Neighbors in Time of Need

The pain associated with death and dying that paid our family an extended visit over the last year came to a somber culmination Friday when our matriarch and my wife’s mother Fayna Birnbaum was laid to rest.

I’ve never been much comfort to anyone during times like these dating back to my dear mother’s untimely passing at 66 in 1990.  I’ve never had to arrange funerals or quite understood the role of funeral homes. I’m good at crying and caring, but I’m prone to flee from the nuts and bolts of the discussion.

For the first time, I sat around a table at a funeral home and helped deal with the task at hand, and coming away from that experience, I’m forever grateful we chose Farrell Funeral Home on Franklin Square in New Britain.

My wife Lisa graduated from New Britain High with owner Bill Farrell, and I got to know him in passing during my sports writing career at The New Britain Herald as a prominent figure in the Hardware City to the World.

Bill, his son Mike and their staff left no stone unturned to spare the family any burden.  The biggest issues were addressed and flawlessly executed in one brief meeting.

On Friday, everything was in order for a beautiful ceremony that I’d be proud to share with you a bit later in this discourse.  Plenty of umbrellas were on hand with the skies threatening for the umpteenth day.  Rows of seats were arranged graveside.

But their true mettle and dedication to their craft arose when further adversity reared its ugliness at precisely the wrong time. 

The terrain at the Beth Alom Cemetery on Allen Street is rather treacherous.  It’s a steep hillside, and the Birnbaum plot was at the back after the hill has crested and began to slope down.  Footsteps are even more difficult because of the pitting left by previous interments.

A woman whose name I need not mention slipped down a small slope and fell down.  She had spent the last few years as Fayna’s very best friend.  They would chat multiple times a day, the way so many of past generations did.  The conversations were very soothing for Fayna as she declined.

Thankfully Lisa’s brother Neil is a doctor, as is his wife Ruth and their son, Aaron.  Lisa’s good friend Connie, a nurse by trade, was standing right next to the woman when she went down. The comforted her and put her in a chair, but the family had the responsibility of setting up the ensuing luncheon.

The Farrells stepped right in and saw to her needs as the family moved on to the final stage of the process.  They showed kindness beyond compare and compassion to aid the stricken woman.  They sat with her as the ambulance arrived and made sure her possessions were safe.

I can’t say enough about how the Farrells and their friendly entourage settled our jangled nerves as we paid our final respects to Fayna, whose contributions to the city as a New Britain General Hospital volunteer were massive.

I have a much different understanding of compassion at such times thanks to Bill and company, and for that we want to thank them with all our hearts.

While we’re thanking people, I must include my sister Marji, whose compassion is also off the charts.  Like the brunt of us, Marji was ailing with some strain of what’s been haunting so many of us in this time of strange weather.  She could hardly speak for days with laryngitis, but that didn’t stop her from arranging a warm graveside ceremony.

Marji’s husband Harold, another person at the top of the compassion list, is an accomplished flute player.  He brought smiles to the face of Fayna and other folks at the Jerome Home nursing facility with the holiday season impending.

He played softly, the gentle notes wafting through the air like we were all nestled in a corner of heaven.  The skies were so grey and our hearts were aching but Harold’s music lifted us as we settled in for 20 minutes of readings and two eulogies. My God, Harold and Marji, how can we thank you!

I also want to mention that the Birnbaum’s cemetery plot is adjacent to that of a man whom I treasured as a resource of New Britain sports and history.  Bart Fisher, one-time Herald sports editor, passed 10 years ago at 68.  I loved Bart, and couldn’t spend enough time with him.  He was a New Britain historian without equal.  He used to tell us, “You give me any subject in the world and I’ll tell you how it’s tied to New Britain.”

I’ll revisit Bart in my wrap-up.

We had lunch at Great Taste, the venerable Chinese restaurant on West Main Street, where Fayna and her late husband David were far more than just customers.  Their food is exceptional – has been for decades – but as with the Farrells, the owners did everything to lighten our burden. 

It’s all over now.  A page has been turned in our life.  A new chapter has begun.  Fayna is out of pain now.  No more of the worries that frazzled her for months.

As I summed it up in my mind, I recalled how my time writing sports at The Herald enabled me to get very familiar with New Britain.  Bart was instrumental at the start of my Herald career, and I tried to carry his torch after he moved on to Central Connecticut State University’s sports office.

As each day passed, I became more in tune with New Britain and how it differs from other cities of similar size.  I’m proud to have made my contribution, and even prouder of the love that Fayna helped course through town.

Happy New Year to all, and please make 2024 a damned sight better than its predecessor.  I’d like to have a cup of coffee, or a Great Taste order of General Tso’s, with everyone.

 

 

 

More than the games have gotten worse

One of the great blessings of my life is having been spared from any hospital stays since I was 16.

That was the summer of 1968.  I remember bits and pieces of the experience.  To nobody’s surprise, I can best sort through it if I put it in baseball terms. 

1968 went down in baseball annals as the Year of the Pitcher.  St. Louis Cardinals Hall of Fame righthander Bob Gibson, perhaps the best ever if you ask me, recorded an ERA of 1.12.  Detroit’s Denny McLain won 31 games, the first to break the 30-win barrier since Dizzy Dean in 1934.  MLB starters threw 339 shutouts. 

Mickey Lolich tossed three complete games in the World Series to lead the Tigers over Gibson and the Cards. 

I watched the 1968 All-Star Game from a bed in St. Raphael’s Hospital in New Haven.  If memory serves (give me a break; it was 55 years ago), the great Willie Mays singled off Luis Tiant of the Cleveland Indians the first inning and scored the game’s only run for a 1-0 National League victory.  Mays reached second on an errant pickoff attempt, took third on a wild pitch and scored on a double-play ball.  That was it.  The pitchers took over.

Aah, those were the days!  Tight, briskly played ballgames.  No weird geeky statistics.

Baseball wasn’t the only item that was better in those days.  Visiting the hospital in 1968 wasn’t exactly fun, particularly for a teenager who hardly knew why the hell he was even there.  Apprehension bracketed my body and mind as the nurses, student nurses, aides and interns did their best to brighten my spirits.

Since I was 16, I was placed in a pediatric unit.  The toys that filled the solarium and the pastel colors on the walls softened the apprehension.  Kind, elderly volunteers went from bed to bed like gentle grandparents making sure fear left the room.

Wouldn’t you think that the hospital system would be much better 55 years later? 

My wife’s mother is currently in New Britain General Hospital, which we were quick to discover is now part of Hartford HealthCare.

I can’t comment on the medical attention she’s getting because I’m not a physician, but the services in the hospital are nowhere near the 1968 level.  I certainly wouldn’t blame the hard-working souls who work there.  They’re just doing their jobs, and doing the best they can, but there simply are not nearly enough of them. 

My mother-in-law was on the third floor, where they had two nurses caring for 38 patients.  The incessant beeping of calls for help were like the soundtrack of a horror movie.  Hospital administrators would have had to go to the Cloning Department five times for the department to run efficiently.  If I was sick that may be the last place I’d want to be.

