As a kid, baseball was my sport. I was too short to be effective in basketball, no one played soccer in the 50’s, and although I was fast and could catch, my lack of bulk marginalized me in football. I played Little League, made the All-Star team, and loved the game. I played softball in organized leagues well into my 40’s.
I hadn’t played hardball, however, for over three decades when, several years ago, on a bright spring day, my younger brother Doug suggested we pull out some equipment and head for a nearby diamond. My head full of memories of past glories, we, accompanied by Doug’s friend Scott, found the field empty and inviting. I soon found out, however, that the invitation was for a surprise party. Continue reading “Baseball: Recapturing Youth”
There are sage pronouncements that should never be ignored.
After Doug and I returned home from that first afternoon of delivering eggs with Dad as our unexpected driver and co-deliveryman, we were completely unprepared for his next question: “How much bigger could we make this egg route if we really worked at it?
In the spring of 1961, my parents lost their clothing store. It was not a tragedy. It was the final breath of a pain-wracked patient, the welcome demise of Cotlers’ Men’s & Boys’ Wear. After 15 years of stress and challenge, the crushing uncertainty—will today’s receipts cover the checks written yesterday?—that often caused my father to arise, throw up, and then go to work, was gone at last. Now he had abruptly switched from merchant to used car salesman. He didn’t like the work, but his complexion had gone from gray to pink.
When I left for college in 1961, I bequeathed the egg route, then at 160 dozen per week, to my younger brother Doug. He was almost 12. But when I came home for winter break, the route had declined to 100 dozen. It was too much for him to handle…not to mention the strain driving him around put on Mom, who was nine-to-fiving as a offset print worker for the Oxnard school system. There was little I could do to revive Doug’s waning business except cheerlead and chauffeur.
After many months of deliveries, most neighbors became accustomed to seeing the Cotler brothers on bicycles, towing their Radio Flyer egg wagon. A few unimaginative churls thought it insanely humorous to yell, “Hey, Eggman! Gimme two dozen!” every time we rode by, but the unpredictable wagon-chasing dog was our bête noir.