I cried when I heard the news of Gary Carter's death. I don't mind the fact that I cried, though it was just a bit embarrassing, as it occurred in the middle of La Lupita on Bethlehem's trendy South Side. Luckily the restaurant was not crowded—lots of emotions on that day, my friends. I suppose many of you are asking yourself who in the hell Gary Carter was, and that is okay. You don't need to know Gary Carter to read the rest of this column. But if you must know, Gary Carter was a baseball player, a very good baseball player who actually landed in the Hall of Fame. He was only 57 when he passed, too young by today's standards.
Gary's nickname was “The Kid.” He got the name because of his wide grin, never-ending optimism and passion for the game. His attitude and demeanor at times were a bit much and often rather cheesy. He rubbed the opposition the wrong way. Much like Pete Rose, he was easy to hate—until he was on your team. He also rubbed the press the wrong way, and some fans as well. But Gary had something that was missing in many professional players of his time and of our time today. You see, Gary simply loved to play the game and he did not take it for granted. Sure, he got paid quite handsomely, I suppose, and rightfully so since he was arguably the best catcher of his era. He probably would have played for less. But the financial stuff aside, Gary loved the game. In its simplest form, away from the press, away from the fans, away from the pressure of performing on a grand scale, it was really just a game. Who doesn't love to play a game?
Relax folks. This column isn't really about Gary Carter or baseball for that matter. You see, Gary's passing brought back a flood of memories for me, both good and bad. Oh, sure, some of the memories included The Kid torturing my beloved Mets while he played for the now defunct Montreal Expos. And other memories were of The Kid actually helping the Mets to a World Series title in 1986, overcoming huge deficits and unbelievable odds in the process. Game 6, enough said. Yes, those baseball memories all came rushing back, but they were not the source of my tears, for in times like these you begin to think about your own mortality, your past and how some things are simply gone forever. You begin to wonder what the future has in store. You get emotional.
I started to flash back on that memorable 1986 season and got stuck in a perpetual rewind that took me back to my early childhood on the streets of Easton. It's not that I ran the streets as a kid, but a fair amount of my time was spent in the street. In those days, it was not considered child abuse to let your kid play in the street—that was where most of the action was, where most of the games were played. For my friends and me, the games were mostly related to sports, except for King of the Hill.
We played King of the Hill on a steep grassy slope next to an apartment complex on 11th and Jackson Streets. It was a simple game with a basic goal: to dethrone the king by getting him down the hill using any means necessary. This usually meant that the king ended up at the bottom of a pile of kids on the sidewalk at the foot of the hill. There was kicking, punching, grabbing, elbowing, throwing and the like. I am really not certain how we escaped getting seriously injured, but it all seemed to work.
But the real games included various forms of baseball. Oddly enough, not many kids were needed to get up a game. Some days I spent by myself simply throwing a ball against a wall, honing my fielding skills. Other times, two kids could get a game going with a Wiffle ball and bat, and a good piece of wall or garage door to throw against. The squares on the garage doors made for a perfect strike zone. You could look down Jackson Street to see how close the next car was to determine whether or not you had time to make another pitch. Cars coming down Jackson got on you pretty quick. Wiffle ball was a neighbor-friendly street game to play because it caused no damage to property.
Crowds of four or more meant that the game would move to Vanderveer Park. There, we could use real bats and either rubber or tennis balls. A spray-painted or chalked strike zone on the wall worked well, as did the concept of umpiring ourselves. These games served not just as an outlet to pass the time, but also as a very early lesson in informal socialization. The games taught us how to take turns, choose teams, play fairly and interact without killing each other. We resolved differences usually with the simple “do over.” We kept score and didn't cheat. We played the game we loved, the game Gary loved.
“The games taught us how to take turns, choose teams, play fairly and interact without killing each other.”
The beauty of it all, I suppose, is that nothing was planned. We never had to set up a game or a time to meet. The next day rolled around and it all just happened. Some would play catch and wait for the others, or sit on the front porch, glove in hand, until everyone emerged. One particular kid up the street would pop his head out of the door, and flick his wrist in a throwing motion and wait for my affirmative nod. That got it all started. Not a word spoken.
During the cooler months we played touch football in the street as well, showing no fear for cars, cold or blacktop. On some occasions we traveled en masse to a local field or the cemetery for some tackle football, but the street was so much more convenient. A quick game just out front after school ended right around suppertime. Perfect. And by cooler months I really mean all throughout the winter. Kids don't understand wind chill and are somehow immune to the elements. We played the game we loved, though not as much as baseball.
I honestly don't know what game the neighborhood girls loved. I remember seeing hopscotch chalk marks on the sidewalk, but I honestly couldn't say what the girls were doing most of the time. They certainly weren't with us. Older kids gathered during the evening hours on the corners or in the tot lot across the street for some shenanigans. There was always talk of getting a game of block chase together, or maybe even flashlight tag, but it always seemed to be just talk. I don't think I ever really played block chase. But those summer nights were something special, not a care in the world.
I thought about all of those things that day I heard about Gary. I thought about how they were now just distant memories. When did they end? Where did everyone go? How long will I hold them in the recesses of my mind? The day I forget is the day my childhood is gone, and there is not much I can do about it. Will the game help keep those memories alive?
I have said many times that I live my life without regret and I do believe it to be true. We live by experience, good and bad. And from those experiences we grow and change. But as I thought about Gary, his passion, and his love for the game, I began to question myself. Baseball, the game I profess to love, the game that has been with me since I can remember, the game from the street, the game from the playground and the ball field, somehow got lost along my journey into adulthood. Heck, I barely took seriously my role on the high school team, eschewing the practice and hard work for girls and friends. Where was the passion for the game I loved?
George Bernard Shaw was right about youth being wasted on the young. As I sat in my car and listened to the ongoing news coverage of Gary's death on talk radio, I fought back more tears, longing for a “do over” and regretting wasted time. The street games taught me plenty, but they didn't teach me how to cherish every moment, as they are fleeting and temporary. Or maybe they did but I just wasn't listening.
That night, long after my mini-meltdown at the Mexican restaurant, I thought about all these things. I felt sorry for myself and for my age. I was angry with myself for missing the boat during high school, going through the motions on the field as I did. I felt full from crispy flauta and enchilada in mole sauce. I wish I could say that on that night I wiped away the tears, got a hold of myself and made a solemn vow to never take life for granted again and to live life to its fullest. I wish I could say that, but I would be lying. Instead, I popped a beer and listened to some insignificant '70s music on the satellite dish. I watched my nine-month-old boy hit a plastic ball off a tee with a little plastic baseball bat. He beat on it like Bamm-Bamm from the Flintstones. He beat it like it owed him money. I laughed and cried and wondered what will become of my boy. Would he be like Gary, passionate and determined? Time will tell. I don't know if he will ever love the game that I love, but I'm going to give him every opportunity, even if we have to play in the street. Thanks, Gary. Peace.
by vince ramunni | illustration by melissa rose