So what has happened since I went in for my childhood adjustment so long ago?  I wish I knew half of it.  On the other hand, maybe I don’t want to.  Those are not the type of statistics on which sports fans care to dwell.  Suffice it to say that drawing up a plan for renewed efficiency and high-quality care requires money and lots of it.  The massive majority needing hospitalization can’t come close to affording it.

Less populated countries like Canada have socialized medicine, but I’ve heard terrible tales about waiting lists.  It seems Canadian residents often prefer to be treated here because timing is critical.  Can the US government pay the bills?  Should the government be responsible? 

I’m not into political arguments, but even the person on the streets can see that something’s amiss as soon as they pass through the beautiful lobby.  I don’t wish to discuss which party was in power when the crisis took a turn for the worse.  What I do know is we’re sending billions overseas and don’t appear to have the resources to take care of our own.

When politics enter the fray, I start scanning the Comcast grid for a ballgame because I’m out of my league.  Unfortunately, Major League Baseball is just another indicator that something is dreadfully wrong.  We don’t have money to improve hospitals but the Los Angeles Dodgers have $700 million to hand to Japanese superstar Shohei Ohtani over the next decade?

Sure, we’re talking about apples and oranges here but no one can deny that something is indeed dreadfully wrong.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unionville a center for coffee and good tidings

As the effects of the pandemic tightened their grip on us, I couldn’t help but think how important it is to get back to basics as a means of coming together against a common enemy.

We stayed home for days and weeks on end, venturing out for necessities only – food and medicine.  When we began to circulate again, we focused on all the small businesses in our area.  Many of them never recovered.  These are friends and neighbors who generally supplied us with quality goods and services for years and were now thrust into survival mode.

We did our best to comply.  We shopped for produce, vegetable plants and flowers at places like Jillybean’s on Route 6 and Hein’s Farm.  We dined at locally owned and operated establishments, even when hard times forced cutbacks, the sudden need for outdoor dining and created staffing problems.

We would all like to believe that the COVID nightmare has passed.  The politics of it continues to shake the very foundation of common sense, but Americans have always persevered well in the face of adversity.  Sure enough, as the masks began to disappear, the community surged back toward normalcy.  It’s that surge that should define the experience, and we witnessed a sign of it Wednesday morning.

Two new coffee spots have opened in Unionville recently.  We haven’t gotten to Bruno’s on Mill Street yet, but we went to The Daily Grind in Depot Place to kick off our pre-Thanksgiving festivities.

The coffee was great.  We had bagels, and they were also top-notch.  But it wasn’t the food or drink that captured my thoughts.

Two members of the Farmington Police Department stood near the window.  A young family enjoyed their breakfast treats at a table across the room.  Others came and went.  Everybody chatted.  Everyone was friendly.  Community indeed can be restored if we seek face-to-face communication ahead of that addictive rectangular device in your pocket.

These are the scenes you don’t see while local and national news reports center on the hatred that grips our world.  We need reminders that there still are smiling faces out there, people with their hearts full of holiday cheer, folks who would go out of their way to help a neighbor.  I’m not prone to lose sight of life’s pleasant side, but the national issues are so divisive that it’s easy to lose focus.

Not everyone is consumed by the dark world of social media, and we’ve got to meet and communicate face to face to restore the virtues of American culture that got us though the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, two World Wars, a cold war, the errorism of 9/11, a pandemic, and terrorism abroad. The guy you may be calling names on Facebook because of his political views has aging parents, growing children and the need for compassion just like you.  If you had met at the Daily Grind instead of a forum that breeds antagonism, you’d be smiling instead of cursing.

The Daily Grind is the realization of a long, difficult process shouldered by a true Unionville legacy.  I’ll call it the Evan Parsons Project, with all due respect to musician Alan Parsons.  When we arrived in town we grew to appreciate Parsons Hardware in Unionville and the Parsons automobile dealers in Farmington and Plainville.  Evan has now taken the baton and brings his family name back into the mainstream of Farmington life.

Evan took the time to chat candidly with us as business flourished.  Life has come full circle here and we hope The Evan Parsons Project bears fruit like his ancestors’ endeavors did for them.  It’s all up to us as residents and consumers.  Whether you pay Evan a visit, drop into Bruno’s, dine at local restaurants and use local services, it’s all money that stays in the community.  Nothing against Dunkin’, which I believe is managed by people who care, too.  I’m hopeful that all three coffee shops thrive.

So what are we waiting for?  Let’s think globally, but act locally and go have a cuppa Joe!

Yanks net 31st straight winning year yet fans moan

Heartfelt congratulations to the New York Yankees on another winning season.

That’s right. Despite all the grousing and groaning from discordant Bronx Bombers fans across the Evil Empire, these Yankees finished at 82-80. That’s a winning record, in case those throughout the seven boroughs need remedial mathematics.

I know quite well that finishing out of playoff contention and being mired in fourth place does not meet Yankee expectations, but need I remind New York fans that while winning championships may be expected every season, it isn’t some sort of megalopolitan birthright that you win more championships than any other team.

In fact, the New York Yankees have not had a losing season since 1992. For 31 years, Yankee management has desperately doled out exorbitant contracts and snatched pick-of-the-litter free agents to amass such a string of winning seasons. Meanwhile, the lowly peons in such second-tier cities as Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, Washington D.C., Detroit – virtually every other city with a franchise – cannot approach that rate of success.

You would think the Yankees finished 50-112 like the A’s, 71-91 like the Nationals, or even 78-84 like the Red Sox, or 74-87 like the overhyped, mismanaged Mets. No, the Yankees, despite injuries and the paucity of athletic players, were once again on the winning side of the ledger.

Yet the whining emanating from the $500 seats at Yankee Stadium would make one think the facade has caved in. No, although perhaps they were focused on the denizens of MetLife Stadium and the raging disappointment that NFL 2023 has brought New Yorkers. Fire Cashman, they howl.

Fire Boone! Release Stanton! Hal Steinbrenner is terrible. Ah, here comes that eternal holier-than-thou sentiment that I’ve been hearing for 60 years. That holier-than-thou 20/20 hindsight that makes their whining as unlistenable as Roseanne Barr singing the National Anthem.

Well, let me say that generally my heart bleeds for the downtrodden, but you’re just one team of 32. And not one of those teams, not even the cash-laden Dodgers, can boast of such a 31-year run. In fact, the Dodger string of winning campaigns is a “modest” 13 years. They shop the annual MLB fire sales magnificently, don’t they?

The Cardinals had a 15-year legacy of winning baseball snapped this season. The Red Sox put together 14 seasons between 1998 and 2011 before their rollercoaster ride through the early 21^st century.

So where is this heading? Major League Baseball must establish ways to balance the playing field. The MLB Players Association gained an upper hand after the Curt Flood case and obviously is reluctant to give back to the fans who pay the freight. Don’t fans in Pittsburgh and Cincinnati rate the same opportunity to see their teams succeed as those in the cities that MLB yearns to have in the postseason?

