Rhyming Game

Our whole family were driving on Hwy 48, north of Englewood. I must have been about 20, because my sister Kym was with us and participating in our conversations, so she must have been at least six or seven. Dad was driving and we were playing a game.

Someone would see an object, say its name and the next person would have to rhyme and so on, each taking a turn until someone was stumped.

House, mouse, blouse, etc. Tree, fee, bee ... street, feet, meet ...

Then it was my turn and I saw a little pond with some birds swimming on it and said, "Duck!" One of your aunts said, "Buck!" and another quickly chimed in with "luck!"

Then Dad said, "Let's play a different game."

How Dad Quit Smoking

My Dad started smoking in his late teens, as was common with young men of his generation.  He usually smoked Lucky Strikes, which was a popular, "manly" cigarette, known for (and valued due to) its high tar and nicotine.

Dad stopped smoking sometime in the mid-60's.  As I remember, it was a year or two after we moved to Stonequarry Road.  He did not make a big deal out of it, or even mention it.  Someone noticed and asked.  At the time, we all (Mom, my sisters and other family and friends) just figured he decided that it was bad for his health and an unnecessary expense.

Those letters on the bottom - LS/MFT say
Lucky Strike/Means Fine Tobacco

But it turned out there was more to the story.

I suspect that it's probably nearly impossible for youngsters to believe, but in those days you could buy a pack of cigarettes from a vending machine.

Remembering this, I realize that it was very odd that these machines existed as parents would send their kids to the store for cigarettes, but only if they gave them a note to show to the cashiers.  And the cigarettes were stored in a location that was not accessible to customers - you had to ask for them.

Perhaps the machines were not considered a problem as they were usually only located in places where children were not commonly present, like bars, workplaces, bowling alleys, veterans' organizations, gas stations and suchlike.

And cigarettes were really cheap in those days too.  When I first became aware of their cost, I'm pretty sure that they were 25₵ a pack.  Yes, just a quarter.

OK, so what's all this got to do with Dad and how he quit smoking?  I think this story says a lot about Dad's personality - his pride, his determination and his resolve.

In 1968, after I got out of High School and started college, I got a job working at Delco-Moraine, a GM factory that mostly manufactured brake and transmission parts.  It was the same place where Dad was a manager in charge of production lines which made most of the disc-brake parts used in GM vehicles.

Working there I got to know many of Dad's friends, co-workers and employees.  One guy I really liked was named Ruben.  Ruben was a jobsetter - his duties were to relieve other workers, do minor repairs and help out when someone's station backed up or they had some problem.

Talking to Ruben one day the subject of smoking came up and Ruben asked me, "Did you ever hear the story of how your Dad quit smoking?"

I was unaware that there was any "story" associated with Dad quitting and said so.

So Ruben tells me:

One day your Dad and I were talking.

And, in the course of this conversation, one or the other of us says, "Hey, I need a pack of cigarettes."  The other says, "Me too."

So we walked over to the vending machine.  Arriving there, we discovered that they had just raised the price of a pack from  25₵ to 30₵.

"G-d d-mn it!" your Dad says, "I'm not paying 30₵ for an f-ing pack of cigarettes!"

Reasonably, I replied, "But Bill, what choice do you have?"  I laughed, "What are you going to do?  Stop smoking?"

"H-ll, yes." your Dad replied, "I'll quit.   I'm not paying 30₵ for a d-mn pack of cigarettes!"

So I went back to our Department and told the rest of the guys, "Hey everybody, guess what?  Locker's going to quit smoking because they raised the price a nickel!"

We laughed and laughed.  Everyone was teasing him.  One guy started a pool about how long he'd last.  For a dollar you could pick the date you thought he'd start up again.

But he never did.

He Walks Just Like His Father.

My Dad was a great storyteller.  He could make the most insignificant sorts of incidents memorable to all.

I can easily visualize Dad telling one of these stories.  He would get this great smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye.  He would start off very seriously, but he could never maintain that long.  Pretty soon he'd start to giggle.  He got so much joy out of sharing these with those he loved.

Towards the end of his life Dad would tell his favorite stories pretty often.  Some of us thought this was an indication of minor dementia, that he'd forgotten he'd just told this.  Now that I've thought more about this though, I don't think that was the case.  I think he knew that he'd told the story recently, but that he got so much happiness telling his stories, and he knew that we got just as much joy hearing him tell them, that he could not resist.

In our family laughter can easily be triggered by just saying any number of short phrases -- "Turn Around?"  "Ma-TRO-Buis?" "Pull Over If You See a Good Spot" "He Knows the Near Way!" "Flat Tire"


One of the most famous though, is the story of the man who walks just like his Father.

Here is the story as Dad would tell it:

One summer we were driving up to Boston.  This was probably in the late 70s and only Kim & Bill were with us since they were the only kids still living at home.  On this trip we had decided to visit Marge's cousin, Jack Meade, who lived on Staten Island in New York.

Marge had met Jack, but Jack was about 10 years younger than Marge and the last time they'd seen each other was when Jack was just a kid, so Marge wasn't sure she'd be able to recognize him.  We'd never been to his house, so when we got to Staten Island we stopped at a McDonald's near the area where we thought he lived and called, telling him where we were.

