To Err is Human….To Be Human Can Hurt

Growing up on the streets of Ozone Park Queens, since I was seven years old, I developed two dreams. One was to become a major league baseball player for the New York Mets. The other to be a TV weatherman. I used the term “weatherman”, as they really weren’t referred to as meteorologists back then, because quite frankly, they weren’t. Most were just TV commentators who got the gig to do the weather.

So why those two dreams for a future career?

1969 was a year of many strange and significant events in this country. In particular, in New York and for the sports teams of this town. The shocking predicted upset in the Super Bowl by the Jets leader, Joe Willie Namath. The New York Knicks Willis Reed led World Championship, but most incredible and impactful for me, the Miracle Mets World Series victory over the heavily favored Baltimore Orioles. I had only become a Met fan at the age of 6, a year or so earlier, and here was my team, World Champions. I loved that team and to this day remember every player, his number and many other stats as well. Ask me what I had for lunch yesterday and I would struggle to remember. Ask me Cal Koonce’s number and I could tell you today. It was 34.

This miracle victory from the heavily underdogged Mets created a lifelong love of the game of baseball. It also has punished me with being a New York Mets fan for life, whether I like it or not. Finally, in a broader sense of meaning, it has left me with the tendency to always pull for the underdog. It’s with who I have always identified.

So of course I dreamed of what it would be like to play for the Mets. To walk on the field of Shea Stadium in my uniform wearing number 3, that was the number of my favorite Met back then, shortstop Bud Harrelson. “Now batting…….batting…batting….number three…three…three. The centerfielder………Chris……Cimino….ino…ino…ino…” I had just started playing Little League at this point and had no reason to believe from my performance that I would ever be considered good enough to even make a high school baseball team, let alone a major league team.

The other thing that happened in February of 1969 was a huge crippling snowstorm to hit New York City. In New York, the snow removal responsibility falls on the sanitation department. Huge plows and salters are attached to the trucks to help clear the streets and melt the snow and ice. Keep in mind, the five boroughs that make up New York City, include approximately 8000 miles of streets.

In many cases the trucks were stationed in different facilities from where the plows were stored. I’m sure this was done to conserve space and made better economic sense. However, it did require having an accurate forecast to give enough lead time to insure the trucks could get to where the plows were and have them attached in a timely fashion. Of course it didn’t help that 40% of the plows were inoperable and that the mayoral administration was at odds with the Sanitation Dept. and was coming off of a strike barely a year prior.

Considering this was truly the spawning event for my love of meteorology, I was too young to remember what the local media forecasts were predicting. Apparently, upon researching, it was a forecast for some snow quickly changing to rain. Well, 15 inches later of snow not changing to rain, resulted in a disaster for the city. Of course this would never happen today(insert throat clear).

That being said, the storm paralyzed the entire city, especially the outer boroughs like Queens. I lived on 107th Avenue in Ozone Park, Queens. It was a fairly busy two way avenue cutting through the tree-lined streets of residential row homes. With much of the sanitation trucks having not been prepared to gear up for such a big storm it took nearly four days before our streets were plowed.

The normally busy avenue became a winter wonderland and playground for all of us. I remember it feeling so incredible and freeing. The power of nature and how it could change our lives was planted in my heart and soul with that storm. Something that lasted all of my life and steered the majority of my adult life and career path.

More on the meteorological career path later. This brings us to dream number two. Becoming a New York Met. Obviously any of you reading this know, that clearly did not happen. However, I continued to play baseball in the Ozone-Howard Little League. After stumbling a bit between the ages of 8 to 11, I started to become a better ball player as I approached becoming a teen-ager. I was generally an outfielder, usually centerfield. I can remember unknowingly, practicing my broadcasting future, while passing the often long idle time between ever getting a ball hit to me in the outfield. I would announce the game in a hushed tone and make my little comments about the players on the other team.

By the time I was 13 going on 14 it was my last year to qualify to play in Little League. The level was called the Senior grade. I had a manager that last season who had been in the league coaching for as long as I could remember. He had a son who played, so basically coached his team through the years as his boy went up through the ranks.

His son had an unusual nickname. He was known as “Movin'”. Reason? When he ran his arms and legs were moving fast and rather erratically. Honestly he had more motion up and down and sideways in his body that did not translate very well in propelling him forward. You had to see it in person to understand. Running down the first baseline he probably burned 5 times as many calories getting there than most of us, however he also took 5 times as long.