A Dodgers-Yankees World Series represents a ratings coup for MLB as it battles to maintain its foothold in the advertising race. A Twins-Brewers World Series would be rather calamitous as MLB scraps for the dollars that have shifted toward the NFL, NBA and the two most popular college sports, football and basketball.

Wouldn’t you think that odds would have favored at least one losing season since Jay Leno debuted on the Tonight Show? At least once since Bill Clinton was elected President? If only former NFL mogul and purveyor of parity Pete Rozelle were still around. 

The NFL benefited and continues to do so in an environment where the population centers don’t always win. Green Bay, a city of 107,395, is Titletown USA. New York City, with the 8,804,190 still hanging around after the COVID migration to New England and the Adirondacks, is as sorry a football city as exists in NFL lore. Yet the NFL prospers as the premier sports league in America, turning what was once just Sunday afternoon into 17 national holidays. 

So quit your bellyaching, New York. You’re not better than anyone else.

 

He Does His Best For Peace and Love

 

Richie Furay is a rock ‘n’ roll pioneer.

The 79-year-old native Ohioan brought his lyrics of love and catchy tunes to Buffalo Springfield, Poco and the Souther-Hillman-Furay Band through the 1960s and 1970s.  More recently, Furay, who will retire from live performances in May as he turns 80, brought them to the Katharine Hepburn Cultural Center and Museum on October 25.

Furay, a member of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, is one of the godparents of a musical genre that has always been my favorite.  It was dubbed “country rock” back then. 

Buffalo Springfield was a virtual all-star lineup that included Stephen Stills and Neil Young before they gave us “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” and “Ohio.”  Among its biggest hits was Stills’ protest song, “For What It’s Worth,” which became an anthem shortly after its release 57 years ago. 

Like so many of the era’s great rock acts, Buffalo Springfield crumbled when the artists developed conflicting notions about what the future might hold.  Furay united with Jim Messina, Rusty Young, Randy Meisner and George Grantham to form Poco in 1968.  Timothy B. Schmidt replaced future Eagle Meisner and Messina was gone by 1970, but Furay’s lilting voice and the upbeat nature of his music coursed through the genre.

Furay left Poco in 1974 to form the Souther-Hillman-Furay Band, his sound having attracted legions of fans.  When the numbers didn’t add up to success, he became drawn to Christianity and became a pastor in the Denver area. It was his Christian demeanor that was on display after his stellar performance at The Kate.

The tradition at The Kate is for artists, if they’re so inclined, to meet and chat with their fans after the show as they sell their music, shirts, caps and the like.  I’ve had the chance to chat with many of my favorites and as the show ended, I felt compelled to meet him.  After all, his music is part of my life’s soundtrack.

He chatted amiably with some folks and made his way toward me.  What a time for the cellphone to beep.  My son Jason sent me a very ominous text – “Dad, whatever you do, don’t look at the news.”  I quickly texted back.

“What happened?  Did (Celtics great Jayson) Tatum get hurt?  Is there more Hamas treachery in Israel?”

He piqued my curiosity.  I had to find out what happened.

My wife Lisa and I had just returned from a nice trip to Maine and had only been home for a few days.  The report Jason was alluding to was the mass murder in Lewiston.  No, please, not in Maine.  We went up there to escape from I-84 road rage and the other grim occurrences that now happen where too many people live too close together.

Yes, the report said 22 people had been shot and the gunman was still at-large.  A peaceful evening of music was tainted by the painful reality of 21^st century life in our country.

Richie Furay looked at my reaction to what I had just read and his instinct told him something was wrong.  I held the cellphone up so he could read it.

A tear formed in the corner of his eye as he scanned the news.  He looked at me and said, “What is wrong with us?”  Richie, I wish I knew.  I felt a deeper connection with him as a contemporary who spent a lifetime singing songs of love.  I shoveled out many dollars that I shouldn’t have spent to have his soothing music in my library.

“Good Feeling To Know,” which Richie chose not to perform at The Kate, was always a go-to song when I was feeling down.  “Kind Woman.” “Sit Down I Think I Love You.” “Go And Say Goodbye.” “Pickin’ Up The Pieces.” They were sung with love.  That’s what so many artists in the genre did.  Love was the prevailing emotion that occupied our hearts as we entered the real world, married and had kids.  The chance meeting between Richie and I nearly 60 years later showed how the Life Meter has gone from love to hate during our time.  That wasn’t how we planned it.  We had more faith in humanity that peace could truly prevail beyond just the music.

I wish I could present you with a happier ending. Less than two weeks later, Hamas displayed the barbarity that an idealistic songwriter like Furay could never have comprehended with its senseless attack on innocent people, most of whom were enjoying a concert at the time.

Richie couldn’t understand how that could happen.  Neither can I.  Hate, you see, has dumped love onto the back pages of life.  I’m glad a vestige of the love and innocence we once enjoyed could return to us, even if only for a fleeting moment.

A Good Feeling to Know

When I need good lovin' I always come home to you. You free my lifetime of the blues.

Yes I got that old time feelin' burnin' deep inside my soul and I'm yours, baby I'm home.

And it's a good feeling to know. It's such a good feeling to know. Oh it's a good feeling to know. Somebody loves you.

Kind Woman

I got a good reason for loving you.  It's an old-fashioned sign. I kinda get the feeling like, mmm, you know when I fell in love the first time.

Kind woman, won't you love me tonight. The look in your eyes.

Kind woman, don't leave me lonely tonight. Please say it's alright.

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Autumn Weekend -- Football and Music

The transition between two of my greatest pleasures was delightful.

On Saturday, we attended a live sporting event for the first time since well before the first wave of COVID, courtesy of the Connecticut High School Coaches Association and its well-managed relationship with the UConn Athletic Department.

The CHSCA, dealt a crippling blow in September with the sudden passing of director Joe Canzanella, moved forward with its annual induction ceremony slated for pregame and halftime of the football game between the Huskies and Utah State. The rain abated just in time and despite cloudy skies, the event went off like clockwork.

On Sunday, with the sun shining brilliantly, we shifted back to our music scene by attending an outdoor concert at a quaint family farm in East Haddam. While Shakedown Street provided its consistently seamless tribute to the Grateful Dead, children and adults danced, wandered the garden and visited the domestic animals on hand.

PLAYING “THE RENT”

The last time I attended a UConn football game at Rentschler Field in East Hartford was September 12, 2009. I remember it well because on that day, I was inducted into the CHSCA Hall of Fame, which has its home on the Rentschler concourse.

Later that year, I was honored along with my induction class at the CHSCA’s annual banquet at the Aqua Turf in Southington. My dearest friends came from around the country to be with me for what truly was my finest hour. To have my likeness on a plaque at Rentschler and to have a gorgeous ring commemorating the moment mean more to me than anything else I’ve accomplished professionally.