Jack said he knew exactly where the restaurant was and that he'd be over to meet us in a few minutes.

So we sat there snacking, looking out the windows waiting for our guide to show.

After a few minutes a guy walked through the parking lot. He didn't appear to be coming into the McDonald's, just passing through, but Marge looked closely at him and said, "Bill, I think that's him.  He walks just like his Father."

So I quickly went out the door and whistled.  That got the guy's attention and he turned towards me.  "Hey," I said, "We're over here!"

He turned and gave me a quizzically look, but didn't say anything.  He looked about the right age, so when he turned and started to walk away, I started following him.  "Hey, Jack?" I yelled, "Where are you going?"

He turned and looked at me, so I started walking a little faster, then, so did he.  Next thing I knew we were running down the street.  When he jumped over a hedge and tripped, I was able to catch up to him.  He jumped up and took a swing at me, so I knocked him down again.

"Jack," I said, "What the hell's the matter with you?  I'm Bill Locker, your cousin Dolly's husband."

"What the hell's a matter with me?" he replied, "What the hell's the matter with you?  My name's not Jack and I don't have any cousins named Dolly."

Well, this embarrassed me a little, so I apologized to the poor guy and went back the the restaurant.  While I was gone, the real Jack had shown up, so we left and went to their home.

**********************

Now here's the way Mom and Uncle Bill say it happened:

The stories are the same until about the time your Nana said, "Bill, I think that's him.  He walks just like his Father."

The guy she said this about actually did come into MacDonald's.  Dad went over to him and said, "Are you Jack Meade?"

The guy said, "No," so Dad sat back down and waited until he did show up.

Sense of Direction

I’m often accused of having a good sense of direction.  I usually have a feeling for which way North is.  I can usually find my way anywhere I’ve been before and sometimes even to places I’ve never been.  Here are a few stories about this.

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Murlin Heights Elementary

When I started school in Vandalia, in 1956, the town was growing quickly.  There were so many new homes going in, and we were in the early wave of the “Baby Boomer” kids, so Vandalia didn’t have enough schools for all of us.  They were building a new school, Stonequarry Elementary, that I was scheduled to go to (at the southeast corner of Dogleg and Stonequarry Roads, it's now a church), but it wasn’t ready when the year began.

So I began school at Murlin Heights Elementary, but was only there for a few days. Then we were sent to Vandalia Elementary (VE) where our class was seated in the gym, with about three other classes.  The “classrooms” were divided by curtains hanging from ropes stretched across the gym.

Vandalia Elementary

We attended “VE” for a good while, not sure how long, but I remember that the first day we went to Stonequarry the weather was a bit cool.


I remember, very clearly, another thing about our first day at Stonequarry.  The School Bus picked us up that morning as usual and took us to VE where the students who attended that school were to get off, while those who were to go on to Stonequarry remained on the bus.  But for some reason, the driver decided that I and other boy, Rickie Heeter, who was my best friend in First Grade, were confused about where we were supposed to go.

Tommy Locker

We told him we were now at Stonequarry, but he insisted that we were VE students and had to get off the bus.  So there stood two six-year-olds, outside a school which wasn’t theirs, where none of their classmates, teachers or friends were, watching the bus drive off.  Rickie started crying.  I don’t remember feeling scared.  I knew where I was, I knew where I lived and I knew how to get there.  I told Rickie, “I’m going to get my Dad!” (At that time Dad worked the evening shift.)

 

Rickie Heeter

So off I went.  I had started walking towards my house before the bus was out of sight.  Our house on Spartan Avenue was more than a mile from VE and on the other side of US 40, at that time one of the Nation’s major east-west highways.  I think I knew the route partly because Dad worked evenings and, as we only had one car, we would sometimes walk from our house over to the library, which was then near the corner of Dixie & Kenbrook (Kenbrook was called Nelson at that time), very near VE.

It probably took me about a half-hour to get home.  My Dad’s sister, Aunt Norma, lived on Donora Drive, very near us, and I had to pass her house to get home.  She noticed me walking past and, realizing that I should have been in school, called out to me, “Tommy, where are you going?”

Our neighborhood was so new it wasn't on the map yet!

To get my Dad!” I responded.

Well, Mom and Dad were a bit surprised to see me!  I explained what had happened and Dad drove me back over to VE.  We found Rickie in the office, still crying (why we didn’t think of just going into the office initially I don’t know – we were six).  Dad took both of us to Stonequarry and explained the situation to our teacher, Miss Cole.

Stonequarry Elementary

One last memory of this event – Dad often told this story and he would say that I had “walked a mile and three tents.”  I couldn’t remember seeing any tents while I was walking home.  Sometimes when we would drive along the route I’d walked I looked for those tents.  Eventually of course, it dawned on me that he was saying a mile and three tenths.

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One summer when I was 19 or 20 I drove with Mom and some of my younger siblings up to Boston for vacation.  Driving home it was getting late and I was pretty tired, having driven most of the way.  By this time we were just north of Columbus, maybe an hour and a half or two hours from home, but I was just getting too sleepy to continue.

I woke Mom up and told her that I was going to pull over and sleep for a while.  She said that she felt fine and would drive the rest of the way.  I climbed into the backseat and soon fell asleep.

