Posted By MissMeliss on July 22, 2010
This posted yesterday in the ALL THINGS GIRL blog. I wanted to share it here, as well
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George Steinbrenner (1930-2010)
I’m not a particularly athletic person, and my family tends to be largely anti-sports, with small exceptions for the artsy kinds of sports like figure skating, and the quick ones, like horse racing. Our holiday gatherings are marked by the total absence of professional football, and even if millions of dollars were at stake, I don’t think any of us – my husband included – could correctly match the Stanley Cup and Heisman Trophy to their respective sports.
Knowing this, it might seem strange that I’m at all affected by the passing, on July 13th, of George Steinbrenner. He was the principal owner and managing partner of the New York Yankees, from 1973 on, though in the last four years, his kids did most of the hands-on work. He wasn’t merely the owner of the baseball team I grew up rooting for (hey, I may sound mostly like a Californian, but deep down, I’m still a Jersey Girl), he was an American institution. In fact, it could be said that Steinbrenner was as much a part of the American landscape as apple pie, the Fourth of July, and baseball itself.
When I was a little girl, with blonde braids and a berry-brown tan, my summers were largely spent at my grandparents’ house in suburban New Jersey. Most days, I’d spend among the women my grandmother referred to as her girlfriends, or gal-pals. There were days, however, when she’d want to go shopping, or have a “gals’ day,” without me tagging along. Those days were always marvelous treats, because I’d spend them solely in the company of my grandfather.
Some days we’d go out to the fishing beach, or to the pier, and try to catch blue fish (which I now know are a variety of sea bass). I remember the salty smell of the bait store, and the murky tanks full of night crawlers and baitfish. They never seemed to have oxygenators, but every so often I’d be startled by a cascade of bubbles. To this day, I remain convinced that nothing in Professor Snape’s dungeon laboratory contained anything as mysterious as the things that swam in the bait store tanks.
Other days we’d stay home. If it was cool, we’d bake bread. I remember turning the crank on the copper dough mixer, only giving up when it was too thick for me, and then Grandpop would take over. Often, we’d spend the day in the yard, which wasn’t all that big, really, but to me it seemed like it went on forever, with different regions – here the garden, there the wild raspberry patch growing out of the compost heap…lemon grass on that side of the house, sticker bushes and stray rose thorns on the other…and in the deepest, darkest, back corner, beyond the giant tree that hosted my tire swing, a fence all tangled in honeysuckle vines. We’d dig in the dirt, play on the swing, and even, when I was very young, on the see-saw he made for me out of a 2×6 or 1×8 and an old sawhorse.
Then, there were the baseball days. These generally occurred in August, when it was too hot, and too humid, for even the most ardent gardeners to leave the air conditioned indoors. My grandfather would strip off his striped cotton shirt, and leave only a white t-shirt on with khaki pants and his “work shoes.” They were leather lace-up shoes, with sturdy soles, and uppers strong enough to support the weight of a small granddaughter who would plead, “Dance me around, Grandpop.” Of course, he never refused. (As I look back, now, at almost-forty, I realize that I’m still attracted to men in plain white t-shirts and sturdy shoes, in much the same way that other women are drawn to men in tight jeans, or military dress uniforms.)
My grandfather would sit in his mustard yellow recliner, with a tall glass of iced tea at his side, and I would bring my Tinker Toys, sprawl on the carpeted floor of the den, and half-listen to whatever game he was watching. Most of the time, this scenario ended with him snoring through the last inning, but every so often, if the Yankees were playing, and playing well, his attention would be kept, and while I played he would explain what was going on – telling me what it meant when the umpire called balls or strikes. I don’t know how much I enjoyed the game, but I still love the old pin-striped classic Yankee uniforms.
When I got a little older, my grandfather taught me some actual baseball skills. Thanks to him, baseball was the only sport I held my own in during grade school gym class. In fact, I think some of my teachers were shocked by the tiny girl with the golden-blonde hair throwing spitters (which, yes, are technically illegal. Mastering them is fun, though.)
My grandfather died the year I turned twenty-one, but his influence and his presence are all around me. The red leather chair he used to sit in when I was a baby, and small enough to be balanced on one of his arms, is mine now, and so are a lot of the toy trains we collected together (HO scale, thank you – including a replica of the Merrimack Railroad). I think of him whenever I see men in fishing hats, or men in work shoes, or whenever I catch the sounds of a baseball game on television.
I don’t know if George Steinbrenner has any granddaughters. I hope that if he does, they have wonderful memories of a special man whenever they hear the resounding crack of a bat connecting with a ball, or the distinctive slap of a ball into a leather glove. I know I do.
My grandfather never met George Steinbrenner, but even though they came from different backgrounds, probably had wildly different political beliefs, and never met in life, I’m quite certain that my grandfather made room for George on that set of bleachers in the sky, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the two of them spent the rest of forever watching the New York Yankees play baseball.
My Grandfather, Edward F. Klindienst (1911-1991)
Category: All Things Girl, Family, Nostalgia |
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Tags: Edward F. Klindienst, George Steinbrenner, Grandpop, Nostalgia