Memories of that day 14 years earlier came back to me as we entered tent for pregame festivities. Since I retired from the Meriden Record-Journal in early 2018, I hadn’t seen many of the people who made my 28 years on the state sports beat so enjoyable.

That grand New Britain gang from those days immediately pierced through the meteorological gloom.

Michelle Abraham remains the volleyball coach at New Britain High after all these years.

When I started at the New Britain Herald in 1992, her teams were suffering. The Golden Hurricanes lost nearly every match they played that year, saved only by winning matches against tiny Class S school Housatonic Regional.

Seven years later at East Haven High School, Michelle guided an incredibly skilled, deep and focused young women to a Class L state championship, despite being down 2 games to 0 against the likes of powerhouse Cheshire.  I wept as I watched one of the more remarkable comebacks I’ve ever witnessed.

Michelle is the epitome of what makes the CHSCA as essential as it is festive. The records of those teams were not of the utmost importance to her. Of course, she wanted to win as much as any coach who ever commanded a sideline huddle, but she was driven by her commitment to her student-athletes, on and off the court.

Her mission has not diminished. Neither has her passion for fulfilling it. She also has so much love for many of those she met along the way, and I’m delighted to be counted in that number, all these years later. She graciously referred me to Executive Director Canzanella to do some writing for CHSCA. I was delighted. My computer keyboard has been rather silent since leaving Meriden, yet I knew I could step right in and hit the ground running for any organization that needs my services.

Four days after we discussed the possibilities, Joe Canzonella, 71, was dead of a fatal heart attack. Canzonella and retired New Britain High athletic director and football coach Len Corto were truly like twin sons of different mothers. The burden was on Len, Michelle and others to pick up the pieces of an organization nurtured for 31 years by the late Southington High baseball coach John Fontana until his death in October 2019.

Lenny addressed 25 or so on hand for the informal pregame brunch. He introduced David Benedict, UConn athletic director, who made a short but poignant impromptu speech that had most heads nodding affirmatively. The relationship between UConn athletics and the CHSCA is surely strong. A visit from venerable UConn legacy and New Britain native Andy Baylock, the Huskies’ former baseball coach who still throws batting practice in his mid-80s, represented a powerful link in the chain between the organizations.

When Lenny’s thoughts turned to Joe, he wore his emotions on his sleeve, as both he and Joe were prone to do. His voice cracked. He fought back the tears. The two had forged a powerful bond, enabling CHSCA to maintain its integrity across the scoop of high school athletics in Connecticut. He reinforced that CHSCA was going to continue its mission the way Joe and John would have wanted.

Lisa and I had an enjoyable day. We didn’t even mind paying $27 for two Chick-fil-A sandwiches and a $6 bottle of water. The weather improved, but unfortunately UConn faltered, losing 34-33 when a potential game-tying extra-point placement was blocked. We all felt for the UConn kids and Coach Joe Mora, but that’s the nature of competitive athletics.

WRESTLING'S SOUTHLAND: A LEGACY OF LOVE

Ray Southland stood at the head of the class.

When I was assigned to cover high school wrestling back in 1992, all I knew was the orchestrated, pre-ordained legacy of what is known as the professional version of the sport.  I attended a high school that didn't even offer wrestling as a varsity sport.  Only hockey was spoken during the winter season in Hamden.

So when I was gently pushed toward wrestling in 1991-92, my facial expression must have screamed to the close-knit community that I didn't know the difference between a fireman's carry and a single-leg takedown.

Ray Southland was among a group of officials whose incredible passion for the sport propelled him well beyond his appointed duties.  I had many questions.  Ray offered all the answers, not only efficiently in basic terms but with his love for the sport sparkling in his smile.  Ray's sincerity, thoughtfulness and his profound love for the young athletes were so fluent, leaving no doubt in my mind that his broader mission was softening life's difficulties for all he knew.

Working with officials like Ray was a tremendous asset for a reporter looking for angles that superseded victory and defeat.  Extrapolating their perception of the teams and individuals they scrutinized and the gnawing issues wrestling faced facilitated my ability to write more insightful pieces that transcended championships.

Among the ways Ray stamped his outgoing, candid personality on an issue was discussing the difficult calls he sometimes had to make.  When calls would affect the outcome of bouts and matches, he was forthcoming in discussing it with me, fully knowing that he could be laying himself open for controversy if I wrote the issue up a certain way.

Wrestling, perhaps more than less grueling scholastic competitions, served as an excellent foundation for the lives of former competitors now spreading the gospel that Ray helped lay out.  I saw a comment from former Southington All-Stater Zach Bylykbashi that echoes my feelings.  Bylykbashi said he was always uplifted when he saw that Ray was going to officiate his matches because he respected his competence and understanding.

I regrettably never had an opportunity to know Ray beyond the wresting arena, but I can discern exactly how he approached his work as a secondary school teacher and administrator.  Those who had the chance to work with Ray at Washington Middle School in Meriden will continue to benefit from his style, his demeanor and his unbridled passion for improving life around him.  His words of guidance came directly from his heart, depositing a sparkle in his eyes that conveyed righteousness, integrity and authenticity, intermingling as part of the legacy he leaves behind.

HUSKIES, YOU NEVER SHOULD HAVE LEFT

I've been reading about the conference changes in UConn athletics with great interest and I thought I'd offer my taxpayer's portion of the millions we must cough up to support the transfer from the American Athletic Conference to the Big East.

Generally I believe the move is good for UConn and the fan base.  The contrived inanity of former football coach Bob Diaco's ConFLiCT is stirring testimony that rivalries with other AAC teams just lacked the luster to stimulate football and basketball fans into opening their wallets, although losing records don't help either.

The notion of Division I football was a complete travesty right from the start.

With all due respect to head coach Randy Edsall, the idea that the 2011 Fiesta Bowl that through sheer luck and administrative lunacy pitted UConn against Oklahoma was as rare a commodity as a snowstorm in Satan's kitchen.  How in heaven's name was the Big East champion presented a slot opposite a Big 12 team in a bowl game?  The whole system is so driven by money and is so lacking in what college football fans deserved to see that I wonder if somebody -- anybody -- found that match-up compelling.

Oh, but it stirred the juices in UConn faithful that football could follow the route that Geno Auriemma and Jim Calhoun forged on the basketball court.  Geno won it all!  Jim won it all!  Randy can do it, too?  Poor fellow had no chance, although I certainly can't blame him or his successors for giving it that old college try.

To become an Oklahoma, a school must have a decent percentage of in-state scholastic players talented enough to make up the team's core.  Trust me as a longtime scholastic football reporter in Connecticut; that was not going to happen here.  I can count on my hands and feet the number of top-flight Division I prospects I saw play over my 28-year career.  I can count on one hand how many of them opted to play for UConn.  UConn was never going to be an Oklahoma, no matter how many times Geno may have thrashed their women's hoop team.

But the cockeyed optimists who made the decisions couldn't be told that.  Hence, we built Rentschler Field, which has hosted more empty seats than the factories that produce them.  Meanwhile, the Huskies were whiffing on the likes of Aaron Hernandez, the Reed brothers David and Jordan, and Tyler Matakevich of St. Joseph (Trumbull) now the Steelers.

