Strength in What Remains

            I met a woman named Fiorella last weekend. She lives in a one-story house less than half a mile from the Atlantic Ocean, close enough to hear and smell the sea. The siding of Fiorella’s house remains, as do the beams and hardwood floor inside. Everything else is gone.

            Fiorella is an elementary-school teacher on Staten Island, and she lives in Midland Beach – an area of New York City decimated by Hurricane Sandy, sometimes with fatal results. Like so many others around her, Fiorella has nothing left but the framework of a home. On Saturday afternoon, she looked at the piles on her curb – of garbage bags, wooden posts, damp drywall and waterlogged sandbags – and spoke to the people standing outside with her.

            “I know it’s hard to believe, but it really was a nice house,” she said. “I had a little fence around the outside, and it looked pretty.”

            Fiorella was taking photos of everything, presumably for whatever insurance or FEMA purposes she could, and she was looking through the bins of soaked belongings outside her home. While she did so, a team of volunteers – some of them teachers like myself, others Mormon disaster-relief workers, others friends or concerned neighbors – worked to unload the contents of Fiorella’s basement. Wood, drywall, tools, Christmas decorations, books – all of them were lugged out. The most efficient means of cleaning ended up being a snow shovel – scoop up the stuff, then dump it into a trash bag. We carried it all out, from the complete works of Shakespeare to the little desk decoration reading “World’s Greatest Teacher.”

            When all but the washing machine had been carried out of Fiorella’s basement, she asked that we take photos with her. I asked how she was doing, nearly two weeks after this monster of a storm had changed her life so dramatically. She said that at first, it seemed unbearable. But then, each day, helping hands have come to her home. Each day, something has been done – a wall taken out, or furniture removed, or a basement cleared out.

            Fiorella has a mortgage on this house, so it’s not as if she can just pack up tomorrow and move farther away from the ocean. There are four neighborhoods worth of homeowners dealing with this dilemma on Staten Island, areas that look more like New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina than anything you’d recognize in New York. As the city posts red, yellow and green stickers on homes to identify the level of damage, homeowners like Fiorella wonder what they can do, and how they can recover from this massive punch to the gut.

            And yet, they are here. They survived this storm, and their gratitude is so clear when you speak with them. There’s Anton, who lost his basement in Oakwood Beach but fed the volunteers who helped him with donuts, water and coffee. There’s Kevin, who has nothing left in his bungalow on Midland Beach yet thanked volunteers when they brought him food and toiletries. There’s Chelsea, whose house in South Beach was spared but spends all the time she can helping her neighbors. There are Staten Islanders up and down that borough’s east shore working to make the best of what has happened to them.

            Fiorella said it’s hard not to feel your spirits lifted when so many people show up to help you. I told her I was amazed at the amount of hope she exuded – she talked about putting the photos of volunteers on her Facebook page, of all things. But then, as I celebrate Thanksgiving today, I guess Fiorella’s loss has led her to do something that some of us only do occasionally – she’s looked around her and taken stock not of what she’s lost, but of what she has. And those Facebook photos reveal more than just social-networking cool – they show a sense of community and fellowship that can’t be replaced. You can get another copy of Shakespeare, and there are plenty more Christmas ornaments to be had. You might even be able to rebuild your house, with a little help from your friends and certain bureaucratic procedures.

            But you can’t replace life or love, and Fiorella’s got an abundance of those. So for that reason, I think she’ll be OK. As for me, I’m just incredibly thankful I met her. And you know, it still is a beautiful house. Because a house is only as lovely as the people inside it.

            Happy Thanksgiving.

Leaving Home, and Coming Home

                I took a trip back to college this past weekend. It had been awhile – more than a decade, in fact – since I’d set foot in Chapel Hill, N.C. Raising young children can make it difficult to drive 500 miles, so it wasn’t exactly a surprise that we’d gone so long without visiting Tar Heel country. But when two friends contacted us with plans for a reunion of former sports writers from my school’s daily newspaper, Amy and I knew it was time to bring the girls down South.

