ANOTHER LITTLE PIECE-GONE

As life goes on, things seem to disappear! What we once took for granted, we now wish was here. There is no sadder fact than we are all getting older, and each passing day brings on change, sometimes for the better, and sometimes not.

As a youngster growing up in Brooklyn, on Hull Street, I remember so vividly, my dream. It was to play shortstop in front of Duke Snider in Ebbets Field. He would cover the outfield like a gazelle, running down fly balls, I would cover the infield like a vacuum cleaner, gobbling up all the grounders, and making spectacular plays that would bring the crowds to their feet. Oh, I would sure as heck step up to the plate in the bottom of the 9th, of the 7th game of the World Series, my Dodgers down by three runs with the bases loaded. With one mighty swing, I would connect, as the ball soared over the left field stands, over the roof, and clear away, where today they would still be waiting for the ball to come down!

The Duke is gone, and with him goes the last of my heroes. The Brooklyn Dodgers were a special team. They were my team, and I was proud to be a Dodger fan. It seemed the players themselves were all heroes in their own right, fulfilling a need in my life to belong to something besides a family and church dominated school.

There was Pee Wee Reese, the captain of the team, who seemed to capture the spirit of the team best, as he led them onto the playing field behind the cheers of 34,000 people. He was a Kentuckian that earned the name ‘Pee Wee’ because he was a marbles player and champion at it.

There was Gil Hodges, the gentle giant and the greatest first baseman that ever lived. A whole borough of Brooklynites, praying for him to beat his slump and get a hit in the World Series. It was so severe that the priest on the pulpit at Our Lady of Lourdes asked his congregation to pray for him.

There was Jackie Robinson, who doesn’t know Jackie? My pride in the Dodgers that they gave a man a chance to compete on the field of play, unmindful of his skin color, and proving that color shouldn’t matter, and really doesn’t.

And there was ‘Campy’ the catcher who was a three-time winner of the MVP, a true gentleman, and great player. He squatted behind that plate like a little bell, and hit like a big cannon, a role model who gave much back to the borough of Brooklyn.

I remember ‘Skoonj’ Carl Furillo, the right fielder who had an arm that they dubbed the Reading Rifle’ it was so strong, and because he came from Reading Pa.

I could go one about this team, and I can’t really say anything bad about them. There were no scandals associated with them, they played like the class act they were. They were perennial winners in their league, and perennial losers in the World Series. It made for great combination of leaning to win and lose with grace. Because of them, I learned that life is not always perfect, just good. You don’t have to win the World Series of life, just be able to be there to compete. Then you know that you have done the best YOU are capable of.

Good bye Duke, I loved you and all the Dodgers.