At the end of the season there was always an All-Star team chosen. Our team had won the championship that year. That was the only time in the 7 years I played in the league that it occurred. I had a very good season both offensively and defensively. I was not a power hitter, but I was a contact guy and got on base often. The manager of the All-Star team that year was the manager of our championship team and father of Movin’. I’ll call him Mr. N in going forward with the story.

I can remember when I was younger watching him manage on teams I played against and being intimidated. He would yell at the umpires and had a very loud booming voice. Even when he was encouraging his own players it felt like he was yelling at them. I use to think to myself, I hope this guy never drafts me for his team.

Well lo and behold my very last season he did. I have to say that once you were on that side of the fence with him, there was nobody else I would rather play for. He always had your back. He may have been loud, but that was more about lighting some fire in you. He knew how to push some kids and coddle others. Biggest lesson learned to use a cliche. Don’t judge a book by it’s cover.

So now I’m on the All-Star team. Mr. N wanted me as his starting centerfielder. Could this be the start of my dream? Uh…. no. In fact it was probably the start of the end of the dream.

The summer of being in the All-Star tournament is still one in which I relish all of the memories. Coach, Mr. N, worked us hard. We practiced every day of the week except Sundays I believe. The practice would last hours in the hot late June sunshine. We had intense running and fielding drills. Practiced all possible game day situations and how we should execute certain plays. Batting practice for everyone until your shoulders ached. It was great. I’ll never forget him bringing out this huge cooler filled with ice and Gatorade. Drinking something cold never felt so refreshing and rewarding at the same time.

After a week or so of intense practice it was time to play our first game. I don’t remember the exact structure of how our opponents were chosen, but I remember they were against various teams from Queens. We won the first couple of games very convincingly. We started to believe we could win. This was really territory none of us had sniffed before.

Mr. N’s. son, Movin, was along for the ride as our bench coach. He had developed this pre-game gathering of the team in the dugout, putting our hands all in and chanting, “1-2-3……kick ass”!!!! Not the most sophisticated chant from a bunch of 13 & 14 year olds. In a way, it gave us some swagger. We viewed ourselves as a ragtag bunch of players who weren’t really suppose to be here, but you better take us seriously.

The next game was against a team from Brooklyn and we had to go play it on their home field. Leading up to the game some information was leaked to us about how the crowd and neighborhood we were about to encounter, was not going to be very welcoming to us or our families that came to cheer us on. I’m sure things got blown out of proportion, but things such as, “you’re not getting out of here if you beat us”, were bandied about in hushed tones.

As it turned out, we beat them very easily. I had my best game so far, going 3 for 4 with 3 RBI’s. Once the Brooklyn faithful realized they were not going to beat us, the crowd actually lightened up, at least according to my parents, they were friendly and joking around with our fanbase.

This was now getting serious, as we were only a victory away from getting to the NY state championship game. From there we would get into the national tournament and have to travel. If memory serves me, I believe it would have been somewhere in Indiana. We were already beyond the age of the Little League World Series tournament we all know from TV that is played in Williamsport, PA. As seniors, we were in a different tournament.

Movin’, in his pre-game pep talks, would start whispering about how pretty the girls would be in Indiana. I guess he felt this would motivate a bunch of pimple faced young boys teetering on puberty. He had become quite the cheerleader and also liked to be a part of what was happening on the field, even if he wasn’t actually a player on the roster.

As an outfielder I had a fairly large glove and became comfortable catching a ball with one hand, just the glove hand.   No guiding the ball into your glove with your other hand stuff for me. Whether the ball was hit right at me, or I had to extend my reach to snare it, I would pretty much just open up that big glove and swallow up the ball. Honestly I had much more confidence in my ability in the playing field defensively than I did at the plate offensively.

So the Ozone-Howard Senior Division All-Star team was motoring through quite a few teams from Queens & Brooklyn. Before the next game , which I believe was for the local district championship, Movin decided to pass along a Movin-ism to me.  He said, “Chris, you’re making me nervous when you catch those fly balls with one hand, can’t you use two hands sometimes?”  I, in my always diplomatic way said, “Oh sure, I’ll try” when in my head I knew I would try no such thing. Why mess with success.  

So off we go onto the field to start the top of the first inning of this very important game. Fast forward to two men out and a man on third base. The next batter hits a high, lazy flyball right at me in centerfield. If I had to move my feet one stride from where I was positioned it was a lot.  As I line the ball up, what words come into my head?  “Chris, can’t you catch the ball with two hands”. 

