Time In A Bottle

Time in a Bottle

We all remember the Jim Croce song, don’t we? Well, if you could put time in a bottle what time would you capture? Those who know me well already know what I would choose and why I would choose it.

At my age it’s hard to pick just one. There’s the birth of my sons and grandkids, my election to office, the moment my sons first saw Disneyworld, and any time before my mother passed away. If I had to go back to a time when all seemed perfect you would see me on the mound at third ward park, Passaic Stadium or other ballpark. When I stood on that mound 60 feet 6 inches from home plate looking into my catcher’s glove I was in my own world. Everything around me disappeared and the only thing that mattered was the target that my catcher gave me. In between innings I would pace back and forth until it was my time to get back out on the mound and do my thing.

Back on the mound I can remember my catcher, whether it was Ron Labenski who caught most of my games outside of High School or Pete Estrada in High School, giving me those “special” signals that made me laugh and that no one else saw. Turning around between pitches and staring at my friend, teammate and brother, Art Harris, who left us too soon, out there in centerfield and also making me laugh with gestures that no one noticed but me. Art unfortunately was lost in the Marshall University plane crash that killed 75 people and all members of the football team that played that weekend.

I was aware that everyone knew me and my reputation as a pitcher and I liked that. I liked walking down Main Avenue and having people I didn’t even know recognize me. In my old age when I revisited the “scene of the crime” and had lunch with my brother and a friend, it felt good when that friend said, “you are a legend around here.” I never thought of myself that way, but I did like the attention; good for an old guy to hear.

I recall when I couldn’t wait for the next game, the next pitch or the next at bat. I can remember, even in my advancing years, specific pitches and specific games in such detail that I can close my eyes and I can be back there again, with the stands full of the faithful, the chatter from the bench and the coach flashing signs. I can smell the freshly cut grass, hear the umpire calling balls and strikes and I can feel the adrenalin flow through my body as I am about to take the mound and pitch in an important game.

The butterflies automatically disappear after the first pitch and from then on it’s all business and nothing else matters except the catcher’s target and winning. The crowd may cheer, but I do not really hear it, the chatter is background noise to my ears, and I have tunnel vision down the lane to home plate. I love hearing the umpire call strike three and watching the batter head down on his way back to the dugout.

That is where I’d go if I could, and maybe someday when my tomorrows are gone, I’ll be in the lineup again with all my teammates from the past and the devastating curveball that fooled so many people.

“If I could put time in a bottle, the first thing I’d like to do…” is take the mound, when I was a boy with a ball and a dream.