UConn football was fun to watch in the old Yankee Conference.  It was fine in the Big East, as it was.  But delusions of grandeur after that Fiesta Bowl will now cost the beleaguered taxpayers a massive AAC exit fee and an entry fee for a league to which UConn could have still belonged.  And what of UConn football as an independent?  Do you think Notre Dame is interested in paying a visit to The Rent?

When you tag the costs of change to the $40 million athletic deficit and the rest of the financial problems Connecticut faces, we're in a mess even bigger than a 5 p.m. drive through the I-84 Mixmaster.  The extra $15 million or so that this move will cost won't help our tax dollars fix the state's transportation infrastructure.  It won't appease corporations from fleeing for the bright lights of Boston.  It just gets added into a deficit column that compounds the erroneous judgment that makes Connecticut a great place not to retire.

With all that negativity out in the open, I see a glistening future for basketball, particularly the women's program.  Thanks to Geno, Chris Dailey and assists from their magnificent array of alumnae, the Huskies have overcome the lack of competition in the AAC to remain the finest program in the nation.  Given their brilliant scheming to shore up last year's lack of depth, the excellence will continue.  The common-sense based strategy fomented by Auriemma and Friends is as refreshing as it is effective.

I don't foresee the same future for the men.  Coach Dan Hurley's sideline antics are far too over-the-top for my tastes and I don't see him being competitive for the elite high school players, no matter what The Hartford Courant chooses to project.  I see the athletes that Kentucky, Duke, North Carolina, Kansas, Florida, Gonzaga, Villanova and now AAC foe Memphis vie for and their names don't seem show up when they post their college lists.

As my astute friend and founder of UConn Daily John Silver capably debates, the Huskies don't loom as one-and-done proponents but can still hold their own.  After all, he says, they've won four national championships.

Can they do it again?  Sure, anything is possible, but we'll have to see if Hurley can pass up the one-and-done talent level and coach the kids who hang around for two, three years to the top of the brackets.  There may be another Kemba Walker, Shabazz Napier or Jalen Adams out there who slips through the cracks, but it took a Hall of Famer to find them, and he's at St. Joseph in West Hartford now.

But regardless of where the Huskies of the Hurley Era land, seeing Villanova, Georgetown, Seton Hall and St. John's back on the slate will be a nice lift.  Few will pine for Central Florida, South Florida, Tulsa, Tulane and East Carolina, although I must say it is going to be a treat to watch Memphis and the games with Cincinnati were always competitive.

It's also great that UConn games will remain available on what modernists call "linear TV" instead of this ESPN+ streaming folderol.  I'm not an advocate of New York City media entity SNY portraying UConn as its very own but at least I can still get it by using the television in my living room and not sending ESPN any money.  I would imagine the sweet SNY deal that UConn probably would have lost was more tantamount in returning Big East-ward than nostalgia.

The sports end of what's transpired suits me fine but as with the reconstruction of the XL Center and all the other million- and billion-dollar projects, I have one burning question: Can we afford it?

A Re-Introduction and Renewal

Life has changed significantly for me since I last posted a blog, as life is prone to do over 10 years.

A torn meniscus in my right knee and psoriatic arthritis effectively ended my days as a sports writer/reporter in the scholastic domain in January, 2018.  I was ready for it anyway having passed my 65th birthday and growing weary of contemporary journalistic principles.

Sports reporting today is rife with rumor-mongering, speculation and conjecture, a far cry from what enticed me to the medium as a child and student.  I was always anxious to research news-oriented stories and feature pieces on worthy scholastic athletes as a service to the reader.  Any speculation or opinion on my part was limited to columns with my photo on top, an indication that what was written below was not necessarily the opinion of my newspaper du jour.

For example, The Hartford Courant today (May 13, 2019) ran a story from The Washington Post that erstwhile Boston Celtics guard Kyrie Irving being reunited with Lebron James for the Los Angeles Lakers "could be on the table."

Sure it could be, but I wonder if that table has one, two or three legs because it sure doesn't come your way from the steady sphere of reality.  The writer indicated her source was an ESPN commentator speculating on his radio show.  Aha!  We know that this yap crap on radio, television and sprinkled liberally across the internet is essential to drawing clicks, page views or whatever it is that the media thrive upon today so they can mislead advertisers and retain their shrinking niche in American culture.

I see it ad nauseum in forums that once reported the truth and I don't have the slightest inclination to be any part of that.  Writers that can't match the tense of their verbs to their subjects go off on absurd tangents and bend their opinions to lure unsuspecting readers searching for positive reinforcement about their teams.  I've heard it referred to as "click bait" -- websites needing a reaffirmation of relevancy to lure in advertisers.  They'll mislead the reader in any way they can to get that page view.

Kyrie purportedly is joining the Lakers because he and Lebron were seen chatting with their lips shielded to prevent lip-readers from eavesdropping?  Surely they were talking about reuniting after their uneasy existence in Cleveland, right ESPN?  Hey, I think Kyrie could have just as easily been asking Lebron what he thought of the Peloponnesian Wars and their effect on modern-day Greece.

Greece, as in slippery slope?  Yeah, I'd apply that to the piece of dreck in The Courant.  If Kyrie should end up playing elsewhere or stay in Boston, does the Post and Courant have to print retractions?  Thankfully not because retractions would fill the space every day.

So, I've removed myself from the scene.  What little is available on scholastic sports no longer piques my interest.  My intense interest in minor league baseball for over 30 years left my consciousness when the Eastern League departed New Britain under venal circumstances.  What the hell is a Yard Goat anyway and what does it have to do with Hartford?  I have not even been to Dunkin' Donuts Park.

The downside of my reclusive mantra is that I had made some sincere friends and had the pleasure of entertaining discerning readers who must wonder what the heck happened to me.

Well, I've had about a year-and-a-half to contemplate where I'd like my life to go, and I know that writing should be a part of it.  Some small media outlets and internet concerns inquired about my availability but sheepishly asked if I'd be willing to write for free.  While money has never been a big issue with me, I'm heavily into respect.  Respect for a gift that God was good enough to grant me.  Respect for my opinions that are probably not shared by many but are nonetheless my intellectual property to project as I see fit.  If I'm going to write for free, I'm not going to conduct interviews and run up mileage on my 14-year-old Avalanche.  If my opinions send you scooting for the "ist" page (you know, sexist, misogynist, racist), too bad.

I cannot readily opine on scholastic sports or the minor leagues anymore since I'm removed from those realms.  I do enjoy my sports on television -- most notably basketball because I'm completely averse to what Major League Baseball has become.  I enjoy interjecting my opinions on related matters.

So is Kyrie going to the Lakers?  Is the sun going to be shining on my birthday in August?  What will swallow us first, the pathetic financial condition of our state or the hideous specter global warming that no amount of money or attention can alter?  Heck, I don't know.  Kyrie doesn't know.  ESPN doesn't know, and The Washington Post must have other assignments into which its sports reporters can delve.

