Learning to Lie

Growing up in Eatontown, NJ. There were two Little League teams in town; The Smoke Eaters, sponsored by the volunteer fire department, and the Hawks, sponsored by the local Catholic church. The two teams couldn’t have been more different, in that the Smoke Eaters frequently made it to state and regional tournaments, while the Hawks could hardly win a game. I can’t explain the discrepancy. Maybe the firemen/dad coaches were more aggressive than the church-going/dad coaches. Who knows?

I, of course, played for the Hawks. Even within the lower achieving church team, I stood out as having no discernible baseball ability. When I played the outfield,  baseballs would sail right by my outstretched fielder’s glove. The other outfielders on my team would skew their positions so as to be closer to me. In case balls would come my way, one of the other guys could run behind me and field the balls that I usually missed. Opposing batters would step up to the plate and point at my position on the field, ala Babe Ruth, indicating that they were going to try to hit to me. The coach moved me to the catcher’s position to keep me out of trouble I guess. Then when the other team saw it was me catching, they stole bases at will.

So, the coaches worked with me on my batting and fielding skills, spending hours of their time helping me be a better person and baseball player, in accordance with the Little League mission statement, to wit;

“Through proper guidance and exemplary leadership, the Little League program assists youth in developing the qualities of citizenship, discipline, teamwork and physical well-being," according to Little League International. "By espousing the virtues of character, courage and loyalty, the Little League Baseball® and Softball program is designed to develop superior citizens rather than stellar athletes.”

Nah-just kidding. Coaches only cared about one thing, winning games. Kids like me got to play once in a while, and only when the games mattered least, like after there was no chance of the Hawks making it to the playoffs.

One day I asked coach if he would put me in some games, now that we were out of contention. He laughed and said “Sure, you can play now Silva”. These guys always used our last names. Maybe it was some military thing. I don’t know.

Anyway, me being able to “play now” actually meant that I could be the third base coach, you know, the person standing next to the base, either stopping or waving through the base runner. When you run the bases it’s difficult to tell where the ball is, and so you need someone to indicate to you whether to stop at third or keep running to home plate.

I was thrilled to be a third base coach, you know, helping the team. I didn’t realize that they only gave me the job to keep me out of the way. Also, base runners kind of ignored my signals, doing instead what they wanted. Everyone knew I was just there for show, an affirmative action token. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be part of the team in whatever capacity. I coached third base with gusto, waving my arms furiously in different signals to the base runners. Everything went fine until that game.

It was later in the season-1956. The game was actually close-the Hawks were only 1 run behind in the last inning. Tommy Miller stood on second base, Eddie Sharkey on first. At the plate batted Paul Townsend, whom I thought of as Rooty Kazooty, after a cartoon character of the era who wore his baseball cap sideways.

There he is.

Anyway, on the 2-2 pitch, Rooty..er Paul hit the ball into far right field, and the runners started rounding the bases for home. Tommy came around third and by the time he got to home Eddie was in full gallop. His reaching home would win the game.

I stood there wildly waving my left arm in great windmills urging Eddie to run. As I waved, I happened to look down..and noticed that Eddie had not touched third base as he ran, but just ran past it. You can’t do that in baseball-you need to touch each base. That was the rule.

So, noticing the grave error, I started calling to the umpire, shouting “He missed the base, he missed the base”. Suddenly coach came barreling off the bench toward me, red-faced and screaming through bared teeth “Shut up, shut up!”. He got to me and hissed “You don’t tell the umpire when your guy breaks a rule-that’s the ump’s job!. I sputtered “but Eddie missed the base!” “I saw him miss the base!” Coach said that if the umpire doesn’t see the error, then you can get away with it, and that’s OK.

I learned a valuable lesson that Summer day. By the way, I never played Little League baseball again. The lesson is that lying, in this case lying by omission, isn’t a sin unless you get caught. Extend that sentiment to other areas. ___ isn’t a ___ unless you get caught. Let’s try it;

Speeding down the road isn’t a traffic violation unless you get caught-not so bad.

Shop lifting isn’t a petty crime unless the store owner calls your mom-a little more serious.

Rape isn’t a heinous crime unless your victim can convince the cops to act-Very serious.

It seems as though any behavior is tacitly allowed, as long as you are not found out.

These days I like to ask myself what is the guiding principle behind the decisions I face and make. I ask that of others too. I do know, though, that “because we wanna win the game” is not a principle at all, but just an excuse.