At this time, the Interstate Highway system was not complete and to get on the Interstate from Columbus to Vandalia required several miles of traversing city streets.

In the backseat I felt the car turn and was suddenly wide awake.  I sat up and said, “We’re going the wrong way.”

Mom explained that no, we had just gotten to US 40 and we’d be home soon.  Just at that moment the headlights illuminated a sign very like this one.

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In May of 1994 I visited my friend Mark in London.  Mark grew up in London and enjoyed showing off his city to me.

Late one afternoon he said to me, “There’s something  I want to show you over in the Docklands part of East London, down by the Thames.”

So we jump in his car and head from Hammersmith, west of London, towards the Docklands.  Now, we were traveling generally east, and since it was late afternoon the sun was right behind us.  We drove along, talking and laughing.  As Van Morrison says in Coney Island, “The Craic was good.”

Mark was driving, of course, but as we drove along I noticed that the sun was gradually moving from more of less directly behind us to coming in the windows on the left side of the car.  We were going north.

Now, I knew that we were north of the Thames when we started and that the Docklands were near the river, so it seemed to me that we were not getting any nearer to our destination, but it was Mark’s city and I assumed he knew where he was going.

But after driving another little while, Mark said, “I thought we’d be there by now.”

I told him that I didn’t think we were getting any closer to the Thames.  He was surprised and wanted to know why I thought that.  When I explained my reasoning he couldn’t believe it, “I’ve lived here all my life and never used the sun to help me find out where I’m going.”

"But Mark," I said, "we were north of the Thames when we started and we're going north now.  We can't possibly be getting any closer to the River."

We never did get to the Docklands and he wouldn’t tell me what he had wanted to show me.

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In 1993 Mom and Dad visited California.  Accompanied by Bill we spent about a week driving around the state from Truckee where Bill and I were living then, down the coast to San Diego and back up through Bishop and Mammoth returning to Truckee.

We visited several friends and relatives along the way and we had been on the road several days when Mom mentioned that we hadn’t looked at a map the entire trip.  Then it became a challenge to complete the trip without using a map.

Over the years my career as a Forest Ranger had taken me to many nooks and crannies of California over the years -- going to fires in different places -- so I was pretty familiar with the road systems and the general “lay of the land” and we were able to do it.

Dad, the Monte Carlo & the Highway Patrol

Sometime in the late 70’s or early 80’s Dad bought a Chevy Monte Carlo.  Lots of people liked the looks of the Monte Carlo, and thought Dad’s, with its green paint and green vinyl top, was very nice.

Dad’s Monte Carlo had a pretty powerful engine and Dad could sometimes be a in a bit of a hurry to get places which the engine’s power facilitated quite nicely.

One day while Dad was “hurrying” along.  He noticed a Highway Patrolman behind him.  Sure enough a few seconds later his lights came on.  Dad pulled over.  As the cop approached Dad noticed that he was really giving the Monte Carlo a good looking over.

Dad rolled his window down when he got closer.

“Man,” the cop said, “this is really a nice looking car!”

Dad looked at him, “Yeah, and it’s fast too.”

The cop started laughing, “Go on, get out of here.  And slow it down!”

Sea Stories

Well, not exactly sea stories, but a few things about Dad, boats and the US Navy.

Growing up in Dayton doesn’t usually bring boating into a boy’s life, but Dad and some of his friends did use canoes on the nearby Mad River and rowboats fishing in lakes and water-filled gravel-pits.  Dad was fond of boating and, although he didn’t own a boat until after he retired, we often went boating with his friends.

After Dad got out of high school and began working at Delco Moraine the draft was still in effect.  He knew that he would soon have to make a decision about joining or waiting for his draft notice.

One day several of his friends approached him.  They had talked to an Army recruiter who’d promised them that if they all joined up at the same time they could go to boot camp together.  They all thought this would be a grand plan.  Dad did too, with one exception – he wanted to go into the Navy.



The others didn’t really care what branch they joined, so the next day they talked to a Navy recruiter and found that the Navy offered the same scheme.  A few weeks later the gang was off to the Great Lakes Naval Training Station near Chicago.



USS Lansdowne in Tokyo Bay for Treaty signing



After completing training everyone went off to their respective assignments.  Dad was sent to the Charleston Navy Yard, where he served as a Machinist Mate in the engine rooms and the damage control sections helping to prepare surplus WWII Destroyers for transfer to the Turkish Navy.  Among the ships Dad worked on were the USS Lardner - DD-487, the USS Lansdowne - DD-486, the USS McCalla - DD-488 & the USS Buchanan - DD-484.  Dad went on many day cruises out to sea a number of times, helping to train the Turkish sailors.  He once told me that they never got out of sight of the shore, which was a bit of a disappointment for him.

Dad had an adventure in boot camp that I wrote about before.  He also told me about an incident that he experienced in Charleston.  They were being taught to extinguish onboard fires.  The instructors lit a large amount of fuel.  Dad and two other sailors were to attack the flames with a large hose, probably a 2-1/2” line, and a high volume nozzle.  Dad was second in line. 

Something like this, but with less protective gear and a larger hose.

As they got close to the fire, suddenly the first sailor, the one holding the nozzle, panicked.  He let go of the nozzle and ran.  Dad had three or four feet of hose twisting and whipping around and, since the water curtain was no longer always between him and the fire, it suddenly got very hot.

