It was quite a few years ago when I read Molly O'Neill's valentine to her brother Paul and all things growing up O'Neill.
I think Paul is seen in the striped shirt to Molly's left. Molly has since passed away but she made her mark as a food critic in the New York Times and as restaurant owner. Paul of course made his mark as a star right fielder for championship New York Yankee teams in the 1990s. Paul does Yankee broadcasts these days, and he is always worth listening to.
When the book came out, or just before it came out, I think the NYT excepted a portion of the book about Paul growing up and playing on their field of dreams that his father had carved out of their fairly large Columbus property.
The excerpt was so well received that I remember at least one letter to the editor saying that Molly should be writing sports for the NYT. She never go the job doing that, but should have.
I will never forget the excerpt where Molly describers her brother Paul belting so many long balls onto the family property—and beyond—that the adjacent neighbor grew tired of throwing the balls back that landed on his land and just plain kept them.
Whether the O'Neill boys had plenty of balls of all kinds, or the neighbor was so unapproachable that they just let the balls land where they did and not ask for them back, the boys just played on with replacement balls from their supply.
This went on for years, and Molly finishes the story by telling us that when the O'Neills moved from their field of dreams because father's business went south, the neighbor came over with a box filled with the all the balls he had collected and presented them to Paul. If only he asked Paul to sign them.
My neighbor's son was very much into baseball growing up. He was always going off to Little League games on the weekends, carrying an array of bats on his back.
Our property and theirs, and that of all my neighbors, is a cookie cutter 60'x100'. All yards are fenced in, usually with 6' vinyl fencing. The father put up a pitching cage in their backyard. I don't know what position young Thomas played (He's now Junior in college.) but balls every so often came into our yard.
For the most part I always threw them back over their fence. But I would often find balls nestled in the shrubs weeks, or months after, and I would just keep them. So sense throwing them back if they don't seem to be missing them or playing anymore. Out of sight and out of mind.
We've always been on friendly terms with these neighbors and I never made a stink about the balls landing in the yard. Nothing was ever broken.
On a shelf in our garage I might have about 12 balls, softballs, hardballs or tennis balls I've collected from Thomas sending something over the fence, either batted, or thrown. As he got bigger he was powerful enough to put a hole in his father's vinyl fencing when his pitching missed the pitching cage. The father never fixed the circular hole. I have no idea if I added the ball to the pile after I found it days after it rocketed it through the fence. I wasn't aware of it when it first happened.
No one seems ready to be moving—myself or my neighbor. But knowing the O'Neill story as told by Molly, I think I'm going to be tempted to present then with a box of retrieved balls when the time comes.
I just hope they let me tell them this story.
Comment:
When I sent a link to the this posting to my Pleasantville son-in-law Tim, he replied that the next ball to land in our yard will be a pickleball.
http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com
No comments:
Post a Comment