The Judge Report

[GUEST POST by my little brother Sean T. Going, from a first draft dated June 18, 2002]

It  wasn’t completely natural to have grown up a Red Sox fan in upstate New York..  I was born in the same town where my Father had spent most of his life.  I know my Father was a baseball fan, as were most members of his generation, but to the best of my recollection, he followed the Tigers, not my beloved Sox.  My father passed away when I was only eight years old, so his taste in teams did not have much of a chance to rub off on me.  It must have come from my Mother’s side of the family. 

Baseball, and in particular the Boston Red Sox, has been a passion in my life since my first game at Fenway Park.  My grandfather (again, my mother’s side) got us box seats on the first base line.  The Olde Towne Team were battling the Kansas City Royals that day. Yaz, Rice, Lynn, and Dewey all homered.  My first taste of Magic.

After college I moved to Boston,  primarily to be close to Fenway Park. I have a very comfortable life.  I have a loving wife, two beautiful children, and a great job writing software.  I also have always had a silly dream.  I imagine most people have dreams, silly dreams that they keep in the back of their head that they know will never happen.  Mine is the Red sox.  Unlike most people who dream of the Red Sox, I don’t dream of pitching the seventh game of the World Series (well, sometimes I do.)  I just dream of working for the Red Sox.  I dream that my job is to wander around Fenway, telling the little kid who is there for the first time all about the history, the lore, the Magic of the ballpark.  I dream about showing him the Red Seat (Section 42, row 37, seat 21) where Ted Williams hit the longest home run in the 90-year history of the park (502 feet – for those of you keeping score.)  I dream about showing him the morse code on the scoreboard that spells out Tom and Jean Yawkey’s initials.  I dream of telling him about how Tom and Jean used to have picnics on the outfield grass while the team was away – listening to the game on a transistor radio.  The kid I’m talking to has a seat behind a pole.  As I end my story, I slip his father some box seat tickets.  I dream that my job is to share the Magic.

But it’s just a silly dream.  Even sillier, in that there was no such job.  Well, not until a couple weeks ago.  Everyone I know that had seen the ad in the newspaper or on-line made a point of telling me about it.  “Fenway Ambassadors Wanted,” read the ad.  The job description was my dream, and more.  I polished up my resume, putting special emphasis on my customer service skills from my previous career managing theaters.  I
sent it in, and waited. 

I knew there were people who had the same silly dream I had.  Now I know exactly how many.  3900.  That was the number of applicants for 25 “Ambassadorships.”  The new Red Sox ownership decided immediately to test out the applicants in a crowded environment.  They held three “try-outs,” one of which I was invited to on Friday night. It mainly consisted of 500 of your potential colleagues and yourself vying for face time
with one of a dozen or so Red Sox staff members who were doing the judging.  Everyone was given a badge with a number on it, and on the back of the badge, you were to put your contact information, and most importantly, if you could work on Sunday – Father’s Day.

Now, I may not be the brightest bulb in the Citgo sign, but I really feel sorry for those people who were dumber than I and said, “No.”

I spent Saturday at my daughter Jessica’s annual 6-hour long dance recital.  The time flew by much quicker this year, as Jessica was in 4 different numbers throughout the event, and the fact that I was checking my email every 10 minutes, waiting to hear back from the Red Sox.  I didn’t actually hear from them until 7:00pm that night.  “Report to Gate D at 9:00am.” 

I was there at 8:00. 

I was one of 150 out of almost 4000 who were chosen to represent the Red Sox at what was to be the biggest non-ballgame event in the history of the Park.  The new Red Sox ownership is anxious to share the Magic, and they thought one of the best ways would be to let families play catch in the outfield on Father’s Day.  They thought there might be some interest.  They sold 22,000 tickets in less than a day.  Our job was to keep these
22,000 people happy while they waited for a chance to get onto the field.  Some of us were stationed outside to aid the lines.  Some of us were in the concourses of the park directing people to the face-painting, or balloon animal stations. 

