MORE TALES OF SANDLOT BASEBALL ON FLETCHER'S FIELD.
Here is another story which has taken on a mythic quality with the passage of time.
Some time around July 1959, Willie Richter a ferocious slugger if there ever was one was served a fast ball down the center of the plate. He took a hefty swing, connected right on and the ball sailed up into left field--- and never came down. It sailed right out of sight.
The next evening about the same time, Willie came up to the bat, and waited for a pitch. Suddenly a ball came hurtling down from nowhere. The left fielder lifted his glove and caught the ball.
The Unpire flung up his hand, yelled to Willie, yer out- FOR YESTERDAY.
There are a couple of witnesses to the event that swear up and down that it actually happened. Believe it or not.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
THE LONGEST HOME RUN - HYMAN PESKIN
A return to Fletcher’s field during the 1957 to 1962 era, involves a story told to me by Willie Richter, presumably related to him by the crackerjack pitcher, Marty Kaufman, and is about he late Myer Anapolsky. The factual truthfulness of this anecdote cannot be confirmed, but why allow the absence of evidentiary data get in the way of a darn good story.
Myer was a tall (over 6 feet) hulking outfieder who always swung for the fences, even though there were no fences at Fletcher’s field. His batting average was low and he often either struck out or flew out to deep center. On a rare occasion he connected with his roundhouse swing . And this occured one evening in mid june approximately 1959-60, (the exact year is uncertain). The ball catapulted out to deep left field on to the street. That was located on the west perimeter of the park and appropriatetly named Park Avenue, a very busy Montreal artery running north-south. The ball might have been propelled some 380 feet and landed on the back of a truck transporting live chickens. Again I must warn you this is pure hearsay. There were no credible witnesses confirming these facts. The truck headed to the town of Chicoutimi, a 450 km. 5 hour drive from Montreal.
Now a brief digression, the record for the longest home-run is held by Mickey Mantle, The Yankee ace who hit a homer 656 feet at Briggs Stadium, Detroit, Michigan – on September 12, 1960.
But that is just what is recorded on the books. For me the real record is held by Myer Anapolsky, slugging a homer 450 km- and 380 feet.
This record is in the memory tracks of all those aspiring ballplayer of Fletchers field, and will live on so long as there are old codgers like myself who are prepared to perpetuate the myths of that wonderful era. An era long gone and never to return.
After his baseball days ended, Myer Anapolsky settled into the mundane world of a working man, involving himself in such tasks as driving a truck and working in a garment factory. His personal life was troubled- with marital problems. I met him several years ago at a Montreal synogogue. The occasion was not happy. He was attending a memorial service for his son who had just died of a drug overdose. At the age of around 80 he looked shrunken and very tired with no indication of his previous imposing athletic bearing. I reached out to shake his hand. He held back,excusing himself, saying that his hand was still sore from multiple surgeries required to repair old baseball injuries. His eyes visibly brightened when I reminded him of the halcyon days of baseball on Fletcher’s field. He died shortly thereafter. Yes, there is life after baseball, but for Myer Anapolsky it was not much of a life.
Myer was a tall (over 6 feet) hulking outfieder who always swung for the fences, even though there were no fences at Fletcher’s field. His batting average was low and he often either struck out or flew out to deep center. On a rare occasion he connected with his roundhouse swing . And this occured one evening in mid june approximately 1959-60, (the exact year is uncertain). The ball catapulted out to deep left field on to the street. That was located on the west perimeter of the park and appropriatetly named Park Avenue, a very busy Montreal artery running north-south. The ball might have been propelled some 380 feet and landed on the back of a truck transporting live chickens. Again I must warn you this is pure hearsay. There were no credible witnesses confirming these facts. The truck headed to the town of Chicoutimi, a 450 km. 5 hour drive from Montreal.
