loaded with every type of unhealthy lunch meat (“cold cuts” thank you!) is a “hoagie”. New Jersey does not have a coast, it has “the shore”, and you never go to the shore, you always go down the shore. When you mention The Boss, everyone knows who you’re talking about. 

Being from someplace is being of that place and I’m proud to be from New Jersey.

When was the last time you received a letter? I’m not talking about the latest fund raising appeal from Greenpeace or the water bill. I mean an actual handwritten letter. When did you last write a letter to someone? I bet it’s been a while for  both.

The ubiquity of email and texting has relegated the handwritten personal letter to the dustbin of history alongside house calls from your doctor and pre-dawn visits from the milkman. In our increasingly cold and impersonal world, letter writing is just one more thing that I mourn the passing of. A couple of years ago, I decided I would singlehandedly try and revive the lost art of letter writing. I sent long personal letters to seven close friends. I recieved one reply. Of course that hasn’t always been the case.

In the spring of 1979, a close friend of mine and I drove cross-country to relocate to California from New Jersey. With our minimum wage Tower Records salaries we were barely able to eek out a living. During our first three months here, owning a telephone was a luxury that we could not afford. We’d use the corner phone booth (ahhh phone booths, another dustbin relic!) to call our families on the east coast…collect! So for me, letter writing then was a lifeline, a way for me to keep in touch with those who I’d left behind. I worked mostly 4pm to midnight shifts at Tower so I’d come home late, smoke a little pot, listen to the late, great Americana radio station KFAT and write letters into the wee hours of the morning. It was an exhilarating and liberating period of my life but also sad and lonely at times too. I’d fill yellow legal pads with words; my hopes, dreams, and fears pouring out through my fingertips and onto the page. Writing is such a tactile experience. I love the feel of a pen as the nib drags across the paper leaving a trail of blue in its wake. Writing a letter requires time and patience, both being in short supply nowadays. Letter writing is the ultimate in delayed gratification. If I send a letter to someone on the east coast and they reply immediately, the fastest turnaround time I could hope for would be a week. The ways we communicate now often require instant replies. Letter writing also requires thought and a basic understanding of spelling and grammar. My Pilot G-2 .07mm pen does not contain spell check or auto correct. It’s up to me to catch my mistakes and to correct them. Every essay that I post on this blog begins as a handwritten piece.

During my seminal first years in California, I wrote countless letters to family and friends. If you could arrange them chronologically, the trajectory of my life at that time could be traced through those letters. There’s an old box in our garage which contains hundreds of replies I recieved during that time. Every once in a while I’ll dig that box out and rummage through it. Each one of those letters is unique. The sizes, shapes and colors of the envelopes are all different. There are so many cool stamps and postmarks too.  My mom used to send me a few brightly colored leaves from our backyard trees every autumn. A letter from an old girlfriend still retains the faint scent of patchouli oil. With each letter, you get a little piece of the person who wrote it. Emails? They’re nothing but 1’s and 0’s, meant to be read and deleted. I doubt anyone prints out emails and saves them in a box.

It’s an uphill battle trying to retain a little of the personal touch in a world that grows more virtual every day. So writing letters is my way of pushing back; a small, personal rebellion against tweets and texts and automated voicemail. Keep your eyes on the mailbox, there just may be a letter from me tucked in there between the bills and junk mail.

Since beginning this blog earlier in the year, a recurring theme of mine has been finding solace in nature during uncertain times. Here’s my latest take.

The only human made sounds I can hear are the occasional rumbling of a plane taking off from nearby Charles Schultz Airport, otherwise this tranquil eddy along the bank of the Russian River is as quiet as can be. Whenever I come here I’m amazed at the absence of human made sounds, especially since I’m only 15 minutes away from the 101 freeway and tens of thousands of other people.

The rasping chit chit of a Stellar’s Jay occasionally punctuates the stillness. A Belted Kingfisher chatters past me on its way upriver. The distant kree-kraw of a crow is like a rumor in the distance. An enormous Great Blue Heron flies by as silent as a dream. A few moments ago a grey squirrel flew through the trees above, letting me know in no uncertain terms that I was a visitor in its home. The piercing call of a Northern Flicker echoes through the forest from across the river, a peaceful clarion call reminding all who care to listen that autumn is here for a while. A tiny Bewick’s Wren, white eye streaks like a mask and tail feathers pointing straight up offers a chipper greeting from its perch on a willow branch.

