Dear as a Two Dollar Bill

I was 12 years old in the summer of 1959. A time, in my small town of West Bridgewater, Massachusetts, for no school and plenty of baseball. My father coached a St. Ann’s team, the Orioles and I was proud to be on his team. A team which included an equally young Jim Cheyunski, later our hero playing in the NFL for Patriots, Bills and Baltimore Colts (remember them?). We played on a field behind what is now the St. Ann’s Parish Center building and it sloped a bit from low to high back toward the church, a true “pitch” for footballers reading this. The field served us and the league for a few years. This day July 9, 1959, we little leaguers would be packed into a school bus and be taken to Fenway Park to watch the Red Sox play. (look out! right field grandstands here we come.)

The thrill of seeing Ted Williams was enough, with Jackie Jenson in right field and Marty Keough in center and the rest of the starters that day. Don Buddin at short, Bobby Avilla second, Ted in left, Vic Wertz at first batted cleanup followed by Jensen and Williams, at third Frank Malzone, then catcher Sammy White and last up (as it should be) the pitcher, that day was Frank Sullivan.

This day belonged to the Red Sox 14–3, and Sullivan pitched a complete game. Bob Turley took the loss for the Yankees even helped with homers by Elston Howard and Hector Lopez.

The “Splendid Splinter” had a homer and went 2 for 4, while Bobby Avilla went 3 for 4 and Sammy White 3 for 5. The Red Sox 14 runs, 14 hits, and 1 error, The Yankees had 3 runs, 5 hits and 2 errors. The game took 2 hours and fifty minutes, within 2024 specs.

Every time, as I recall these junkanoos to Boston, we played the hated Yankees. Mickey Mantle and Yogi Berra, Elston Howard, Hank Bauer with pitchers like Whitey Ford, Jim Coates, Ryne Duren, Don Larsen, Bobby Shantz, Tom Sturdivant, Ralph Terry and Bob Turley. Who knew what future Hall of Famer’s we were privileged to see?

In 1959, we didn’t know we were poor. Papa worked for New England Tel. & Tel. while Mama stayed home wrangling me and my year younger brother Chris and our 2-year-old baby sister Patricia. A family of 5 where 3 of us didn’t quite grasp the value of things, another way of saying we didn’t care where money came from. We were well fed, clothed, and living high on the hog from a preteen mind set. This day just happened to be a day before pay day and Mama, worried about funds somehow found 2 one- dollar bills and gave us a Papa-like lecture on how not rich we were and that we should thank God for this blessing.

Whenever Mama brought God into the conversation, it was a sign for Chris and I to pay attention. We had been present once when she went to the Town Hall for something and somehow lost the car keys. In a panic, we searched everywhere, back inside the Town Hall, outside on the dirt rack that served as the parking lot for town events, Town business, and St. Anne’s parking with nothing to show for it. Mama had about taken our green Oldsmobile 88 nearly down to the lug nuts with no keys anywhere. With no hope left, she took our hands told us to close our eyes and prayerfully asked God to have St. Jude help us. We got in the car, and she reached down to the middle of the front seat and came back up, holding the keys. She said thank you Jesus and off we went.

Depositing us at the same parking lot Mama begged us to be careful and to have fun at the game. We were off, 40 or so young prepubescent boys headed to the ball game, high pitched voices, baseball hats flying every which way, singing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall”, making the driver crazy, probably wondering why he said yes to driving that day.

Entering Fenway Park with awe, to the Brick fronted building, the concession stands, men selling programs, and signs everywhere pointing you to your assigned place, for us always the right field grandstands. Oceans of kids for an afternoon matinee. Craning our necks to left to even see the batter in the box, often it was sound of the bat hitting the ball or an ooh or ahh from those closer that dictated what was happening.

Chris and I used our dollars the best way we could, with a drink (.20 cents) and hot dogs (.25 cents) using nearly half, then popcorn or ice cream (.15 cents) another drink or dog and the well was dry in the first few innings. After that, it was pure delight watching Boston’s boys of summer smush those Yankees, wicked good, right?

Sunglasses were essential and I had brought a new pair that made things very green, The Sox were winning and as with all boys, at some point I had to pee. Off to a Men’s Room I went. Down under the grandstand with folks walking in every direction noticing everything and everyone but first class dawdling if I do say so myself. My business finished and taking my time hearing the up and down roar of the crowd, I slipped my glasses on and dawdle walked back toward the right field signs and I scuffed something, I looked down and saw a green piece of paper, kneeling on one leg I picked it up and standing, discovered with a beat skip of my heart a crumpled damp piece of paper which as I uncrumpled it turned into a two-dollar bill. I ripped off my glasses and beheld it live and in person. My excitement was such, that I almost headed back to the Men’s Room. I said to myself, eyes ahead and straight back to the grandstand, I couldn’t help smile and half cry wanting to share this blessing with my brother Chris. He was amazed too, and I put it deep into my pocket. The game and fellowship with friends were great, but this would be a day I’d never forget.

We got home, beaming and laughing as we presented Mama with a not so crisp, slightly damp, dirty blessing, a two-dollar bill from heaven. She was wonderfully pleased and as I look back on it, proud of her sons for thinking of her and not scoffing down 8 more hot dogs.

I know this was not a miracle, but some 65 years later it was a blessing, a sign, if you will, of God arranging things in an order that no human could ever fathom. It’s a good memory, maybe story, but far more, for me, one more example of the power of God even in what appear to be small things. Thank you, Jesus, for being there for everything, for me and mine.

When I write, even at my age, I often look back at the little things that meant and mean so much to me, about 28,000 days-worth of blessings, possible stories all of which I lay in His hands for His glory.