                As we drove down Interstate 95 on our way to North Carolina, I recalled the many trips I’d taken up and down this crowded highway.  I also remembered my dad and other friends asking me if I planned to live in the Research Triangle after college. I was, after all, writing about North Carolina sports for a living back then, which included covering the amazing basketball scene of the Atlantic Coast Conference. I also had unlimited access to dogwoods, sweet tea and barbecue. What could be better?

                I had thoroughly enjoyed the University of North Carolina, I found the sports scene to be truly enthralling, and I had come to meet a lot of great people in Chapel Hill. But ultimately, I wanted to be back north. My reason was simple – there were just too many pieces of New York that felt more like home. I wanted to hop on the No. 4 train, exit at 161^st Street in the South Bronx, and see the mighty gates of Yankee Stadium before me. I wanted to drive eastward along the Pulaski Skyway on a clear night, heading toward the Holland Tunnel and viewing the elegant Empire State Building as it pointed skyward. I wanted to pop over to my old neighborhood in Staten Island for a pizza at Denino’s or Joe & Pat’s and an Italian ice at Ralph’s. When another journalist friend asked me why I was coming home, I told him it was because there was no Yankee Stadium in North Carolina. He said I had a point.

                As we traveled down I-95 on Friday, I was reminded of that Southern longing for New York several times. The signs for Brooklyn Bridge Road in Laurel, Md., called to mind the greatest bridge in America. The exit for Bowling Green, Va., reminded me of the oldest public park in New York, where tourists board Circle Line boats for the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. The signs for Willis Road in Chesterfield, Va., reminded me of New York Knicks legendary center Willis Reed, and the majestic Madison Square Garden court where he’d filled the paint. Even the highway that brought us into Chapel Hill – Route 54 – holds the same number as Rich “Goose” Gossage, whose blazing fastball closed out so many Yankees games in my childhood.

                New York’s geography and culture are deeply engrained in my self-identity and thoughts. When Amy and I lived in Massachusetts for five years earlier in our marriage, we felt similar longings for a glimpse of the skyline or a taste of the pizza. By the time Amy was pregnant with our second child, we were back in the New York area. By the time our girls were old enough to walk without complaining, they were strolling the High Line, Rockefeller Center and Brooklyn Heights.

                That said, geography does have its limits. This weekend, ultimately, was not at all about New York – no matter how many highway-sign connections my mind could make. Saturday night, we found ourselves in one of the great minor-league baseball stadiums in America, the Durham Bulls Athletic Park in Durham, N.C. As the Bulls ran roughshod over the Buffalo Bisons on the field, I sat in Section 124 beyond the right-field foul pole along with seven former sports writers of The Daily Tar Heel, as well as the paper’s longtime general manager. I hadn’t seen any of them in at least 10 years, so there was a lot of catching up to do. As we sat together, we shared stories of work, parenting, family and vacations. We talked about the past, the present and the future. We met one another’s children, and tested one another’s memories. I watched my old friends interact with their sons and daughters, and felt the love that passed between them.

                As I sat with my old friends on this glorious night in early summer, I thought again about home. It’s true that certain places feel more familiar than others, and draw us back to them like magnets. But ultimately, there’s nothing more like home than a day spent with people you care about deeply. I haven’t set foot in North Carolina for almost 12 years. But as I scanned the outfield here in Durham and listened to my friends tell me their stories, there was no place in the world I’d rather have been.

So yes, home is a bridge and a stadium and a pizza pie. But in the end, those New York spots only mean so much to me because I’ve shared them with family and friends. In the same way, Chapel Hill and Durham will always be home, whether I’m living there or not. Because these are places where I’ve connected with others. Back in 1993, we were hunched over computer monitors, scrambling to meet newspaper deadlines. This weekend, we were lounging in the outfield seats, talking and cheering and doing the wave.

            Wherever that kind of connection happens, whenever you feel it, you’re home. No maps or exit signs required. 

