Like many people in this country, I grew up with baseball. The earliest memories I have about the game involve playing it -- my first mitt, bound in rubber bands and stored under my bed to work it in; trying to catch those first thrown baseballs and dropping at least 20 before one miraculously fell into my glove; my first World Series (1968 â€“ Detroit beat St. Louis), watching Bob Gibson scowl as he struck out 18 Tigers reminded me of our fourth grade Physical Education teacher, Mr. Cannon, who believed in jumping jacks and medicine balls and couldnâ€™t tolerate â€œmouthy punksâ€ like myself.
Iâ€™ll also always fondly recall my very first little league uniform -- a t-shirt that shrunk to half its size after the first washing and gradually got smaller with every subsequent trip through the laundry â€“ and a cap that was three sizes too large.
I played little league in my home town of Old Greenwich, Connecticut, and later when we moved to Southern California. I was a classic example of â€œgood glove, no batâ€, and was frustrated playing the game most of my life. There was never any doubt that I was a more than adequate fielder. I had a great arm and made a few spectacular catches.
But, I was clueless at the plate. I would get up there and my legs would start shaking and Iâ€™d either freeze and take three strikes or swing with little chance of hitting anything but air. Iâ€™m still ashamed to admit that the last year my father coached me in Little League (I think it must have been 1970) I failed to get even a single hit all season. My nickname changed forever that day â€“ from â€œSteady Edâ€ to â€œEddy Oh-fer.â€
In those years, living in Connecticut, we were obviously Yankee fans. No one I knew rooted for the Mets, except one strange little girl in my fourth grade homeroom. Being a Mets fan at that time was like being a Jets fan. It just wasnâ€™t done.
But, much to everyoneâ€™s surprise, the Mets won it all in 1969. We moved to the Los Angeles area that summer and watched the Amazinâ€™s from NYC shock the Baltimore Orioles on our new color TV with a 16-inch screen, which at the time was considered enormous. The five-game dismantling of the mighty birds of the American League was fun to watch, although I still donâ€™t believe it happened. Baltimore took game one easily, beating Tom Seaver, the Metâ€™s ace. Jerry Koosman shut down the big Baltimore bats in game two, and I thought to myself â€“ well, it least it wonâ€™t be a sweep. I never imagined that the rag-tag crew from Shea would win the next three games. Met pitchers Gary Gentry and a very young baby-faced Nolan Ryan combined for a 5-0 shutout in game three, Seaver pitched a complete game in contest number four, and Koosman went all the way in game five, winning 5-3, after trailing 3-0 early in the game.
Previously unknown guys with names like Swoboda, Agee, Al Weis and Don Clendenon beat the dominators of the American League, handcuffing the greatest hitters of the time â€“ guys like Frank Robinson, Boog Powell and Paul Blair. Brooks Robinson made his standard spectacular plays at third, the staff of Palmer, Cuellar and McNally gave solid performances all season long, but the end result was that they lost to the better team that week and one half in October, 1969.
It was a classic example of the simple fact that the team with the most talent doesnâ€™t always prevail. The Orioles tried too hard, pressed too much and gave the Mets a chance to walk through the door.
When it was all over, I learned a valuable lesson. Thereâ€™s no such thing as a sure thing. The football Jets with Broadway Joe would prove that again to me just three short months later, when they embarrassed another sports powerhouse of the period, the Baltimore Colts, in the Super Bowl. I donâ€™t know if it was a full moon, or if Mercury was in retrograde, but those have to be two of the biggest upsets in professional sports, both played by two teams from the same cities, with Baltimore playing the heavy favorite, only to screw the pooch. Another fun fact is that the NY pro basketball Nets won the ABA title that same year.
By late 1970, we were comfortable in our new West Coast lifestyles. We were now Los Angeles Dodger fans. But, like with the Yankees in â€™68 and â€™69, the Dodgers were still far away from getting anywhere near the Fall Classic. The transplanted bums had performed well after moving from Ebetts Field to La-La Land, winning the whole thing in â€™59, â€™63 and â€™65 â€“ but hadnâ€™t done much since.
