We had our own field, Pete, Dan, Ed and I. It was located in a large open lot surrounded by the back ends of houses. Burr Street was on the north, Sims Lane on the west and Fenner Street to the south. At the far east was Burton Street. Pete lived on Fenner Street and the field wasn’t far from his small backyard. The field was a bit soggy from time to time but it was ours for the summer.
This was in Cazenovia, New York and the year was 1961. We were twelve years old. We woke up thinking about baseball. We were either talking about it, playing it or on our way to play it all day every day. We all had baseball card collections and bought Sport magazine. We watched the Big Leaguers play weekends as best we could on our small black and white sets. I had Jackie Robinson six finger outfielders glove. It was a good glove. It went over the bike handle everywhere I went. I made many a great catch with that glove. My hero was Jimmy Piersall. He was a good hitter but he was mostly known for his outstanding catches in centerfield. He played for the Cleveland Indians that year. Every Sunday I would open the sports section of the newspaper hoping to see a photograph of Jimmy leaping high on an outfield wall to snatch away some guys home run. He was also known to be a wild man. He entertained folks in several ways. Anyway we four were good ballplayers. We were good enough but not great. The Great Ball Players, the natural athletes, played in a field near Burton Street school about four hundred yards to the north of us. Many were also older than us. We were also a bit nerdy. We were more apt to talk at length about the latest Twilight Zone episode than those other guys. Pete had just moved to Caz a year or two earlier. He was a wise guy. Sarcastic and funny. He was thin, a bit pale and wore glasses. His mother was a tormented woman. She always had a troubled and fearful look on her face. One day when we stopped in for a snack she snapped at Pete after one of his sarcastic comments. She leaned against the kitchen counter for a second then dropped to her knees begging God to forgive her for her moment of anger. My twelve year old eyes widened some witnessing that. Pete’s mother had convinced his older brother that the priesthood was his calling. This made the family a bit more important to many folks in Cazenovia. Tim was going to be a priest. He did attend a seminary for a while but eventually became a Chicago banker. Well, close enough. Dan was taller than the rest of us. A bit gangly. He had a few nervous ticks. Cleared his throat a lot. Blinked a lot. His mother wanted the perfect family. Like most families in those days meat was included in every meal. Dan’s mother, after reading all those recommendations made up by the meat industry, included a lot of organ meat in her meals. It was gross even for us kids brought up on meat. Lots of liver and kidneys and even tongue and gizzards were served up. After a few of those well intentioned meals I did not accept too many invitations to that house for supper. Ed came from an All American family. His father was an insurance salesman. His mother worked at the school. She was a real nice lady. There was just Ed and his sister. That was a little unusual back then. Many families had four or five kids. Ed had his own unusual story. Four or five years earlier he was innocently watching a ball game when a batter became enraged after striking out and threw his bat. It struck Ed in the temple, cracking his skull. It was touch and go for a while but he recovered. He now had a metal plate where his temporal bone used to be. This made him a celebrity around town for a while. There would be no football playing for Ed however. There were few interruptions to our ball playing that summer. Once in a while I would go out to West Lake Road and visit my old buddy, my best friend Steve but most of my time was spent on that damp field with Pete, Ed and Dan. We went through a lot of baseballs. We would use them until they were totally worn out. Taped up balls were common. We had to make the most of what we had. Our allowances were 25 or 50 cents. Baseballs were important but so was candy. One day we were tossing an old battered ball around near the street when my Uncle Don drove by. We all waved. He was a very quiet man. He was stationed in New Guinea during the war. A few days later he appeared in his car again. This time he stopped and dropped four or five baseballs out the window. Not only were these new baseballs but they were rubber coated baseballs! They were the same size and weight as regular baseballs but had that rubber coating that prevented them from becoming waterlogged. Perfect! We were all set for quite a while. Good old Uncle Don! Rain or shine not much stopped us from playing. Bases were quite often rocks or sticks….typical