Spring Thoughts Mean Only One Thing

If near-40-year-old Andy Pettitte can attempt a comeback to the rigors of major league baseball with the NY Yankees after being retired one year, perhaps there’s reason to believe I can return to the pitching mound after a three-year hiatus from Sunday morning fast-pitch softball.

I’m not sure our temple team needs a 63-year-old pitcher, but our 64-year-old hurler jumped ship, signing with another squad. So there may be an opening if none of the younger arms proves reliable. Over my near 30-year softball career, reliable would be a good descriptor of my performance. I wasn’t the best pitcher in the league, but I was among the most consistent, almost always keeping our team competitive. Before I joined, the team would lose by double-digit scores as the pitcher, Mike, simply lobbed the ball over. While we still lost most of our games during my first season, the scores were much closer. Mike, however, was not a happy teammate. He protested his demotion to the bench, appealing to the leadership of the temple Brotherhood, the sponsor of the team. Sadly, they suggested to Mike it was time to hang up his spikes. He chose, instead, to switch temples, though his misfortunes continued on his new team and it, too, told him to ride the pines.

I retired three years ago when I was no longer the starting pitcher and couldn’t justify waking up early Sunday mornings from April through October. I’m still not sure the warmth and comfort of our bed won’t seduce me into staying home (this morning, for example, I rolled out of bed at 10:30), but I’m getting that old excitement back. Yesterday I even bought new cleats (just in case) and tried on my old uniform; it fit perfectly, with no tugging at the waist of the pants. Actually, I rarely wore baseball pants, preferring to pitch in shorts. To say my “chicken legs” weren’t a distraction to batters would be disingenuous, but hey, you’re allowed to try any legal means of changing the focus of the opposition. I also checked my glove to make sure the lacing was in good order. In short, I’m ready for a season with players almost all of whom are closer to my son’s age (33) than mine. First practice is in a week or two, first game April 22. Hopefully, I won’t get hurt.


I ventured back in time in a different way on Thursday, attending a luncheon of the Society of the Silurians at the Players Club on Gramercy Park in Manhattan to hear the featured speaker, Gail Collins, Op-Ed columnist for The NY Times, and an acquaintance going back more than 35 years to our days in New Haven when her husband, Dan, and I worked at the New Haven Register. (The Silurians, by the way, is an organization of veteran New York City journalists founded in 1924. As previously mentioned, I’m 63. With very few exceptions, I was the youngest in the room of 150, a record attendance, there to hear Gail talk about her career and her thoughts on politics of the day. Even society president Tony Guida, distinguished looking at 70 with a full head of coiffed, silver hair, couldn’t avoid noting the age of the assembled when he asked for all cell phones, beepers, pagers and pacemakers to be turned off prior to Gail’s presentation.)

Gail didn’t disappoint, regaling all with stories of her days as a Connecticut state capitol reporter before coming to New York in 1980. We took a few minutes before and after her talk to catch up. The only disappointment was Dan and another New Haven alum, Trish Hall, now Op-Ed editor of The Times, weren’t in attendance. But I did sit next to Times reporter Robert D. McFadden, a spry 50-year veteran of the paper, whose main assignment these days is writing pre-obituaries of the noteworthy and famous.

By the way, anyone who has followed Gail’s columns on Mitt Romney knows she always includes a reference to the star-crossed family trip to Canada when Mitt boxed the family Irish setter, Seamus, in a crate atop the station wagon as he, his wife and their five boys rode inside. Seamus eventually developed diarrhea, forcing Romney to make an unscheduled stop to hose down the dog and crate but not allow any of the humans to relieve themselves. Gail maintained Romney’s behavior provides insight into his character. Nevertheless, she indicated when the primaries are over she will retire Seamus from her columns. I’m not so sure, if Romney winds up securing the Republican presidential nomination. We’ll just have to wait and see.


After the luncheon and a quick stop at Gilda’s office on Union Square, I was off to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to see the “The Renaissance Portrait from Donatello to Bellini,” an exhibit I highly recommend but alas is closing today. One thing struck me among the painted portraits—several of the 15th century profiles of men looked vaguely familiar in their headdress. It was not until later that evening when watching the evening news that I realized the turbaned men hanging on the walls of the Met bore a striking resemblance to the millinery styles of the men of present day Afghanistan.


Saturday was Gilda’s birthday, her 63rd. Don’t worry. Gilda has no qualms about revealing her age. Indeed, she is vastly amused when people guess she is 20, even 30, years younger. Not wanting to jostle the crowds of St. Patrick’s Day, we spent a peaceful day together. Today we will tour the annual orchid show at the Bronx Botanical Gardens and then head off to Brooklyn where Ellie and Donny will prepare a birthday feast of one of Gilda’s favorite foods—fried chicken.