I'm not going to offer the same unsubstantiated junk here, and whether or not people want to read it is up to them.  I'm just going to use this space to let off some steam, sports-related or otherwise, and those who wish to read along, you're welcome.  Those who don't like it, simply use your ESC key.

"BLOUNT-LY" SPEAKING, HYPE IS HORRIBLE

Aah, what a great time of the year it is!

To augment the joy we derive by straining our back muscles shoveling away a foot of “global warming,” we get to sit in front of the fireplace and read the latest Super Bowl hype. And you thought the expense of newsprint was one reason why everything is shifting toward digital. How can they fill column space with such drivel?

In its never-ending urgency to create the news instead of report on it, the media inflates (no, I won’t go there again) the saga surrounding LeGarrette Blount’s commentary about the Patriots’ defense not being immortal. It conjures up the notion of reporters scrambling to satisfy the concept that they even need to be on-site a week before this overblown affair.

But, the reporters are just doing what they have to do, and modern-day mainstream America has such an unquenchable thirst for soap-opera antics.

The Pats’ running back, who wore out his welcome in Pittsburgh, said the Patriots’ defense is not immortal. I’m neither an anatomist nor a pathologist but human beings, and thus the grouping of human beings, do not live forever. He stated the obvious. If that’s all there is to write about, leave the column space for something important, like some questions and answers about strategy.

Given the subject matter of Blount’s views on immortality, I can understand why his gregarious Seattle counterpart Marshawn Lynch lampoons the pregame falderal, although I wouldn’t condone his methods. What is there to say? Do we really need to know who Brady’s favorite actor is and what he eats for Christmas dinner?

I’m glad I don’t have to cover that junk. If I did, I’d become a gentleman farmer.

MY LOVE IS STRONGER THAN MY FEAR OF DEATH

The tale of 2 men who lovingly touched so many lives

The obituary page in Wednesday's Hartford Courant told a sobering story of two men taken from us who did everything in their power to make life better in the greater Bristol area and beyond.

Francis W. Mullins, 89, and Theodore C. Scheidel, Jr., 69, have passed on and many people are so much the better having known them and benefitted from their munificence.

Fran Mullins served the American Legion baseball program in Connecticut for 60 years, but even moreso in Bristol and the surrounding area covered in Zone 1.  Teddy Scheidel, perhaps the most dedicated public servant I've ever seen grace a local stage, was Burlington's first selectman for 26 years.

The highlights of their stories confirm that they knew each other.  Mullins was the personification of the Legion program and all for which it stood having served as state tournament director and Zone 1 chairman. Among the many legacies Scheidel left us was a Legion team that he initiated in 1999 and lovingly helped administer until 2012.

I am so glad that I nominated Mullins for the Connecticut Sports Writers' Alliance in 2006.  I vividly recall the conversation I had with him when I told him that he would be receiving a John Wentworth Good Sport Award, emblematic of giving back to the community through sports.  

Phone calls generally drip with the commonplace, sometimes sad, but rarely do you get to make them to tell a worthy person that he or she is being honored.  The awestruck nature of Fran's response is the full reason behind why I treasure my work with the Alliance.  Rarely do you have such an opportunity to spread some joy in a person's life while reaping financial byproducts that help put aspiring sports journalists through college.

I knew Scheidel much better.  

When I first moved to the region in 1990 and was looking for work, I hooked on with The Bristol Press as a freelance writer.  Naturally, my goal was to become a sports writer but I welcomed the challenge put forth by suburban editor Linda Smith when she asked if I would cover the Town of Burlington.

I called Teddy's office to gain some background, made an appointment at the new Town Hall that he was so instrumental in building.  When I walked out, I had a new friend.  He always wanted to please people, an element so tragically diminishing as people move faster and faster through the pages of their lives.  

When I told him of my dedication to baseball, he told me that he was a diehard Dodger fan, dating back tothe days of his boyhood when the team was in Brooklyn.  He related a story of how his father took him to games and the thrill of rooting for Gil Hodges and Duke Snider.  I'm sure an L.A. Dodger cap is in the keepsakes he leaves behind.

His willingness to share his knowledge with a struggling reporter trying to make an impact in town affairs was remarkable.  Years later, he still remembered my name.  I recall his coming to a New Britain Rock Cats game, an encounter which enabled us to rekindle our friendship.

He spoke of days at his beloved Lake Waramaug with his dear friend Denise.  When he spoke of her, he reminded me so much of the "Moonlight" Graham character in "Field of Dreams" played so exquisitely by Burt Lancaster and the familiar way he referred to his wife. 

"I've got to be getting home. Alicia will think I have a girlfriend," he said with a wink and that broad Lancaster smile.

In that respect, Teddy's story all comes together.  The Legion ball team.  Nassahegan Athletic Fields.  A love of baseball.  A sincere familiarity in the way he shaped his words that made everybody feel like they were among his closest friends.

The way a man dies isn't nearly as important as the way he lived.  The emphasis in the lives of Fran Mullins and Ted Scheidel are reflected in what they gave to others, and no man could strive for a greater legacy.

GROWING WITH THE CHANGES

"Continuity gives us roots; change gives us branches letting us stretch and grow and reach new heights."

I actually saw this marvelous quote when I searched the internet for something that would define the last few years of my professional life.  Imagine my surprise when I found that this was the intellectual property of a friend -- Pauline R. Kezer -- tossed in among words of wisdom from people like Einstein, Churchill and Shakespeare.

Pauline was Secreatry of State from 1990-94.  I met her through her husband Ken, the former New Britain High baseball coach who became a friend during my 15-year tenure at the New Britain Herald.  That kind of brings the parameters of this blog full circle.

I've never responded well to change.  When I went from two pillows to one, I couldn't sleep.  When I went from Hellman's Mayonnaise to Miracle Whip, I could no longer eat tuna salad.  When I go from the comfortable confines of my Chevy Avalanche and to my wife's claustrophobic Honda to save money on gasoline, I wind up needing a chiropractic adjustment.

Man do I hate change, but when it comes to my professional career, the latest one has become a Godsend. I hope the CFO at my new newspaper, the Meriden Record-Journal, doesn't see this because he may want to reduce my salary, but I'm loving this.

I left the Herald in November, 2010 for a crack at running a weekly sports sections for the [Farmington] Valley Press/West Hartford Press.  I enjoyed the writing and the reporting.  The people of those towns reacted extremely well to my work.  But all that gets nullified when you have a nitpicking psychotic for a publisher who almost drove that baby into the ground.

By June, 2011, I was washing my hands of that awful experiment and began freelancing.  Freelancing is great if you're financially set and the opiate of seeing your name in print just refuses to ebb, but when you can use the cash and you have to keep searching for work, it's a tough racket.

I worked for some great papers, like the Portland (Maine) Press-Herald, the Worcester (Mass.) Telegram, the Union Leader in New Hampshire, to name a few.  I've worked for others who have taken their time about paying, which means I have to lean back on the days working at my parents' collection bureau to get the funds due me.

