September 12, 2007

The Biggest Event: Part I


My dad never spoke about the war. Like most soldiers who saw combat he was tight lipped about his experiences under fire. We knew he was wounded as he had only a few teeth in his mouth and had limited mobility in his right arm. But he kept his pain and discomfort quiet for so long, his injuries almost became rumors.
It was especially uncomfortable for my father during the holidays. My uncles would arrive at our home and inevitably bring up their own experiences in World War II which consisted of peace time occupation duties in Europe. The way they acted though, talking as they did about those “damn Nazis”, you’d think they won the war themselves. As dad was quick to point out when he was especially frustrated with them “They never saw a shot fired in anger in their lives.”
When I said dad never spoke about the war, I meant he didn’t talk about combat. He often read entire books about the WWII and watched countless documentaries. My mother once said that maybe he was looking for old friends in those grainy, black and white reels. Perhaps instead he was trying to make sense of it all. One particular Sunday night in my youth stands out in my mind like a vignette because it was the closest he ever came to revealing what happened to him when he was wounded. I know it was a Sunday because we just finished watching “The Wonderful World of Disney” and the telltale fireworks over Sleeping Beauty’s Castle in Disneyland in California were cut short when dad ordered me to change the channel and put on “The World at War” on Channel Thirteen.
Mom hated when he watched this with us kids around. Dead bodies were shown everywhere. Horrifying scenes of death camps, bombings, and soldiers running into battle flickered in front of our young eyes with the full knowledge that our dad had seen much of that. I often marveled at what a giant my father was, and how brave he must have been to scamper across the battlefield with his rifle in his hand and dodge explosions and machine gun fire. Most impressive was that he made it out—with a bullet fragment still lodged in the base of his skull—and was still able to work two jobs and throw a ball to us in the backyard.
That particular Sunday night, my brothers and sisters and I stared at the TV screen, disappointed that we weren’t allowed to watch “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom” which followed Disney, and instead had to watch another war documentary. And then, something amazing happened. My father was silent, staring intently at the screen. I remember this episode showing Adolf Hitler speaking in Rome from a balcony in pre-war Italy. There was a throng of people saluting obediently below as he spewed his vile hate speech.
“Do you see that building there?” said dad as he jabbed his finger at the screen. We all flinched as we were startled by his action. “Right there", he continued “that was a university before the war.” None of us said anything, including Mom as she looked up from her crocheting.
“And there was a market, and that building was an elementary school.” Dad watched the screen, his mouth agape, as if he spotted something magnificent.
“How do you know all of this, dad?” my older brother asked.
“Because they made the grammar a school a hospital during the war.” He said as he looked around the room at all of us. “That’s where they took me after I was wounded”.
After he was wounded he said; so much information, from one tiny memory shown on a little RCA television.
I don’t remember if any of us said anything after that. In my young mind my father, the soldier, had come to life. Before that, I fantasized about him being just like John Wayne or Lee Marvin in all of those war movies running around with a sub-machine gun, cigar clenched between his teeth, and tossing grenades at the “Krauts" as that pejorative was used in those films. In a single utterance, dad become a vulnerable human; someone who experienced pain.

September 11, 2007

A Child's Eye on September 11th

It's difficult to imagine that it was already six years ago when the world changed on September 11th, 2001. Like today, September 11, 2001 was a Tuesday. A clear, sunny day it was with the kids back to school and summer a mere memory as the sunlight faded a bit earlier every evening. My son was just shy of two years old and my daughter was six back then. With the oldest one in school, I had the day with my boy as he was in preschool three days a week. I was off from work, and had to drag my young son with me to the car dealer to get the Chevy serviced when the news hit the wires about a plane hitting the World Trade Center.

There's no need to recount the events of that day. Everything is neatly cataloged in the minds of those affected directly or even indirectly by this cowardly act of violence. But, I'll never forget sitting in a restaurant with my wife and children Friday, September 14th. My son was watching a flat screen TV which was on a wall opposite from where we were sitting. Images from Ground Zero were constant and regular programming for most stations was canceled with coverage of the rescue and recovery efforts, as well as the socio-political commentary on the subject twenty four hours a day. We were seated in a booth, and suddenly my boy stood and began to rant.

