The Flower of McIvers

There’s been a post Mother’s dustup that started here in Kansas City and has spread like wildfire to the rest of the nation, if not the world. Harrison Butker, the Kansas City Chiefs’ outstanding placekicker, set off a firestorm not long after he had addressed the 2024 graduating class of Benedictine College in Atchison Kansas, not far from Kansas City. If you’d care to, you can link to the full address here. 

What was it that got a noisy portion of Kansas City’s, and America’s, easily offended internet sleuths so lathered up? If one dug long enough there would be enough to offend almost anyone. He tackled subjects like abortion, the Gay Pride movement, transgenderism, and even the assimilation of Christian churches, Catholic and Protestant, by what many Christians see as a decadent, godless culture. But there was one subject Butker spoke about that drew the ire of those who weren’t there and only heard what some other offended person had mentioned on Facebook, Twitter, or some other internet gathering place. That subject was marriage and the role of women in modern America. Once it all got started the mob gained the appearance of the lantern toting mob that hunted Frankenstein down. Taunts of “cancel him” and threats dominated the web.  

The offending portion of his remarks about marriage and the role of women follows for your edification: 

 “For the ladies present today, congratulations on an amazing accomplishment. You should be proud of all that you have achieved to this point in your young lives. I want to speak directly to you briefly because I think it is you, the women, who have had the most diabolical lies told to you. How many of you are sitting here now about to cross this stage and are thinking about all the promotions and titles you are going to get in your career? Some of you may go on to lead successful careers in the world, but I would venture to guess that the majority of you are most excited about your marriage and the children you will bring into this world.” 

“I can tell you that my beautiful wife, Isabelle, would be the first to say that her life truly started when she began living her vocation as a wife and as a mother. I’m on the stage today and able to be the man I am because I have a wife who leans into her vocation. I’m beyond blessed with the many talents God has given me, but it cannot be overstated that all of my success is made possible because a girl I met in band class back in middle school would convert to the faith, become my wife, and embrace one of the most important titles of all: homemaker.” 

Our neighborhood here in Pendleton Heights has a Facebook page that lit up like the Kansas City Plaza’s annual Christmas light display not long after news of Butker’s remarks hit the airwaves. After reading about half of the comments I saw that I would be in the minority if I had said something kind or favorably disposed to Mister Butker and realized discretion is the better part of valor. “Lay low, Phil,” I told myself as fleeting thoughts of going into hiding danced in my imagination. “These are your neighbors, Phil, don’t offend them.” “You don’t want to be cancelled, do you?” “If you say something you’ll become the neighborhood pariah.” “Just lay low and memories of the dustup will fade and you can get back to just nodding your head as you pass your neighbors on the street.”  

I really don’t want to be at odds with my neighbors. I really don’t. But, I don’t fit too well in America’s 21st century culture. I grew up in the 1940’s and 50’s. America’s radar then was focused on fighting a world war, followed by another “police action” in Korea. Issues like abortion or the way a child could become an obstacle to a woman’s professional career weren’t on anyone’s radar back in those days.  

I’d wager that many modern women think of the women of those days as victims of patriarchy, but that’s far from true. Our generation learned about “Rosie the riveter,” women who nurtured their families at home and did their part in defense plants, assembling warships and fitting out American bombers with their necessary components. My wife’s mother, for example, did work on the wiring in the nose cones of B-25 bombers at a Kansas City defense plant. More than once I heard her talk about praying for “the boys who would be flying those bombers” as she was working on the wiring. She did all this while also caring for her family at home. That grit and determination stayed with her in the post-war years. She gave birth to a total of four children, one of whom eventually became my wife and love of my life and three sons, one who was developmentally disabled. She took loving care of that son, my bother-in-law James, until she was about ninety years old. In all the years I knew her I never heard her ever say or think that James was a stumbling block to a more rewarding career. I never heard her complain about her lot in life. She never had her name plastered on Broadway billboards, nor did she ever become the Chief Executive Officer of a Fortune 500 corporation. She never attained high political office. But all those years she held a title that at first blush probably seems insignificant to many modern minds but was actually far more rewarding and fulfilling. She was a loving mother! 

The story of the family I grew up in has some of those same important elements. I was born in Boston. I’m the son of a man who worked as a “chipper.” He cut blocks of ice into smaller segments and delivered them to homes where they were used in ice boxes. It was backbreaking labor. My mother was an immigrant from Newfoundland in the Canadian Maritimes. She was born in the early twentieth century in a small village on the west-central coast of Newfoundland called McIver’s or McIver’s Cove.  

I know very little about my father, even now. He died when I was six years old. The story that’s been passed on to me is that when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor in 1941, he went to join the Marine Corps. The pre-enlistment physical revealed that he had Tuberculosis and he was devastated. The Marines told him to get treated. “Mr. Dillon, it’s going to be a long war. Get treated and you’ll get your chance to defend freedom.” He was apparently too despondent to listen and decided to crawl into a bottle as his cure. The combination of the booze and TB killed him. 