Dad was tempted to “follow the leader” – drop the hose and run.  But he realized that if he did so the third sailor and others nearby might be hurt.  So he inched his grip forward on the hose until he got control of it.  He and the other sailor successfully extinguished the fire.

Sometime after Mom and Dad had gotten married, but before I was born, the Navy offered Dad a slot at Officer’s Candidate School.  Accepting would mean an additional four years in the Navy.  Dad considered it, but he really didn’t want a career in the Navy, he had a good job waiting for him in Dayton with Delco Moraine and they had me on the way, so he turned it down.

A few months later, not long after I was born, Dad was honorably discharged and they went to Dayton.  A few weeks after arriving home, the Korean War broke out.  Dad said, “I didn’t even have time to unpack my seabag.  Then I figured I might as well not unpack as I was sure I’d be called back up.”

He wasn't though.

Famous Relatives?



Babe Ruth

Two famous people we might be related to: Babe Ruth was of German heritage.  So are we on my Dad’s side.  And the maiden name of one of my Great-great-grandmothers was Ruth.  Ruth is not a common surname, so there is some chance that we might be related, but to the best of my knowledge, none of our older relatives ever claimed a relationship.

Daniel Boone

Anna Duncan (Grandma Stubbs, my Dad's maternal Grandmother) and her brother Jim often told us that they were related to Daniel Boone.  And they were from Maysville, Kentucky, which isn't far from Boonesborough (Kentucky's first town - founded by Boone).  Boone often visited Maysville during his life and he had several children who also lived in the area.

I don't know what to make of these stories. I looked into it, but genealogy records in Kentucky are scarce due to floods and fires. I spent some time in Maysville and was unable to obtain any information about Anna Duncan's parents. On the other hand, in general, these oral history stories tend to have many elements of truth to them.

Grandma & Jim O’Toole

I’ve mentioned that my Mom’s Father, Daddy Con was a big baseball fan.  So was my Dad’s Mother.  Grandma’s team was the Cincinnati Reds and if they were playing you could be sure that either her radio or TV would be tuned to their station.

Four generations of Reds Fans!
Dad, Grandma, Great-Grandma & me

Grandma was more than just a casual fan.  She knew the game.  Here is a short story that illustrates the depth of her understanding.

In 1964 she and I were at her house listening to a Reds’ game (I was 14).  Jim O’Toole was pitching for the Reds and doing a great job.  I don’t remember the actual numbers, but it was a low-scoring game which the Reds were winning.  Late in the game the score was 1-0 or 2-1, something like that.  O’Toole’s batting position came up.  A lot of times, late in a close game the manager, (Fred Hutchinson in this case), would pinch-hit for the pitcher and bring in a reliever to finish up.

In this case, O’Toole was doing such a masterful job against the opposing team, Fred let him hit so that he could stay on the mound.

Before I tell you what happened next, let me tell you a little about Jim O’Toole.  For a few years there in the early 1960’s O’Toole was one of baseball’s premier pitchers.  He’d started an All-Star game, had pitched well in a Pennant Race and a World Series and had received MVP votes.  He was one of my favorite pitchers and he was Irish.

So O’Toole came up to bat in the 8^th or 9^th inning.  After this at bat he would only need three more outs to wrap up a stellar performance.  He hits a triple!  I was ecstatic!  Triples are exciting!  Lots of running, throwing, sliding, close plays.  This is cool!  Maybe we’ll get another run.

Grandma did not share my excitement.

“Grandma, don’t you think that’s great?  A triple!”

“Well,” she said, “it was a good hit, but he’s already pitched almost a whole game and now he’s just had to run hard around the bases.  I hope he doesn’t run out of gas next inning.”

So, what do you think happened?

The Reds were not able to get O’Toole home, so he stood at third base for the rest of the inning.  When he took the mound again, he quickly found himself in trouble with a walk and a base hit. Suddenly the game was tied.  Hutchinson relieved him and O’Toole was off to the showers with, at best, a no-decision.

I don’t remember how the game ended, but that I learned that when it came to baseball, Grandma knew exactly what she was talking about.

Pearl Harbor, JFK Assassination & 9/11

In “modern” American History three events have happened which left vivid memories of “where were you when….”  for most people living at the time.

Those events are the attack on Pearl Harbor, the assassination of President Kennedy and 9/11 – the destruction of the World Trade Towers.

Pearl Harbor was attacked on Sunday December 7, 1941, well before I was born, but both my Mom & Dad remembered it.

Mom & Dad were both 12 at the time.  It was about 1:00 o’clock pm in the eastern US where both Mom & Dad were, when the attack occurred.

Dad was at the farm of a family friend between Gibson & Kellenburger roads in Phoneton, Ohio.  He and the son of the family who owned the farm had been riding horses that morning.  They’d put the horses away and were walking back towards the house when the boy’s Father came out and told them.  Sometime since then the farm became a nine-hole par-3 golf course (now defunct) called Willow Pond.  So the area has changed a lot, but the buildings were still there in late 2009.  Dad used to comment that, “Right there at the corner of that barn was where I heard about Pearl Harbor.”