That's all gone now.  Employment at the MRJ is a blessing, and I'm trying my very best to churn out quality stories for my new readers.  The one overlap with my past is Southington, which in my opinion ranks among the top 10 sports towns in the state.  When it comes to the rest of the circulation area -- Meriden, Cheshire and Wallingford -- I'm a newcomer.  Being a native of nearby Hamden has helped with the transition.

Inevitably what makes or breaks a job experience are the people with whom you work, particularly those who make the decisions.  Personally, I've found it unsettling to be a boss in this business.  I'd prefer to concentrate on my own work and be a viable part of a dynamic team and that's what it's all about in Meriden.

The sports editor is Bryant Carpenter.  I've known Bryant for more than 10 years.  We crossed paths in the field when teams from our respective circulation areas clashed and we developed a mutual respect.  Working on the same team with him is a treat because of his deep respect for his colleagues and genuinely good- natured demeanor.

It sounds like a basic thing, but today's younger generation seems to rank power above people.  Working relationships are hard to foster when the person at the top is bent on reinforcing the hierarchy instead of focusing on the product.  Some power-mongers are subtle, others blatantly overbearing, but neither approach works well with me.  At MRJ, we're all working together and that means happy days for our readers.  I've been working in this business for more than 20 years and it's nice when somebody asks for my opinion or my help instead of playing dictator like the charlatan at my previous full-time stop.  I know it sounds ultra-corny but a happy employee is a productive employee.

The third member of our writing team is Sean Kroffsik and a nicer guy you'll never meet.  I've know Seanie for awhile and I've never heard him say a bad work about anybody, nor has anybody I know ever said a bad word about him.  I'd have to work awful hard at being nice to develop that kind of personality but it comes naturally for Sean.  Lord knows I've failed at it since I know of a few people who would gladly take away my second pillow and put Miracle Whip on my turkey sandwich if they had the chance.  And those are only the ones I know.

The two guys who work on the desk are George Dalek and Paul Rosano, and they're great guys, too.  They have to be to wade through my copy, eliminate some of the flowery adjectives and toss out the typos.  A tip of the chapeau to the talented guy I replaced, John Petit.  Filling John's shoes isn't easy because he's so talented and so passionate.

Folks who know me know I'm heavily into history.  Through five years at the Bristol Press and 15 at the Herald, put together volumes of copious notes on sports at the local schools.  When I went to the weeklies, I began accumulating information on Simsbury, Avon, Granby, Canton and West Hartford.  My time in West Hartford was particularly heartwarming.  I am missing my friends there and come the fall, I'm going to miss the awesome coaches at Conard, Hall and Northwest Catholic.

But as the old door closes, new ones open.  I get to work with some pretty great athletic directors and coaches at my new schools with whom I've made acquaintance.  It'll take some time to revise my history books but I'll get her done.

I hope y'all will stay with me for what I hope is the final chapter of my career.  I have a feeling we're going to enjoy some memorable times and I'd like you to be on board.

NOSTALGIA IN THE OLD HOMETOWN

It’s Father’s Day and I’m trying to figure out why we get more nostalgic as time goes by.  Is it simply a consequence of chronology – we’re spending more and more time here so we leave more and more footprints?  Yet surely the majority of people think about nothing but the moment.

I raise my glass to my Facebook friends who lean toward the nostalgic, with special thanks to Mr. Hamden Plains, Ralph Santoro.  Ralph is one of those guys who I didn’t spend enough time with – he was chillin’ on Church Street while my boys and I were bombin’ around on Belden Road.

Ralphie was astute enough to get interested in photography and almost always had a camera slung over his shoulder when I’d run into him at those great places we went back in the 1970s.  Consequently, he snapped a few of me during a time when I wasn’t doing a heck of a lot of posing.  Photos of me in my 20s are pretty darned rare.

Through the miracle of Facebook, scanners and Ralph’s diligence, I was flipping through his collection of Hamden nostalgia and readily recognized so many of my old friends.  Most of them I haven’t seen in 20 to 30 years like that wild bunch of Spring Glen guys – the Lee brothers, the Boyle brothers.  Some of them I see from time to time, like Brooksvale Park caretaker and good buddy Vin Lavorgna and Billy Mezzano.

A few of the guys pictured are sadly gone at much too young an age.  Gary Conte, half-brother of one of my best friends Andy Vas, perished in a Long Island Sound boat mishap along with Paul Mangan, Billy Ford and Billy Collake on Memorial Day 1975.  That’s nearly 40 years ago, and their faces are etched in my mind.

Another wonderful guy – Joe Gambardella, brother of Andy and Leo – passed away within the year.  I spent many happy hours with the Gambardellas at their house that was demolished so Dunkin’ Donuts would have more parking spaces.  Ralph remembers.  So does my dear friend Sharon Davis, who married Andy G.  It pains me that I haven’t heard from Sharon in about 40 years, but shift happens.

Next Saturday (June 22), Hamden will be the scene of two nostalgic shindigs.  A group of guys led by Belden Road’s own Pete Sportino founded The Mighty Metropolis group of Facebook, which is now more than 1,700 members strong.  We had a get-together at Glenwood (best hot dogs on Planet Earth; where Hamdenites will always find an old friend) and now we’re re-convening at Brooksvale Park (10:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m.) where Ranger Vinny certainly will be a gracious host.

The Hamden Plains Park Reunion is scheduled to take place at Outer Space, 295 Treadwell Street, Hamden from 4 to 7 p.m.  Live music will be provided by The Slides (original rock) and Broadway Hearts (piano-based rock).  I’d like to hit both but sometimes life intervenes.

Back to Ralphie’s photos … .  The old block on Dixwell Avenue where the Strand Theater once stood tugged at the heart strings.  I remember when sister Marji used to work there and we’d take in all the hits of the day – “Deliverance” and “The Poseidon Adventure” come to mind.  I can still smell that delectable combination of mildew blended with stale popcorn bathed in that exquisite drawn butter.  If Yankee Candle Company had that scent, I’d have to get a few.

He’s got photos of his mother Myra and the dance studio she ran on Church Street, including the newspaper clipping about Little Ralphie making his stage debut at Oakdale when he was 5.  That’s where he gets that dynamic stage presence he exhibits during his musical gigs. 

The photos from the Blizzard of ’78 were classic.  That’s when my Datsun got buried under a snow bank and I went without a vehicle for quite a spell. 

My old buddy Vinny “Bear” Pantera made sure I got to work at the Hamden Public Works Department every day.  Geez, I hope I thanked him enough.  Thought I saw Vinny one day a few years back when I was covering Rock Cats baseball, but it was his twin brother Mike.  That’s a mistake anybody can make.

Vinny played hockey for Hamden High during the years before Fairfield Prep made recruiting a priority.  I remember the twin rinks on Sherman Avenue hosting a team from Sweden and the place being packed.  Ah, the days when high school sports drew a crowd!  Vinny was a burly defensemen who patrolled a section of the ice where no West Haven forward would care to tread.

