TRADITION

During my years at the Courier News it became somewhat of a joke among the editors that no matter how hard I tried, my tales were always over the allotted inch count. Often well over.

Well, in keeping with that tradition, this, my second Blogspot blog, is a long one. Please bare with me as a weave a tale of shadiness, backstabbing, and the mooning of values.

I'll admit that I am a creature of habit and I resist change -- kicking and screaming -- at every turn. Even when it's an obvious upgrade, like my not joining the CD-buying world and lingering in my cassette fetish until I was in my 20s. But I still maintain that change for the sake of change, or even change for the better when sacrificing things like tradition, is not all good.

Case and point, my Sunday morning softball game.

For nearly 20 years, since I was a sophomore in high school, I have been playing softball on Sunday mornings at a quaint little field on the Union-Elizabeth border. Some of you have become regulars at this game, while many of you have attended on occasion. Even before I started playing as a wee lad, the game had been going. I estimate it has been in existence at this field for 40 years or so. In fact, we don't even have a permit anymore. After all, possession is nine-tenths of the law.

It is a relaxed low-pressured pickup game -- though heatedly competitive at times -- made up of people from the neighborhood and friends. We have people who drive from as far as upstate NY and the from down the shore to attend.

Now the field we play on is far from perfect. It is often neglected by the county for weeks, even months, at a time. The grass grows long, the infield sprouts foliage in spots, and the surrounding trees have become unkempt and, in spots, littered with thorn bushes, often making retrieving balls quite treacherous.

Some of us have done our own groundskeeping on many occasion. Mowing, filling in holes on the infield with sand we purchased, and even bringing in ladders and saws to trim the trees overhanging fair territory.

Also, over the years, a root has become increasingly uncovered right near third base, and sinkholes and other obstacles have become more prominent in the outfield.

Still, to me, all this is what gives this field personality. Lots of ball fields have them. That hill in center field in Houston; the jutting stands at many ballparks, the latent and lewd acts of homosexuality and satanic worship that goes on in the home clubhouse and dugout at Yankees Stadium, and even the ivy-covered brick walls at Wrigley Field.

This season, an uprising of sorts has begun to fester at the old ball field.

After a one-week weather delay, we opened this year on April 30th and I noticed that at least three or four regulars -- I mean hardcore cats who NEVER miss a week -- were not in attendance.

One week later, I had my answer as to why.

At some point over the last few years -- unbeknownst to those of us who are regulars at the field we have affectionately come to call "Palsy Park" -- it is located right next to the Cerebral Palsy Treatment Center of Union County -- another Sunday morning game has sprung up in town.

After an attempt by certain parties to get us to abandon our game in week 2 and join their's, I drove over to the new game to see who exactly the traitors were and subtly nudge them back into the fold -- with an aluminum bat.

As it turns out, the upstart game was being played on a pretty nice field a few minutes away from Palsy. They even had a permit. Several regulars were there and my blood began to boil.

What of tradition? What of loyalty? What of the fact that I have busted my ass for the seven or eight years to keep this fucking game going when the old guard got too old to play, many of the people my age married and moved out of town and attendance had dwindled to a dangerous level?

We have a hard enough time getting a game on a week-to-week basis without the rats jumping ship -- though we usually manage. Now what?

After much debate, and the realization that with several regulars not in attendance in that particular week due to family obligations our only hope for a game would be to combine what we had with what they had -- they were reportedly down from their regular 20+ attendance due to some sort of community function in town. Reluctantly, I agreed to join their game, and it was a good game, and in some ways I can credit the quality of this new field.

When I announced afterwards that we would be reconvening at Palsy the following weeks, there were some moans and groans, but everyone pretty much agreed.

I should have seen the coup coming right then.

By the time I got to Palsy this past Sunday, I had gotten calls from people that they were going over to the new field, tradition be damned.

Bunch of savages in this town!


EPILOGUE:

We only had a bout five of us at Palsy when arrived Sunday, with nine of our regulars reported at the other field. Funny part was that the upstart game was already full and had started already (they start at 9:00 a.m., I found out, we have traditionally began between 9:30-10:00). Our mutants were playing on the adjacent field, which we hadn't check out the week before.

Not wanting to screw our regulars that had not arrived yet and I wasn't sure if they were coming (Local Shill) and did not know about the upstart game, I fashioned a couple of signs with directions to the new field out of an old reporters notebook and some tape that Todd's brother had with him, we posted them at Palsy.

Upon arriving at the new field, I saw that it wasn't a well-kept, manicured softball field as we had played on the week before. It was a baseball field which had not had its infield dragged in a while, and there were puddles and mudslides all over the outfield, resulting from the weekend's rain.

By the time we got finished playing, many of us agreed that we would rather play at Palsy than on this baseball field which was way too big for softball.

We'll see what happens.