That left my mother as an uneducated immigrant alone in the world to care for her three children. She fought her way through the trials as best she could and eventually had a complete nervous breakdown requiring about three years of hospitalization, including barbaric shock treatments. During that time my brother, sister and I became wards of the state and were placed at a facility called the Prendergast Preventorium. Like so much that our elites tout as compassionate care these days, life at the Preventorium was pure misery for me. I recall crying myself to sleep night after night, begging to go home to be with my family.  

My mother was eventually released from the hospital, and we were once again a family of sorts. She weighed less than ninety pounds and some described her as looking like “death warmed over.” The authorities decided it would be best to find suitable places for my brother and sister to stay and found an apartment for me and my mother. The purpose, as I understand it, was to use me as an anchor to promote her healing.  

While the approach seemed reasonable to the authorities, it was exceptionally difficult for me. My mother’s neuroses drove me “up the wall.” I took up reading as an escape and it worked well. I was able to tune her out for the most part.  

I didn’t understand my mother in those days and it took years of experience for me to grasp how much love, courage and determination it took for her to bring her family back together. 

That understanding came in small increments at first. I remember a snowy night when I was walking home to our second story apartment. I was about twelve. The snow was falling at a good clip and as I passed by a streetlight my mother saw me bathed in the light. I walked upstairs and saw her with tears coming down her cheeks. “Are you alright, Ma?” I asked, “I’m okay,” she replied. I just saw you walking in the light, and you looked like my Joe.” That term, “my Joe,” was a term of endearment she used to describe my father. I was amazed. After all she’d been through when my father gave up on life, she still loved him and could think fondly of him.  

We lived on state welfare, but my mother always told us that we would climb out of the pit of dependency and poverty someday. She told us that our name was Dillon and that if we worked hard and studied hard we would do well in life. She hated the welfare system and wasn’t above cheating a bit on that system. When I was about twelve or thirteen, she managed to get me a Saturday job with a fruit/vegetable merchant I knew as Mr. Sahady. Like my mother, he was an immigrant. He was Lebanese. He drove around our neighborhood in a small truck full of produce with his loudspeaker blaring, “Raspberries, strawberries, thirty-five cents a quart.” Neighborhood folks would open their tenement windows and shout out their orders. Mr. Sahady would stop his van and fill orders, then gave the baskets to me to deliver to the tenements. At the end of those Saturdays I felt happy and rewarded. I’d collected a pocketful of small tips and Mr. Shaday’s thanks. Before he dropped me off he’d always give me I a small envelope with I learned in time was money. He knew my mother and cared deeply for her. He’d place the envelope in my hand and pat it. “Give this to your Muddah, Butch. You tell her we gonna’ get through this. We gonna’ be okay.” 

Oh, how I loved those days. My brother, sister and I learned that we weren’t destined for a life of dependency on government bureaucrats. We were Dillons and we could navigate society’s waters without having to genuflect to our government enablers. 

One of the most valuable lessons my mother ever taught me came at a time when I believed there was nothing else she could teach me. I was about twenty-one. I’d competed U.S. Air Force boot camp and was home on leave. I told her I was going to go out with my cousin Edgar and a few buddies to let off a bit of steam. She told me in no uncertain terms as I left. “If you get drunk, don’t bother coming home. I won’t let you in this house drunk. Do you understand me?” “Sure thing, Ma,” I said as I brushed her motherly ultimatum away. Several hours later I approached our apartment door. I was three sheets to the wind and fumbled around trying to get the key into the lock. Before I could finish the process, the door swung open. My mother was standing there. She was a short woman, about five feet-one. Even through the alcohol induced fog I could see that she was really angry. “Didn’t I tell you not to come home like this?’ “Come on, Ma, get out of my way.” The next thing I saw was her right fist heading for my left side of my nose. I saw blood spurt from my nose and heard the door slam. I then stumbled over to the stairs going up to the second floor and sat down. A few minutes later our neighbor from across the hall opened his door. He was an African-American man who was about forty years old. “I heard the commotion, Butch. I’d really like to help you, but if I do I think she’d do the same thing to me that she did to you. You need to go and get that nose checked out on your own. It looks it it’s broken.” 

He apparently knew my mother better than I did. 

I did go to a local hospital and got my nose patched up. And, I also learned a very valuable lesson. Don’t tangle with Mom when she has a just cause to pursue. 

She did come from truly hardy stock. I got the opportunity to visit her family in Newfoundland when I was assigned to Ernest Harmon Air Force Base near Stephenville Newfoundland. In the eighteen months I was there I got to meet many of her brothers and cousins. They all loved her from the depth of their hearts. She was known to them as “The Flower of McIver’s.” She was full of joy and lived life energetically.  

My mother really was special. I wish I’d known better earlier in life, but many of those realizatio came later in life. Toward end of her life she had Alzheimer’s. One of of our visits to the nursing home my wife and I sat silently. I didn’t know what to say. She seemed like she was suspended in another world. Nancy encouraged me to say something, but I didn’t know what to say. “There’s no one home, Coach. She doesn’t know who I am anymore.” Nancy leaned over the bed and whispered in her ear, “You’re upset with him, aren’t you Susie? He didn’t visit you last week.” As I sat there I could see her eyes flash. She still knew me, even in what appeared to be a void space. She was still Ms. She was still my mother and she still loved me.  