Now a brief digression, the record for the longest home-run is held by Mickey Mantle, The Yankee ace who hit a homer 656 feet at Briggs Stadium, Detroit, Michigan – on September 12, 1960.
But that is just what is recorded on the books. For me the real record is held by Myer Anapolsky, slugging a homer 450 km- and 380 feet.
This record is in the memory tracks of all those aspiring ballplayer of Fletchers field, and will live on so long as there are old codgers like myself who are prepared to perpetuate the myths of that wonderful era. An era long gone and never to return.
After his baseball days ended, Myer Anapolsky settled into the mundane world of a working man, involving himself in such tasks as driving a truck and working in a garment factory. His personal life was troubled- with marital problems. I met him several years ago at a Montreal synogogue. The occasion was not happy. He was attending a memorial service for his son who had just died of a drug overdose. At the age of around 80 he looked shrunken and very tired with no indication of his previous imposing athletic bearing. I reached out to shake his hand. He held back,excusing himself, saying that his hand was still sore from multiple surgeries required to repair old baseball injuries. His eyes visibly brightened when I reminded him of the halcyon days of baseball on Fletcher’s field. He died shortly thereafter. Yes, there is life after baseball, but for Myer Anapolsky it was not much of a life.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
A Dog
Dogs should not be locked up behind bars.
They are meant to be free and happy.
This morning I walked over to the Metro store on Queen Mary near Decarie - Noticed on the bulletin board a lost dog notice.
Lost- black and white cocker spaniel. left ear missing, hind leg broken tail partly gone, answers to the name - lucky.
They are meant to be free and happy.
This morning I walked over to the Metro store on Queen Mary near Decarie - Noticed on the bulletin board a lost dog notice.
Lost- black and white cocker spaniel. left ear missing, hind leg broken tail partly gone, answers to the name - lucky.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
OH, GIVE ME SOMETHING TO REMEMBER YOU BY
This song was used very effectively in the documentary film- THE HIDDEN FACE OF SUICIDE. Yahudit Silverman
Oh, give me something to remember you by
When you are far away from me, dear
Some little something, meaning love can not die,
No matter where you chance to be.
Though I'll pray for you, night and day for you;
It will see me through like a charm,
Till you're returning.
So give me something to remember you by
When you are far away from me.
Though I'll pray for you, night and day for you
It will see me through like a charm
Till your returning
So give me something to remember you by
When you are far away from me.
___________________________________________________________________________
There is something so damaging, so profoundly hurtful, when we silence those who are suffering, when we turn away from their pain."
The Hidden Face of Suicide is a meditative, heartfelt, film that explores the question of suicide with fresh eyes, originality, and intelligence. Department of Creative Arts Therapies professor and filmmaker Yehudit Silverman enters the world of survivors, those who have lost loved ones to suicide and reveals their remarkable stories.
Date:
April 11, 2010 at 3 p.m.
Location:
J.A. De Sève Cinema, Concordia University, 1400 de Maisonneuve Blvd W.
Cost:
Free admission. Everyone welcome.
Oh, give me something to remember you by
When you are far away from me, dear
Some little something, meaning love can not die,
No matter where you chance to be.
Though I'll pray for you, night and day for you;
It will see me through like a charm,
Till you're returning.
So give me something to remember you by
When you are far away from me.
Though I'll pray for you, night and day for you
It will see me through like a charm
Till your returning
So give me something to remember you by
When you are far away from me.
___________________________________________________________________________
There is something so damaging, so profoundly hurtful, when we silence those who are suffering, when we turn away from their pain."
The Hidden Face of Suicide is a meditative, heartfelt, film that explores the question of suicide with fresh eyes, originality, and intelligence. Department of Creative Arts Therapies professor and filmmaker Yehudit Silverman enters the world of survivors, those who have lost loved ones to suicide and reveals their remarkable stories.
Date:
April 11, 2010 at 3 p.m.
Location:
J.A. De Sève Cinema, Concordia University, 1400 de Maisonneuve Blvd W.