Me, I was at The Wall.  I spent the entire day patrolling the land of Williams, Yaz, Rice, and Greenwell (well, Mike Greenwell never actually came into my mind that day, but I feel bad for him – lifetime .303 hitter and got no respect.)  I snapped easily 500 photos of Fathers and Sons against the 310 foot marker on the wall.  I threw balls against the wall for kids wanting to make the throw to home.  And I talked.  I talked to hundreds and
hundreds of people as they passed by on the warning track.  Mothers, Fathers, Sons, Daughters, Grandfathers who had been waiting for this their entire lives.  Just sharing the Magic.  I had a smile on my face from the moment the gates opened, and it was completely genuine.  I never saw so many happy people in one place, and I was making them even happier – that was my job – and I’ve never loved doing a job so much.  I was
downright bursting with joy for hours. 

There were only two things missing that could have made it any better: my kids, and my Dad.  Unfortunately, since this was still a “tryout” I dared not have brought the kids, and Dad had been dead for 28 years.  All I could do was keep sharing the Magic and enjoying it. 

Then I saw him.

He stood out in the crowd.  An oldtimer in his 70’s or 80’s, wearing a thick wool American Legion baseball Jersey and cap.  And the glove, the ancient glove.  He was with his grown daughter and her husband.  The “kids” were taking pictures against the wall. He was just standing farther back, taking it all in.

I was drawn to him and struck up a conversation.  We talked about his glove.  You could still make out his name, “ROCKY” sliced into the leather.  He was so proud to be able to fit into his old Legion uniform.  He said he hadn’t put it on since 1956, when his wife made him stop playing baseball.  We talked about what a wonderful day this was, how magnificent the ballpark was, how he never dreamed he would be able to play catch with his daughter on a field like this.  Then we talked about how far they had driven, and how he’s really a Yankee fan– his daughter is a Sox fan– but how much he loved this Park.   It went on and on.  It was the longest conversation I had had with anyone all day.  Then we talked about his hometown.

W.P Kinsella wrote in The Iowa Baseball Confederacy about “cracks in time, where all the cosmic tumblers fall into place” – a point where all things magical converge.  I’m doing the job I’ve always dreamed of.  I’m standing at the base of the most recognizable facade in the history of our Nation’s game.  It’s Father’s Day.

Click.  Magic.

“So,” I said, “where are you from?”

“Upstate New York. Near Albany.”

“Where near Albany?”

“A little place called Amsterdam.”

I paused.  “I’m from Amsterdam.”

“No kidding? What’s your name?” 

I told him.

“Frank’s son?” 

Father’s Day.  Couldn’t spend it with my kids.  Couldn’t spend it with my Father.

But of all the thousands of people I saw that day, I got to meet Rocky McCune, who went to St. Mary’s Institute with Dad, just a short crack in time ago.

Magic.

************
[Regular readers of this blog certainly are aware that Sean went on to a regular gig at Fenway during the 2004 season, entertaining the faithful as Environmental Super Hero Dr. Trash]

[From the archives, a remembrance of a remarkable woman. February, 1994. -rng]

And Sister Anna Roberta said, “Fiat Lux”, and there was light.

How extraordinary that a quarter of a century after my last Latin class with Sister Anna I reflect not on how excruciating the study of an ancient tongue could be, but on how exciting; not on how pointless, but on how many times a week I still point to things I learned from her; not on the deadness of the language, but on the magnificence of the life that one amazing teacher could breathe into it. (I also reflect that in writing this paragraph I make no effort to truly emulate the Ciceronian cadence which she cherished, which, after all, would require several more pages and somewhere around here would be the verb.)

Sister Anna left us on February 15, 1994, for over sixty years a member of the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondolet. Consider for a moment the depth of that commitment: an entire long life dedicated to service to others, to education, to enlightenment.

After her simple and moving funeral Mass at the Provincial House in Latham, NY, after the spontaneous bursting into song of her old friends and students as her earthly remains were carried away (the Bishop Scully High School Alma Mater, which she had written, and the somewhat strained strains of the Gaudeamus, which she had made her own), former students, former colleagues and friends mingled and shared their experiences.

“I had the ill fortune of replacing her in Saratoga in 1944,” said one. “They told me they were sure I’d be all right, but there could never be another Sister Anna Roberta.”

“I came after her in college. The professors told me that she was the finest student the college had ever produced.”