Some might think I was engaging in a flight of fancy, but they didn’t know my mother as I did or know now. She was still there. There’s no doubt in my mind about that. 

She was courageous. It took a long time for me to see that and, thanks to Nancy, I finally saw it. We had a long discussion about her once. She was wondering why I spent so much time trying to find my father, who was never really there for me. “Why do you spend so much time chasing him? Can’t you see that your mother was the courageous one. She’s the one who fought through the loss of a man she loved. She’s the one who took care of you, your brother and sister. She’s the one who fought her way through the terror of electroshock therapy so that she could come home to care for you and love you. She was the one had the courage to persevere.” 

That truth became even more evident to me a few years later as Nancy and I were watching an episode of “Call the Midwife.” In one part of the episode there was a pretty graphic scene where a woman was undergoing electroshock therapy. I looked excruciating enough viewing it on a television screen, I could only imagine how painful the real-life treatments had been for my mother. All I could do in response was to weep like a child. 

Yes, my mother was an educated immigrant. She never did see her name in lights. But she has left a legacy that has stretched far beyond her life and the quiet Newfound village where she was born. One of her sons became a chemical engineer and he and his wife have three children. One studied law and has become a respected attorney. One of his daughters is a highly respected author and public speaker. Their other daughter pursued a professional career in the field of information technology. And, they all are all happily married, which is another way of saying that nurturing a family isn’t a hindrance to a fulfilling life and career 

The same holds true for me. I’m blessed to have been able to earn undergraduate and graduate degrees. While my life has had its ups and downs (I’ve been though one failed marriage). But I have three wonderful children and I’m now married to a remarkable woman who has held prestigious professional positions in large corporations. While she is not the birth mother of my children, they love and respect the way she applies the motherly skills she has learned in life.  

As I think back at the lives of my mother, my wife, and others from our generation I feel a deep sense of gratitude for the contributions they have made over the years. They have accomplished the things in life that many dream of and did those things without sacrificing the most precious things in life. They pursued their dreams without mocking motherhood and marriage.  

Those, I submit to you, are relationships and ideals well worth celebrating, not mocking. 

As to where this current generation is heading, I cannot say, but I do admit that I’m concerned about the course they are taking. Like author Charles Caput I often feel like a “stranger in a strange land.” and I find myself praying for the Parousia, the Second Coming of Christ to this world. 

My Thorn in the Flesh

“Therefore, in order to keep me from becoming conceited, I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me.  Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me.  But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.  That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” 

II Corinthians 12:7-10 (New International Version) 

Writing to fellow Christians in the city of Corinth in about 55 A.D., the apostle Paul cited “a thorn in the flesh, a messenger of Satan to torment” him. Scholars have occasionally speculated on what that thorn might have been. Was it problems with his vision? He had alluded to a problem like this in his letter to the Galatians. Could it have been a person, perhaps, someone like Alexander the coppersmith who Paul referred to in one of his letters to a young Christian named Timothy? Could it have been the temptations we all face on a daily basis?  

Scholars simply don’t know, but it seemed to be a very real problem. It frustrated him enough to call it a “thorn in the flesh.” 

For several years now I’ve had a “thorn in the flesh.” Mine is Parkinson’s disease. “What is Parkinson’s?” you might be asking. I really couldn’t give you a detailed medical description Parkinson’s disease, but I know it’s been around for a long time. In 175 A.D., for example, the ancient Greek physician Galen described it as “shaking palsy.” 

I first noticed it when I developed a tremor in my left hand. Any time I picked up something like a cup of coffee in a saucer with my left hand it would shake and the cup and saucer rattle around. I found it quite amusing, so much so that I started using the cup and saucer as part of my own little comedy routine when company would come to our house. I loved the telling expressions my routine evoked. No one would say a word about what they were thinking, but I knew. “My God, he’s gonna’ drop them. I hope they’re not Wedgewood or Royal Albert.”  

The routine grew old. The puzzled looks became icy stares that all but shouted, “Stop it Phil!”  

Next, a new symptom came. I’d always prided myself on being able to multitask. I spent a good part of my professional life working for FedEx, where being nimble, quick thinking is absolutely essential. I was really good at it, as both a logistics analyst and a service engineer. 

Nancy was the first to notice the drastic change. I was driving one day, with her in the passenger seat. As was my habit, I talked as I drove, but it ended quite abruptly. In the most emphatic voice I’ve ever heard from her I heard the following – “Pull the car over. Slick. You’re all over the road. You can’t drive and talk at the same time anymore. You just can’t. It’s Parkinson’s.” 

As much as I would have liked to deny it, I couldn’t. This was more than not being able to “chew gum and walk at the same time.” This was serious. I had to accept the truth that there were some things I couldn’t do any more.  

Accepting this truth was hard at first. I value my independence, but things had changed. I was no longer the nimble multi-tasker. It was at this point “grace appeared.” While some things had changed, others hadn’t. Parkinson’s had placed limits on one thing, but grace opened another avenue for me to get from place to place. Nancy started doing all the driving.  