I figured this was an easy one to quiet him from pestering me and I would go with two hands this one time and put an end to this discussion.  Well, you know when you try and do something a little different from what you’re so used to doing and it somehow screws things up. Yes, I put up my bare hand hand next to my glove as the ball was coming down and I briefly lost sight of it for a fraction of a second. Apparently that’s all it took for me to move my glove to the wrong spot for the ball to nestle into. I felt a thud on the heel of my glove and then nothing. The ball hit the grass. I vaguely remember hearing some groaning from the crowd. I quickly reached down and threw the ball back into the infield.  The damage was done and the run had scored.  I turned my back to the field and wanted to crawl into a hole, if I could dig one fast enough.

Seconds later I heard a voice saying “son…..son….son…look at me”.  It was the second base umpire who came out to see me in centerfield.  In so many words he said “you’ve got to shake that off and forget about it. You are here because you are a good ball player, just remember that. Forget what just happened. ” 

As weeks and eventually years went on, I could only have wished everyone else would have decided to forget what just happened. I’ll get to that shortly.

The fact is, the dropped fly ball did not cost us the game. In fact we won the game. Another in fact, while I’m in facting away, I remember bunting for a hit to start off the last inning and scoring the go ahead and winning run, as we went on to a 6-4 victory.  Dropped flyball? Who dropped a fly ball?  I can’t remember, can you?

Well, as things become legendary in life, like an off camera softly spoken f-word becoming an F-Bomb heard around the world, the dropped flyball was not going away.  I do remember, to his credit, Movin coming up to me and actually apologizing for suggesting the two handed catch.  If only it all ended there.

It really wasn’t immediate, but I do remember the Dad of our third baseman, who I will just call Mr. S, always bringing it up whenever I would see him. Years later, playing on a softball team with his son, if I bumped into him it was always, “hey Chris , you still have that glove with the spring in it?”  Funny line.  Once or twice, but not for eternity. 

There would also be other occasions, when with friends from the team, while reminiscing, I would hear, “Oh, remember that time you dropped that flyball?”  Thanks guys, but do you really have to preface it with “do you remember“ when you’re all constantly reminding me?  I’m sure in reality, if you were to ask them today, they would tell you they never brought it up.

The last reference I will make to the dropped flyball unfortunately is one that is tied to tragedy. 

I don’t have exact dates, but about 7 or 8 years later, Movin tragically and suddenly died from a heart issue.

So many things about this were shocking. First of all, young people our age don’t die.  That’s not how this is supposed to go. This was still a young mother and fathers’ child. How could this happen?   It was more numbing to me at that time than it was heartbreaking, if you can understand how at 21 years old, you can’t quite frame things emotionally. 

I attended the wake along with a buddy, as I couldn’t do it alone.  We walked in and I remember seeing him there, looking just like Movin’, only sleeping.  He was quite the football player in his high school years and I remember seeing some of those pieces of memorabilia adorning the coffin. 

The toughest part as we approached, was seeing Mr. N.  This proud, strong, tough SOB who fought for all of his players and had leadership qualities many wished for, was now broken.  It’s something I can’t, nor ever want to even think about, but losing a child, at any age, is the worst tragedy I could imagine.  His heart was broken.

As Mr. N saw me approach, his crying became louder.  He grabbed me in this massive bearhug and was just crying and wailing. Then the words came. “Chris…..Chris…Chris….do you remember that time….. when you dropped that flyball?” 

Well, the moment was so surreal, I almost didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I remember sneaking a peek at my friend who was right behind me and he had the same strange look on his face, as if to say “ I don’t know what to do or say”.

However, as Mr. N continued to hug me and cry I felt something else from him.  I felt love.  I felt those words were actually about how he maybe wanted to comfort me from the pain of the dropped flyball. I think he was in so much pain, that some type of fatherly instinct kicked in and he reflected it on me in bringing up the most delicate thing that had happened in his experience with me as my coach.  In some strange way, maybe this dropped flyball was a deeper more positive connecting event in our lives.  

I never really got the chance to see or speak with him again.  Life’s journey took me out of the state and eventually into starting my own family and career. However, through the years I never forgot the book ending events. From the dropped flyball, to the tearfilled hug. I’m still not totally clear on all of the emotions the reflection on that memory brings me, but I know when something that happened 45 years ago in your life and it still feels powerful when you think about it, there is a reason.

All I can say in closing…… thanks Mr. N for the chance to experience playing in the All-Stars and for giving me the opportunity to drop that flyball. To Mr. S, No, I no longer have that glove with the spring in it! 

Sunshine Always!