Archive for New York Mets

Celebrating 4 Years of Bloggy Goodness: Baseball, This Invisible Thread

NOTE: I originally posted this back in August, 2008 — before I knew how to insert photos.

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I love baseball. It’s kind of ridiculous, I know. But it’s not like I had a choice.

As the youngest of seven children, I remember lying sprawled on the tiles of our playroom floor, the television turned to a ballgame, my mother moving from the washing machine to the dryer, bending, lifting, hauling, then over to the ironing board, then back, again and again.

At one point in her life, before I came along, before preschool was in vogue – this was the 1950s, deep in the post-war suburban dream – my mother had five children below the age of seven. It kept her busy. She was busy still in the 1960s, back when I was a pup.

So there she was, that white-haired mother of mine, rooting for her “Metsies.” I learned their names – Cleon Jones, Tom Terrific, Cool Koos and Eddie Kranepool. My mother, a good Irishwoman, showed a decided preference for Wayne “Red” Garrett, the young third baseman who was an average player on his best days, but handsome in that freckled, honest, Irish way. (It was only in later years, as baseball changed, when her crushes shifted to undersized Spanish-speaking shortstops like “little” Jose Oquendo and Raphael Santana.)

Before my mom went Latino, she always

favored the Irish boys.

I also learned the names of the players on the other side, those Mets-killers who broke our hearts. Their names were Shannon and Perez, Clemente and McCovey, Banks and Aaron.

Today I still repeat my mother’s line, inherited and ingrained, whenever a tough batter steps to the plate: “Uh-oh, he’s trouble.”

In my heart, my mother is linked to the New York Mets, and there are times when I don’t know if my love for one is a confusion for the other; or if, in my affection for the Mets, I am only expressing that childlike love I once carried – and still carry – for my mother, the soft lap I once rested my head upon, her hand in my hair. There she is at the end of the couch, a glass of crushed ice on the table, from which she constantly bites and chews. And the game is on the screen, the announcers’ voices in my ears. I am content, I am at home: the game is on and I’m with my mom.

She taught me how to catch, my mother, how to play. That wasn’t Dad’s department. Blithely indifferent, or just otherwise occupied, he didn’t care about sports. We never played catch, or hardly ever. That’s okay, because Mom did. And I liked Mom, plenty. She had a good arm and soft hands.

My mother taught me how to catch and throw.

But I crushed her at ping pong. No mercy.

I remember as a Little Leaguer asking, “Mom, am I graceful?”

She liked grace, my mother, the smoothness that certain outfielders had when they drifted back to the warning track, glove stretched out, eyes in the clouds, finally cradling that ball to the dull, soft slap of leather.

“Yes,” she’d answer. “Very graceful.”

And today, like her, like then, I still snap off the television in despair when the Mets play poorly. “I can’t watch anymore!” we’ll both exclaim across the years and miles, attached by an invisible thread.

Ten minutes later, both of us will again reach for the clicker, filled with the unquenchable hope that is at the heart of every game.

Now I can see that same sweet dynamic in my own children, particularly the two boys. They follow the game, just as they once obsessed over dinosaurs and super heroes, books and guitars. Now it’s baseball. All mixed up and confused with their love for me, I know.

After all, I should, I helped weave the blanket of baseball that wraps around us.

Sometimes I even hear them say it, when certain sluggers step to the plate, Chipper Jones perhaps, or the redoubtable Albert Pujols:

“Uh-oh, he’s trouble.”

By the late 60’s, my mother most feared

RBI-men Mike Shannon and Tony Perez.

But Mom would agree: this guy broke the hearts

of more Mets fans than any other player.

So How About Dem Mets?

I’m off again to another couple of hotels, and more schools to visit. The trips always turn out nice, and I’m grateful for them, but I’m such a homebody.

And also: I miss my desk, my work, my wife, my kids, my brain.

On a different note, it’s almost baseball season and I’m not optimistic about my New York Mets. I laughed at this piece from The Onion, “Carlos Beltran Has Impressive Day of Not Falling Apart and Dying.

Mets outfielder Carlos Beltran, whose past several seasons have been hampered by nagging injuries, had a successful outing Monday, managing to get through a spring training workout without crumbling into a pile of dust and dying. “It was one of his best days in years, because he was still breathing and alive by the end,” Mets manager Terry Collins said during a press conference, adding that he was amazed with Beltran’s ability to pump blood from his heart to other parts of his body for a whole session of batting practice.