Life in Los Angeles was pretty good for a rambunctious 12-year old. But, things were about to change. A person who would radically change the way I thought about a lot of things was about to enter my life. She was a nun. A tough nun. And everybody called her Sister Sandy Koufax. Little did I know that the you-know-what was poised to hit the fan.
Because I attended primarily parochial schools throughout my pre-college educational career, I absorbed more than my share of physical abuse from my instructors -- primarily priests and nuns -- who never seemed to fully appreciate or tolerate my quick wit and incredible comic insight.
In public school, where I was always certain the administration would have more easily grasped my unique style of satire if given the chance, physically assaulting disruptive students as a way of keeping them in line was discouraged and, in fact, illegal.
The Catholics never seemed to have a problem with it, however.
My parents realized early on that public school was not going to be the solution to my varied range of behavioral problems. I needed the discipline of the Catholic school system. In public school, the hooliganism was rampant â€“ in parochial school, it was just as bad, except that Catholic kids had learned over the years to hide it better.
It wasnâ€™t like my parents were practicing Catholics. My folks sent me to Catholic schools for the discipline and nothing else. These nuns and priests who had essentially made my life a living hell for a good portion of my life didnâ€™t know it, but they had been hired for their disciplinary muscle, and thatâ€™s all. Body guards in habits, basically.
Conversely, every adult in authority at St. Basilâ€™s the Venerable -- where I matriculated during my elementary and middle school years -- all the way from the bearded cafeteria lady to the blind crossing guard, to the grizzled old alcoholic janitor who was later fired for drinking all the holy wine, had free rein to smack me when provoked. They were not only permitted to do so, but encouraged, and, in fact, this aspect of the school was one of the primary reasons my parents had sent me there in the first place.
It was a reign of terror and violence that would shadow me throughout my schooling. It was a basic lesson -- open your mouth, get whacked upside the head. It was a simple process of association, a sick experiment not unlike the horrible things Pavlov did to his poor dogs. At least the pooches got fed every now and then. All I got was pummeled. I was hearing bells, all right, but I wasnâ€™t salivating. The ringing in my ears was from the quick lefts and roundhouse rights I was on the business-side of almost hourly at St. Basils.
Itâ€™s amusing in a way to think that of all the things that happened to me in Catholic school, both good and bad, the only times I can clearly remember are the numerous instances where I got whacked around for some silly prank I pulled or some smart-ass remark I made.
Like a punchy old boxer long retired from the ring, the countless beatings I took; those fleeting instances of extreme discomfort and humiliation; appear in my mind just like they happened only yesterday. They play themselves out in slow motion sometimes, blow-by-blow, blood and pieces of flesh flying about, just like those great fight scenes in â€œRaging Bull."
Initially, in the pre-confirmation years, the nuns were the ones who took on the arduous chore of administering the discipline I was evidently so much in need of.
Over time, their forms of torture evolved as they became more sophisticated and increasingly frustrated by my antics.
The first form of this was the old wooden ruler across the knuckles routine. This hurt considerably, and could have been a marvelous deterrent if it wasnâ€™t so logistically impractical. For example, you couldnâ€™t perform it on an unwilling victim without dragging them kicking and screaming. And then good luck trying to subdue someone long enough to crack â€˜me a good one.
Anyone who was dumb enough to stand there while they got whacked with a piece of wood with a metal rod in the middle, like the newer rulers had, was deserving of such a punishment anyway.
The simple truth was that this once reliable behavior modifier may have worked in the past when kids were more in awe of authority, but in the seventies, it was passÃ©. Like trying to get the country to switch over to the metric system, it was a noble gesture, they gave it a solid effort, but in the end, it was unsuccessful. The priests and nuns eventually abandoned it, and began to look elsewhere in pursuit of the perfect punishment for smart asses like myself.
The second method I encountered was the flying blackboard eraser, familiar to anyone who has ever gone to Catholic school. About the size of a small brick, I soon learned that this missile made of cloth and wood, when thrown by a seasoned professional, flew across the classroom with amazing speed and accuracy. And, upon reaching its destination -- which, in most instances, consisted of my large, crew cut clean head and enormous, fan-like Alfred E. Neuman ear lobes, -- consistently inflicted extreme pain.