Mom was at home at 151 Clark Avenue in Chelsea, Massachusetts.  After Mass they came home and she and Aunt Eileen were playing.  Daddy Con went down to the local Pub for an ale and talk.  He wasn’t gone long when he came back and told them about the attack.

It was on Friday November 22, 1963 at about 1:30 o’clock pm (in Ohio where I was) when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated.  I was in the 8^th grade in Sister Stella’s class at St. Christopher’s School when we heard the phone ring.  In addition to being our classroom teacher, Sister Stella was also the Principal.  Since there was usually no one in the Principal's Office, Dick Meyers, who sat by the door, was assigned to go answer the phone when it rang (which wasn’t often).

We were in Art Class at the time and we were creating mosaics by cutting up colored construction paper into “confetti” and then pasting them onto a background to form an image.  I was attempting to create a Thanksgiving turkey (ready to be served, not strutting around the barnyard).

Dick returned from the office a few minutes later and said, “I don’t know, it was some crazy lady.  I couldn’t understand what she was saying.”

Moments later the phone rang again.  Dick trudged off to the office again.  When he returned he looked a little pale and while he briefly glanced at us sitting in the room, he directed his comments to Sister Stella saying, “This lady says the President has been shot.  I think you better talk to her.”

Sister Stella left the room.  After she found out what happened she notified the other classrooms and staff and then put the radio on over the PA.

I was a member of the “Safety Patrol” who worked as crossing guards.  When school let out at about 2:30pm I remember so many of the girls crying as they walked home.

Kennedy was sort of “our President” since he was the first (and so far only) Catholic President and of course he was also Irish, like lots of the students, so his death hit many of the children very hard.

The hijacking of passenger aircraft attacks on the Pentagon and the World Trade Towers occurred on Tuesday September 11, 2001.  In Bishop it was just before 6:00 o’clock am when the first attack occurred.

I was still a Fireman then, and that day I was the “Duty Officer” which meant that I would be responsible for managing any activities that the firefighting resources on the Inyo National Forest might be called on to perform.

At about 6:30am the phone rang.  I was already up, even though I didn’t go on duty until 8:00am.  It was your Grandma, Deborah.  She told me that there had been an accident in New York – a plane had flown into a building.

We did not have cable TV in Bishop, and there were are no broadcast stations there at that time, so I turned on the radio and also logged into the internet to find out was going on.  I wasn’t overly concerned as I knew that, sometimes, especially in bad weather, inexperienced and/or careless pilots sometimes did foolish things.

It didn’t take long listening to the radio and reading on the internet before I knew that there was much reason to be concerned.  I immediately called our Dispatch Office and they were freaked out.  The FAA had called them and wanted to know how many airliners we could park at the Bishop Airport.  The FAA was considering not letting any aircraft fly near big cities and direct them to land at smaller airfields where the were few, if any, tempting targets for the terrorists.

The Bishop Airport was built as a training base for WWII bomber crews, so the runways are long and wide, easily big enough for jet airliners.  I went to the Airport and consulted with the Airport Manager trying to determine where, how and how many aircraft the field could handle.  As you can imagine, the timeframe was very short.  Before we had made any determination the FAA canceled the request.

I then went back home for a while as we were worried about your Aunt Doris who was living in Brooklyn at the time.  She could see the towers from her apartment.  She was never in any danger.  Our cousin John Meade, a FDNY Fireman, was off-duty that day.  He did lose his Father-in-law and a Brother-in-law.

Dear Readers – thanks for visiting.  I would really appreciate it if you would please leave your own stories (if you have them) about these events in the comments.

Baseball Gloves

Disclaimer -- This is not an entirely original work.  I put this together for my sons, so I wrote some of it, copied some, received some as comments from others and heavily edited other parts.

Maybe yours was a Willie Mays, or a Robin Roberts, or a Jackie Robinson. Maybe you slept with it smashed between your mattress and box spring or on the table next to your bed. You lovingly stroked its hide, oiled it with neatsfoot, cleaned it with saddle soap. Hanging from your handlebars, you took it with you everywhere you went.

Probably you still have it. Maybe it’s out in the garage, on the shelf next to the socket wrenches or in a box in the attic with some old books. Maybe, if you’re lucky, your Dad’s glove is there with it.

And you go there sometimes, late at night, when the wife and kids are asleep. When the house is silent and cold. You go there, pick yours up, brush the dust off and slide it on. You punch the pocket with a tight fist, run through your pitcher’s motion, scoop up a few grounders and drift way back to catch one on the warning track. You hold it close to your face, smelling the leather, oil and dust.  The memories well up around you, so thick that you have to brush them away. You remember – the smell of the grass and the hot dogs, the crack of the bat. You feel the coarse wool of your baggy Little League uniform. You watch as the ball drifts high towards you in the outfield, taste the dust kicked up from your spikes as you run, you hear the thunk as you reach out and snag the ball with your faithful mitt. You see your Dad standing at the fence by the dugout, smiling, still wearing his work clothes.

Then you put it back on the shelf, or next to the books and return to bed. Your wife wakes and asks, “Where were you?”

“Bathroom,” you reply.

But that night, you dream of striking out the side, making that backhand stab in the hole at short, nailing the runner by a step. You run one down in the gap. You leap over the wall to pull back a homerun. You play ball.