They've Got the Whole World in Their Hands

The girls sat down at the bar and waited to order. When the bartender walked over, he looked at my 9- and 6-year-old daughters and asked if they were OK with blue. The girls nodded. He reached beneath the bar, then handed each of them a hunk of blue clay.

“What would you like to make?” he asked Katie.

“A bird,” she said.

“Very good choice,” he said.

“And you?” he asked Chelsea.

“A pencil,” she responded.

“Excellent,” the man said, then proceeded to show both girls the first steps to their creations.

They say you can find anything in New York, and I’m more convinced of that now than ever. I say that because my girls and I drove into the city two weeks ago and went to our first clay bar. That’s right – just beneath Houston Street, on a charming side street off the Hudson, you can take your kids to a bar where they sit and make things out of clay.

It’s part of the Children’s Museum of the Arts, which recently reopened on Charlton Street with loads of artistic opportunities for kids. Walk into this museum and you can paint to your heart’s content, create your own an advertising logo, learn stop-action animation, draw cubist art and use markers to tag your own graffiti. And, yes, you must sit down and try the clay bar. Joe, the bartender, will be happy to see you.

Joe creates the same thing you’re making, and he models each stage for you from his side of the bar. He showed Chelsea how to turn little slivers of gray clay into a facsimile of the ferrule that connects the pink eraser to the wooden pencil. He showed Katie how to make eyes and a beak, then handed her some fluffy pipe cleaners so she could add a few feathers to her bird. As the girls focused on each stage of their clay creations, Joe worked the bar, assisting other kids. A glance down the black marble bar top revealed a turtle, a mermaid, a motorcycle, and a shark complete with fish in mouth.

I’ve been reflecting on Joe and the clay bar this month and during this Thanksgiving weekend. It’s hard to know just what you can count on in this autumn of 2011. We’ve got a federal government that can’t function and a financial crisis that seems to know no end. We’ve got a college sex scandal rocking the country and college tuitions that are no longer affordable for many Americans. We’ve got wars and uprisings in Asia and Africa, and climate change-induced weather uprisings in our own backyard.

So with the world seeming to be out of our reach these days, it’s comforting to find something you can hold in your hands, and shape to your heart’s content. For some of us, it’s a dish we cooked for Thanksgiving. For others, it’s a card or e-mail we’ll be sending to a friend over the holidays. For still others, it’s the tree we’ll be trimming or the menorah we’ll be lighting during the next month.

For my girls earlier this month, it was the clay. They collaborated with Joe for a good hour, and came away with the best creations they’d ever sculpted. The bird and pencil now sit prominently in our living room – proud reminders of what can happen when we work together, experience wonder, and create beauty. Reminders of what it feels like to hold a piece of this crazy world in your hands. It’s still possible to do those things in this world today. Just hop up to the bar and find out for yourself.

Can't Hide the Sizzle (One Sixty-Two: Day 153)

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 Fifty-Three: Chris Young, Arizona Diamondbacks

The heavens opened up in New York City during the final hours of summer, unleashing a torrent of rain in what had been an extremely dry, hot season in the Northeast. It was the warmest summer on record in both the Big Apple and Philadelphia, as well as in New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia and six other Eastern states. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, which provides these numbers, also reports that 2010 was the fourth-warmest summer ever in the contiguous United States.

There were enough hot and dry days this summer to leave our lawns brown, our dogs panting, and our electric bills spiked with air-conditioning voltage. So tonight of all nights, just as summer waves goodbye, this season of sizzle has the nerve to drop a bunch of raindrops on us? Please, spare the hypocrisy.

Don’t pretend to be something you aren’t. Don’t bring out a seasonal disguise as you head for the exits. If you were all about breaking the record for 90-degree days in a summer, then a little thunder and lightning show on September 22nd isn’t going to change our impression of what you were.

We know how things work. Take Chris Young here, the talented centerfielder for Arizona’s Diamondbacks. All season long, Young has been the best player on his team, by far. In this, his breakout year, Young has hit 25 home runs and stolen 27 bases. He’s driven in 85 runs and scored 87 runs. The Diamondbacks have struggled all season long, but it’s been no fault of Young’s.