Joe's Sod Farm

Middletown, N.J. sits in what Jerseyans call “Central Jersey”, inland from shore towns, like Seabright and Long Branch. Middletown mostly serves as a bedroom community for bankers, admen, and fashion house executives who commute to the city via Amtrak and Coast City Coach buses. There is no real downtown, only a few small stores scattered about the place, and chain stores lining rt 35, the state highway that runs north/south, cleaving Middletown neatly in half.

In the late 1960s, the whole Central Jersey area still had a number of working farms. New Jersey is, after all, the “Garden State”. The growing, plant hardiness zone rating of 6 means that all fruits and vegetables, save for tropical varieties, grow well there.

The other crop widely grown in Jersey is sod. With all the housing developments going up, sod is always in demand. It’s so much easier to lay sod than it is to rototill, water, de-weed, sow seeds, re-water, and cover to get a lawn, a tedious process that sometimes doesn’t work. Far easier to call the sod farm, and have the farmer peel up sections of sod, using a kind of giant mechanized cheese grater, then drop it on your yard and water-easy peasy.

Today’s tale concerns one particular sod farm owned and run by Joe Gulick, sod farmer.

The Joe T Gulick Sod Farm was located along Red Hill Rd, on the outside of a slight left-hand bend. These days it seems odd to imagine a time when New Jersey had open farm land located on country roads. The state is, after all, the mostly densely populated of any state in the USA-1200 per square mile. By comparison, my State of Vermont has about 60 per square mile. 45 years ago the place had many acres of rich loam that supported, for instance, double sweet corn seasons.

The Gulick house stood up from the road, at the back of a horseshoe shaped driveway It had three stories, a wrap around porch supported by doric style columns, and was painted white, as was the custom of most farm houses. Elevated placement assured that rain water would flow away from rhe foundation, thus preventing flooding.

Behind the house, a short walk through the dirt yard past chicken coops and a goat pen, stood the main barn, large and red, with a weathervaned cupola atop. Most of the regular farm machinery resided in the lower part of the barn, along with the specialized sod-cutting tools. Upstairs the loft held enough hay to feed all the cows and goats, plus straw for bedding.

Joe was a lanky 74 year-old. He had the long craggy face of a farmer, with wire rimmed glasses perched high on his nose, and a flat topped buzz cut gray hair. Joe had run the farm since inheriting it from his father, Cyrus. When Joe took over, it was what’s called a “truck farm”, commonplace in New Jersey, a farm with a retail stand out by the road, and a wholesale operation selling produce and dairy products to local stores, and even chain supermarkets.

Joe and his wife Milly had no children. They spent almost all of their time together. Milly even accompanied Joe on his sod delivery runs. She just sat in the truck while Joe worked the sod-pallet moving machinery to place the loads on customers’ yards, later to be installed on the lawns by landscapers. Sometimes the landscapers waited for Joe to come and he would drop sod around the lawn for them as they arranged it-no extra charge. Joe was like that. All the time Millie would pour cups of coffee for Joe, and write in her notebook the details of the deliveries. She always brought her knitting along too. Millie had a genius color sense that she applied to her knitted items. Everyone loved her hand made presents of scarves, sweaters and blankets, which were partially fashioned in the passenger seat of Joe’s flat-bed truck.

Millie and Joe, I guess since they had no kids, maintained an open invitation to local families to come to the farm anytime they wanted; to picnic, play games, feed the animals. Parents allowed their kids to go to the farm by themselves, to play, swim, or even help with the farm chores. Kids all loved their home away from home.

At Christmastime their house was similarly open for visitors. People would pitch in to put up decorations. Millie kept the kitchen table piled high with cookies of all varieties, and all the side tables decorated with homemade candy filled jars. Unending coffee and hot chocolate completed the scene. Millie organized visitors into carolers, walking to nearby neighbors to serenade them with noel tunes.

They even extended the Christmas theme to the barn, where Joe set up a manger with two goats and a cow. Marty Holler’s parents always brought Jesus, Mary and Joseph statues, along with a light-up star to hang overhead.

To be sure, Joe and Millie were not religious people. I never remember them going to church. Millie (nee McGarrity) was Northern Irish Protestant, and Joe Gulick Polish Catholic, but they never pressed it. I think that they just liked the idea of Christmas, the sense of fellowship and giving. Their only belief system was each other, and they turned that joy outward to include other people in their happy, peaceful world.

I find myself thinking about Joe a lot lately. I’m his age now, and I have just realized that my main goal in life is to bring happiness to people, to be like Joe. He profoundly affected many people, back in the day in Middletown, NJ. I don’t know if I’ve been successful in reaching my goal, but I’m still having fun getting there.