A baseball glove can do that. It can take you back. Gloves are as eternal as the game. Balls come apart at the seams, disappear in the weeds and roll down sewer drains. Bats crack, splinter and break. Hats and spikes wear out, get lost or outgrown. But gloves last a lifetime. They become part of your life, a part of your soul.

What is it about baseball that’s so fundamental to our lives?

Maybe it’s the rhythm of the ball, the apology for a bad throw, the forgiveness for a hole in the mitt, the speed and accuracy of a hard smack, the thrill of a homerun … the constant drama of achievement and failure —the cheer for the great catch or a pillow filled with tears after losing the game for your team. Perhaps it’s simply spending time with a child or the child in all of us.

Or, maybe it’s a bit of all these things ... It is the legacy of our years growing up as Americans. And it’s also the legacy of American heroes. There is something uniquely American about the game and the team spirit it invokes.

There are countless stories, slices of life about playing ball. Some are our own stories and some are about legendary players. So many of our stories connect back to our glove.

Partly equipment and partly attire, unlike any other piece of equipment, you wear a glove, it’s an extension of your personality.  No other sporting goods equipment has the same sentimental and personal value as a baseball glove. It’s why you held onto your old glove. It just feels right. It’s the glove you made that great catch with. The glove you used to play catch with your Dad in the backyard. The glove you took to your first big league game. Or, maybe it’s the glove that your Dad, or maybe your Granddad, played sandlot ball with in his old neighborhood — the glove that was passed down to you.

How many of us still have our first glove? Even though we may have replaced it with a newer one, that old mitt is probably still tucked away in a closet or sitting on a shelf. That glove somehow embodies your legacy — a reminder of your past. Embedded in that worn piece of leather is every great catch, every grounder that skipped between your legs, and memories of the teammates you shared the wins and the losses with. Maybe it’s a reminder of the time you made that legendary catch and you were hero for a day. Your glove went everywhere with you — to the dinner table and to bed each night. It was a physical extension of your body — eternally connected.

For a parent, the most vivid memory may be the first time you showed your son or daughter how to catch and your child actually caught it. It’s the way you felt about your Mom or Dad taking the time and having the patience to coach and encourage you when you were ready to quit.

Perhaps the Rawlings Sporting Goods Company said it best. In the mid-60’s something like this was printed on their glove and mitt boxes:

What Is A Baseball Glove?
A baseball glove is a beginning and an ending: a boy’s first sure step towards manhood; a man’s final lingering hold on youth; it is promise ... and memory.

A baseball glove is the dusty badge of belonging, the tanned and oiled mortar of team and camaraderie; in its creases and scuffs lodge sunburned afternoons freckled with thrills, the excited hum of competition, cheers that burst like skyrockets.

A baseball glove is a thousand-and-one names and moments strung like white and crimson banners in the vast stadium of memory.

A baseball glove is the leather of adventure, worthy successor to the cowboy’s holster, the trooper’s saddle and the buckskin laces of the frontier scout; it is combat, heroics and victory ... a place to smack a fist or snuff a rally.

Above all, a baseball glove is the union of father and son, boy and friends, man and men, the man and the boy; it is union beyond time, language, creed or color.



Glove History

In 2000, six million baseball gloves, manufactured by 17 different companies, were sold in the United States. It takes 10 days to construct a glove, but a Rawlings spokesperson says the process can be condensed to an hour if a prominent major-leaguer is in a bind. Rawlings gloves are used by more than 50 percent of big-league players, including such All-Stars as Derek Jeter of the New York Yankees, Cal Ripken Jr. of the Baltimore Orioles and Ken Griffey Jr. of the Cincinnati Reds. Even Texas Ranger Alex Rodriguez, the highest-paid player in baseball, uses a Rawlings glove. It’s Rawlings that sponsors the annual Rawlings Gold Glove Award, which has been presented to players for fielding excellence since 1957.

Rawlings is also one of only two major glove manufacturers still producing gloves in the United States. At its Ava, Missouri plant, gloves take shape from 16 to 20 pieces of cowhide and six to nine ft. of rawhide lacing. The hides are graded into four classifications prior to being cut cookie-cutter style into the various glove parts. The palm is cut from the dense hide that runs along the steer’s backbone. The back of the glove is from the flank. From the softer, stretched belly comes the lining. And the web is made from smaller cuts of each. The shell is sewn inside out and turned. But prior to inserting the lining, the shell is laid off on a hot metal “hand” to form its shape. The lace holes are then punched, the eyelets added and the straps and logos sewn on. Then the glove is laced by hand.

First base mitts get plastic parts in the thumb and toe sections. The parts are inserted between the two-piece pad and held in position with the thumb and toe lacing. The padding in catcher’s mitts consists of five pieces that are assembled to form the pocket. The padding is wrapped with nylon cord to retain its shape under the constant pounding of major-league fastballs.

But gloves haven’t always been so meticulously made, or even in favor. In fact, just after the Civil War, in baseball’s infancy, the prevailing sentiment among macho players was: Real men don’t wear gloves. When Doug Allison, a catcher for the Cincinnati Red Stockings, the nation’s first professional team, asked a saddlemaker to develop a mitt for him in 1869, he was considered a wimp. In 1875, Charles Waite of St. Louis received the same ridicule when he took the field wearing a thin, flesh-colored glove similar to the ones gentlemen wore while driving buggies.

