The Bambina Steps to the Plate

Well, my little bambina Laura Agatha Carpenter is a Red Sox fan after all. This comes as no surprise, but with relief all the same.

You just never know how these things are going to work out. In utero, you go in for ultrasounds and you’re just peering into the murmuring woosh to see which chromosome has won out.

You might get the occasional hand or arm as a bonus, but no indication as to which banner they will wave.

Nor did I get any clues at birth. There was no cap on that full head of hair, no numbered Varitek jersey like the one her mother owns. Just the birthday suit and a whimpering cub-like cry.
Cubs? Cubs! Certainly she wouldn’t grow up to root for that cursed franchise. I dwelled upon this from time to time for the first six months of her existence.

Then, the other day, I woke up and found my girl decked out as you see here.
Whew.

Immediately we began talking Red Sox hot stove in between episodes of Elmo’s World.

I confess I’m starting to think they’re one in the same. Because I don’t get it: How is that Red Sox ownership, pockets deep to begin with and selling out Fenway Park night in, night out since long before my little bambina was a gleaming, get so penny-ante over eight-figure contracts?

It’s how we failed to land Mark Teixeira, who proved to be the linchpin of New York’s 2009 success by catching every ball throw in his vicinity at first base, smacking three out of every 10 pitches thrown over the plate (ignoring all the rest) and, in both capacities, making everyone around him better.

“Sure, the Yankees bought the 2009 World Championship, but that’s the name of the uncapped game, and we got chintzy over relative nickels while the Yanks played for keeps in their new stadium. You get what you pay for, whether it’s a Bumbo seat or a banner,” I babbled to my bambina.

She gave me a “where is this going?” look.

“Jason Bay, of course. The Mets are paying all of six million more than the Sox were willing to pay to the guy who made us forget about Manny Ramirez.
“Well, on a lot of nights,” I hastily added. “He sure was a heck of a lot more enjoyable to root for. But it had to be clear to him by the All-Star break where the Sox would come down in negotiations. It seemed to show in his play.”

Bambina, having broken into her bin of plastic circles, squares and other shapes, gave me a “at least we still have Jacoby Ellsbury” giggle, then began gnawing in earnest on a green diamond.

“Yeah, but one of the fastest guys in the league is now in the smallest of left fields, giving way in center to an aging veteran who will be in and out of here in a year.
“And I still can’t believe the pundits who were saying Ellsbury was expendable when the Sox were trying to land Adrian Gonzalez from the Padres. Clay Buchholz? Ummm, OK, maybe. Ellsbury? That’s high. Mr. Noodle might as well be running the show.”

By then my bambina’s attention was back on Elmo. Elmo was talking to his pet goldfish Dorothy. I couldn’t help but notice Dorothy had one active imagination. I found her effect on me to be quite calming, certainly more so than Tom Carron’s caffeine chatter.

“Well, bambina, John Lackey was a great pickup. We’ve got an awesome rotation, and it is true that pitching and defense win championships. We’ll stop a lot of balls and make a lot of people miss. We just might not hit too many ourselves.”

And that might not be so bad. It will make for shorter games and leave more time for greater loves.

Beyond Agincourt

This day is called the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day and comes safe home
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named.

Henry V, Act IV, Scene III. King Henry rallies the British troops before Agincourt. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. It’s sort of the “win one for the Gipper” of Shakespeare.

And it’s the toughest monologue a kid can choose to re-enact when my wife does her Shakespeare unit in her Language Arts class at Griswold Middle School in Rocky Hill.

There’s never a lack of Macbeths. Act IV, Scene IV: It’s the shortest you can pick. Kids are up before the class as briefly as the candle of which Macbeth speaks.

Henry’s a much tougher nut, so much longer and nuanced. You’ve got to invest more than just memory to pull it off.

A couple years back one student did it with such flair he was asked to repeat the scene before the Board of Education.

That student was Vikas Parikh, the 16-year-old boy who died last Saturday when the bus he was riding to a robotics competition crashed on I-84.

By now, you’ve heard about how Vikas was a gentle soul. His faith was Jain, a dharmic religion from India that prescribes non-violence toward all living things. Vikas was a strict vegetarian and he literally would not hurt a fly.

And you’ve heard about his academic acumen. He went to Rocky Hill High, but also took classes at the Greater Hartford Academy of the Mathematics and Science, the school he was representing the day of the fateful crash.

He was a math whiz. He was also one heck of a King Henry.

He'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day.

The point here is not to sift through the terrible confluence of events that took the life of a young man who had accomplished so much and whose promise bespoke of so much more to come.

Rather, it’s to issue a reminder to we few, we happy few, who will have the gift of to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, to embrace all that we may with the same verve and discipline as Vikas, and to stand a tip-toe when challenge and opportunity arise.

Jewel of a Gentleman

I’m bringing back Papi & Circumstance prompted not by the new year or new decade, but the loss of Southington’s Jim Wallace shortly before Christmas.

Jim Wallace was the sort of man whose passing reminds us even the best eras must end.

Mr. Wallace was still involved in American Legion baseball when I returned home in 1998. He was one of those old-guard Southington guys I always enjoy seeing — the Ray Walshs, Bill Snows, Joe LaPortes and Joe Orsenes of our corner of the world, gracious gentlemen with a selfless air of class and an appreciation for things done right.

Now and then, Mr. Wallace would let me know he’d enjoyed something I’d written. It was usually a piece that had involved extra thought, extra creativity, extra patience.

“I write for readers like you,” I replied to one of his e-mails.

Most Southington folks are familiar with Jim’s legacy, or they should be. Town councilman, Hospital for Central Connecticut incorporator, YMCA, Bread for Life — that’s just the start of it.

I find myself thinking the ultimate measure of a man lies in his children. What truer reflection of one’s values, character?

Southington folks my age had the pleasure of going to school with Ted and Sally Wallace, the youngest of Jim’s five kids. Sally was in our class. She was smart, pretty and polished. She did one of her senior English papers on Faulkner’s “Intruder in the Dust,” if I recall correctly. Simply miles ahead down the road.

Ted, who eventually went to the Naval Academy, was a year older and, in our days at St. Thomas Junior High, part of a tremendous class of athletes. In basketball, he, Rob Dibble, Barry DePaolo, Kevin McCarthy and Pat Kelly comprised a starting five that rolled over most opponents and geared up for it by rolling over younger teammates in practice.

Coach Dave Valentine would wind the scrimmage clock to 30 minutes and, man, even on running time that was an eternity.

One night I managed to do something above average to net two textbook points for the scrubs.

Pick-and-roll? No-look bounce pass?

Can’t recall. I just remember Ted running back down court alongside me saying, “Nice play; now don’t get cocky.”

That was the most influential advice I got all season. I now recognize the influence behind it. Shape your sons well and you’re bound to shape the sons of others.

I’m not sure if Mr. Wallace coached Ted or his oldest boy, Jim, in sports. He was better known for refereeing midget football games and umpiring Little League games. Late in life, he was the scorekeeper for Southington Legion baseball.

Shape the sons of others and you’re bound to shape a corner of the world.

And that, I’d say on second thought, provides the true measure of a man in the eyes of scorekeepers Great and small.