for sandlot ball. We rarely thought about those guys playing up on the hill near the school. We rarely visited there. We were totally engrossed in our own games and baseball in general. Towards the end of the summer we four ventured up to the school to check out one of the A team games. We thought we’d just chat a bit and see how everyone was doing. We also expected some, and some not so, good natured teasing. Much to our surprise we were invited to play in a late afternoon game. First came the warm up. I played first base. My new teammate Carl grabbed a ground ball at shortstop, he hesitated a bit then fired that pill at me with everything he had. I think he expected me to miss it, drop it or even duck away. My baseball skills had improved dramatically that summer and even though that throw had more zip on it than I had ever seen before –I handled it. So this was more than a friendly invitation to play ball-this was a test. The other fellows went through similar challenges. After a while these natural athletes gave us some grudging respect. We were a lot better ballplayers than they expected. As we walked down that hill at sunset heading for home and supper we four felt good. We felt real good. All that summer playing had sorta paid off. We had held our own. We were a little bit cooler...even though that was not our goal at summer’s beginning.. Pete moved out of town to Owego a few months later. It made me sad for a while. He was my closest friend among our foursome. He went on to become an actuary. He also became a mountain climbing enthusiast. He stopped by my apartment in 1978. He and his girlfriend had climbed many peaks in Europe and the Rockies. They even went to the Andes. Years later, with the internet and his brother, I found out that Pete’s luck had run out in 1985. He fell to his death from a cliff in the Rockies. Dan, with his high grades, went on to attend an Ivy League school where he had a nervous breakdown. A complete breakdown. He became a well known panhandler in Syracuse for years and years. Someone said he is doing much better now. Sure hope so. Ed, metal plate and all, became a successful engineer and raised a family down near Albany. And I became whatever the hell I am. Simple twists of fate. It was a nice summer in Cazenovia and it came to that nice ending. Soon Del Shannon and ‘Runaway’ and then a bit later on the Beatles would replace Jimmy Piersall and Ted Kluszinski as folks that greatly interested me. In 1974 I gave my extensive, well organised baseball card collection to the son of my boss because I felt sorry for the kid. A few weeks later I stopped by and the collection was strewn all over the living room. They were even using some of them to start fires in the fireplace. Regret…….oh regret. C’est la vie. It was the summer of 1981. I was working for, and sometimes with, the flamboyant George Brockway. We were building stone walls. I say sometimes with because more than occasionally George had other important matters to attend to…like chasing down old girlfriends and entertaining folks at the local coffee shops.
At 52 he was in great shape. He did a lot of cycling and weightlifting and skiing. His square jaw was surrounded by curly golden locks. He swore it was the sun that did it. George was a very good stonemason. He took the limestone blocks blasted out of Kinsella’s quarry in Fayetteville, carted them to fine homes with his big pickup and shaped them into attractive stone walls. During the long Central New York winters he gave ski lessons at Song Mountain. George had grown up in a fine home himself. It was located across the road from the present day Wegman’s on Route 5 in Fayetteville. Apartment buildings cover the area now. As a lad he would hike north across that road to Cedar Bay on the Erie Canal where he would play hockey and trap mink and muskrat. The family also had a summer home on the east side of Skaneateles Lake. George was a fun loving, gregarious kid with a great sense of humor and had many friends in the Syracuse area. He also had a feisty side but this was usually tempered by that sense of humor. One of George’s relatives was Albert Brockway. That Mr. Brockway was a well known architect in Syracuse. He taught at Syracuse University and designed many beautiful homes in the area. He also designed three large buildings at the State Fair Grounds. The founder of Brockway Trucks in Cortland was also a relative. On the other side of the family was George Bond, a founder of the Bond, Schoenock and King law firm. Mr. Bond was also the head football coach for Syracuse University in 1894. So George had some bloodlines in the Syracuse area. He went off to the Berkshire Prep School in western Mass to finish up high school. Then he was off to Cornell University. A wild man at both schools I am