Silence is the blank canvas upon which all of these animals leave their brushstrokes. Their sounds, each one unique, are the hues that combine to create this tranquil aural masterpiece. It’s like a Monet painting for the ears. In order to “hear” this painting I’ve got to tune into its frequency and find the silence within myself, the blank canvas so to speak. It is so soothing coming to this place where there are only whispers. It’s an opportunity to recharge my batteries and a reminder that there are still refuges of silence and beauty in the world.

An enormous fish jumps and temporarily rouses me from my reverie. I just miss seeing its body but I know it’s big because the splash is so loud. I turn my head just in time to watch the ripples spread silently towards the shore, one by one by one; a broad stroke followed by ever lighter touches of the brush. Also adding its brushstrokes to this canvas now is a river otter, sleek and shining, its brown body glistens in the afternoon sun. Every few yards up it pops for a breath of air and a look around. As it heads downriver each of its dives creates a curlicue of sound, another color in the palette. A pair of ducks, Hornbilled Grebes, glide across the river’s mirror-like surface. Perfectly white butterflies dip and spin against a background of green plants growing on the far bank. At the center of it all is the river, flowing almost imperceptibly to the sea. These last few sounds are too faint for the human ear to perceive but they nevertheless are contributing their subtle tones to this masterwork.

Unlike the traditional painting made with brush and pigment this picture is unconstrained by canvas and frame. It’s an ongoing creation, a boundless work in progress. There was no beginning, hopefully there will be no end.

When I picked my son up yesterday from his past time job at the local hardware store, he told me about this experience that he had during his lunch break. 

Sam walked into Burger King, placed his order and stepped aside to wait for his food. A scruffy young man with an unkempt beard, dirty jeans and a torn t-shirt was next in line. After ordering, this fellow proceeded to empty his pockets; nickels, dimes, quarters and pennies rained down on the counter. He carefully counted his change and pushed it towards the cashier. The woman looked at him and said that he was $2.00 short. It was then that Sam pulled out his wallet, handed the guy two one dollar bills and told him to enjoy his lunch. Hearing this story on the way home put a big smile on my face. Throughout his young life Sam has been know for these selfless acts of kindness, so what he did for that man at lunch came as no surprise.

Every time I pick up the newspaper or swipe up on my phone, I see a nearly endless stream of stories about the more odious aspects of human nature. Greed and hatred scream, getting most of the attention. Love and kindness whisper and are mostly ignored. By the way, Sam’s little gesture did not make the news today but the kindness he showed towards that man could have ramifications far beyond anything he could ever imagine. Perhaps after having a hot meal at Burger King, this fellow has the energy to go out and apply for a job. Maybe he gets the job. Maybe he begins to turn his life around. Who knows? One thing I do know is that all of our actions, big or small, have consequences. It’s within our power to chose to treat others with love and compassion; to pay it forward like my son did.

The reasons why there is so much anger and hatred in the world are varied and complex. I couldn’t begin to list them. Like many people, I’m struggling to find a way out of our current dilemma. It’s all so overwhelming. Maybe a good start would be to simply  follow the Golden Rule: Treat others as you’d have them treat you. I think back on my college days and a nugget of wisdom I heard once from an old friend that has stayed with me ever since.

One evening my buddy John Murphy and I were sitting around the local watering hole bemoaning the sad state of world affairs (if we only knew what was to come!). I asked him, “Murph, what the hell are we gonna do about all of these haters and greed heads?” Murph paused, took a pull off of his beer and sighed, “We’re gonna kill ‘em with kindness Lou, kill ‘em with kindness!” Sage advise. Let’s pay it forward. Let’s start now.

My wife and I were watching a movie the other night. About halfway through the film, a man pulled his car off to the side of the road to call his wife. He was in the process of leaving a message when it began to rain. The rain started slowly, gradually building in intensity until raindrops were pounding on the roof of his car. Rain covered the windows with thousands of silver droplets. It appeared as if this man was on the inside of a fishbowl looking out. He cracked one of the windows and held the phone outside so his wife could hear the sound of the rain falling. You see she is the commander on a spaceship headed to Mars. Both of them may have been thinking this could be the last time that his wife would ever hear rain.

As I watched this scene play out, intense feelings of longing and sadness flooded over me. I felt the way that couple were probably feeling. Would I ever hear the sound of rain again? Where I live it’s been nine months since there’s been any measurable amount of rainfall. I’ve nearly forgotten what the rainy day experience is like. The land is brittle and baked, covered with ash and dust from  relentless heat and wildfires. Rain; cool, quenching rain. I close my eyes and reimagine the experience.

