Killing It In My Sixties

I have this great memory of going to Oakland A’s baseball games in the early 1970’s. I vividly remember the outrageously creative names on the roster: Vida Blue, Rollie Fingers, Mudcat Grant, Catfish Hunter, Blue Moon Odom, Sal Bando and Tony LaRussa to name a few. We would drive down to the Oakland Coliseum in our big-boat station wagon, sit all straight in a row – up in the cheap seats, eat polish sausages on a sourdough French roll for dinner and cheer on the team. I remember feeling happy and, like – I belonged to something bigger than myself – I was an A’s fan!

Interestingly enough, I am, and claim to be – a life-long Giant’s fan – but for that one year I was all about the A’s boys. One of the games, they were giving out posters of the team in their bright grass-green and sunflower-yellow uniforms – I knew who each one of them were. My brother got to keep the poster – because .. well – he’s a boy. But I would sneak into his room and gaze at that poster endlessly. It wasn’t really like I had a crush on any one player – I just loved the feeling I got when I was at the games with my family – and the poster helped prolong that feeling.

My family disintegrated in 1972, when my parents split up – I was 12 years old at the time. After that summer, there were no more baseball games, no more family togetherness, and all of us kids lived in different homes for the remainder of our childhood. We never smiled together as a group – ever again.

Throughout my life, I have held on to that memory of Oakland A’s baseball games with my family – like some Norman Rockwell painting that reassured me of what we once had.  A few years ago, I talked about my recollection of this time, with a couple of my siblings.  They both looked at me like I had three heads!  Categorically denying that we, as a family, had EVER gone to Oakland A’s games, they rolled their eyes at me laughing like I was delusional.  Actually – I thought they were just F’ing with me – as the third child – that happened a LOT – even as an adult.

The next day I asked my Dad about going to the baseball games, and he said “No – we never went to any A’s games”.  My brother and sister were laughing, of course, so I still wasn’t sure if it was a ruse or not.  How could NO ONE in my family validate such a great memory?!  I remember every detail: how cold it got up high in the bleacher seats during a night game, the salty, chewy taste of the Polish sausage with mustard, and how else could I know ALL the names of the players??!!  

In the years that followed – I would sporadically ask family members about going to those baseball games – they still shake their heads and laugh at me.  Because the memory is so vivid and clearly meaningful to me – I have been trying to process what it might mean.

Have you ever told a story in the presence of a parent, child or sibling that is from your shared family history?  I can almost guarantee you that someone will try to deny or correct your version of the memory. Does that make your version wrong – or theirs?  Neither – it’s a memory that shaped you, based on your experience of the event and who you are today – possibly because of that memory.   Our memories shape our personality – how we integrate the facts and events is unique to each of us.

Much the same as memories become stories in our minds; the stories that we tell ourselves and others, become a version of those memories.  The narrative is likely to change over time as we grow, change and gain new understanding or perspectives throughout our lifetime.  And the way we tell those stories shape the way that we ultimately remember them.

Each time we tell a story about one of our life experiences, it reinforces that memory – often with a new twist or detail, depending on the audience and the context of the story. Telling our stories is important; it gives us the opportunity to gain enrichment from how others respond or react.

So…. I am going to hang on to my memory – I need to – for me.