I can’t continue without paying homage to the Shultz clan.  Big Kirk and Little Richie, are the twins that look nothing alike.  Younger brother Scott yearned for the city life.  Youngest brother Bruce lives on a ranch in Montana. 

Middle brother Craig settled down in Hometown on followed in father Dutch’s footprints by pouring out his heart to youth sports, primarily girls basketball.  I remember when Craig took up lacrosse.  I wondered what the heck he would do that for.  Now, all these years later, I’ve covered my share of lacrosse and fully comprehend how he got attached to the sport.

Hey, I know I’ve missed a lot of good times and great people, particularly the great days when The Family – Ron Sambrook, Andy Vas, Johnny Coassin and Ray DeAngelis and I – were wandering Grateful Dead Heads.  The Great Bus Ride to see Jerry Garcia at Waterbury’s Palace Theater, courtesy of Ken Dubin, was a classic.  A longer one all the way to Norfolk, Va., courtesy of Lenny Young, was even crazier since it was something like 20 hours round trip. 

Thanks for letting me spout.  On this Father’s Day, I urge you to remember your families, remember your friends, remember those who have passed before us and do something nostalgic.  

HARRIS LOWERS THE BOOM ON HIGHER SEED

(Berlin Citizen exclusive)

VERNON  – The clouds were gathering in the first inning.

The Berlin High softball team used its patented small-ball style of offense to load the bases with no outs, but Rockville’s All-State pitcher Kaitlyn Lajoie struck out the third and fourth hitters in the Redcoats order.

Early momentum, so vital in a game where runs would almost surely be at a premium, was hanging in the balance. Exactly which way the game would turn rested with the next hitter, pitcher Makayla Harris.

Harris consummated a long at-bat with a two-run double to left and went on to pitch a gem in a 3-0 whitewash of the defending Class L champion and third-seeded Rams in a quarterfinal clash May 31 in the stifling heat at Rockville High School.

The memory of last year’s tournament ouster was thick in the air.

The sixth-seeded Redcoats were one pitch away from securing a second-round win at Brookfield 364 days earlier, but wound up losing 3-2 in eight innings. Berlin coach Jason Pires analyzed the game ad nauseam and took full responsibility. Harris, just a sophomore at the time, gained the kind of experience that nothing but playing the game can teach.

“I’d be lying if I said last year didn’t cross my mind when the bottom of the seventh started,” Pires said. “We’re not that team. I knew it wouldn’t happen again. I knew we were winning this game when it got to the seventh.”

Lajoie and Harris waged a memorable battle as opposing pitchers. Each gave up only three hits. Neither issued any walks. Lajoie struck out 10 and Harris countered with nine. The first inning at-bat was a microcosm of their personal battle.

Brittany Sullivan began the game by beating out a bunt. Megan Wicander tapped back to the mound but with the first baseman charging, the bag was left uncovered. Courtney Silvia slapped a grounder toward the hole. Third baseman Megan Gardiner made a diving stop, but Sullivan beat the throw to shortstop Emily Burg covering.

“We knew their game plan,” Rockville coach Frank Levick said. “We knew that first inning they were going to bunt the first four or five batters. Kids just didn’t cover the bags.

Two outs later, the burden of producing runs was on Harris.

In the midst of a 10-pitch at-bat, she rifled a liner outside the bag at third and it struck Sullivan in foul territory. Harris got a chance to breathe as the trainer tended to Sullivan. Emily Ference came on to pinch-run.

When a Lajoie delivery bounced to the backstop, Ference boldly dashed home with the first run.

“Put her name out there front and center,” Pires said. “Emily Ference doesn’t play much. She was a jayvee player a lot of the year. She came in in the hugest spot and that was an enormous thing she did taking off on that. We made them make the play and that was what we preached.

“I can’t be yelling at you to go or not go. You’ve got to make the decision and it’s got to be immediate and she got in.”

Harris ripped a double to left scoring the game’s final runs.

“I took a big breath and I was ready,” she said. “I had time to settle down [after the line drive struck Sullivan]. The team would have been a little more rattled if [the productive at-bat] hadn’t happened, but I’m sure we would have gotten pumped up in the end.”

As Pires said, Harris was the rest of the story.

A two-out error and a single by Stephanie Kurowski put runners at the corners for Rockville (20-2) in the second but Harris retired the side on a comebacker. Rockville managed an infield hit in the third and a single to center by Michelle Correia in the fourth but neither made it to second base.

Harris retired the final nine hitters.

“Makayla is not overpowering but no one hits spots like Makayla,” Pires said. “They’re not the first team that’s been frustrated by her. They think they’re going to smack her all over the place. They don’t and they don’t know why.

“It’s not fast but every pitch moves. Nothing is where they think it’s going to be. She throws three pitches and she throws them all well.”

Sullivan returned to the game after sustaining the ankle and was none the worse for wear.

Wicander made a running catch of a line drive by Rockville cleanup hitter Courtney Oliva leading off the fourth inning among her three putouts. Third baseman Kaitlyn Guild had two assists and a putout. Harris fielded her position flawlessly with two assists, as did first baseman Kat Burek with six putouts.

The Redcoats (20-3) advance to the semifinals to meet undefeated, second-seeded Masuk. Site and time were unavailable at press time.

 CLASS L SOFTBALL TOURNAMENT

Quarterfinal

Berlin 6, Rockville 4

(May 31, Rockville High)

Berlin                                                Rockville

                                    ab  r  h  bi                                        ab  r  h  bi

Sullivan ss                3  0  1  0         Skoly lf                    3  0  1  0

Ference pr                 0  1  0  0         Burg ss                    3  0  0  0

Wicander lf               3  1  0  0         Lajoie p                   3  0  0  0

Silvia cf                     3  1  0  0         Oliva rf                    3  0  0  0

Guild 3b                     3  0  1  0         Pettengill c              3  0  0  0

Burek 1b                    3  0  0  0         Correia 2b               3  0  1  0

Harris p                      3  0  1  2         Kurowski cf            2  0  1  0

Anderson rf              3  0  0  0         Turgeon ph             1  0  0  0

Veach dp                   2  0  0  0         Gardiner 3b             2  0  0  0

Germano 2b              0  0  0  0         Ose 1b                      2  0  0  0

Asal ph                      1  0  0  0

Patterson c                2  0  0  0

                                                                                                               

Totals                       26  3  3  2        Totals                       25  0  3  0

Berlin                        300 000 0 – 3   3   1

Rockville                  000 000 0 – 0   3   0

E –Sullivan. LOB – Berlin 2, Rockville 4. 2B – Harris.

Berlin

                                            ip    h  r  er  bb  so

Harris W                            7     3   0   0   0   9

Rockville

Lajoie L                             7    3    3   3   0 10

WP – Lajoie.  T – 1:23. A – 120.

Records – Berlin 20-3; Rockville 20-2.