The Pirates - Be Patient - Part II

A friend of mine with the first name Harry once suggested I write a blog, so I did. I hesitate to include any more information regarding Harry. I can picture any blog followers I might have, gathering rocks and heading for his home, posthaste.

However, I am grateful to Harry. I appreciate his comments and support. He must be a friend as he managed to wade through the epistle regarding the Pirates and then provide affirmative feedback.

We are of the same generation. Much of what he writes about in his blog brings a smile to my face and even a little jump in my step. These are not accomplishments acquired easily.

Now, on the other hand, my wife may cross the street if she sees Harry heading in her destination. I say this with tongue planted firmly in cheek as she really likes Harry also.

The problem lies with the fact that my new hobby of blogging is going the same way as did so many of the other hobbies that I tended to overdue.
They include golf, music, mystery novels, and sleeping in on the weekend.

Many an early evening, Phyl finds herself cooling her heels in the kitchen awaiting "the blogmeister" to finish editing the current blog, so the three of us can go out.

Waiting for "The Blogmeister" is not nearly as interesting as "Waiting For Godot", a popular play by Samuel Beckett, which is now in revival. Her fate is compounded by the fact there are only so many times she can take the two year old, two pound Chihuahua Bella out to tinkle without raising the neighbor's suspicion she has become a "Peeping Tomasina".

I became most concerned when I discovered a bag of rocks tucked away in the corner of our shed. And, yeah, she does know where Harry lives.

So, this log will be mercifully shorter than the last one.

When I was finishing up my college studies I lived in a third floor walkup in Oakland, a section of Pittsburgh that also housed Forbes Field, an edifice into which I could walk two blocks to enter.

Money was tight then but, on those fortunate nights when The Pirates were in town and I was home, I could put down the books when the seventh inning started and attend the game for free. They left the gate open to the bleachers on the third base side at about that time of night.

There, I would sit and eat my homemade sandwich while cheering for the game to go into extra innings. I doubt if the current organization encourages either actvity.

I also attended Pirate's games with my family and occasionally glanced over at my dad in vain as I attempted to interpret the hieroglyphics he was steadily entering into his scorebook.

As a family, we often sat up on the porch atop the garage at home. For some reason KDKA's baseball game reception seemed to be best out there. We sat the portable radio on top of the brick wall facing Avenue F. I remember one night that it was there we sat one night as we listened to Harvey Haddix attempting to win the infamous baseball game whose anniversary was recently celebrated.

Lest any of you who read "Pirates I" conclude that I hate the Pirates, please be assured it is just my sadness as to what they have been allowed to become that arouses my wrath. I have fantastic memories of The Pirates of my youth and early adulthood.

They include my departing the Liberty Tubes and heading across the Liberty Bridge knowing I was late for work. That didn't matter. A lot of people were. It was at this location and point in time I heard Maz hit the winning World Series homerun that changed the town of Pittsburgh forever.

I have to go now. My wife just entered the room and inquired: "do you think they will ever be able to remove the callouses from your fingertips?"

Hey Harry, do you think that was a message?