As baseball gained popularity and hitters began to hit hard, however, more and more players sought the protection of a glove while in the field. The first ones resembled golf gloves. The fingers and thumb were snipped off at the first joint and a small amount of padding was inserted into the palm area. The term “mitt” came into vogue because many early players created their gloves from an old pair of winter mittens. By the end of the 1870s, gloves were common. In the mid-1880s, Buck Ewing, a catcher for the New York Giants, became the first to use a pillow-type catcher’s mitt.

Today, high-end gloves used by the pros can cost up to $300. Early gloves, made of cowhide, horsehide or Indian-tanned buckskin, sold for about $2.50. Horsehide continued to be used until the 1930s when cowhide became more prevalent.

The largest improvement ever in glove design happened in 1920, when Bill Doak, a journeyman pitcher for the St. Louis Cardinals, approached Rawlings with an idea for a web laced between the first finger and thumb. He said it would create a natural pocket. The Bill Doak model revolutionized glove design, and it stayed in the Rawlings catalog until 1953. Its web became a standard throughout the industry.

Another important innovation was the binding together of the individual fingers, which began sometime during the 30’s. Some unknown person decided to punch holes through the ends of each finger and lace a strip of rawhide through the holes, allowing the fingers to support each other. Many players preferred the older style, which were referred to as “split-finger” gloves, but by the mid 50’s virtually all gloves had the fingers laced together.

1941 saw another innovation, this time in first baseman’s mitts. Rawlings credited the design to Hank Greenberg, Hall of Fame first baseman with the Tigers. Rawlings made this model mitt for all manufacturers, including Wilson, MacGregor and Spalding, and claimed that Greenberg advised them on the design.

With the revolutionary design, Greenberg changed the art of fielding for first basemen. Greenberg was able to easily make one handed catches. So effective was Greenberg’s fielding that the league put special specifications for the mitt — it could not exceed 12” in length. For a time the mitt was quite controversial.

In fact the federal government cited Rawlings with an antitrust action for their monopoly on the manufacturer of first baseman’s mitts.

Rawlings made this model from the Second World War until approximately the late 50’s when the design was replaced by larger, more contemporary designs. The mitt is best known as the Claw and or the Trapper. It was simply the state of the art — the best mitt of its time.

Another controversial glove design was the rolled lacing web. Some claimed that the rolled style extended the web from a half inch to inch over what the standard web offered, hence making the reach for the glove, especially the outfielder and third baseman, a little greater. And some players, it’s alleged, may have pulled the web out even further.

In about 1949 or 1950 the style was banned.  Some thought Joe DiMaggio influenced officials to implement the new rule banning the rolled lacing style. In one of the most famous images in baseball history, during the 1947 World Series the usually taciturn DiMaggio shook his head and kicked at the dirt in frustration after the Brooklyn Dodgers’ Al Gionfriddo, using a rolled lace glove, made an amazing catch near the 415 foot mark in left-center field.

Supposedly DiMaggio believed that the diminutive Gionfriddo would not have made the catch with an ordinary style web. Ironically, DiMaggio occasionally used this style himself and one of his rolled lace gloves is now property of the Baseball Hall of Fame.

Manufacturers were not sorry to see the style banned, as it was time-consuming and tedious to make.

Because there is a 17-year limit on glove patents, there are only a few basic web styles, shared by all manufacturers. Middle infielders favor open webs like the Pro Style I-Web on Alex Rodriguez’s Rawlings or the H-Web on the Wilson glove used by New York Met Rey Ordonez. But some infielders like the laced-in sixth finger of the Rawlings Trap-Eze webbing. Also called the Trap T-Web by Mizuno and the Pro-Laced T-Web by Wilson, this web design evolved in the 1960s, but was reintroduced by Rawlings in 1978 and eventually became a favorite of All-Star shortstop Ozzie Smith.

“Six fingers are better than five,” Smith once told a newspaper about the glove.

Pitchers prefer solid webs, like the Wilson Dual Hinge and the Rawlings Basket Web, because it hides their throwing hand as they adjust their grip on the ball. But the Basket Web, a woven solid pattern, which was under patent to Rawlings until 1983, is popular with players at every position, even middle infielders. Ryne Sandberg, a second baseman for the Chicago Cubs from 1982 to 1994, used the basket design.

“I just felt I could really get in there and find the ball,” he once said about the design.

Outfielders are also partial to the closed web design. Outfield gloves tend to have longer fingers and longer finger stalls (the leather that divides the fingers). This allows the player to wear the glove out on his fingertips for maximum reach. But the length of baseball gloves is limited. Major League Baseball rules state that a player’s glove cannot be longer than 12” measured from the heel to the tip of the index finger. Still, most manufacturers make a 13” long glove, which is used by most major-league outfielders, including All-Star Barry Bonds of the San Francisco Giants.

“I use a 13” Wilson,” says Bonds. “I need a long glove with strong fingers that enables me to grab fly balls I might have to dive or go over the fence for.”