What an arrangement! I could still get around, thanks to Nancy’s willingness act as surrogate Uber driver. She drives; we talk; the car stays between the lines.  

Another byproduct of Parkinson’s is the diminished ability to maintain good balance. I like to do things around the house. We own a second property, a loft in Kansas City’s River market district. It’s a small unit, about 800 square feet. One of the interesting features of the unit is the high ceiling. It’s about 18 feet high, with light fixtures placed strategically at points where the ceiling and walls meet.   When one of the lightbulbs goes it, it means that someone has to replace it.  

Several months ago, one of the bulbs did go out. I went and got a long extension ladder that’s provided by the homeowners’ association. It was a difficult enough chore getting it into the unit, but I managed. Next, I extended the ladder against the wall. With a lightbulb in hand, I began to slowly make my way to the top. Once I got to the top, I took a deep breath and unscrewed the burned-out bulb. Then, it happened. As I reached into the pocket of my hoodie to get the new bulb, I felt my balance giving way. I tried to steady myself, but it didn’t work. It only took a few seconds, but it felt like eight hours. All the way down I kept telling myself, ”Protect your head…protect your head.” I felt and heard the ”thud” as I hit the concreate floor, shoulder first. I laid on the floor for a few minutes, trying to assess how much damage I’d done to myself. Not much, fortunately. My shoulder was sore for a few days and my brain had rattled a bit, but that was the extent of the damage. 

I learned a valuable lesson from that fall. I don’t climb ladders anymore!  

I have to admit it. Parkinsons can be very humbling. While I can never claim to be a superstar or a strongman, I’d like to think I can multitask or climb ladders with ease. The truth is, I can’t. 

I can see my limitations, but like Paul in the New Testament, I am learning a very valuable truth. “My grace is sufficient for you.” 

It also helps to have allies as I contend with my thorn in the flesh. When I was first diagnosed with Parkinsons, my neurologist would end every session with the words, “Engage Mr. Dillon….engage!” It was another way of saying, “Don’t give in to the temptation to quit battling.”  I haven’t and I won’t.  

For several years now I’ve been enrolled in a program called “Rock Steady.” It’s a non-contact boxing/exercise program that’s been designed for people with Parkinsons. It’s  sponsored by North Kansas City Hospital. I attend classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and I’ve grown to love it. I love being able to interact with folks like me who are engaged in their own battles with Parkinsons.  I fumble around with my buddies Doc, Noodles, Dave, Lee, Mike and a host of other wonderful people. We all have an occasional laugh at our own expense as we do our fumbling. I remember once falling and using my dry Irish wit to lighten the atmosphere as folks came to my aid. “He never tagged me, ump. I was safe….I was safe.” That sort of thing happens a lot. We also get to wear boxing gloves and whale away at punching bags with series of jabs, hooks, uppercuts, and so forth.  When it’s my turn I like to pretend that I’m whaling away at some self-absorbed national or local politician. Oh my, that is really fun! 

In addition to Rock Steady, I also volunteer at North Kansas City hospital across the street on Tuesdays from 11:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. In that short span of time love transporting patients to and from appointments, with occasional opportunities to interact with them, trying my best to lift their spirits. Knowing my limitations in terms of multi-tasking I steer clear of the computers at the Pavilion desk.  I like it so much that I now consider myself a “pusher,” with a qualifying addendum to my title. “I’m a pusher without being pushy. 

One of the great benefits of interacting with patients who need help is seeing my own “thorn in the flesh” from a healthier perspective. If/when I want to feel sorry for myself, interacting with patients with far more serious problems than mine changes things. At those times when I feel like lamenting, providing a bit of support for someone far more needy than me is a wakeup call: “Come on Phil, things could be far worse. You do have a thorn in your flesh, but so do many others you interact with on a daily basis.   You need to see that God’s grace is sufficient for you. You need to fumble around. You need to laugh at yourself occasionally. You need to push with whatever strength you have. And, above all, you need to engage….engage…..engage!” 

Curse of the Bambino

“A man ought to get all he can, a man who knows he’s making money for other people ought to get some of the profit he brings in. Don’t make any difference if it’s baseball or a bank or a vaudeville show. It’s business, I tell you. There ain’t no sentiment to it. Forget that stuff.” 

Babe Ruth’s explanation for holding out for a pay increase after his 1919 season playing for the Boston Red Sox 

Halloween is less than a week away. I’m not a big fan of celebrating creepy-crawly things, monsters, or curses – especially curses.  

You see, I grew up in Boston. I was a Boston Red Sox fan. I know all about curses. I grew up wearing what became known as the “Curse of the Bambino” like the poet Coleridge’s albatross around my neck. 

I loved baseball from the time I started playing stickball in 1953. Like most kids I knew, I dreamed of one day graduating to real baseball and playing left field for the Red Sox when my hero, Ted Williams retired.” 

