February 1989: The New Girl

                She was in the back seat and I was in the passenger’s seat. We were sitting in a sedan, driving from the Staten Island Ferry terminal to my church in the Willowbrook section of Staten Island. I hadn’t really known this girl before the day began, but I knew her now. She was, in fact, all I could think about as our chaperone’s car cruised along Crystal Avenue and the radio station played Debbie Gibson’s latest song.

                It’s funny how the smallest of decisions can change a life or two. My church’s youth group was taking a February field trip to the Statue of Liberty and South Street Seaport. My brother and I, along with several other teens, were among those taking the trip on this Sunday. One of my fellow 12^th-graders, a girl named Erica, had asked a school friend of hers if she wanted to go along. The friend had said yes, and she joined us in the crowd of teens traveling by cars and ferryboats to our destination.

This new girl chatted with me during the Circle Line ferry ride to Liberty Island, where our conversation was interrupted by a then-immature younger brother of mine, who was playing a game of “punch your brother in the crotch.” Somehow, the girl and I were able to ignore this painful distraction, and before long our voices and eyes became more flirtatious. By the time we were walking up the stairs of Lady Liberty, the new girl was massaging my shoulder. On the ferry back to Manhattan, she was snuggling up against me for warmth amid the chill of New York Harbor. At South Street Seaport, we ate pizza together, and I realized that my 18-year-old hormones were fully engaged.

So, on the walk back to South Ferry, we drifted to the back of the line and, when the moment was right, we stopped and let the others walk ahead. I knew little more than her name, the sing-song melody of her voice, her strawberry blonde hair and the high cheekbones that framed her face. But after turning toward the new girl, I now knew the taste of her lips. It was clear that this might lead somewhere.

In that car ride back, Debbie Gibson was singing her monster hit of the moment, “Lost in Your Eyes.” The new girl told me later that as she listened to that song, she thought about my brown eyes and the song felt right, in a mix-tape kind of way. When the girl told me later that she had a boyfriend, I said I wasn’t going to get in the middle of that, but to keep me posted. Two days later – on Valentine’s Day, no less – the girl broke up with her boyfriend. The next day, I asked her out. She said yes.

It’s a sweet and corny little high school romance story, and many of us have something like it. The difference here, I guess, is where this went afterward. While most of my peers waited to find their life partners much later, this girl and I couldn’t shake each other. In fact, we’ve been together ever since. Her name is Amy, and we’ve been married for 18 years. Tomorrow, it will be 25 years since I first asked her out.

Growing up together was not always easy, and I wouldn’t suggest this path for my daughters. But I guess we’re living proof that when it feels right, and the girl you see beneath the glitter of the Brooklyn Bridge looks like everything you’ve ever wanted, you might want to kiss her then and there. You never know where it might take you. The Debbie Gibson song is nostalgia now, but the girl is still new to me in all the right ways, every day.

The End of Summer

As my girls and I were walking our dog the other day, I spotted a lone firefly blinking his way through the dusk. He was floating around the rear bumper of an old Buick, perhaps looking for his friends. I watched his self-illumination with longing, and wished him well as the dog pulled me away.

I guess that firefly didn’t get the memo. Either that, or he was granted one of life’s greatest gifts – an eternal summer. Ah, perchance to dream.

For those of us not living in San Diego or Miami, summer does come to an end every year. We try to ignore it, but those fireflies depart so that fallen leaves and carved pumpkins can take center stage. Baseball’s regular season gives way to baseball’s playoffs, which yield to pro football. It’s a different season, with different rhythms.

Most of us who work as educators in the Northeast have started school this week. The first week of school always feels like you’re going from zero to 75 miles per hour in about 10 seconds flat. Even if we’ve spent days preparing our rooms and curricula, there are just so many new variables that can only arise when those students first walk in the door. They’re here now, and the marathon has started – as it always does – with a sprint. But we will manage our new challenges as they arise, and make sure we’re nurturing our new students in all the right ways. It’s what we do.

And as we do so, we’ll glance over our shoulders and notice summer cruising away. Maybe it’s attached to that Buick, with the firefly serving as escort. Most likely, though, it’s somewhere we simply can’t be right now – like down in the Caribbean, or out in the desert. Last weekend, my wife and I took the girls to the USS Intrepid museum on the West Side of Manhattan. It was fascinating to be on an aircraft carrier and inside a submarine, and the girls enjoyed it quite a bit. But every time we stood on the port side of the ship, we all found our eyes drifting to the giant cruise ship docked just north of the Intrepid. This Carnival ship was boarding for a late-afternoon departure. Some passengers sat in the boat’s restaurant, visible through tinted windows. Others walked around the place, checking out their home for the week. Still others sat on their balconies, staring at us.

It was just too much to take – these lucky souls, boarding their ship for a summer extension. Finally, we turned away, and began walking southbound along Hudson River Park. We stopped to watch some tiny waves lap up against rocks and soda bottles near the Circle Line dock. We watched bicyclists and in-line skaters zoom past us. The girls got to pet a horse from the police department’s mounted squad. And then, as we neared the end of our sun-drenched, late-summer walk, I overheard two women talking as they strolled by us.

“I love the Dairy Queen near me,” one woman said, “because it only accepts cash. That way, I can’t stop there unless I have the money on me.”

The other woman nodded, about to say something. And then they were gone. I had no interest in eavesdropping, so I kept walking. But I took some small consolation in the fact that this conversation was every bit about summer. I could taste that Blizzard – soft-serve vanilla with bananas, please – as we made our way back to Penn Station.