What does rain sound like? It rat-a-tats onto the roof of our deck. It swishes through our fruit trees. It hisses under car tires rolling along rain slicked streets. It splashes over squealing, puddle stomping children. It rushes through a rain swollen creek. It drips down the rain gutter outside our bedroom window, lulling me to sleep.

How does rain feel? It’s cleansing and cool on my face as I tilt my head back to catch each drop. It’s cold and wet and squishy when I walk barefoot through the grass.

What does rain look like? Trees and plants bending under its weight. Raindrops forming perfect crystal balls on leaves and petals, each one reflecting an infinite piece of the sky. Cars and streets, sidewalks and trees all take on the glow of the freshly cleansed. The surfaces of lakes and rivers transformed into millions of glittering, dancing diamonds.

What does rain smell like? Wet hair and wet fur. Mud and memories. Hope and possibilities. Gardens and growth. Relief and renewal. The promise of a new day.

What does rain taste like? Life.

Scientists are convinced that water once flowed freely on the surface of Mars. Drenching storms fed mighty rivers which carved massive canyons more grand than our own. It’s been a few million years since umbrellas were needed on the Red Planet though; rain and flowing water there being memories more distant than the human mind can wrap itself around. Will intelligent beings studying our planet in the distant future say the same of us? “Rain once fell there, rivers flowed…”

The water in Bullfrog Pond is olive green and still. The breeze, ever so slight, is just strong enough to push a few leaves across the surface; small vessels who’s destinations are unknown. As I approach the lichen spotted and weathered picnic table from where I am writing I startle an enormous Great Blue Heron. With two flaps of its prehistoric wings it’s off in a flash of blue to hunt in peace somewhere else. A dinner plate sized dark shape glides slowly by, occasionally popping its periscope-like head above the surface of the water; it’s a Western Pond Turtle. A few unlucky insects land on the surface and are quickly gobbled up. I watch this creature move with stealth and grace until it’s body disappears beneath the green. This pond is so full of life, the beauty here subtle. The key to unlocking some of its mysteries is to stop, observe and breathe; a meditation on what it means to be here right now.

The cacophony of our world today is deafening and unbearable. I’ve come here today to press the “mute” button for a few hours. I’m realizing that in order to survive these insane times, I need to find the quiet spaces within myself and in the world at large. I’m being screamed at from everywhere I turn so it feels really nice to be at this peaceful spot today where the only sounds I hear are the occasional buzz of an insect, the chattering conversation of a pair of Acorn Woodpeckers and the ringing in my ears. Out here there are no screams, only whispers.

The hunter I’m watching now is a Black Phoebe. This elegant little bird swoops down to the surface of the water from it’s perch, catching an insect in mid-air and returning to enjoy it’s snack. I walk down to the bank of the pond and the stillness is broken by a chirp and a splash; my footsteps have startled a bullfrog, its camouflage so complete among the algae and duckweed as to render it invisible. Flame orange and cerulean blue dragonflies perform their impossible acrobatics in the still autumn air,  their vibrant colors are a stark contrast against the muted greens and browns. Tiny black fish occasionally break the surface of the water, each time creating the miracle of a perfectly concentric circle as fleeting as a shooting star.

Life in the latter part of 2020 is at times painful and devastating, full of fear and anger. Humanity lurches along on its self destructive path but thankfully the rhythms of nature continue as they have for millennia here at Bullfrog Pond and at other sacred places in the natural world. Long after the evil and the greedy have passed on, nature will continue to provide us with solace in troubled times.

As I write this, the Air Quality Index (AQI) is 15. This is good, very good. Lately I’ve become quite well versed in the parameters of the AQI. Anything below 50 is good, smooth sailing, no problem, might as well be sitting on the beach in Maui. Between 50-100 we’re still in good shape but better be vigilant. Once we start getting into the mid to upper 100’s, well now we’ve got problems. A few days ago the AQI in my town was 220! In Oregon, the latest front in the climate fires currently raging out west, my friends there are choking on air with an AQI of 450 and higher! That’s equivalent to sticking your head into the top of a smoking chimney.

The perfect storm of Covid, wildfires and toxic air have me now more than ever appreciating one of the simplest, most basic pleasures in life: breathing clean air. Freak lightning storms in August sparked numerous horrific wildfires in California and Oregon. I don’t think I need to recap the news for you. As a result of these fires the air here has been basically unbreathable for over a month. That’s why today feels so good. 