Cost:
Free admission. Everyone welcome.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Colours- Lynn Gordon
I slogged at a slag-coloured job
concealed it in a rose petal hues
as I focused on perks and benefits
to banish the eight to four blues.
From ho-hum I made la-di-da
as boredom at bay I did hold,
Magician, sly alchemist, I worked hard
at transforming dust into gold.
Til settling for gray would not do;
I unleashed the longing within,
shed the past, turned the page to shades of white
faced forward and sloughed off a skin.
concealed it in a rose petal hues
as I focused on perks and benefits
to banish the eight to four blues.
From ho-hum I made la-di-da
as boredom at bay I did hold,
Magician, sly alchemist, I worked hard
at transforming dust into gold.
Til settling for gray would not do;
I unleashed the longing within,
shed the past, turned the page to shades of white
faced forward and sloughed off a skin.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Imagine-John Lennon
Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace…
…..Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world…
You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will live as one”
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace…
…..Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world…
You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will live as one”
Introduction to Poetry- Billy Collins
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
THE GLASS EYE
A man who lived in a block of apartments thought it was raining and put his head out the window to check. As he did so a glass eye fell into his hand.
He looked up to see where it came from in time to see a young woman looking down. "Is this yours?" he asked. She said, "Yes, could you bring it up?" and the man agreed. On arrival she was profuse in her thanks and offered the man a drink. As she was very attractive he agreed. Shortly afterwards she said, "I'm about to have dinner. There's plenty; would you like to join me?"
He readily accepted her offer and both enjoyed a lovely meal. As the evening was drawing to a close the lady said, "I've had a marvelous evening. Would you like to stay the night?"
The man hesitated then said, "Do you act like this with every man you meet?"
"No," she replied, "only those who catch my eye
He looked up to see where it came from in time to see a young woman looking down. "Is this yours?" he asked. She said, "Yes, could you bring it up?" and the man agreed. On arrival she was profuse in her thanks and offered the man a drink. As she was very attractive he agreed. Shortly afterwards she said, "I'm about to have dinner. There's plenty; would you like to join me?"
He readily accepted her offer and both enjoyed a lovely meal. As the evening was drawing to a close the lady said, "I've had a marvelous evening. Would you like to stay the night?"
The man hesitated then said, "Do you act like this with every man you meet?"
"No," she replied, "only those who catch my eye
Sunday, February 28, 2010
THE BEREAVEMENT OFFICER
This story is one hundred percent true. It actually happened, in Israel during the
first month of the Lebanon war, in '82, One morning, a bereavement officer pulls
up in a white van outside the apartment building at 62 Hillel Street in Givatayim,
a small community just east of Tel Aviv. He walks up to apartment 3. Rings the
bell. A woman answers the door. The officer says, Are you you the mother of
Corporal Tal Lavis? She says yes. He tells her he's very sorry, but her son Tal was
killed the night before in Lebanon.
The woman screams. She starts beating her chest and wailing. The neighbours
come over. The news spreads and within fifteen minutes, half the neigbourhood's
in her living room. Everyone's crying. The family's crushed. They hang posters all
over town announcing the death and the funeral and the address for the shiva.
Total mayhem.
So a few hours later, the bereavement officer shows up again. It turns out the
army made a mistake. There is another Tal Lavis who lives at 26 Hillel Street, two
blocks away. He's the one who died. Not this woman's son, who is very much
alive.
For the mother it was the happiest moment of her life! It's like her son came back
from the dead. Meanwhile, the bereavement officer drives down the street to tell
the other family that their son was killed in Lebanon. So they start screaming and
wailing, and their neighbours go over, and the whole neighbourhood moves from
the first apartment to the one down the street. They hang up new signs,
announcing a new time and location for the new funeral and a new address for
the shiva.