sure. In his early twenties George spent some time in the Navy, stationed in Iceland. There he saw a fellow decapitated by a cable while they were towing a plane out of the ice. George Brockway’s father died of a heart attack while out hunting in 1954. He was 56. George was 26 at that time. His mother, his sister and he inherited Knollwood Farm, the family estate. This was sold within six months and George had a bit of a cushion to help him out. George married Joan in 1962 and they had a son John Adam who is also a stonemason. They later divorced. The family moved out to Aspen, Colorado where George taught school and was a member of the Ski Patrol at the resort. He was a buddy of Klaus Obermeyer and Friedl Pfeiifer. Back in Central New York in the late 60’s he taught school and then started his masonry business. Amy Sheneman helped him as a sort of secretary for a while. His business was usually in some need of organizing. George was back because he really loved this area, the geography and ice age geology especially appealed to him. Syracuse was host to the National Sports Festival in 1981 and George planned on seeing as many events as he could. Basically it was a National Olympics with many of the events modeled after the games. So my job that week went from stone wall builder to photographer. I had my old 35mm camera from years back. It wasn’t much by today’s standards but it would have to do. I shot a few action shots but the main reason I was there was to shoot photographs of George with the celebrity athletes and…. we had special access to the infields. George, you see, had procured a torch bearer tee shirt by fast talking some guy on the first day. George was especially proud of this. So he breezed through the gates pulling on his Tshirt and then dragged me with the camera behind him. Eric Heiden and Al Oerter both had the privilege of being photographed with Mr. Brockway. Many other nationally known athletes also enjoyed a that moment in the sun. Friday, July 24 was a very important day for George. This was the day of the 60 mile cycling road race. George was an avid bike racer. He participated in the senior division in bike races around upstate New York. He also took part in various triathlons. He followed the national bicycling racing scene by reading magazines and the occasional newspaper article. He knew the kings of the road races were the Great Stetina brothers, Dale and Wayne, from Indiana. So this day we went in early. After a pit stop at Buzzy’s coffee shop in Manlius we headed up to the entrance of Onondaga Community College. This is where the racers assembled. There is a short stem road off the main road before it branched off around the campus. It was on this straightaway stem road that George waited. Now George wanted more than just a photograph with the Stetinas. He wanted to be their pal. He wanted a close bond with fellow racers. He wanted a little bit of that fame. After a while a van pulled up and parked in the grass. It was Wayne Stetina. Wayne was a good bicycle racer. A very good racer. He would occasionally beat the National Champion, his brother Dale. Wayne got out of the van and busied himself with race preparations. He set his bicycle up on a stand and went about his business. There was a small crowd about the entrance. George was about thirty feet away. He held back. He was waiting for an opportunity. He really wanted that special bond with the racing family. After 7-10 minutes another van pulled up. There was an opening ahead of Wayne’s van. This new van slowly backed up towards Wayne’s setup. George also saw an opening. This was it! He would save Wayne’s bicycle from this rude interloper! He would save the day for Wayne! They would be PALS FOR LIFE! As this new van backed up very slowly George finally pounced. He bellowed out at the top of his lungs. “STOP!!!!!” The small crowd fell silent. Several crows flying overhead had seizures and fell lifeless to the ground. I suffered permanent ear damage. Some were shaking in fear. The new van stopped suddenly. The driver got out. I looked over at George and saw a look of utter shock and horror on his face! The driver of this new van was Dale Stetina, the National Champion!! Dale slowly walked to the back of the van. He looked at Wayne’s bicycle. It was good 25’ from the van bumper. He looked at George with bewilderment and a bit of disgust. George sputtered..”Hi Dale…how is Greg LeMond doin’?” “I haven’t seen Greg in quite some time” Dale said through clenched teeth. Well, George had blown it and he knew it. Instead of a hero the Stetina brothers saw him as some sort of kook. We slowly drifted away. George was shattered. There would be no warm family meals at the Stetina home for George. No pats on the back from a grateful champion. George being George, however, he