And May You Stay Forever Young

 

A couple of months ago, I called my middle son who had just returned from a tryout for southern D1 football refs.  He tried to keep his voice reserved, and very humble in the opportunity and outcome, and as elated and proud of him as I was, I couldn't help but feel guilty and think "Damn, Wingman, this should be you enjoying this moment with your son-not me."

The following evening, I brought the conversation up with another son, and questioned what he thought his father's reaction might have been.  He replied that Wingman would most definitely have been gloating, if not berating him for playing baseball for 16+ years and not pursuing the same goals to be an umpire. Every year on this anniversary, I wonder what life would be like if Wingman was still alive.

Would Wingman ever have gone back to playing in bands?  Would he have gotten involved with the charity I'm volunteering in or avoided it because of clashes with guys he played with in the past? His bass still stands on the landing in pristine condition after taking a swim in Sandy and then being lovingly restored to like-new by a dear friend. I've often thought of finding someone to play it or it will become one of the items, like the Mickey Mantle baseball, that the boys will fight over when I'm gone for no other reason than it's there.

How many concerts tickets would he have added to his box of memories?  Not only would he have gone to, but afterwards would have deeply mourned the deaths of Jeff Beck and David Bowie, but not as much as when John Lennon died. He'd be salivating seeing guys like Peter Frampton, Joe Jackson and Elvis Costello playing local venues and he'd surely critique Steely Dan without Walter Becker, The Doobie Brothers WITH Michael McDonald and why the hell are they trying to resurrect Beatles music with AI?

How many of the grandkids softball or baseball games and tournaments would he never have missed like we use to travel to for our boys?  All of the rec, grade and high school games, all of the college ones-sitting in frosty April to sweltering August weather.  He would have loved the year that Summer Son live at our home and might have made more than the one game I went to in Hartford to see him play in college. Because he loved seeing kids play the game, would he have coached local kids like a high school friend of his is doing now? Or crazier yet, would he have insisted on flying to South Korea to see our oldest granddaughter, who has absolutely no interest in sports at all, dance in a ballet recital?

How many Yankee games would he have gone to? He and a friend each took a son to the first game at the new Yankee Stadium, and proudly told everyone that his butt was the first to sit in that seat.  I guess the fact that some of his ashes are sitting in Monument Park between Reggie Jackson and Don Mattingly means he hasn't missed a game in years.

When Wingman died, I offered his clothes and personal items to the boys, but no one took anything.  I donated most everything wearable to our Pastor friend, but a lot of his old tee shirts I kept.  In fact, a full storage bin of them that moved at least four times in twelve years, There were of course, many baseball shirts, but also included ones he wore on our first couple of dates, ones from our deli, ones from the earliest band I knew him from, and even ones from concerts he went to before I ever met him.  Combined with those, I had three bins of all sorts of tee shirts from the three boys that the bizarre hoarder in me kept for posterity. So this year, for the twelfth Anniversary of Wingman's passing, I made each son a quilt which combined his and their lives in the tee shirts I saved.  Each quilt will hopefully be a reminder of the things that both he and they loved, made by me with the hope  I have for all of them to remain FOREVER YOUNG.