GSUMMER SPORTS CLASSIC II

Blasts of Summers Past

Of all types, both fun and not so fun

My photo of our bunk my third year of camp (Left to right in each row starting with the top: Richard Mack (my oldest friend and mentioned in story), Phil Heller, Jon Gordon, Chris Hess, David Garfield, Peter Genatt (mentioned in story), counselor (name not recalled), Andrew Reitman, Scott Schneider, counselor (name not recalled but pretty sure he stole my boom box), and me. Richard, Phil, Peter, and I were also nursery school classmates. Richard, Phil, and I went to the University of Pennsylvania together. All four of us are friends today.

Epigram

“Summer loving, had me a blast.”

What kid didn’t love summers? Especially us early Gen-Xers, running and/or biking around, creating potentially disastrous yet innocent mischief.

Such as on one of my visits to my best friend Richard back in Great Neck, NY (Long Island) after my family had moved to Providence, RI, and Peter Genatt (yeah, I don’t change names) blasted a crater in one of Richard’s neighbors’ lawns with an M-80.

I remember many laughing, but I also remember being a bit freaked out.

First of many summer-loving blasts involving Peter.

First day of my third year at sleep-away camp, Peter, having left his prior camp mates and joined our bunk, exclaims to us all, “Dudes, check out the fireworks I smuggled in my tackle box,” not noticing that Warren, the head senior camp counselor, stood in the doorway, and simply said, “I’ll take those, Peter.”

Blasts avoided.

Not to be deterred, later that summer, Peter and Richard ran and buried a wire from our bunk to a bunk across the quad and connected it to that bunk’s light switch, so when Peter would complete the circuit on our end by touching two exposed ends together, we would turn their lights back on after “lights out.”

Camp administration did not find that potential blast hazard amusing.

“Summer loving, had me a blast.”

Wow, that simple line, from many of our pasts, implicates so many potentially evocative and innuendo-laced memories, or for me, fantasies, beyond the “hand jive” (have you seen this recent genius Giannis starring commercial) as I didn’t even make out with a girl (or anyone) until Brown University’s 1985 freshman week, where I hometown hung out as my college, University of Pennsylvania (aka, “Not Penn State,” as the T-shirts commemorating the U Penn Quaker’s run to the Final Four in 1979 made the announcer’s ignorance infamous) didn’t start until the following week.

I must have been a good first-time kisser, as I reached third base.

Yet, I didn’t hit a home run until my second year of law school.

At least not that type…

Growing up in Providence, after moving from Long Island, I was a decent athlete in my earlier years, especially playing JCC (Jewish Community Center) baseball — there were enough, but not many of us in Providence.

Then I rejoined my previous-to-Providence friends at the aforementioned, but not yet named, and a very competitive, not religious Jewish sleep-away camp in Maine.

Camp Takajo. (Infamous for the sad and tragic tale of one of the founder’s (beloved Morty Goldman) grandsons, Jake, son of the famous author and NBA player John Widemen, murdering a fellow camper). (I knew both Jake and his brother Eric — both sweet kids).

Stabbed. Dead. Not a blast.

I’ve digressed.

Back to my story.

I don’t think I hit even a single in my first summer, and now that I think about it, not even one in the next three summers.

My worst baseball moment was my first visiting day when I felt the need to impress my parents, and I air-mailed the backstop when throwing home from the outfield — during warm-ups.

Head down moment, even now, but with nostalgia.

Fast forward to the Olympics, which our camp called color war.

I’m on my team’s “C” baseball squad.

The lowest.

The head baseball counselor pitches.

I clearly remember my second at bat, when, brimming with confidence, I swung a bit late at a pitch high out of the strike zone for a double to right field.

So disappointing.

Why the confidence?

Why disappointing?

Because I failed.

I failed to reproduce the prior at bat.

A fucking home run, a legit over-the-fence home run, to left center.

I still remember a younger counselor, Rich Madden, who ended up being one of my bunk counselors three summers later, presenting me with the red ink-inscribed ball in front of the whole camp that evening.

Plus, that later year, my fourth and final year, on our few-day midsummer trip, which coincided with the MLB All-Star Game when it meant something to fans, when I loved the National League and hated the American League, and the National League enjoyed dominance in the All-Star Games, and the players cared about it, not the paycheck. Rich came to our motel room to watch the game with a couple of six packs of beer and shared them with us. (A memory I hadn’t recalled until typing this paragraph).

Summer loving, had me a few blasts.

Camp was a mixed bag for me.

Lots of fun and fond sports memories.

I also experienced lots of teasing, especially my first two summers, having coming in after most had been there already a few seasons, and me with zits, which no one else had yet, and not properly outfitted — I didn’t yet know of Adidas, and Puma, etc. — I showed up my first year with Keds, and a bunch of jean-esque navy shorts, and solid blue and solid red t-shirts that my mom took me to the decal store to adorn.

She tried.

I got over it all, including being so homesick my first summer and telling everyone I was leaving on visiting day, and their surprise when I remained.

I wish I remembered the name of that first counselor I had.

I remember him walking my parents and me out to their car, and walking me back.

Sometimes it’s true that the only way out is through.

Thanks for reading my story.