The World in a Brown Leather Case. Hey, Yogi! by Guest Author, Tom DeNucci
The radio was a honey-colored honey . . .
It’s that time of year; baseball season, specifically, Boston Red Sox baseball season!
When I think of baseball, I think of my Dad. He wasn’t a Sox fan.
Oh no.
A New York Yankees fan tried and true. His transistor radio was always with him, listening to the games.
His radio was small, modern for the time, a cream-colored plastic honey with dials for knobs that clicked with on and off and rotated to select the station. It resided in a brown colored leather case with a little pouch attached to its strap. In the pouch was a small mono “earphone” which the wireless earbud kids of today would probably laugh at.
That radio was one of my Dads prized possessions. He was meticulous with it. We were not allowed to touch it, and if we did and nudged it the wrong way or, heaven forbid, drop it, there would be an immediate “Gosssh dammit! Be careful with that thing! That’s my transistor radio!”
I have fond memories of my Dad, sitting in the sun, listening to the ball game; especially if the Yankees were playing the Sox.
A narrow wire plugged into the side of the radio led to the mono earphone. Occasionally, we took the “portable TV” outside (weighed a ton!), set it in the shade, and watched the game in black and white.
My uncles were into baseball. I particularly remember uncle Ray, Dad’s brother, a diehard sports fan. At many family events . . . first communion, confirmation, graduation, if there was a game on, Uncle Ray was sitting there having a conversation, chatting, drinking coffee, etc., with that earphone leading down to a small radio in his pocket.
The game was always on.
My Dad, my uncles, a cousin and I went to a particularly memorable game in 1963 or so. I was nine. Everyone except my Dad was a Red Sox fan. We were sitting along the first base line behind the dugout. My knees could touch the back of the dugout; my drink was sitting on the dugout roof.
Yogi Berra was coaching first base with his back to us, and when my Dad started yelling “Hey Yogi! Hey, Yogi!” and waving.
My uncles were alarmed. “Dominic! Be quiet. They’ll throw us out of here! ‘Hey Yogi’ is not a good thing to be yelling at Fenway Park on the first base line near the Red Sox dugout.” But here’s the thing, the real thing.
Yogi made Dad’s day. He turned and waved. “Did you see that? He waved right at me!” The uncles were silent.
Those days of listening to the radio, watching TV, or easily going to a game are long gone. Now, sports can be seen on network TV, streamed over paid channels, or watched on a screen, a phone, tablet, or computer.
I’ve been back to Fenway Park, but my knees don’t rest against the back wall of the dugout. Why?
The box office price of bleacher seats, yes bleachers, for a family of four would be over $1000!!
What would Dad say, sitting in the sun, in his beach chair, little earphone in place, listening on his transistor radio to the Red Sox play the Yankees?
“Hey, Yogi!”
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