"There's danger, danger..." he said. ”Everywhere...hurt." This went on as he pointed to the television screen, acutely aware that something was tremendously wrong in the world, and he was expressing in his own limited way the fear he felt watching the events unfolding around him.

My wife and I tried to calm him down, and others in the restaurant politely turned away as they understood that this wasn’t a typical temper tantrum thrown by a kid. There was urgency in his voice, and it was obvious what he was trying to tell us. No one rolled their eyes at the parents who couldn’t control their son or remarked at the misbehaving brat at the next table. He too was affected by the images shown over and over again on television of the towers crumbling before our eyes with very brave souls trapped within, dying as we all gasped in collective horror.

On Long Island where I live, the roads were closed on 9/11 and only emergency traffic and those cleared by the police were allowed on major highways into New York City. All the air traffic across the entire country was suspended, and the local airport near our home was silent. Noisy military helicopters and jet fighters patrolled Long Island's airspace and people were flying flags, holding candlelight vigils in public places, and given to erecting signs and hasty memorials to the victims. All of this fell on my toddler's eyes and ears and was difficult to digest. He heard all of this and reacted the only way he knew how: by warning his family that there was danger.

This morning, I woke up to put my daughter on the school bus and let my son sleep a bit longer. After she left for her busy day, one in which she was chosen by the school librarian to read a special poem over the P.A. system to commemorate September 11th, I got ready for work as my little boy wandered into my room still drowsy from sleep. He looked at the television, the news anchors were seated at Ground Zero and talking in somber tones about the various memorial services going on around the city. I watched him as he stood there, perhaps remembering his own reaction as a two year old six years earlier, and maybe he experienced a small amount of fear.

"Do you know what today is?" I asked him. He nodded with his eyes still fixed on the TV screen. "It's the day the World Trade Center fell down." He said. Then he paused and looked at me. "Dad, why don't they build those buildings again?"
"Who would want to work in them?" I said, perhaps a bit too sharply.

He shrugged and sat down on the bed. It was then that I needed to sit with him, hold him tight and make sure that he knew he was safe, even though there is still danger out there. There's a war raging in Iraq, Afghanistan, and images of 9/11 rolling around in our heads, even in the minds of eight year olds. Maybe I told him too much, or maybe not enough. But, young or old, understanding danger, remembering 9/11, and preparing for life in a violent world is something we have to do no matter what. Like the two year old who stood in a restaurant, pointed at the TV, and told his sister and his daddy and mommy about the danger that is everywhere, I had to make sure he knew, and remembered, that this day affects all of us. The victims live in the hearts and minds of their families, and the images and ripple effects of war and more and more American deaths in foreign lands remain. The world has changed forever because of 9/11, and a two year old can see that.

September 10, 2007

Mr. Grudge Returns

Hello Readers:
After a long hiatus to work on other writing projects, Mr. Grudge has returned and will be changing his format from all baseball/Yankees to more of a standard writer's blog. This was the intent all along with this blog, however, one baseball post turned into another, and then...well..I couldn't help myself.

There will still be an occasional baseball post, but it will not be the focus of this space as Mr. Grudge will post mainly topics about writing, and will most likely post some brief works, and ask for submissions from readers. Thanks for reading Mr. Grudge, and I look forward to a long reading and writing relationship with all of you.

~Mr. Grudge~

June 28, 2007

Don't Say That

It's been a while since I've posted; but it's the summer and there's plenty to do, including watching baseball. Writing about baseball takes time and is not a very enticing activity when the sun is shining outside and the beach is beckoning. The only time Mr. Grudge gets to enter anything into this space is at work...oops, I mean at night.

Speaking of Mr. Grudge's tentative employment at this current company, one of my favorite baseball associates came in to the office where I work discuss the events of the weekend when the Yankees put up football sized scores against the minor-major league Tampa Bay Devil Rays. This writer joked that the explosive offense displayed by the Yanks over the weekend was all of the production for the rest of July and for all of August spent in one spot over a few days, and that no one needs to worry about them getting a hit for the rest of the season. A young man was waiting for assistance nearby, and he scoffed at my mildy amusing little quip.