quickly recovered and soon we were off to see Sheila Young, the great speed skater and cyclist. All in all… a great week.. ..a lot of fun…with this wild man! It’s twenty two, twenty three years later. George is in his 70s now. Sometimes we would drive around his boyhood home, Knollwood farm. Knollwood Farm was now an upscale neighborhood. Jim Boeheim lives there. George could still find a patch of woods or a little quarry that would stir his memory and a story would follow. The entrance to his family home now had a Byrne Dairy sitting on it. George said when was a boy twenty minutes would go by without a car going by on Route 5. Anyway, these years later George and I are now repairing a porch at the old Brookside development in Fayetteville. I am working part time with George and otherwise sculpting animals. George tells me a story from his prep school days at the Berkshire School. He says he and his pals are walking down a county road near the school on a weekend stroll. There was an exclusive girl’s school nearby. Down this country road comes 3-4 gals on horseback. They are from the finishing school. So George and his fellows try to make conversation with the first girl trotting by. Nothing doing. Their noses are way up in the air says George. Second rider…same thing. As the third gal rode by her horse began farting and farting ..and farting. Then another horse started up. Those little aristocratic upturned noses had to take it all in. George and the boys were mocking and laughing and having a ball with the situation! George told the story well and we were laughing our butts off too. I gotta say..it was a sort of freeing laughter. That is, I really loved George at that moment. It was all there. His great sense of humor and his being down to earth even while attending a prep school. George got a kick out of all sorts of people. He knew that afternoon that he didn’t have a lot of years left yet he was in a peaceful mood..We just really enjoyed each others company that day. On balance, Central New York was very fortunate to have George around. He terrified many a driver with that huge pickup and he had no patience with the obese but these things just made him more interesting. He also helped me out a lot with my animal sculptures with his encouragement, contacts and moving the concrete tigers, bears et al. A memorial plaque to George now hangs above the fireplace at the Song Mountain Ski Resort. Many attended its dedication. Another colorful character from these hills that I sure do miss. It was the third week in August of 1976. Bill Dougherty was starting to build a foundation for Paul Johnson’s home southeast of Cazenovia. I was helping him. My name is John. I was a tender. Paul still lives in the house that sits on that foundation.
It was a Sunday afternoon. I heard somebody bounding up the steep stairway at Buyea’s apartment building on Albany Street. I lived alone on the third floor. It was my old pal Dexter, Dexter Johnson. It was unexpected visit. Dexter had been working in Montreal with Allan Robinson, another high school classmate of mine. Dex said they were on their way to Taxco, Mexico to buy silver wholesale. He asked me if I wanted to go along. He said the journey would probably take two or three weeks. Allan was off seeing his folks but would be back shortly. So I quickly threw together what I needed for the trip. This included, on a whim, a realistic looking toy gun. I raced down to Albert’s restaurant to call Bill on the payphone. He was a good sport about it and soon we were on our way. It was a non-stop drive to Laredo. Allan had a pickup truck with a cap on the back that served as a camper. One guy drove, another kept him awake with conversation and the third slept in the back. This rotation worked pretty well. Although I did not have a license I drove some too. We arrived in Laredo and finally got motel rooms for some real sleep. The next morning it was back to that routine driving south through central Mexico. Monterrey, Saltillo, San Luis Potosi, Queretaro and finally a stop in Toluca. The magnificent scenery was a real treat. We camped in a park on the side of a volcano there. The next morning Allan wanted to check out the major market in Toluca. I bought a great sweater and woven blanket there. Then we pushed on to Taxco. Just as we were arriving in Taxco a circus arrived in town. It looked like something from the 19th century. They had a parade to stir up business and little kids were excitedly skipping along beside the clowns, elephants and wild cats in their cages. It was quite a spectacle! We booked rooms in the Holiday Inn there. It sat high on a plateau above town and had a Mayan influenced design with a large terraced courtyard in the center. Very nice! With the currency exchange the price was right too. It also