The gentle breeze moving across my back deck creates a wind chime symphony, clearing out the smoke and purifying the air. What’s that huge patch of blue up there between the eucalyptus trees? Oh right, that’s the sky. After experiencing Apocalypse Orange and Nuclear Winter Grey, I much prefer the Robin’s Egg Blue that I’m currently looking at. And the air! I fill my lungs. In through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through the mouth… I better be careful or I may hyperventilate! I walk around my yard and smell my neighbor’s barbecue, freshly mown grass, the tomato plants in our garden, night blooming jasmine. I’m so grateful  for one thing that I don’t smell, smoke! When is the last time I breathed air this clean? The breeze feels so damn good! I can breathe! Thank goodness I can breathe!

Let it rain

Cats and dogs, pigs and frogs

Oodles, puddles, gushers, mushers

Let it flow

Meander, tumble, rumble

A cascade parade

Buckets, sheets, fill the streets

Let it pour

More, more and more

Rivers, streams, dreams

A wonderful gullywashing downpour

A soaking baptism

A never-ending stream of cloud tears

A desperate weeping waterfall

Tumbling over a conical phantasm of endless umbrellas

Deflecting an infinite multitude of raindrops

The birds and bees, rocks and trees

Are arid and parched, brittle and baked

With all of my hydration imagination

Please let it rain

It was another lifetime ago. Actually it was just six months ago. Spring training was in full swing. Me, my son and our baseball pals were already making plans to buy tickets for upcoming games at Oracle Park in San Francisco. Another season with our beloved Giants was on the horizon and we could hardly wait to get out to the yard and root our team on. Well, you know the rest of this story.

Of all the aspects of life that have been disrupted  since Covid-19 has had us in its grip, the cessation of sports has been particularly difficult to come to terms with. Sports is such an integral part of the fabric of American life, a focal point of civic pride and an opportunity for people and communities of all types to come together to laugh and cry, cheer and jeer. The loss of sports has left a gaping hole in our collective hearts. From the mightiest MLB slugger to the littlest t-baller, baseball players and baseball diamonds have gone silent. Think about this: Little League was cancelled this year! Of course the entire sports world has been upended by Covid, but since baseball is so near and dear to my heart, that’s what I’m writing about.

Baseball is the source of my earliest and most vivid sports memory. It was  Father’s Day 1965. I was 8 1/2 years old and on my way to see my first major league baseball game. My mom packed the lunches, kissed us goodbye and loaded me, my older brother Ray and my dad into our ’64 Dodge Rambler. We were on our way to The House That Ruth Built: Yankee Stadium. 

My dad has always been a sports fanatic. Sports is the way that he and I  connect. As a kid I spent countless hours watching games on tv with my dad. Baseball was and still is my favorite sport. Back when I was a kid, the Yankees were my favorite team and my hero was Yankee icon and Hall of Famer Mickey Mantle. The Mick was in the twilight off his career on that Father’s Day and it turned out to be the first and only time I would ever see him play. Mantle retired three years later at the end of the 1968 season.

When we got to the gates, the usher took our tickets. As we walked through the turnstiles, Ray and I each received a genuine wooden baseball bat with a Yankee signature on the barrel. Mine was signed by  third baseman Clete Boyer. This was the first ever giveaway day at The Stadium and the place was packed with a record 71,245 fans! Our seats were in the upper deck in left field so we had to walk up several steep concrete ramps to get there. The sight that greeted me was simply breathtaking. What I remember most about that moment was the color of the grass. It was the greenest green that I had ever seen. It was all of the Saint Patrick’s Days that had ever been, rolled into one. Like the names given to those endless shades of colors at the paint store, this green needed its own unique name: Baseball Green.

We settled into our seats and I tried to take it all in. This was the most people that I had ever seen in one place. The field and the stadium itself were larger than life. I had no prior experience to compare this to. Yankee Stadium was more awe inspiring than I could have imagined. It was like the Grand Canyon, only made by humans. The starting lineups were introduced by legendary announcer Bob Sheppard. His sonorous voice  boomed over the PA system like the voice of God: “Batting third and playing first base, numbah seven MICKEY MANTLE!” The roar that greeted The Mick’s name was deafening. There were hits and runs scored. One of the opposing players hit a home run into our section in the upper deck. It was so hot, the concessions ran out of soda.

Miraculously, Major League Baseball has managed to salvage this season, so all has not been lost. The fans have been replaced by cardboard cut-outs, the roar of the crowd is pre-recorded and piped in through the stadium PA system. There are a couple of temporary new rules, more akin to Little League than MLB, and the shortened 60 game season is already more than halfway through. But I’ll take it. Whether you’re a fan or not, the fact that major leaguers are playing baseball right now on those impossibly green fields is a glimmer of hope that we can all hang onto.