“Teddy Ballgame,” as his fans came to know him, was one of the greatest hitters in the history of the game. He finished his twenty-year career, which had been interrupted by five years of military service during World War II and the Korean War, hitting 521 home runs with a .344 batting average. Oh, how he could hit! He loved talking with other players about the science of hitting a baseball. I still feel chills when I remember listening to the radio broadcast of “Teddy Ballgame” hitting a pinch-hit home run against Cleveland’s Mike Garcia a few days after he returned home after two years of service in the Korean conflict.  

There were so many great moments “Teddy Ballgame” gave the fans of Boston. He hit .406 in 1941, a feat that has not been equaled for the last eighty-two years, or the dramatic home run he hit in the 1946 all-star game off Rip Sewell’s famous “eephus” pitch. He capped off his marvellous career when he hit a home run in his last at bat at Fenway Park on September 28, 1960. 

I so wanted to be like him. I considered myself the stickball champion of Chatham Street in my younger days. I also occasionally daydreamed of the day my moment in the sun would come. In my mind’s eye I visualized myself at the plate for my beloved Red Sox at a critical moment in the World Series. The Sox were down by three runs in the bottom of the ninth. There were two outs, with the bases loaded. This was my moment. I strode to the plate and dug in like “Teddy Ballgame” always did. I was expecting a slider inside and that’s what I got. I was ready. I swung and as the ball soared over the “Green Monstah” I could hear the crowd erupt in cheers. I had done it. My beloved Sox had won the World Series I was the hero of the hour, just like “Teddy Ballgame” for the Red Sox or Roy Hobbes  from “The Natural.”  

But dreams are dreams and reality is reality. The Red Sox were never going to be in the market for a not hit, no field left fielder.  

While I never got to sign a big-league contract, I remained a loyal Red Sox fan.  

And that now brings me to the “Curse of the Bambino.” Babe Ruth had started his career playing for the Boston Red Sox. According to some, the curse came on the heels of the 1919 season. In 1918 the Bambino batted .300 and hit a league-leading 11 home runs, while also going 13-7 as a pitcher with a stellar 2.22 earned average. The Red Sox won the World Series, the last World Series they would win for many years. Ruth felt that the numbers merited a significant pay increase and he lobbied to have that salary raised from $10,000 per year to $20,000 per year. Red Sox owner Harry Frazee disagreed, and Ruth reluctantly signed a contract for 1919. That year, Ruth responded with an even more impressive performance. He hit 29 home runs and had 113 runs batted in. He also had a 9-5 record as a pitcher. At the end of the season Ruth again lobbied for more money.  Frazee once again dug his heels in. The Bambino now had a big problem. Frazee’s primary interest wasn’t baseball. He produced Broadway plays and he wasn’t doing well, but he had what he believed was a great opportunity to produce a winner. He’d been approached by a few moguls about a play titled “No, No, Nanette.” It seemed that Frazee had found his magic fortune cookie. All he needed was some capital. The fortune cookie turned out to be the sale of Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees.  

This is where the legend of the “curse of the Bambino” actually began. According to that legend, a furious Babe Ruth placed the Red Sox under a curse. They would never win another World Series. 

Years passed and the Red Sox could not win the World Series. Were they cursed? Most observers laughed it off until 1946. The Sox were finally in the World Series after a twenty-eight year drought. They were playing the St, Louis Cardinals for all the marbles. The seventh and deciding game was tied 3-3 in the bottom of the eighth inning. Enos Slaughter began the inning with a single. Two outs later, Harry Walker hit a double and Slaughter scored from first base when, according to legend, Red Sox shortstop Johnny Pesky double clutched his relay throw from shallow left field.  

The “curse of the Bambino” was becoming ever more real. What else could explain Johnny, Pesky’s double clutch or the fact that the great Ted Williams only hit .250 and drove in only one run in that series. The years rolled on the evidence mounted. In 1948 the Sox lost a one game playoff the Cleveland Indians. In 1949 the Sox won 96 games, leaving them one game behind the dreaded New York Yankees for the American League pennant.  

This where I found myself attached to the Red Sox and the “curse. I started playing stickball in 1953. As I wrote earlier, I considered myself the stickball champion of Chatham Street. When it was my turn to hit, I would imitate the stances of my favorite Sox players, especially Ted Williams’ wide stance and perfectly grooved swing. When I wasn’t playing, I took every opportunity to listen to my beloved Sox on the radio. As I did, I couldn’t understand what I was hearing. The Yankees almost always won, but I “knew” my Sox were a better team.  After all, we had “Teddy Ballgame.” All the Yankees could muster were Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra or Moose Skowron. Granted, they were good ballplayers, but they were no match for “Teddy Ballgame.” 

Ted Williams retired in 1960. His left-field replacement was Carl Yastrzemski, who would himself one day become a hall of famer. Me? I joined the Air Force in 1961.  

The years continued to pass. Yastrzemski amassed mountains of great statistics, I hopped around the globe at Uncle Sam’s command, and the “curse of the Bambino” went on. In 1967, Yaz had one of those years. He won the triple crown in 1967 with a .326 batting average, 44 home runs, and 121 runs batted in. The Red Sox made it to the World Series. Would this be the year the curse would be broken? No. True to what had become the form, the Sox teased, but didn’t deliver. St. Louis won the series in seven games. 

