Wednesday, October 27, 2010

World Series always flashes me back to September-into-October, 1954

A Clevelander, 11 years old. All those years of Yankee hatred (even the Sisters at St Colman School taught us that there was a "good hatred"--something we'd gotten with our mothers' milk, something to be nurtured, worked-up, passed around, promoted, shouted about. YANKEE HATRED.

So we'd creamed the hated Yankees and everybody else. And hunkered down for a series with a formidable--and, actually, respectable--group of New Yorkers.

The Giants.

Boom! (helluva catch, unbelievable throw)
What?  You're starting Lemon again? With Rapid Robert on the bench?

The only question we had, as we threw our gloves on the ground, wandered about in shocked silence: "Should Al Lopez be allowed to continue living on this earth?"

Go, Giants!
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Of the biblical allotment of three score and ten I have lived only three of them more than a bicycle ride from one of the Great Lakes. I grew up ten blocks from Lake Erie in the (once Irish/Italian ghetto, now newly-hip) "Near West Side" of Cleveland. I can still cycle to the Milwaukee lakefront in an hour and a half; but, a round-trip has always been more than I would (noror ever did) attempt. -0- I'm a "...somewhat combative pacifist and fairly cooperative anarchist," after the example of Grace Paley (1922-2007). -0- I'm always cheerful when I pay my taxes (having refused--when necessary--to pay that portion of them dedicated to war). -0- And I always, always vote.