Its unbeleavable, but it's not the and of the story, So that night, the first family
walks down the street to pay their condolences to the second family. About an
hour later, they walk back to the apartment . And who is waiting for them at
their front door?
No, not their their son Tal Lavis. The bereavement officer. Turns out it was not a
mix-up after all. Both Tal Lavis were killed on the same day, one at 62 Hillel
Street, the other at 26 Hillel Street.
Excerpt- The 188th Cry Baby Brigade -Joel Chasnoff
For those who hope and think that war will solve all the world's ills and particularly in the middle east.
first month of the Lebanon war, in '82, One morning, a bereavement officer pulls
up in a white van outside the apartment building at 62 Hillel Street in Givatayim,
a small community just east of Tel Aviv. He walks up to apartment 3. Rings the
bell. A woman answers the door. The officer says, Are you you the mother of
Corporal Tal Lavis? She says yes. He tells her he's very sorry, but her son Tal was
killed the night before in Lebanon.
The woman screams. She starts beating her chest and wailing. The neighbours
come over. The news spreads and within fifteen minutes, half the neigbourhood's
in her living room. Everyone's crying. The family's crushed. They hang posters all
over town announcing the death and the funeral and the address for the shiva.
Total mayhem.
So a few hours later, the bereavement officer shows up again. It turns out the
army made a mistake. There is another Tal Lavis who lives at 26 Hillel Street, two
blocks away. He's the one who died. Not this woman's son, who is very much
alive.
For the mother it was the happiest moment of her life! It's like her son came back
from the dead. Meanwhile, the bereavement officer drives down the street to tell
the other family that their son was killed in Lebanon. So they start screaming and
wailing, and their neighbours go over, and the whole neighbourhood moves from
the first apartment to the one down the street. They hang up new signs,
announcing a new time and location for the new funeral and a new address for
the shiva.
Its unbeleavable, but it's not the and of the story, So that night, the first family
walks down the street to pay their condolences to the second family. About an
hour later, they walk back to the apartment . And who is waiting for them at
their front door?
No, not their their son Tal Lavis. The bereavement officer. Turns out it was not a
mix-up after all. Both Tal Lavis were killed on the same day, one at 62 Hillel
Street, the other at 26 Hillel Street.
Excerpt- The 188th Cry Baby Brigade -Joel Chasnoff
For those who hope and think that war will solve all the world's ills and particularly in the middle east.
Friday, February 26, 2010
ADVICE I TAKE TO HEART - MARK TWAIN
Dance like nobody’s watching
love like you’ve never been hurt
Sing like nobody’s listening
live like it’s heaven on earth”
love like you’ve never been hurt
Sing like nobody’s listening
live like it’s heaven on earth”
Sunday, February 21, 2010
ON SOLITUDE-FEB 2010
I seek solitude to write about it- that is, to tell how it shaped the life of one Julie Sheridan, bibliophile, fledgling poet and and aspiring author. Since childhood, she had revelled in the power of words to transport her to realms apart, and longed to acquire the skill to bestow such enchantment on others.
The role of solitude in crafting literature was a source of endless fascination. She imagined a rock-strewn cliff overlooking the ocean, no distraction save the sound of waves crashing against the shore and the whoosh of the rushing wind. She would be leaning against an uprooted tree trunk, notebook perched on upright knees, pen in hand scribbling furiously in this remote setting. Or she fantasized a cabin in rustic surroundings, where she would be inspired by, and perhaps describing, the rhythms of the seasons, the play of light and shadows as they varied from dusk to dawn.
Not to be forgotten was the darker side of the moon of solitude- the intimidation of the blank page before her and despair that it would remain so. The wellspring had run dry; where, oh where her muse? Then she felt that being alone was burdensome, more like solitary confinement, a far cry from the glorious flights of fancy she had envisioned in her youth. So it was that the siren song of solitude, once so seductive, gave way to a less romantic reality.