I got out of the Air Force in 1969. I went to college, then graduate school. I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about the curse, but it still lingered in the cobwebs of my mind. Things were quiet on that front until 1978. The Red Sox were leading the American League by 12 ½ games in August. Then the Yankees caught fire, By the time the dust settled the Sox were in a one game playoff with the Yankees at Fenway Park. The Red Sox were winning by two runs in the seventh. In the Yankees’ half of the inning, they got two runners on base. Yankees shortstop Bucky Dent strode to the plate. Almost everyone in Boston knew that he couldn’t hit a baseball even if he had a bat the size of a banjo. At least that’s what we thought.  Then the curse reared its ugly head. Light hitting Bucky Dent hit a fly ball that scraped the top of the “Green Monstah” and fell into the net. That home run felt like a dagger to the heart of every Sox fan in the world. 

It now seemed certain that nothing could lift the curse. A few groups of fans hired witches in a vain attempt to end it and there were even a few who suggested that Babe Ruth’s body could be exhumed and brought to Boston so we call all apologize to him for what Harry Frazee had done. Nothing worked. 

I got married to my wife Nancy in 1986. By that time, I had given up and stopped following the Red Sox. Nancy, who was a St. Louis Cardinals fan, couldn’t understand it. When I tried to explain the “curse of the Bambino” to her she would just roll her eyes in disbelief. I tried tuning it out, to no avail. The Red Sox were in the World Series again. Nancy asked me if I was going to watch, and I responded “No. They’ll break my heart. It’s the dreaded curse.” We spent the next week or so avoiding the games. I can’t remember much of what happened early on that fateful Saturday, October 25th  but I do remember what happened in the evening. Nancy turned on the TV and the World Series was on. It was the sixth game, with the Sox leading three games to two. It was the bottom of the tenth and the Sox were up by two runs. There were two outs with no one on base for the New York Mets. Red Sox reliever Calvin Schiraldi was one strike away from winning the game. Nancy seemed overjoyed. “Oh, Slick, you’ve waited your whole life for this. Your Red Sox are going to win. Sit down and watch.” I told her I couldn’t. “I’m going to the basement. Don’t you understand? Something always happens. It’s the Curse of the Bambino.” With that said, I went downstairs and waited for things to play out. After about a half an hour I came back upstairs. Nancy had a stunned look on her face. “How did you know…how did you know? The ball just went through his legs?” (the now infamous Bill Buckner play). All I could say was “It’s the curse of the Bambino.”  

I’m not sure Nancy believed the curse was real, but I think she did understand how I and millions of others in Boston could come to believe it.  

For the next eighteen years things on the baseball front were once again quiet. Then something happened in 2004. The Sox were in the playoffs. As it so often happens, they were playing the Yankees in a seven-game series, with the winner playing the National League champion for all the marbles. 

With the thought of the “curse” still lingering in my mind, I decided not to watch the series. That changed when the Yankees won the first three games, including a 19 to 8 rout in the third game. I decided to tune in. Something had hit me like a thunderbolt and I started to believe the Sox were going to make a stunning comeback. I was so convinced I called my brother Bill in Massachusetts and told him. “We’re gonna’ sweep the Yankees now. They aren’t going to know what hit them.” Bill laughed in agreement. “Everyone in Boston knows we’re going to win. We just know it.” 

From that point on it was pure joy. There was Dave Roberts’ clutch steal of second base followed by Orlando Cabrera’s that drove him home to tie the game followed by David Ortiz’ (Big Papi) two run homer in the 10th inning to keep the series alive. The drama continued for the next three games. Everyone in Boston now remembers the amazing drama. There were Big Papi’s heroics and Curt Schilling’s bloody sock drama. Journeymen players like Johnny Damon and Kevin Millar made significant contributions. This was a team that refused to lose when it mattered most. They had affectionately nicknamed themselves “the Idiots” before the series started and as the drama played itself out the nickname fit perfectly. After all, who but a team of “idiots” would believe they could beat the mighty Yankees after being done three games to none? 

There was one more hurdle. Nancy was a Cardinals fan. What was the best approach to take now? All I could tell her was that I loved her madly, but I just knew the Sox were also

“A man ought to get all he can, a man who knows he’s making money for other people ought to get some of the profit he brings in. Don’t make any difference if it’s baseball or a bank or a vaudeville show. It’s business, I tell you. There ain’t no sentiment to it. Forget that stuff.” 

Babe Ruth’s explanation for holding out for a pay increase after his 1919 season playing for the Boston Red Sox 

Halloween is less than a week away. I’m not a big fan of celebrating creepy-crawly things, monsters, or curses – especially curses.  

You see, I grew up in Boston. I was a Boston Red Sox fan. I know all about curses. I grew up wearing what became known as the “Curse of the Bambino” like the poet Coleridge’s albatross around my neck. 

I loved baseball from the time I started playing stickball in 1953. Like most kids I knew, I dreamed of one day graduating to real baseball and playing left field for the Red Sox when my hero, Ted Williams retired.” 