This Week’s Greatest Thing Ever

I’m off to Baltimore, Camden Yards specifically, to see the Mets play the Orioles.

Every year I take a trip with my buddy from Queens. Always to see the Mets. We’ve been to Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Chicago and Washington D.C. Our big dream is San Francisco, but that can wait for a while. Last time I was in Baltimore I visited Edgar Allan Poe’s grave. You are supposed to leave a penny or a bottle of bourbon or something like that. Pretty sure I went with the penny.

NOTE: Found this on NPR, just to prove how a reasonable guy (me) can truly mess up his facts:

For decades, three roses and a bottle of cognac mysteriously appeared once a year at the grave of Edgar Allan Poe. Now a 92-year-old man claims it was all a promotional stunt aimed at preserving the Baltimore churchyard where Poe is buried. Sam Porpora, a former advertising executive, says either he or one of his tour guides would drop off the gifts every year on Poe’s birthday. Poe’s fans say only this and nothing more.

Actually, I still might be right about the penny. No time to look into it now, I’ve got a plane to catch!

In the meantime, please — oh, you must! — click on the video below, stick with it a little while, watch the drummer, and let the awesomeness flow over you. Around the 1:00 point should do it.

Funny, I own the same jacket.

You need to a flashplayer enabled browser to view this YouTube video

Fan Mail Wednesday #87

Crazy busy time of year. Spring hits, the family calendar fills up, and we can barely keep up with our day jobs. Quick: Let’s answer a letter.

This one came the old-fashioned way . . . by Pony Express!

I replied:

Dear Madison from Canyon Lake:

Best letter ever. I mean it.

Okay, maybe you share first place with a bunch of other folks, but nobody beats Madison from Canyon Lake. As a children’s book author, there’s nothing better than hearing that maybe you helped someone become enthusiastic about reading.

I love books and I am amazed at the life that has come to me through that love of books. As a kid, I never planned on being a writer. I planned on being an All-Star southpaw pitcher for the New York Mets. (As John Lennon once said, “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”) These days, I am always reading something, with a long list of books that I’m eager to tackle next. So many books, so little time. It makes me happy to think that you are on the same journey: reading, thinking, learning. Keep up the great work.

The Case of the Buried Treasure is one of my all-time favorite books in the series. There’s a lot of little things that I snuck in there, such as a sly tribute to former NY Mets manager Gil Hodges, and another to Alfred Hitchcock. I also paid tribute to a 1963 movie that was a favorite from back when I was a boy, “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.” You can find that in the chapter titled, “The Big Y.” I tend to think young readers don’t notice these things, like small treasures I bury in the story, but it pleases me to include them just the same. I guess I put them in there for the parents who might be reading along — and for myself.

For readers who don’t know the book, here’s the first in a series of riddles that Jigsaw must solve in order to locate the treasure: A man left home. He ran as fast as he could. Then he turned to the left. He ran and turned left again. He ran and turned left again. He headed back for home. He saw two masked men waiting for him. Yet he was not afraid.

Jigsaw’s grandmother, a baseball lover, helps him figure it out.

Thanks for writing. Your friend,

James Preller

Happy Nappy Bloggy Baseball: Around the Horn with Doret

My friend, Doret Canton, of The Happy Nappy Bookseller blog, goes around the horn with nine authors of children’s baseball books. It’s a pretty cool lineup with some heavy hitters, sure to score runs in bunches.

Doret’s come up with a fun, inventive way of sharing her passion for baseball and baseball books, with each author answering interview questions over a series of days.

Here’s the lineup:

1. Gene Fehler, Change-up: Baseball Poems
2. Linda Sue Park, Keeping Score
3. Kurtis Scaletta, Mudville
4. Alan Gratz, Brooklyn Nine
5. Julianna Baggott, The Prince of Fenway Park
6. James Preller, Six Innings
7. Jennifer E. Smith, The Comeback Season
8. Carl Deuker, Painting the Black
9. Mick Cochrane, The Girl Who Threw Butterflies

Alongside this company, I’m like that kid at second base, murmuring to himself, “Don’t screw it up, don’t screw it up, please God don’t let me screw it up.”

Here’s Round One, questions 1-3.

Here’s Round Two, questions 4-6.

Stop on over and check it out.

By the way, I interviewed Doret back about a year ago. She’s a passionate, voracious reader and I love her attitude. You wanna get real? Go talk to Doret. But don’t believe my word for it, decide for yourself.

After spending time with Doret, you’ll definitely want to put on a squeeze play.