Another former teacher of mine was there. She had been a student half a century earlier and said she had come because this was the greatest teacher she had ever known. All within earshot nodded in unison.

As Father Brad Milunski pointed out in his marvelous homily, words were her life and she could find endless wonder in a single phrase. I will do him one better. When I was a freshman she had one day in the front of her classroom a sign with the single word “meum” on it. The final “m” was lit up and blinking like on of those all-night eatery logos.

Of course, she waited till someone asked her what it meant. “The ‘meum’ is the final word in the Consecration of the Eucharist in the Mass,” she explained. “That last, glorious ‘m’ is the very moment when the Eucharistic bread is transformed into the Body of Jesus!”

She went on to further elaborate on how marvelous it was that the words of consecration should end in a liquid consonant, one whose sound itself trailed off almost infinitely.

You see, then, that not only a phrase could excite her, but that she could see volumes of theology in a single letter.

And oh, how she loved to sing. I would almost say we spent more time singing than we did learning our declensions, but for the fact that she had us singing AND learning our declensions simultaneously.

-a is for the nom-in-A-tive
-ae genitive and dative
-am accusative, the ablative long -a,

et cetera for about another forty verses.

She translated quite a large volume of popular songs into Latin, and was a master of the parody form. On my way to her funeral, one suddenly popped into my head. (I say this with some hesitation, as Sister never much believed in things just “happening”.) It was to the tune of that old World War I era waltz, Till We Meet Again:

Smile the while you count to thirty-one.
Wonder which will be my setting sun?
Which will be the day for me
To begin Eternity?
Every time a calendar I see,
Wonder which will be the day for me?
Every month I pass it by,
Till the day I die.

She considered the day of her death to be more important than her birthday, more important than ANY other day, the day she was to enter into her eternal reward.

If “m” was her favorite letter, Sister Anna’s favorite word was “fiat” as in “fiat lux” (”let there be light”), but more importantly as in “fiat voluntas tua” (”Thy Will be done”) and as in “Be it done unto me according to thy word”. She firmly believed that if you cheerfully accept the pitfalls of living common to us all, the Almighty will personally reward you in this world as well as the next. Her entire life was a fiat and an inspiration.

Do not think that Sister Anna was some fuddy-duddy. On the contrary, she placed herself always on the cutting edge of technology and popular culture. One of my college professors, who viewed her with awe, told me that in the Classics community she was known as “Sister Anna Roberta Tape Recorder”. What a shame that her teaching career ended at the dawn of the age of the Camcorder and the Personal Computer. What fun she would have had! Somewhere, probably in many somewheres, lie dusty overhead projector rolls; neatly grommetted black drapes; home-made Super-8 movies; slides of the class of ‘69 in The Legend of King Midas; endless audio tapes of generations of students featured in countless performances of song and silliness; Veni-Vidi-Vici-VINGO cards; boxes of unsold professionally produced Alma Mater records for a school that no longer exists.

Each school year concluded with the “Roman Banquet”. Each year, in a long tradition, the banquet climaxed with a gift to Sister and an original song to her by the Senior Class. A year or two after my class the song was To SAR, With Love, which just about says it all. But since I’m writing this and since I wrote the song for Omicron Delta Class of 1969, I will quote from the latter instead. It is to the tune of Try to Remember and essentially in three verses attempts to cover four years of high school. Even though I was only 17 at the time and can probably be forgiven for excesses of youth, I will nonetheless skip over the parts about Caesar having a lot of Gaul and get down to the final verse:

Third year passed, though we
Felt as it passed slowly
We neared the end, and soon would part.
And nearing the end, too, we’d all like to send you
The deep’ning love that’s in our heart,
But most of all we know
How much that we owe you
And wish we could show you
In some way not hollow.
In life’s last December, we’ll fondly remember
And follow.

And so, dear Sister Anna Roberta, CSJ, you have graduated to glory, safe at last in heaven’s freshman class, and we who are forever in your debt and left behind can only muster up a poor paraphrase of the Roman poet Catullus and ask:

That you accept these funeral offerings, wet with a disciple’s tears,
And for all mortal time, Magistra, “Ave Atque Vale”.

Hail and Farewell.

-RNG 2/19/94