My dad was a big fan of the San Francisco Giants, and he passed that on to the four of us kids. In the summer when his beloved team traveled east to play the Mets, he would finagle a few tickets. We would rattle around on the train to New York and press our faces to the glass on the subway as it shuttled us out to Flushing Meadow for the Giants/Mets game. Invariably, there would be some double header, and thus our main reason for being there, Willie Mays, was being rested for the night game. We ate our fill of popcorn and took in the scene but never really got over the fact that we were not able to see our number 24 in action.
So eventually we wore my dad down, and he agreed to take us on a road trip to San Francisco. We just wanted to see the Giants game, but he drove us up the scenic coast highway, almost careening off the cliff near Point Lobos. As I recall, at least a few of us were upchucking in the back seat. That may be why he and my mom sought out another couple with kids and they tried to pawn the four of us off on them. We outlasted my parents’ efforts as we had been around the block by then and were well aware of their travel shenanigans. Finally, Candlestick Park appeared like a beacon, and we got to see our beloved Willie Mays play centerfield. All was right in the world.
I didn’t think about Willie Mays too much over the next decade or so, but when I was in graduate school, a professor was trying to hit home the point of keeping a writer’s notebook. She relayed a story about Willie Mays that has stuck with me. A young boy, Paul Asher who was to become a writer, had a chance encounter with Willie after a game. Quaking in his Keds at the excitement of the moment, he came face to face with Mays at the ballfield. Of course, the young boy asked for an autograph, but neither Willie or Paul had a pen and the moment passed. No pen, no autograph. Later that boy was to carry a pen with him all his waking days. And he proved he knew how to use it as he became a prolific writer. After hearing that story of missed opportunity, I try to carry a pen with me as is evident by all the ink splots on my clothes. I have not amassed a collection of autographs, but on occasion I have written a pithy sentence or two. Had I not had a pen, the sentence would remain jumbled in my head like all the other stuff.
These days my baseball viewing is scaled back to Little League games where two of my grandsons play. They know how to chew sunflower seeds, how to bang the bat on their cleats, how to talk the talk and how to play ball. In fact, they always have a baseball glove in their hands, often when they should have a textbook or a list of spelling words. And one of my favorite parts about watching them is to daydream about our hunt for Willie Mays, and the thought of all those times I have had a pen handy if an opportunity presented itself.
But when the innings drag, I have another perfectly wonderful diversion because the ball field abuts a lovely meadow with some well-placed bird houses. And at one of those houses a pair of tree swallows have taken up shop in all their iridescent splendor. They are ever so graceful as they fly out over the meadow and sure look regal sitting on the box. In the spring, they will build a nest of mostly grass in the box and feed on insects from dawn until dusk. They raise one or two broods of about four chicks each. After being fed around the clock, the chicks will be ready to fledge and take to the sky with great agility. And when fall comes around they join their parents and many other swallows as they begin their migration to warmer parts. They like to first congregate in great flocks, often near the river and it is a spectacle to behold. So, during the games, I will try not to have my head facing the meadow when my grandkids get their time at bat. But those swallows sure are hard to resist!
Photo by Joan Heffernan
Tree Swallows taking in the game.