“Teddy Ballgame,” as his fans came to know him, was one of the greatest hitters in the history of the game. He finished his twenty-year career, which had been interrupted by five years of military service during World War II and the Korean War, hitting 521 home runs with a .344 batting average. Oh, how he could hit! He loved talking with other players about the science of hitting a baseball. I still feel chills when I remember listening to the radio broadcast of “Teddy Ballgame” hitting a pinch-hit home run against Cleveland’s Mike Garcia a few days after he returned home after two years of service in the Korean conflict.  

There were so many great moments “Teddy Ballgame” gave the fans of Boston. He hit .406 in 1941, a feat that has not been equaled for the last eighty-two years, or the dramatic home run he hit in the 1946 all-star game off Rip Sewell’s famous “eephus” pitch. He capped off his marvellous career when he hit a home run in his last at bat at Fenway Park on September 28, 1960. 

I so wanted to be like him. I considered myself the stickball champion of Chatham Street in my younger days. I also occasionally daydreamed of the day my moment in the sun would come. In my mind’s eye I visualized myself at the plate for my beloved Red Sox at a critical moment in the World Series. The Sox were down by three runs in the bottom of the ninth. There were two outs, with the bases loaded. This was my moment. I strode to the plate and dug in like “Teddy Ballgame” always did. I was expecting a slider inside and that’s what I got. I was ready. I swung and as the ball soared over the “Green Monstah” I could hear the crowd erupt in cheers. I had done it. My beloved Sox had won the World Series I was the hero of the hour, just like “Teddy Ballgame” for the Red Sox or Roy Hobbes  from “The Natural.”  

But dreams are dreams and reality is reality. The Red Sox were never going to be in the market for a not hit, no field left fielder.  

While I never got to sign a big-league contract, I remained a loyal Red Sox fan.  

And that now brings me to the “Curse of the Bambino.” Babe Ruth had started his career playing for the Boston Red Sox. According to some, the curse came on the heels of the 1919 season. In 1918 the Bambino batted .300 and hit a league-leading 11 home runs, while also going 13-7 as a pitcher with a stellar 2.22 earned average. The Red Sox won the World Series, the last World Series they would win for many years. Ruth felt that the numbers merited a significant pay increase and he lobbied to have that salary raised from $10,000 per year to $20,000 per year. Red Sox owner Harry Frazee disagreed, and Ruth reluctantly signed a contract for 1919. That year, Ruth responded with an even more impressive performance. He hit 29 home runs and had 113 runs batted in. He also had a 9-5 record as a pitcher. At the end of the season Ruth again lobbied for more money.  Frazee once again dug his heels in. The Bambino now had a big problem. Frazee’s primary interest wasn’t baseball. He produced Broadway plays and he wasn’t doing well, but he had what he believed was a great opportunity to produce a winner. He’d been approached by a few moguls about a play titled “No, No, Nanette.” It seemed that Frazee had found his magic fortune cookie. All he needed was some capital. The fortune cookie turned out to be the sale of Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees.  

This is where the legend of the “curse of the Bambino” actually began. According to that legend, a furious Babe Ruth placed the Red Sox under a curse. They would never win another World Series. 

Years passed and the Red Sox could not win the World Series. Were they cursed? Most observers laughed it off until 1946. The Sox were finally in the World Series after a twenty-eight year drought. They were playing the St, Louis Cardinals for all the marbles. The seventh and deciding game was tied 3-3 in the bottom of the eighth inning. Enos Slaughter began the inning with a single. Two outs later, Harry Walker hit a double and Slaughter scored from first base when, according to legend, Red Sox shortstop Johnny Pesky double clutched his relay throw from shallow left field.  

The “curse of the Bambino” was becoming ever more real. What else could explain Johnny, Pesky’s double clutch or the fact that the great Ted Williams only hit .250 and drove in only one run in that series. The years rolled on the evidence mounted. In 1948 the Sox lost a one game playoff the Cleveland Indians. In 1949 the Sox won 96 games, leaving them one game behind the dreaded New York Yankees for the American League pennant.  

This where I found myself attached to the Red Sox and the “curse. I started playing stickball in 1953. As I wrote earlier, I considered myself the stickball champion of Chatham Street. When it was my turn to hit, I would imitate the stances of my favorite Sox players, especially Ted Williams’ wide stance and perfectly grooved swing. When I wasn’t playing, I took every opportunity to listen to my beloved Sox on the radio. As I did, I couldn’t understand what I was hearing. The Yankees almost always won, but I “knew” my Sox were a better team.  After all, we had “Teddy Ballgame.” All the Yankees could muster were Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra or Moose Skowron. Granted, they were good ballplayers, but they were no match for “Teddy Ballgame.” 

Ted Williams retired in 1960. His left-field replacement was Carl Yastrzemski, who would himself one day become a hall of famer. Me? I joined the Air Force in 1961.  

The years continued to pass. Yastrzemski amassed mountains of great statistics, I hopped around the globe at Uncle Sam’s command, and the “curse of the Bambino” went on. In 1967, Yaz had one of those years. He won the triple crown in 1967 with a .326 batting average, 44 home runs, and 121 runs batted in. The Red Sox made it to the World Series. Would this be the year the curse would be broken? No. True to what had become the form, the Sox teased, but didn’t deliver. St. Louis won the series in seven games. 