Summer is a collection of strikingly vivid details, photographed with slow exposure. We savor these details, filled as they are with wonder, serenity and – cue the ice cream – even temptation. But this season always manages to leave us. And, like any great romance, the longing makes us love it all the more when it comes back.

We Meet Again (One Sixty-Two: Day 161)

Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.

Day One Hundred Sixty-One: Grady Sizemore, Cleveland Indians

It had been nearly four years since Ron and I had gotten together. He had moved to a different state, made partner at his law firm, and traveled five days a week nearly every week of the year. To say his plate has been full would be an understatement. I have no idea when the man sleeps. In Ron’s life these past few years, getting in touch with friends was secondary to finding some time to actually eat, exercise, and rest.

But a few weeks ago, Ron got in touch. He asked if I’d like to go to a Yankees-Red Sox game with him. I told him I would love to go. And so, on a cloudy Sunday evening in late September, I met up with one of the best friends I’ve had in my life after missing his presence for the better part of my late 30s.

We hugged, exchanged greetings, hopped into my car and began the complex work of catching up on four years. I know the clock said we spent seven hours together, but it felt more like ten minutes. There was so much to discuss: Stories of family, work, friendships, travels, daily routines and personal growth. We talked in the car, on the subway, and on the street. We talked in Staten Island, Brooklyn, Manhattan, and the Bronx. And, of course, we talked at the ballpark.

The rhythms of a game provided the perfect backdrop for two friends who’ve attended several dozen games together, yet haven’t done so since the pinstriped unit played in a different home stadium. As we sat together in the new digs, Yankees-Red Sox in the South Bronx was as exciting as you’d expect, especially as this game saw New York win in extra innings. But, to be honest, Ron and I could have just as easily been sitting in Arizona, watching Indians centerfielder Grady Sizemore rehab his knee at Cleveland’s spring-training facility. The location didn’t matter, so long as there was baseball before us.

We talked eagerly of seeing each other again, and continuing the business of reconnecting. The vow to meet again soon was more than optimistic chatter. As I reflected on my visit with Ron, I realized that there was a time, earlier in my adulthood, when I would have felt more hurt, betrayal and anger at a friend who’d fallen out of touch with me. But the years have softened the demands I make of friends, and left me feeling grateful for whatever time I can get with them. There’s not enough hours in the day or space in the heart for those kinds of hard feelings. Just tell me what you’ve been up to, and let’s head out to a game.

Ron’s girlfriend is a Cubs fan. During the season, they walk from their home to Wrigley Field whenever they can catch a game. I look forward to joining them there, along with my wife. We’ll enjoy the game and the gorgeous ballpark, I’m sure. But mostly, we’ll just talk. That’s what friends do.

The Streak is Over (One Sixty-Two: Day 148)

Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.

Day One Hundred Forty-Eight: Prince Fielder, Milwaukee Brewers

Prince Fielder’s major-league-leading streak of consecutive games played by a current player ended earlier this week, when flu-like symptoms kept Fielder out of the lineup for the first time in 327 games. Two full years without a sick day is quite impressive – but it does fall just a bit short of Cal Ripken Jr.’s record of consecutive games played. More than 2,300 games short, to be exact.

Consistency. The Milwaukee Brewers and their fans have enjoyed the reliable sight of Fielder at first base every day. He’s back in the lineup again, looking to add to his 190 career home runs at just 26 years of age. We take comfort in the constant presence of people – be it in our homes, at our workplaces, on our TV sets, or in the box scores. We also develop some occasional affection for certain material items that stay present in our lives for extended periods of time. They don’t talk to us, these items, and they certainly don’t mean as much as the people in our lives do. But sometimes we do look at them and feel a kind of reassurance.

Since my wife and I were married 15 years ago, we’ve spent a part of nearly every day with the same set of dinnerware. The set was a wedding gift – not an expensive collection, mind you, but a very durable set that goes by the name of Corelle White. My uncle has joked that this sounds more like a college football player than a set of dinnerware: Now starting at tailback for the University of Michigan, Corelle White! But this simple and functional set of plates and dishes has been by our side and at our table for, well, more than 5,400 days. That’s a streak, all right. We’ve fed ourselves on these plates and bowls countless times in five different homes, while also using them to feed our children, parents, siblings, friends, and even our departed grandparents. Corelle has hung in there pretty nicely, even enduring the occasional lick from a golden retriever.

But last night, as Amy and I drove into Manhattan for a quick anniversary dinner, we decided to make a stop at CB2, a home-décor store on Broadway. Some dear friends had given us a gift certificate to the place, and we’d been thinking about what to buy there. As we pulled up to the store, we made our decision: After 15 years, it was time for some new plates and bowls. Time to replace dear old Corelle White.

We didn’t select anything fancy – the new set is still white, still simple, and still functional. But the new bowls and plates don’t have the slightly worn look found on our dinnerware from 1995, and they look a little bit more elegant. We’ll use them tomorrow when friends come over for dinner, and our friends will surely compliment us on the new plates.

But tomorrow morning, before we take our new plates and bowls out of the boxes, I’ll eat breakfast once more with a trusty Corelle bowl. I’ll wash it clean afterward, then place it and the other Corelle Whites in a box for our yard sale. I won’t linger with a long goodbye, nor will any teardrops fall on the dessert plates. These are just things, after all.

But the kitchen will look a little different tomorrow, and something simple that I always knew to be there will be gone. The streak is over, Prince. All we can do is get our bearings, readjust, and start another one.