After that, my baseball buddy and I discussed the relative futility of the Yankees offensive efforts as they have to win better than 85% of their games for a run at a wild card berth (maybe not that much, but close, un-scientifically speaking). One may or may not agree with that statement, but realistically, unless Cleveland sputters and falls completely, the Yankees have to turn it up two notches, not just one, and keep the heat on for the rest of this very short season to have a chance at the wildcard.

The man waiting in our office, whom both me and my buddy were ignoring at that point, reacted to our conversation by saying "Don't say that, don't say that. They're going all the way." Talk about denial. I told him to pull the bill of his Yankees cap back up so he can see better and look at the standings. This team plays sporadically between fairly good and just plain awful. Their upcoming schedule may look soft for a couple of weeks, but that is no guarantee of success. This team hasn't put together enough wins in a row all season to stay above .500 consistently, let alone making a run at the playoffs. The best they can hope for is to become spoilers.

Call me crazy, cynical, uninformed, or whatever else you feel like. But that's writer's opinion, and I'm sticking to it.

June 27, 2007

Get Rid Of Them All: A Frustrated Fan Rants

Scott Proctor is either very good, or very bad. He's one of those pitchers who Joe Torre can rely upon. That means he gets to trot to the mound every day and throw the ball until his arm breaks off. That does not mean that he gets off the hook for walking in the game winning run against the Baltimore Orioles Tuesday night.

Without recounting the gory details, it was one of those scenarios where this writer, while watching the game with the sound on mute to help keep my blood pressure lower (it's difficult to listen to someone give a play by play of crappy baseball), knew that the Yankees would lose. It was especially infuriating to lose with Proctor walking in the winning run.

When the Yankees return to Yankee Stadium Friday to face the Oakland A's, stadium personnel should dispense with the organ music, and all of the other song clips and sound effects and merely play circus music for the entire game. That would not only make me feel good, it would be appropriate for the way the season is going.

Before the trade deadline, the Yankees not only should trade Proctor, they should donate him to a team in need of a mascot. They could give him a name like "Whizzo The Clown" to describe the hard throwing circus geek who can throw 96 MPH, but couldn't strike out Stephen Hawking at the plate with a bat on his lap. Kids could take turns spinning him in circles and watch him try to throw a ball at a barn-sized wall and miss to simulate the way he pitches during actual games.

I don't want to pick just on Scott Proctor. There's plenty of blame to go around this three ring circus of over-paid, complacent millionaires with visions of millions more of your dollars dancing in their heads. Next time you lay out a week's pay to take your family to Yankee Stadium for a game while sitting up in the nosebleed seats, take a gander at the 200+ million dollar team and see if you don't resent the fact that these clowns are the reason you're paying $12 for a hot dog.

This writer wouldn't mind seeing the whole team shipped off to other teams (where they'd flourish) and replace them all with minor leaguers. I'm thinking that some small market team might need guy who could go three for four with a walk in games where the team is winning 15-1, and go "0" for four in games where they're losing by one run. Can anyone say "Bobby Abreu?" The bullpen doesn't just need a rest, they need to be put to sleep, and brittle Johnny Damon should grow his long hair and beard back and stand in the dugout waving pom-poms because he's not good for much else. The guy has drive and plays hard. However, he's been injured ever since he became a Yankee and this writer doesn't care what else his problem is. Ever wonder why the Red Sox let him go? The reason is staring you right in the face: he's falling apart.

I could go on, but what's the point? There is no October, the team is toast, and it will take divine intervention for them to land a wild card berth let alone (ha ha ha) win the division. You can bet that Joe Torre will lose his Subway commercials with Willie Randolph along with his job as Skipper of the Yankees come October 1st when the Bronx Bombers scatter like school children sent home on the last day of school for the off season. Though, I can see him eventually doing commercials for life insurance for "seniors over the age of sixty five." By the way, notice how I didn't say "post season?" There is none, Yankee fans.