had a beautiful bar room. We had quite a few that night and got in late and up early. Allan was determined to get the silver jewelry at the lowest possible price. No middle man. He was going to take it back to Montreal and sell it on the street there. First, he went to the state run store to get a bead on those jewelry prices. They were way too high for him of course but it was a starting point. Then we searched all over that beautiful city with its impressive church for the right contact. After two or three guys claiming low prices, Allan finally got one guy to take us out to a village where the artisans made the stuff. We drove out about 20 miles away from the city to a remote little village surrounded on three sides by 100’ cliffs. We parked in a lot on the edge of town and walked in. There were no streets for cars in the old adobe style town. Our contact took us to an attractive house near the center of town. There a middle aged woman was introduced to us as the silver jewelry dealer. She had several family members around and Allan and her sat down at a table to do some hard bargaining. Now while Allan was talking about buying in great quantities I noticed some subtle hand signaling going on between the other family members. There were four men standing around the table. Dexter sat near the table and I was off about 20’ observing. Well the men kept up the hand signaling and in my exhausted, fatigued state my imagination went wild. Allan had about $2000 cash on him. Big money down there. So I am thinking..”Holy Shit! They are about Rob us, Murder us and throw our bodies over the cliff!” Then I remembered the realistic toy pistol. I excused myself and quickly walked back to the truck, grabbed the pistol and stuffed it under my belt in the back. A long tailed shirt hid it. I hurried back to the house. When I got back I figured it was about that critical time. Allan had a lot of cash on the table. The men looked intense. I was tense. I waited… hoping to make the right move at the right time. All of a sudden one of the younger fellows jumps up out of his chair and starts screaming in a high pitched voice. It wasn’t Spanish. It wasn’t anything. Plates and cups went flying as he tore about the room. He was a very angry wild man! Allan stood up with a fearful look on his face. Dexter, startled, backed away. I was ready to reach for my “gun” when the brothers of the wild man rushed over to restrain him. His mother patted his arm to calm him down. Well, it turns out that the young man was deaf and he had been having a hand signing argument with his brothers. She explained that he gets really frustrated with them from time to time and kind of loses it. BIG sigh of relief here. They concluded their dealing and we hauled the jewelry back to the truck. But that little toy gun came into play again the next day. After one last night of good time carousing at the Holiday Inn we headed the next morning towards Acapulco. About 4 hours into the trip we suddenly came upon a roadblock. We are talking sand bags and machine guns here. Some of the Federales had submachine guns. Everyone had pistols. I sat in the middle. Allan and Dexter were told to get out and bring their belongings out of the back to look for drugs. Federales surrounded the truck. While I sat there calmly a uniformed man came over and opened the glove compartment. Then I remembered…..the Toy Gun! This guy felt around the glove compartment for a second then his hand hit the gun. He shouted out something in Spanish and four submachines that had been pointing at the ground popped up and were now pointing at our bellies. “Toy!!! Toy!!” I shouted again and again. The next few minutes were right out of a Hollywood film. The Federale steps back and slowly examines the toy pistol. Then he begins to laugh. He turns around to show his compadres and escalates his laughter. Then they began to slowly laugh and slowly their laughter escalates! Before long the whole gang of them are laughing uncontrollably! BIG sigh of relief again. Five hundred yards down the road from that checkpoint that little toy gun went out the truck window and into a ditch. I can always keep a secret...even when it's true.
- Walter K. Late May c. 1977 - warm spring night - A bunch of us, 6-7 people, Ed Hammond among them, were having a few drinks at the Colony when we decided to wander down to the lake. About half way down Albany Street we heard a commotion over by Carpenter's Pond. Well, we staggered over there and the street next to the pond was covered with HUNDREDS of croaking frogs. Literally hundreds! Maybe thousands! You had to be very careful where you were walking... Some kind of mating deal. It was bizarre! We just stared and stared in awe at this event. Kinda magical!
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