On silent strolls to contrived destinations, she created her "own private Idaho", the perfect opportunity to clarify stored outpourings of thought and ideas, to develop the seed of stories in-the-making. She often seized on wait-time - in line at the grocer's, in a doctor's office or at a bus stop - to continue to hone her craft. Especially practical was writing while in transit. Hours on a plane or train were ideal, with no commitments to meet, nor guilt about leaving them unfulfilled - just Julie, her ever-present notebook and pen.
In this way, she learned to integrate literary musings into the bustle of daily living. Not for a moment did Julie doubt that time spent alone was basic to creativity. Be it heaven or hell, solitude was, for her, the core of a writing life.
Amen, Julie. I couldn't have said it better myself.
The role of solitude in crafting literature was a source of endless fascination. She imagined a rock-strewn cliff overlooking the ocean, no distraction save the sound of waves crashing against the shore and the whoosh of the rushing wind. She would be leaning against an uprooted tree trunk, notebook perched on upright knees, pen in hand scribbling furiously in this remote setting. Or she fantasized a cabin in rustic surroundings, where she would be inspired by, and perhaps describing, the rhythms of the seasons, the play of light and shadows as they varied from dusk to dawn.
Not to be forgotten was the darker side of the moon of solitude- the intimidation of the blank page before her and despair that it would remain so. The wellspring had run dry; where, oh where her muse? Then she felt that being alone was burdensome, more like solitary confinement, a far cry from the glorious flights of fancy she had envisioned in her youth. So it was that the siren song of solitude, once so seductive, gave way to a less romantic reality.
On silent strolls to contrived destinations, she created her "own private Idaho", the perfect opportunity to clarify stored outpourings of thought and ideas, to develop the seed of stories in-the-making. She often seized on wait-time - in line at the grocer's, in a doctor's office or at a bus stop - to continue to hone her craft. Especially practical was writing while in transit. Hours on a plane or train were ideal, with no commitments to meet, nor guilt about leaving them unfulfilled - just Julie, her ever-present notebook and pen.
In this way, she learned to integrate literary musings into the bustle of daily living. Not for a moment did Julie doubt that time spent alone was basic to creativity. Be it heaven or hell, solitude was, for her, the core of a writing life.
Amen, Julie. I couldn't have said it better myself.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Not a love story-the ballad of eight to four- Lynn Gordon, 1980
I had a job or it had me
I didn't work in a factory
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
In at at eight and out at four
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
Pay and perks but not much more
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
refrain
Waging war on unemployment
Weekdays,eight to four
Wasn't there for my enjoyment
Weekdays, eight to four
Sign in red if you are late
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
They dock your pay if you hestitate
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
Pick a little, talk a little, coffee break
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
Sip a little, gawk a little, goodness sake
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
refrain
Waging war on unemployment
Weekdays,eight to four
Wasn't there for my enjoyment
Weekdays, eight to four
I didn't work in a factory
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
In at at eight and out at four
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
Pay and perks but not much more
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
refrain
Waging war on unemployment
Weekdays,eight to four
Wasn't there for my enjoyment
Weekdays, eight to four
Sign in red if you are late
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
They dock your pay if you hestitate
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
Pick a little, talk a little, coffee break
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
Sip a little, gawk a little, goodness sake
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
refrain
Waging war on unemployment
Weekdays,eight to four
Wasn't there for my enjoyment
Weekdays, eight to four
Cousin Shirley
My cousin Shirley had her funeral last sunday. Amongst her chief mourners were five caregivers who worked around the clock looking after her. I read that when Queen Elizabeth, the British Monarch, was hospitalized she had only three caregivers.
Cousin Shirley was obscenely rich .
Which reminds me of an old Jewish Proverb.
If the rich could hire the poor to die for them, the poor would make a very nice living.
Cousin Shirley was obscenely rich .
Which reminds me of an old Jewish Proverb.
If the rich could hire the poor to die for them, the poor would make a very nice living.
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