And yet, few players are having as bad a September as Young is right now. He’s batting just .179 on the month so far, with only 10 hits and one stolen base. For a man who was hitting over .270 for much of the season, these past few weeks have seen his batting average dip below .260.

So if you look only at the end of summer, you might not be impressed with Chris Young. You can see that he’s cooled off considerably, and has brought an autumn chill into his lineup earlier than he needed to bring it. Perhaps Young started chugging apple cider before his September games, and his body clicked into offseason mode as it smelled McIntosh trees and pumpkin patches.

Or maybe he just got tired of the longest, most grueling regular season in American team sports. Whatever the reason for his recent slump, Chris Young did not have a bad season. His poor September numbers are a lot like that storm we felt here in New York tonight. You don’t always get a fitting ending to a season, but the numbers don’t lie. Just ask your weatherman.

Peace Be With Us (One Sixty-Two: Day 142)

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-Two: Josh Thole, New York Mets

We awoke on this beautiful morning with an invitation to remember. As we honor the fallen of September 11th, we remember the importance of peace, acceptance, understanding, cooperation, and sacrifice. We remember the hope that comes with determination and rebirth, and we celebrate the beauty that can arise after tragedy.

Many museums have taken to offering free admission on September 11th, which seems to capture much of the spirit of this day. These institutions open their doors to the public and allow us all to study and appreciate works of art or science from around the world. It is a sharing of creations, inventions, stories and imaginations – in a sense, it is the ultimate celebration of freedom. Baseball stadiums would do well to offer discounts on this day as well, as a means of bringing people together in the name of fellowship, fly balls and frankfurters.

Josh Thole was only 14 years old on September 11th, 2001, and he was living half a continent away. Now a catcher for the New York Mets, Thole has surely seen the video clips of his Mets predecessors wearing the caps of the different city agencies that had lost workers on 9/11. If he walks around the city today, Thole will feel some of the vibe of unity that followed this tragic day. And perhaps he and the rest of the Mets will carry that vibe with them throughout the day. It’s a good day to remember, and a very good day for seeking peace.

Don't Mention It (One Sixty-Two: Day 110)

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 Ten: Jon Lester, Boston Red Sox (via John Sterling)

When you’re on an interstate traveling a couple hundred miles, and making your way through New York City along the way, you cross your fingers when it comes to traffic. When you’re halfway there and you haven’t hit even a single brake light, you wonder how long the luck will last.

So the last thing you want to do is call attention to your good fortune. Yet, when your oldest daughter asks how long it will take until we get there, you want to give her a straight answer. So you say, as part of your answer, “Well, so far we haven’t hit any traffic, so …. ”

And your wife gives you the look. Now you’ve done it. The jinx is on. The “Road Work Ahead” signs are clearly on their way.

No one mentions that they’ve avoided traffic so far, she says. You talk about that once you get there. Meanwhile, on the car radio, WCBS announcer John Sterling is calling the play-by-play for the Yankees-Red Sox game. Boston starter Jon Lester hasn’t given up a hit yet, and it’s the fifth inning. While Red Sox players are surely following the time-honored tradition of saying nothing about the no-no to their pitcher, Sterling is running a jinx-athon on the radio. With every other sentence, he calls attention to the no-hitter.

And so it makes perfect sense that Yankees outfielder Austin Kearns knocks a single to center in that fifth inning, ending Lester’s no-hit bid. John Sterling all but guaranteed it. At around the same time, our car finds some interstate traffic that slows down our trip for a while. Just as I prophesied with my no-traffic comment.

Jon Lester lost his bid for the second no-hitter of his career yesterday, but he did pitch a fabulous game and picked up a much-needed win for his team. We hit our patch of traffic, but we still arrived at our destination in plenty of time for dinner. So all was fine in the end on both accounts.

It’s just that when you want perfection, and you think you might get it, there’s no need to bring it up. Just keep driving, or pitching, and let the rest take care of itself.