June 26, 2007

Looking Towards October

The division is out of reach for the Yankees this year it seems. However, the Wild Card may be the most attainable goal for the Bronx Bombers. With the way they're playing, nothing seems possible, though. One of my baseball colleagues at my job observed that the Yankees pulled Joe Girardi from Tuesday night's broadcast in Baltimore. Most likely, it was because the Yankees didn't want Girardi to have to discuss why he turned down the managerial job with the Orioles. Also, the Yes Network didn't want the Girardi story to become a distraction to the game. As my friend quipped, "The way they're playing, they can use all the distractions that come their way."

He's right. The only thing as a Yankees fan this writer has to look forward to is the All Star Game. After that, it's the long slide until the end of the season and my interest then focuses on football and whichever of the "New Jersey" teams are doing well. You just know that there are hunting and fishing magazines laying around the Yankee's clubhouse.

I'm a dedicated and fervent baseball fan, and a fair weather football fan. It's sad, that at this point in the season, I'm already looking for my Jets and Giants tee shirts in the closet. I can't wait to see the commercials during the Super Bowl.

June 22, 2007

New Image Of Mr. Grudge



Special thanks to Stephen Ingram for the painting of Mr. Grudge. This image has developed over time, and he's captured Mr. Grudge in a good mood. You can view Stephen's Blog, and his terrific drawings and paintings here: http://www.stepheningram.blogspot.com/. Please visit his blog and enjoy!

Mr. Grudge Goes Fishing

Have a great weekend all. Even though this is baseball season, I do my best baseball writing in the off-season. Just kidding. It's V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N time. Go Yankees, I think. Oh, hell. I should care about the lives of millionaires?

June 13, 2007

Underdogs Instead Of Underachievers

While listening to ESPN's Mike & Mike this morning, Mike Greenberg gave a brief re-cap of the Yankees victory over the Arizona Diamondbacks Tuesday night. Immediately, Mike Golic sarcastically asked "Did they pick up a game against Boston?" The answer of course, is no. He further went on to state that it would take a "colossal" failure on the part of Boston for the Yankees to overtake them and that the wild card was a more reasonable objective for this Yankees team. His tone didn’t suggest confidence for either of those scenarios happening.

Everything Mike Golic stated could very well be true, and the Bombers could wind up bombing even worse than they did for the first two months of this season, injuries or not. However, according to this writer's eye, this team has apparently hit its stride and looks as if they are ready to pounce. Pounce on what, I'm not sure. But, if the wildcard is what they need to shoot for in order to make it to the post season, then so be it. Nobody sneered at the Boston Red Sox when they won the World Series as a wild card team. For some reason, now that the Yankees find themselves in that position where they can only reasonably shoot for the lower tier berth for a chance at the post season, everyone is quick to mock them.

After all is said and done, no one can predict what is going to happen this season. The Yankees, if they continue to persevere, can win the division. With one hundred or so games left, and with solid pitching from their rotation, and maybe a key trade come the July 31st deadline, this team is perfectly capable of of over-taking Boston. There is no rule which states that teams can't continue to surge after they begin to surge. In other words, there’s no reason to suspect that they won’t stop playing this well after they’ve only recently started to play better baseball.

This combined pack of pinstriped mercenaries and homegrown winners constitute a ball club with not only big money contracts, but top shelf talent. They've already been beaten down by injuries, plagued with poor play and listlessness. But, Joe Torre, the man with his hand on the magic buttons which he pushed to orchestrate his teams from 1996 to 2000 to World Championships, has pushed these buttons again, more frantically than before, and many more times, and he seems to have programmed this group to play cohesively and to pitch like a true, professional, Major League starting rotation. It doesn’t hurt that they also have a lineup which can pound an opposing team’s pitcher for six or seven runs per game. The acquisition of Roger Clemens also has brought some momentum to this heretofore inert team. However short lived this momentum that The Rocket brought with him to the Bronx lasts, they now have a fighting chance with him here.

It has been said that there is a sign in the Yankees clubhouse at Legends Field in Tampa which states "Unless you're the lead dog, the view never changes." Well, the Yankees are no longer the lead dog in this race. This writer prefers to think of them now as underdogs. There's a lot to be said for underdogs; and, fans tend to root for the underdog. The question is, will the spoiled Yankees fan root for them?