Eventually, I was made aware of the fact that the blackboard eraser was the sisterhoodâ€™s primary weapon of choice at St. Basilâ€™s. Each and every nun threw it well, like it was something they taught in the convent, right along with the classes in chastity and the scriptures.
There wasnâ€™t a slouch in the bunch--all of them, from Sister Astor to Sister Gertrude (though she was a little older and nursed a bad case of bursitis), could throw the thing fast and true.
To this day, I still hold one particular nun, Sister Sandy, in total awe. She had all the qualities of a truly great eraser thrower, natural abilities you canâ€™t teach, like dead-on aim and the kind of velocity they can only gauge with a speed gun. But, the most amazing thing about Sister Sandy was her incredible stamina. She finished better than the great Cy Young, never wavering or showing a hint of fatigue.
Heat, cold, rain, wind, sleet, hail, Old Reliable Sister Sandy was rock solid and undeterred day after day, from the moment morning bell sounded, all the way through After-School Sports. She seemed to get stronger rather than tire after lunch. I always felt that she relished the competition I provided, and I was prepared to test her at every turn.
Sometimes, if they got lucky, the students could take control of a classroom late in the afternoon when it was hot and humid and they sensed that a young, rookieâ€™s arm was tiring and their concentration waning.
A couple of limp, errant throws of the eraser told you the teacher was vulnerable and that you could get away with any misbehavior you fancied. Like an injured gazelle being subdued by a pack of hungry lions, the prey was yours.
On occasion, as an extreme measure, Sister Superior would call for a reliever, like a novice priest or a nun-in-training, to stop the barrage of unruliness that always took place when some poor nun couldnâ€™t throw strikes anymore.
But, even a steady stopper knew that by then it was too late. The convicts were in charge now. The suddenly harmless erasers sat helplessly on the ledge below the chalkboard, untossed and about as intimidating as Bambi.
Chaos reigned supreme during those rare sweet moments of childish revolt, the air filled was with freedom and a sea of spit balls, sticking to anything and everything, including the crucifix above the door and the traditional picture of the Last Supper, making it appear for a moment as though Christ and the twelve disciples were dining on wet clumps of notebook paper instead of bread and wine.
Mischievous little boys snapping the girlsâ€™ bra straps amid shrieks of horror, giving each other melvins in a huge, out-of-control snuggy frenzy, finally turning on the fat, sweaty, kid with the glasses, just like poor â€œPiggyâ€ in â€œLord of The Fliesâ€.
That never happened in Sister Sandyâ€™s class, though. Not with Sandy. She was a closer, a workhouse, and because we knew sheâ€™d be sharp every day, she was always unquestionably in charge.
Just when you thought youâ€™d gotten over on her, sheâ€™d fool you. Sister Sandy had a curve like Koufax, a sneaky pitch that looked like it was going to hit someone two rows of desks over, when suddenly, it veered viciously in your direction , and â€œwhapâ€, you got it!
Her accuracy was uncanny -- she reminded me a lot of Jim â€œCatfishâ€ Hunter that way. Her strike zone went from the base of the neck to the top of the cranium. But, her favorite target was right in the middle of the forehead, which left a white chalky circle that looked kind of like the ash spot they gave you in the same location every Ash Wednesday.
It was her most famous move, and when it was done just right, she got you precisely between the eyes. Youâ€™d leave the mark there on your skull as long as you could, even though it would disgrace you with the good kids, like the big â€œAâ€ they used to give to adulterers in the early days of the American colonies.
The bad kids thought it was neat -- like a tattoo that said, â€œBad to the Boneâ€ or something. But, you wouldnâ€™t wipe it off as a show of respect to Sister Sandy....as if to say begrudgingly, â€œI got nailed by the very best.â€ Because when Sister Sandy hit you with a blackboard eraser, it was like striking out against Bob Feller -- there was absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.