Second basemen use the smallest gloves, which are 11” or 11.5” long. Shortstops’ gloves run 11.5” to 11.75” and third basemen usually use gloves that are 12” long. The reasons are simple. The smaller the glove, the lighter the glove. Second basemen and shortstops need quick hands in order to make most plays. Third basemen, on the other hand, stand closer to home plate, so they usually deal with harder-hit balls. They need the longer glove to snag hits down the line, and the added protection it offers while manning the hot corner.

Most players sign with a glove manufacturer during their years in the minor leagues, and some stay with that company throughout their major-league careers. But many switch companies, especially if the price is right. Yankees closer Mariano Rivera, once loyal to Zett, now throws heat wearing a Rawlings. Roger Clemens won three Cy Young awards — one using a Wilson, one using a Zett, and one with a Cooper. Star players usually sign to a two- or three-year contract for gloves and cash, typically worth more than $100,000. Pitchers, however, are the most sought after by the glove manufacturers because the logos on the backs of their gloves get prime TV exposure.

With these contracts come custom-made gloves. San Diego Padres star Tony Gwynn has tan lightning bolts sewn on the finger backs of his black Rawlings, and Mark McGwire, more known for his thundering home runs than his fielding prowess, likes his gloves to be black with a tan palm section and one tan bar in the web.

Like Bill Doak, many modern players have influenced glove design. In 1998, four-time Cy Young award-winning pitcher Greg Maddux of the Atlanta Braves asked Wilson to design a glove that would conceal his protruding index finger, which he felt was tipping off batters to his pitches. Wilson developed the Pro Sleeve, a leather sheath sewn to the glove’s back. The Pro Sleeve is now found on many Wilson glove models.

Hall of Fame second baseman and broadcaster Joe Morgan is given credit for the progressively thinner glove heels of the past 30 years. Morgan, who also started a trend toward smaller infield gloves, recognized that heel padding was unnecessary and he removed layers of it from his gloves. More recently, because of input from players, manufacturers have been making the thumbs of gloves thinner by using thinner plastic stays — 1.5mm compared to 2mm before.

And they’re using far softer leather, which has all but eliminated the need to break in a glove. It once took weeks or even months to properly soften a new glove. Break-in methods ranged from the organic to the downright violent. Some guys soaked the glove in a bucket of water. Others coated it with neatsfoot or olive oil. Some swore by saddle soap, vaseline or shaving cream, while others threw it in the clothes dryer or asked their Dad to run over it with the car. But today, like blue jeans, gloves are soft from the start. Only a few games of catch are needed for a modern glove to start taking shape.

So find your old glove. Stand in the cold garage fielding imaginary ground balls. Take it to a big league game.  Play catch with your son or grandson. Smell your youth in its scarred skin. Remember your Dad, standing at the fence.

Just a Boy From North Dayton

James Tipton, circa 1960

The man in this picture is James Tipton.  He was the older brother of Fred Tipton, who was one of Dad’s best friends from his youth.  I wish I had a better picture of him, this is a screen capture from a home movie taken at Fred’s wedding in the early 1960’s.

I wanted to tell you about him, because, although he was just a boy from North Dayton, he endured some of the most brutal treatment one human can impose on another.  I guess it can happen to any of us.

Jim joined the US Armed Forces in the late 30’s while he was still in his teens.  After finishing his training, Jim had the misfortune to be sent to the Philippines. 

Jim’s unit fought in the Battle of Bataan.  He survived the battle and then endured the Bataan Death March.  After more than three years in a Japanese POW camp in the Philippines he was loaded onto a “Hell Ship" for transfer to Japan.

His ship suffered the same fate as the Shinyo Maru or the Oryoku Maru -- attacked and sunk by Allied units who thought it was transporting Japanese soldiers.  After it sank, Jim drifted in the sea for hours before being picked up by another Japanese ship which delivered him to Japan.

When he was liberated after the war he weighed less than 80 pounds.

Presidential Hand Shakes

Dayton Airport and Vandalia about 1954

I’ve mentioned the notable people my Grandfather and I met here, here, here & here.

I haven’t yet mentioned the two well-known people Mom shook hands with.  Both of these "celebrities" were politicians (and Irish!).

Both of these meetings happened at the same place.  The Dayton Airport (the same place my Grandfather met Orville Wright).  At the time of all these meetings the Airport Terminal was on Dixie Drive.  This is the area that is now used for the Dayton Air Show.

JFK

The first person Mom shook hands with was John F. Kennedy.  During his Presidential run he had a campaign stop in Dayton.  It was announced that he would spend a few minutes at the Airport for a "meet and greet."  Mom, Dad & Aunt Norma went.  For some reason he arrived quite a bit later than expected and not many waited.  Both Mom and Aunt Norma really wanted to shake his hand and they hoped, with such a relatively small crowd, that they’d be able to.

Dad was helping both of them get up to the “rope line” and Mom got close enough to touch his fingers, although she said that she wasn’t able to really shake hands.

Unfortunately just as Aunt Norma got her chance, he turned away.



Éamon de Valera



A few years later Éamon de Valera, a leader of the Irish Independence movement and eventually President of Ireland, visited Dayton.   Mom & Dad were among the crowd greeting him at the Airport.  This time the crowd was much smaller than the one greeting Kennedy and Mom was able to shake de Valera's hand.