As a teen, my uncle became a Lutheran because a particular church had the best local baseball team. It’s not clear to me that he ever actually set foot in the church, but I’d be willing to bet anything that he never missed an inning. 

As a retiree, he started playing ball again, moving over the years from the 60-and-over league that still included some running to the 65-and-over league that featured brisk walking to the 70-and-over league that most famously had a teammate die on the field, diving to snare a ground ball and never getting up. The guy’s sudden widow, who witnessed the event, was at peace: she figured he died happy. Uncle confided that such could not be the case, as he had not made the play. 

Which calls to mind my favorite piece of advice from Uncle, which came, naturally, from the diamond: “Never ruin a great play by making a lousy throw.” That’s a pretty good rule, when you think about it.  After you make the catch or get the ball on the hop or dig it out of the corner, don’t get all full of yourself, spin, and let the ball go. No. Turn, look at the field, see the runners, spot your cutoff man or the guy covering the base, set yourself, and then step into the throw and let the ball go. (All done quickly but not hurriedly.)

It’s Zen, really (Midwestern Zen). Take each moment separately (great play does not mean great throw), bring to each moment awareness of the moment (identify where the next play is), and fill each moment with the seamless interplay of mind and body (built on years of muscle memory and rapid-fire spatial reasoning). 

I guess last night was his turn to pitch.*  

Uncle was a collector. He collected baseball hats from teams he liked, places he had seen, and all those teams he played on. He collected pennants from the (too few) Tiger world championships. He collected friends. He collected stories. But he also knew how to share, sharing the friends, sharing those stories, dishing them around the dinner table even as my aunt dished up the food, entertaining family and friends, teammates and golfing partners, coworkers and fellow volunteers at the soup kitchen with his stories—with laughs. He was blessed with a sharp mind and a voluminous memory, both of which, sadly, failed him toward the end, which is why his passing is a blessing: he had reached that dreaded stage. He had always moved with a kind of grace and care, but his body, too, failed him toward the end. 

But that is not how I shall remember him. 

I’ll remember him for the time, thirty-five years ago, when we gathered in Florida as my mother lay dying, when he drove some of us to the supermarket to pick up food for the horde staying at Grandma and Grandpa’s, and he walked up to the young woman working the window where Floridians brought their soda bottles to get the deposit back, and he looked at the sign above that window that read “Bottle Return,” and that impish spirit came over him, and he looked at that unsuspecting young woman and he said, as sincerely as any innocent child, “Can I have my bottles back?” 

I’ll remember him for the family favorite story about the time he and a bunch of cronies from work were sitting around in a bar, and Uncle, typically, was waving his hands as he spoke like the good Italian American guy but, uncharacteristically, was unable to get a word out, and one of his friends quipped, “Yeah, well, he’s got a speech impediment. He’s got a finger missing.”  

I’ll remember when we were kids and being fascinated by that missing index finger, which somehow did not prevent him from taking up the guitar.  

I’ll remember him doing crossword puzzles and identifying character actors, telling stories about past baseball or football games or seasons and teaching us pinochle and euchre. I’ll remember his perfectionism as he carefully measured out, cut, and nailed into place molding in the kitchen or precisely painted something or studiously built sturdy shelves—and his pride in showing off the results. I’ll remember his care in lining up a pool shot.  I’ll remember his other baseball advice, which also works for life:  “Two hands, All-Star.”

I’ll remember him bantering with my mother and my aunt and his kids, sharing memories of old TV shows or movies. I’ll remember him expressing dismay at shoppers who had no common sense or customer service representatives who had no feeling for customer service, or passing on warm acknowledgement of someone who did the right thing at the right time, who showed understanding of a situation and the people in it—who made the play and made the throw. 

I’ll remember the coffee mug that never left his hand and the lithe frame that never changed despite an impressive appetite. I’ll remember the care he always put into dressing—a tailor’s son, you know—and the black and gray palette, and the fedora or baseball cap that always perched perfectly atop his head.  

I’ll remember him and my aunt caring for Grandma all those years, turning their living room and dining room into a bedroom and sitting room for her (role models), putting up with her cat (my mother’s cat) even though they were dog people, putting up with her forgetfulness, taking with a laugh the occasional harsh word that senility uttered, setting aside the grief at witnessing her slowly decay, and simply making her comfortable and at ease. 

I’ll remember the picking us up and driving us home before and after all those Sunday family dinners back in Detroit, the parenting advice that came later (“two rules: ignore whatever anyone else tells you to do and do what’s right for you; and don’t second guess”), the embrace of our boys and then his grandkids, the coming up here for the kids’ high school graduations. I’ll remember the time, a few years ago, after neither of us had said any such thing for the longest time, that he looked at me one day and simply said, “I sure do miss your mother.”  

I’ll remember the eagerness in his face every Christmas as he said, as enthusiastically as any roomful of children, “Can we open the presents now?”  

I’ll remember the love he and my aunt lived, every single day, devoted to each other, complements to each other, bonded together by the best kind of super glue there is.  

Peace, Uncle. Enjoy the family reunion. I’m sure Grandma has a plate of pasta for you.

* Leo, our old fish guy in Quincy, Mass, told us the joke about the two guys who loved baseball and speculated on whether there was baseball in heaven. While faith led them to the position that there must be, else it couldn’t be Heaven, there was a kernel of human doubt that remained, which prompted the solemn pact that whichever of the two died first would come back and let the other know the answer. Izzy died, and that night he visited Mo, telling him he had good news and bad. “The good news is, there is baseball in Heaven! And such baseball.” “But what’s the bad news, Izzy?” “Tomorrow,” Izzy said, “you’re pitching.” 

Words and picture © 2011 AtHome Pilgrim.

All Rights Reserved.