Sandy had little things sheâ€™d do when sheâ€™d throw too, her signature moves, we called them. Sheâ€™d hide Vaseline under her nunâ€™s hat and sneak some onto the eraser, causing it to dip and hop just like Gaylord Perryâ€™s legendary spitball. Sheâ€™d stare you down with that petrifying scowl, like Bob Gibson and Don Drysdale used to do in the sixties.
You see, Sister Sandy (or the â€œBig Kâ€ has them sometimes called her) was an avid baseball fan and borrowed many the idiosyncrasies of all her favorite pitchers. She fidgeted and stalked around the podium at the front of the classroom and talked to herself, the same way Mark â€œThe Birdâ€ Fidrych used to act out on the mound.
During her windup, she turned her back to the class and briefly faced the blackboard, her bare, unshaven, vericous vein-riddled leg emerging from under her habit and hanging suspended in mid-air for a split-second. Then, suddenly sheâ€™d spin around and throw heat, just like Luis Tiant.
Sometimes, late in the afternoon when the shadows grew long on the walls and floor of the classroom, it was virtually impossible to pick up the flight of a pitched eraser, especially as it emerged at mach one from a background of black and white robes and flailing rosary. Thatâ€™s when you kept your mouth shut and paid attention in Bertâ€™s class, knowing full well that that was when she was at her most dangerous.
Sister Bert took the best from all her baseball heroes -- she had Marichalâ€™s high kick, Valenzeulaâ€™s eyes-to-the-sky, and even incorporated some of Satchel Paigeâ€™s tongue-in-cheek colloquiums. And with Clemens' fastball, Wilhelmâ€™s knuckler, Spahnâ€™s scroogie -- she even had a split-finger pitch -- Sister Sandy was a worthy opponent, a relentless competitor and a pleasure to watch.
She was so good at firing erasers, that most of the time you overlooked how very hard Sister Sandy was on the eyes.
She was blessed with a great arm, and was a more than adequate history teacher, but looked like Lurch in a dress, and Iâ€™m being kind. It didnâ€™t matter. To me, she was something really special, and I honestly believe that if she had been born a man, she would have made it all the way to The Show, most likely as a middle reliever, I think.
As you progressed at St. Basilâ€™s, you got used to being bombarded by blackboard erasers, and it lost its effectiveness as a deterrent after a while A puff of chalk dust, some nervous laughter from your classmates, a moment of mild embarrassment, and it was over.
The nuns would quickly have to devise a more potent form of punishment if they ever hoped to break me. For about two weeks, I was actually convinced I had them on the ropes., but they were simply re-grouping quietly, behind the vestibule, methodically re-assembling their troops secretly in the rectory and bringing in a couple of specialists from the Vatican.
Those crafty penguins were not fazed one bit, and had only just begun the process of breaking and muzzling me. Sister Sandy would soon seem as formidable and tough as a wrinkled, shrinking Mother Teresa, when compared to the ball breakers Iâ€™d be butting heads with at St. Basilâ€™s in the days to come.
Eventually I found out there were many much more drastic forms of control within these nunâ€™s repertoires of discipline and pain, and naturally I was destined to be on the receiving end of every one more than once.
I look back now and I realize I never even had a chance. After all, these holy warriors battled daily with the Ultimate Evil, The Big Bad One, Beelzebub, Satan Himself.
Do you think they felt even mildly threatened by a fifth grader whose entire arsenal consisted of the fake-fart-under-the-armpit gag, a few dirty limericks, an old routine of bad knock-knock jokes, and whose best comeback was â€œI know you are but what am I?â€
I was seriously outnumbered and overmatched, on the verge of a Holy War I could never win. I had a few more tricks up my sleeve, sure, but hey -- they had God on their side. Did I really think I even had a chance?
Well, I made it out of St. Basilâ€™s alive and the long-term effects that those chalkboard erasers inflicted on me are debatable. I still hate the smell of chalk dust, though.
I heard many years later that Sister Sandy died in 1999 at the ripe old age of 84. Iâ€™m told she could still hurl those erasers better than any nun who lived, right up until the day she passed on the big ballpark in the sky. And you know what? I believe it.
Copyright © 2010 Ed Attanasio
Sister Sandy Koufax
Copyright © 2010 Ed Attanasio
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