WINTER 2008
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DADDY
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Daddy. I was the first person to call him that. I am the oldest of his 7 children. William Thomas Shea's family was the most important thing in his life. Not only did he support us, he spent the quality time it took to nurture us as well.
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His presence instilled the strong feeling of family that was such a comfort to all of us growing up in New York in the 1960's. His love for my mother Hazel during their 45 years of marriage was such an inspiration. It taught me the true meaning of the word family. He brought us up, and never let us down. My family and I have our memories. Let me share some with you.
It was December 31, 1959. I was a very tired 4 year old boy, standing in front of our black and white tv. I had a pot in one hand, and a spoon in the other, ready to ring in the new year with as much noise as possible. Mom and Dad were sitting on the couch. My sister Amy was sleeping in a chair. It was almost midnight. I stared at the screen. I saw the Times Square crowd for the first time. My Mom said, "Get ready Arthur. Make some noise!" This was going to be great! I was actually allowed to "make a racket", as my Dad would say. The ball dropped. I banged my spoon against my pot with reckless abandon. 1960 was here. I looked over at Mom and Dad. They were hugging and kissing. I ran to them. They held me, as we saw the year 1960 in lights on the screen. Amy picked her head up, looked around, then went back to sleep. Daddy told Mom, "I better get her to bed." He bent over, picked Amy up, and carried her to bed. Daddy would carry us to bed if we fell asleep in the living room. When he carried me, I would wake up sometimes, but I would never open my eyes. I just let him carry me. As I watched him put Amy to bed, I was a little bit envious. I was growing up. There were younger children for Daddy to carry. The Shea family was growing every year. I had a sister and 2 brothers, Billy and Matty. Mommy was pregnant. Later that year, she would give birth to my sister Ruth. I had to grow up. My parents needed help! As I knelt beside my bed to say my prayers, Daddy put his hand on my shoulder. When I finished, he picked me up and gave me a big hug and a kiss. Everything was alright. I was still Daddy's little boy.
Our family left Brooklyn in 1963. We crossed the brand new Verrazano Narrows Bridge, and began our life on Staten Island. Daddy packed all the kids into the station wagon. The Shea clan now included my sister Ruth, and my new little brother, Glenn. He was named after Glenn Miller, the famous bandleader. To a kid from Brooklyn, Staten Island was beautiful. There were more trees than we had ever seen. Daddy pulled into the parking lot. "Here it is!" he said. We got out of the car. There were 6 new high rise buildings with lawns. In front of our building was a playground. I looked at Amy. We ran as fast as we could to the monkey bars. The playground was different from any we had seen in Brooklyn. There were concrete barrels, a stack of logs bolted together, a large concrete turtle, and of course, the monkee bars. We had a great time playing there that day. Life was full of promise. The West Brighton projects were a dream come true for us.
Mommy called us from the first story window of our apartment. "Supper's ready!" All us kids stopped what we were doing and ran to the door. The huge 4 bedroom apartment with 1C on the door had a hallway long enough to be a bowling alley. (we tried it) There were 2 bathrooms, and a kitchen large enough to cook for, and feed a family of 8. "Wash your hands." Mom said. She checked them as we entered the kitchen. Daddy came in and kissed Mommy. He sat at the head of the table and led us in Grace. "Thank you Lord for these thy gifts which we are about to recieve from thy bounty through Christ our Lord, Amen." Daddy took one of the lamb chops, and asked for the pot of mashed potatoes. Mommy stood in the corner with a small plate of food. All us kids dug in. Daddy talked about his day. He always did at supper. We were sitting at the main meeting place of the Shea family for the next 10 years. Everything was discussed. We talked about how we did at school, to what was on television that night.
Looking back, so much was taught, so much was learned at that table. Not only did Daddy feed us, he spent quality time with us as well. There was a new addition to the Shea family in March of the next year. That leads me to my next story.
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"We're naming the baby John F. Kennedy Shea!" Dad proclaimed. "What if she's a girl?" Mom asked. I don't remember him answering. He helped Mom put her coat on, and they left for the hospital. Nana O'Rourke watched us. Nana was great. She would let me stay up late because I was the oldest. I stayed up as late as I could. I fell asleep before Daddy came home that night.
Daddy woke us all up the next morning. "You have a baby sister!" He was so proud. "Her name's Mary Louise." When Mom came home with the new baby our family was complete. I would tell Mary later, she could have been named for a President. I think she was happy she wasn't.
Mary's birth was the bridge between Brooklyn and Staten Island for our family. We had all been born in Brooklyn. Now we had a Staten Islander in the fold. Nana O'Rourke took Mary under her wing. She moved in across the hall from us. Nana couldn't get enough of baby Mary. Our new sister was great for our Grandmother, who was in poor health. She was confined to a wheelchair, and blind. The woman had many physical challenges, but she missed nothing. She had been a nurse. She was also very active in the "talking book" program. That program allowed blind shut-ins to "read" books. (with the help of a 78 rpm phonograph)
Daddy and Mommy had a special courtship during that time. Nana was more than happy to babysit. Mom and Dad went out once or twice a week. That was once or twice more than they had gone out for quite some time. They were so cute. They would get dressed up, check on us kids, then go out to a movie or dinner.
