Random Memories
During Memorial Day Weekend we were all sitting around talking when conversations turned to the dogs we had as we were growing up.
My Mom told a great story about the day we moved into the big house on Shirley Road. We were all too young to remember it, but the neighbors dog, a huge husky of sorts, stopped by the house to visit our boxer, Ricky #1 who was chained up in the garage.
The boxer literally destroyed it.
“The neighbors didn’t much care for us right off the bat.”
Then John told a story I didn’t remember about Ricky II.
“A huge dog was chasing us, and I ran into the garage and shut the door, and you were still out there running for your life.”
He pointed to me.
“How old was I?”
“About five,” John said. “I told you to run to the doghouse, and you did. Ricky was there and you just made it to him, and the huge dog followed you. What a mess Ricky made of that dog.”
“We got in trouble for that,” Mom said. “Our dog was tied up, and the cops came to get him! We had to get his teeth removed!”
They were stories I barely remembered and they were made more weird because Mom and John had tears in their eyes...
...recalling dogs who’ve been gone for 40 + years!
I have an excellent memory as well and we shifted the conversation to the little league baseball game that Dad attended.
I was on the Mets. I was a 9-year-old who struggled to get on base because I was deathly afraid of the ball, but we were playing the Yankees, and Dad was there!
Mom attended every single game. Dad was usually working. On that night, Dad took Mom’s shift to watch me and John play.
In the first inning, I hit a ball that didn’t make it to the third-basemen. (A real frozen rope!) and I used my considerable wheels to beat it out (the third basemen fell down).
Anyway...
...that’s what started the trouble.
I made my way around to third, and Dad yelled for me to be ready to tag up. My coach told me to not listen to my Dad, and to listen to him.
Not listen to Dad?
Dad said something to the coach and the twenty or so people gathered burst into laughter. (I still don’t know what he said, but it pissed off the umpire, who turned and warned my father).
The ball was hit to left. An easy pop up. I stayed on the bag for the tag-up (as Dad advised) and when the ball was caught, I raced home. (Considerable wheels?)
Nope!
I’ve always run as if I was sinking in sand.
Bang-bang play at the plate.
“Safe!”
I was happy, Dad was happy. The coach of the Yankees wasn’t happy. My coach was asking me why I didn’t slide, and why I listened to my Dad and not him.
Then Dad said something else, and the ump turned to the bleachers.
“One more beep out of you!” He screamed.
I heard it, as plain as day just before the bleachers erupted in laughter.
“Beep.”
The ump jumped out.
“That’s it! Game over!!”
My run had tied it up.
I even remember the score:
9-9.
We got home.
“How was the game?” Mom asked.
“Dad got It canceled,” I said.
At the party on Sunday we were all laughing at the memory.
“I was so mad at him,” Mom said.
“You sent Dad to our game,” I said. “What did you think was gonna’ happen?”
My Mom told a great story about the day we moved into the big house on Shirley Road. We were all too young to remember it, but the neighbors dog, a huge husky of sorts, stopped by the house to visit our boxer, Ricky #1 who was chained up in the garage.
The boxer literally destroyed it.
“The neighbors didn’t much care for us right off the bat.”
Then John told a story I didn’t remember about Ricky II.
“A huge dog was chasing us, and I ran into the garage and shut the door, and you were still out there running for your life.”
He pointed to me.
“How old was I?”
“About five,” John said. “I told you to run to the doghouse, and you did. Ricky was there and you just made it to him, and the huge dog followed you. What a mess Ricky made of that dog.”
“We got in trouble for that,” Mom said. “Our dog was tied up, and the cops came to get him! We had to get his teeth removed!”
They were stories I barely remembered and they were made more weird because Mom and John had tears in their eyes...
...recalling dogs who’ve been gone for 40 + years!
I have an excellent memory as well and we shifted the conversation to the little league baseball game that Dad attended.
I was on the Mets. I was a 9-year-old who struggled to get on base because I was deathly afraid of the ball, but we were playing the Yankees, and Dad was there!
Mom attended every single game. Dad was usually working. On that night, Dad took Mom’s shift to watch me and John play.
In the first inning, I hit a ball that didn’t make it to the third-basemen. (A real frozen rope!) and I used my considerable wheels to beat it out (the third basemen fell down).
Anyway...
...that’s what started the trouble.
I made my way around to third, and Dad yelled for me to be ready to tag up. My coach told me to not listen to my Dad, and to listen to him.
Not listen to Dad?
Dad said something to the coach and the twenty or so people gathered burst into laughter. (I still don’t know what he said, but it pissed off the umpire, who turned and warned my father).
The ball was hit to left. An easy pop up. I stayed on the bag for the tag-up (as Dad advised) and when the ball was caught, I raced home. (Considerable wheels?)
Nope!
I’ve always run as if I was sinking in sand.
Bang-bang play at the plate.
“Safe!”
I was happy, Dad was happy. The coach of the Yankees wasn’t happy. My coach was asking me why I didn’t slide, and why I listened to my Dad and not him.
Then Dad said something else, and the ump turned to the bleachers.
“One more beep out of you!” He screamed.
I heard it, as plain as day just before the bleachers erupted in laughter.
“Beep.”
The ump jumped out.
“That’s it! Game over!!”
My run had tied it up.
I even remember the score:
9-9.
We got home.
“How was the game?” Mom asked.
“Dad got It canceled,” I said.
At the party on Sunday we were all laughing at the memory.
“I was so mad at him,” Mom said.
“You sent Dad to our game,” I said. “What did you think was gonna’ happen?”
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