Loss

For the past month, I have been caught up in the drama of the Toronto Blue Jays and their run for the World Series. Last night was game seven, which for those not in the loop, was the final and deciding game of the Series.

I’m not a spoiler to say the Dodgers won in extra innings. It was a heartbreaking end to a Cinderella story, this epic story of loss. The Blue Jays, who last year were the worst team in baseball, won their division, and then the ALCS- American League Championship Series- faced the Dodgers in the World Series. Over the course of the post season, we got to know and love them. To witness their camaraderie and the love this team has for each other. As a nation, we were inspired by their efforts and professionalism. In my life, I do not recall such an outpouring of love for a team.

I have always loved baseball. I played Little League baseball in grade 5 and 6. I didn’t have my own glove, but used my brother Brent’s mitt. The first day of practice, we met the coach, a Mexican guy named Gomez, living with his brother Armando, in a small town in Washington state. There were not a lot of Mexicans in Aberdeen in the Sixties.

The coach and his brother were great guys. I didn’t know much about baseball. What I knew was big families and joining. I consider myself an introvert, which is funny, because as an entertainer, I am compelled to extrovert. The decision to play baseball was mine and mine alone. My four older brothers and Father did not teach me anything about baseball.

Gomez and his brother Armando were hitting fly balls to us in the field. I heard the crack of his bat, and saw the ball coming at me. I used my borrowed mitt from brother Brent to shield my eyes from the sun, but at the last moment, I flinched. The ball smashed into my forehead, knocking me to the ground. I was pretty shocked, and thoroughly embarrassed. Everyone crowded around, and I got up, not wanting to appear “too hurt”. The next day, I had a giant “goose egg” on my forehead.

Our team was called the Lions, supported by the Lion’s Club, a fraternity that my father belonged to. My Dad was managing a sawmill. A guy named Jupe came by the house one day. Jupe had lost half an arm and a few fingers to the sawmill.

My Dad was a busy guy. He always said he loved meeting strangers, finding out about their lives. The kindness of strangers. I do not recall ever playing catch with him. Years later, as I was telling my brother Brian about it, he said Dad never came out for his hockey games either. Unfortunately, Dad is not here anymore to defend himself. Let’s just say he was complicated.

The Lions were second in the league the year before I joined. My first year, we were 2-13, (2 wins and 13 losses.) The second year, we were 0-15. To tell you just how bad I was, I didn’t even get to play until the last game of year 2. I rode the bench, as they say.

What position did I play?

End, Guard and Tackle. Go to the end of the bench, guard the water, and tackle anyone who gets near it.

Of course, that is an old joke, more suited to a football reference than baseball, but you get the picture. Midway through season one, our coach Gomez and his brother left the team, supposedly running off with the “candy money” in the middle of the night. Somehow, I think that there was more to this story than what we 10 year olds were told. We had raised the candy money by selling candy-Heath Bars- door to door. A white guy took over from the Mexicans, and he was not as fun as the Mexican guys.

I discovered the secret of team sports: the kids who got to play were the kids whose Dad came out to practice. At least that was the way it seemed to me, the one who didn’t get to play, and whose Dad never came out to the practice.

One of the pivotal moments in my life was a car ride home after a game, a game we lost, (again) and I didn’t get to play.(again) Dad was yelling. (again). I am not sure if he was yelling at me, but at the time, it sure felt like he was.

Years later, I made a conscious effort to “ re-remember” this scene. He was not yelling at me, but was mad at the unfairness of the situation. Either way, you would think this experience would have ruined baseball for me. But wait, the water at the end of the bench was half full.

On the very last game of season two, for the first time, I was sent up to bat. I proceeded to get a hit, getting on base with a single to right field. From my vantage point, as the batter, it looked like the ball was going to go over the fence, and my only hit was going to be a home run.

Alas, it was not a home run, but a single. I eventually advanced to home plate, scoring a run. We still lost, but it was a great way to end my short baseball career.

Later that year, we moved to another town. I kept out of team sports, and bought a game called Strat-O-Matic baseball, a fantasy league board game with full rosters of every team. With the roll of dice, I could determine the winners and losers.

I had lots of pads of paper on which I recorded the games, and kept the stats, which for any baseball fan, is the heart of baseball. For a couple years, I played this game with my neighbour Fred, until Fred moved to New Orleans. Funny, Fred was also my Dad’s name.

My favourite team at the time was the San Francisco Giants, with Willie Mays, Bobby Bonds, Juan Marichal, and Willie McCovey. I even remember the short stop, who I think was Chris Speier. Tito Fuentes played second base. I also loved Roberto Clemente from the Pirates. To this day I still regret not buying a hand painted t-shirt of Clemente in NYC, from an street artist.

These days I don’t play baseball, but I love to go on walks, A week ago on Sunday, I went for a long walk and I ended up in the cemetery. I wanted to find the grave of my grandfather’s first wife, Mary Elizabeth Mills ( nee Parsons).

He married her in 1916, having known her for at least three years, as they were witnesses at the marriage of Mary’s older brother. In 1917, she gave birth to their only child, Thelma. The next year, on November 1 , Mary tragically died at the young age of 24. That was 107 years ago. After her death, the responsibility of caring for Thelma was passed on to my grandfather’s sister Olga, and his mother. At an age of 23, Thelma was sent to a mental hospital in Essondale,, where she lived until she died at age 47. I found out these details about Mary and Thelma three years ago when I asked my friend Karen to look into my family genealogy.

When I was growing up, we never talked about either of them.

Mary is buried up the street in the Mountain View cemetery. Thelma is buried in Burnaby. My father and mother were cremated, and were not buried anywhere. The small amount of ashes that we had, we threw into the ocean near Second Beach.

My parents loved to travel. We figure they might be in Hawaii by now. There is no headstone to visit, which is kind of sad, but when I visit that spot, I pause to reflect on my memories of them.

Loss—the Blue Jays loss, the loss of my Father and Mother, the loss of Mary and Thelma, two relatives who we didn’t talk about, what we lose when we don’t talk.

I think about my Grandfather. He grew up in Ontario, and moved to homestead in Alberta. His father died shortly after the move. My grandfather became the man of the family at age 13. His brother, Frederick, died in World War 1, and his name was given to my Father.

My grandfather remarried in 1920. He was a widower, and according to the marriage certificate, a gasoline mechanic. He was 29. Within two years, they had two children, then two more. I had been told he was a Teamster. For sure, he was a smoker who rolled his own, and who liked his rum. He had emphysema.

I remember going to their little house on Rumble Street. There was a large dish of smarties. He made his own horseradish, and grew raspberries, how my grandmother had a spoon collection, and who liked Drambuie, although she claimed she never drank it, it evaporated. I remember going to their house and being the one making whip cream, and whipping it too long until it became butter. How we rarely had butter growing up, because margarine was better for you. How we had powdered milk. I remember being told I would have to wait a week for my birthday present.

It is funny what we remember and what we forget. What we choose to remember and choose to forget. How losing is the opposite of winning, but loss is what we learn to live with. Loss is part of living.

The glass is half full. I guess the other half evaporated.