I got out of the Air Force in 1969. I went to college, then graduate school. I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about the curse, but it still lingered in the cobwebs of my mind. Things were quiet on that front until 1978. The Red Sox were leading the American League by 12 ½ games in August. Then the Yankees caught fire, By the time the dust settled the Sox were in a one game playoff with the Yankees at Fenway Park. The Red Sox were winning by two runs in the seventh. In the Yankees’ half of the inning, they got two runners on base. Yankees shortstop Bucky Dent strode to the plate. Almost everyone in Boston knew that he couldn’t hit a baseball even if he had a bat the size of a banjo. At least that’s what we thought.  Then the curse reared its ugly head. Light hitting Bucky Dent hit a fly ball that scraped the top of the “Green Monstah” and fell into the net. That home run felt like a dagger to the heart of every Sox fan in the world. 

It now seemed certain that nothing could lift the curse. A few groups of fans hired witches in a vain attempt to end it and there were even a few who suggested that Babe Ruth’s body could be exhumed and brought to Boston so we call all apologize to him for what Harry Frazee had done. Nothing worked. 

I got married to my wife Nancy in 1986. By that time, I had given up and stopped following the Red Sox. Nancy, who was a St. Louis Cardinals fan, couldn’t understand it. When I tried to explain the “curse of the Bambino” to her she would just roll her eyes in disbelief. I tried tuning it out, to no avail. The Red Sox were in the World Series again. Nancy asked me if I was going to watch, and I responded “No. They’ll break my heart. It’s the dreaded curse.” We spent the next week or so avoiding the games. I can’t remember much of what happened early on that fateful Saturday, October 25th  but I do remember what happened in the evening. Nancy turned on the TV and the World Series was on. It was the sixth game, with the Sox leading three games to two. It was the bottom of the tenth and the Sox were up by two runs. There were two outs with no one on base for the New York Mets. Red Sox reliever Calvin Schiraldi was one strike away from winning the game. Nancy seemed overjoyed. “Oh, Slick, you’ve waited your whole life for this. Your Red Sox are going to win. Sit down and watch.” I told her I couldn’t. “I’m going to the basement. Don’t you understand? Something always happens. It’s the Curse of the Bambino.” With that said, I went downstairs and waited for things to play out. After about a half an hour I came back upstairs. Nancy had a stunned look on her face. “How did you know…how did you know? The ball just went through his legs?” (the now infamous Bill Buckner play). All I could say was “It’s the curse of the Bambino.”  

I’m not sure Nancy believed the curse was real, but I think she did understand how I and millions of others in Boston could come to believe it.  

For the next eighteen years things on the baseball front were once again quiet. Then something happened in 2004. The Sox were in the playoffs. As it so often happens, they were playing the Yankees in a seven-game series, with the winner playing the National League champion for all the marbles. 

With the thought of the “curse” still lingering in my mind, I decided not to watch the series. That changed when the Yankees won the first three games, including a 19 to 8 rout in the third game. I decided to tune in. Something had hit me like a thunderbolt and I started to believe the Sox were going to make a stunning comeback. I was so convinced I called my brother Bill in Massachusetts and told him. “We’re gonna’ sweep the Yankees now. They aren’t going to know what hit them.” Bill laughed in agreement. “Everyone in Boston knows we’re going to win. We just know it.” 

From that point on it was pure joy. There was Dave Roberts’ clutch steal of second base followed by Orlando Cabrera’s that drove him home to tie the game followed by David Ortiz’ (Big Papi) two run homer in the 10th inning to keep the series alive. The drama continued for the next three games. Everyone in Boston now remembers the amazing drama. There were Big Papi’s heroics and Curt Schilling’s bloody sock drama. Journeymen players like Johnny Damon and Kevin Millar made significant contributions. This was a team that refused to lose when it mattered most. They had affectionately nicknamed themselves “the Idiots” before the series started and as the drama played itself out the nickname fit perfectly. After all, who but a team of “idiots” would believe they could beat the mighty Yankees after being done three games to none? 

There was one more hurdle. Nancy was a Cardinals fan. What was the best approach to take now? All I could tell her was that I loved her madly, but I just knew the Sox were also going to sweep the Cardinals. And that’s the way it happened. The Sox swept the Cardinals, winning their first World Series championship since 1918, an eighty-six-year drought. The “curse of the Bambino” was lifted, and life could now go on.  

I don’t follow baseball anymore, any more than I need to follow after Halloween ghosts, goblins, monsters, and curses.  

Kids will come to our door in a few days, and I’ll give them candy, but I won’t feel inclined to say things like “Happy Halloween.” 

I do realize, as Sweeney Todd’s mother once said, “There’s demons lurkin’ about.” While I’m sure there are some, I’m not going to treat them like celebrities.  If anyone cares to ask, I’ll tell them that a far more important curse than the “curse of the Bambino.” has been lifted from humanity in the person of Jesus.