Fizzy Business - Regis College

Mrs.
A in Anaheim; and high-altitude wind tunnels in
Denver’s Mile High Stadium.
We hold disparate memories of this time period.
Skip remembers who hit what pitch on what count,
the childish pranks in the clubhouse, the endless
hours spent icing his shoulder or groin, the anguish
of giving up a bases-loaded dinger, the ecstasy of
striking out the side, the catharsis of the competition.
I remember the special friendships, the overwhelming
camaraderie and compassion among the wives
(tempered by occasional jealousy and back stabbing),
the loneliness of long road trips, the anxiety that
accompanied the insecurity, the constant packing and
unpacking, the joy of joining in passionate standing
ovations, the delight in purchasing a permanent home
in the city we were playing in (three times), and the
anguish of learning (over the radio) that we had been
traded and would have to uproot again.
There is a fine line a baseball
wife must walk between CHiEF
CHEERLEADER and personal
anger management THERAPisT.
Forty years ago I vowed to unconditionally love
my husband for better and for worse, in good times
and bad. Looking back, we have had over 38 wonderful
years of wedded bliss and more than our share
of weeks and months of depressing dark days. How
did our marriage manage to survive the turmoil, the
trades and the temptations? A deep love for each
other, a strong belief in a higher power, and a huge
dose of humor helped us through.
My introduction into the world of baseball coincided
with my initiation into adulthood during the tumultuous
decade of the 1970s. The country’s disillusionment
with the Vietnam War was growing as protest
rallies spread across the nation. Civil rights laws
might have been registered in the books, but they still
had a long way to go before becoming a reality. The
Camelot dreams of the White House had turned into
a Watergate nightmare. The women’s movement had
opened up new and exciting options for young women,
but many soon discovered that “free love” was not
totally free of deception and heartache. Personal fulfillment
often came at the expense of a devoted spouse
and family. Some skeptics in the media posed the
question “Is God dead?” while subversive cults preyed
on lost souls who had forgotten how to pray. To deal
with the daily uncertainty and turmoil in professional
baseball, I found comfort in my faith, reflecting and
refocusing on the true meaning of life in the company
of a community of believers on Sunday mornings.
From my first freshman convocation at Regis to
our final graduation ceremony, every major assembly
began with the community intoning a musical adaptation
of John Donne’s Meditation 17. Wearing Fair
Isle sweaters and A-line wool skirts, my classmates
and I would form a circle, cross our arms, hold hands,
and chant:
No man is an island, no man stands alone
Each man’s joy is joy to me, each man’s
grief is my own
We need one another, and so I will defend
Each man as my brother
Each man as my friend.
Two weeks after singing this mantra at my college
commencement, I sat in an empty apartment in
Brown Deer, Wisconsin, wishing I had just one friend
with whom I could share the joy of my recent wedding
and my all-too-short road trip honeymoon.
My new husband would be away for another
week as he continued on a long road trip with the
Milwaukee Brewers. So there I sat, sprawled out on
the multicolored shag carpet, surrounded by mounds
of bubble wrap, serenaded by the soulful strains of the
Righteous Brothers’ Unchained Melody over the radio
(we did not yet own a television). A short while later
my doorbell rang. The wife of one of Skip’s teammates
was at the door. Her familiar Boston accent, along
with a request to share dinner with her and her twoyear-old
son, rejuvenated my spirit. Suddenly I was
no longer adrift alone on an island; I was being welcomed
into the baseball community by another young
wife who understood my need for companionship.
Baseball is a seasonal game played by young boys
in dirt fields throughout America. For a special, few
the baseball seasons continue to go round and round
into adulthood. However, the heart of the game is
rooted in childhood, and the professional athletes