Nana would tell us stories about "the olden days." They were labeled that by Amy. "Please tell us about the olden days, Nana!" Nana told us how she was asking for donations for her hospital in Chicago during the 1920's. She stopped in on Al Capone. She was told not to, but Nana never took no for an answer, not even from Al Capone. He gave a donation.
Nana would rock back and forth with Mary in her arms. We would get tired and go to bed. No one knew we would only have a short time left with Nana. She spent every day of her last year with her beautiful grandaughter Mary Louise. Nana called her Mary Lou. The nickname stuck until Mary was old enough to voice her opinion. That didn't take long.
Shortly after Mary's 1st birthday, we were awakened in the middle of the night. Sirens blared outside. We could see out through the front door. Paramedics were going into Nana's apartment. Daddy told us to sit still. We did, as he took Mommy next door.
Daddy was holding Mommy close when they came back 15 minutes later. He told us Nana had died. We hugged each other, cried, and went back to bed. I stopped and looked in on Mary. She was sleeping. I knew somewhere in heaven, Nana O'Rourke was doing the same thing.
Cosmo's barber shop was across the street from the projects. Daddy would take us there for "school" haircuts. Cosmo would get you in the chair, then use a big leather belt to sharpen his razor. This was all going on behind you. Fortunately, the entire place was covered with mirrors, so you could see everything. After he gave you the haircut, Cosmo would dump a couple of ounces of Troll hair tonic on your head. You could smell it on his fingers as he massaged it into your head. Then he would use the razor to shave the back of your neck. After he combed your hair and dusted you off, he would give you a bag of M&M's. This was incredibly therapeutic. We would all walk home, eating our M&M's, with no hair out of place.
Daddy took us for a lot of walks. We would walk through the projects. Daddy knew everybody. He never met a person he couldn't talk to. He sold insurance for a couple years. I guess he had to be a good talker to make a buck. I, on the other hand, was very shy. We would walk. Daddy would talk. I always admired the way he could strike up a conversation with anybody. That's why it hurt so much to see him struggle for words after his stroke.
Daddy loved baseball. He would take us to about 10 Yankee games every year. Con Edison sponsored a program called "Con Ed Yankee Kids" to help inner city kids attend the games. Daddy would supervise a group of 8 kids, that consisted of Billy, Matt, Glenn, and myself, with a friend for each of us. Con Edison would pay for the tickets and subway fare. We would take the Staten Island Ferry over to Manhattan. Then we would drive Daddy crazy during the long train ride to the Bronx. "How many more stops, Daddy?" was our question as the train pulled out of each station. God bless him. My father was so patient. You could see him counting in his head as he gave us that all important information. I think by the time we all grew up, Daddy knew how far Yankee Stadium was from every stop along the subway line.
"NEXT STOP YANKEE STADIUM" the conducter announced. We could see the streams of daylight as we ascended out of the tunnel. There it was. Our faces pressed the glass to get a closer look at the big ballpark. Even though I've seen that view many times, it has never failed to impress me.
We would always stop outside the stadium at "Manny's Baseball Land." It was like Disneyland to me. The sidewalk stand stocked baseball memorabilia of all kinds. We wouldn't always buy something. It was just so much fun to look.
Our Con Ed Kids pass entitled us to bleacher seats. Dad would find us a spot by the bullpen. He knew we liked to see the pitchers warm up. I can remember a young Thurman Munson warming up pitchers in that bullpen. What a shame his life was cut short. We saw Mickey Mantle in the last days of his great career. Billy and I even walked the field with our banner during the pregame ceremonies on Mickey Mantle Day, when the Mick retired in 1968. Looking out at a full Yankee Stadium from the field at age 10 and 12 was a great thrill for both of us. We walked past the great Baltimore Oriole team of Frank and Brooks Robinson, Boog Powell, and Jim Palmer. I remember seeing Brooks working his Glove 5 feet from me. WE WERE THERE! Then we passed Mickey, holding our banner up. "HEY, MICKEY SAW US!" That may have been our best day at the stadium, but there were others.
There were times when Dad would take Billy and I to the game by ourselves. It was just Dad and his sons. On these trips Daddy would usually buy us each something from Manny's. We would sit in the general admission seats, in the shade. Now that was luxury! There were so many games that we enjoyed together. One game involved the great pitcher, Luis Tiant. The Yankees were in last place. Tiant was in the middle of a Cy Young season. Nobody in the Yankee linup came close to getting a hit. Tiant came out to pitch the bottom of the 9th with a no hitter, and a 1-0 lead. Tiant struck out the first 2 batters. A close pitch was called ball 4 to the next hitter. The batter in the on deck circle was called back to the dugout. Daddy said, "It's gonna be Mantle." This was before the designated hitter rule. Daddy explained how,even though Mickey couldn't play the field with his injured knees, maybe he could hit.
Out of the dugout came #7, the great Mickey Mantle. My disappointment that Mick wasn't in the starting lineup now turned to pure excitement. Mantle hit the 1st pitch into the rightfield seats for a home run. No hitter over. Game over. Yankees win! That was a good day.
We would wait outside the stadium after the game for the players to come out. It was fun figuring out who they were out of uniform. We would always stay until Mickey came out. He was usually one of the last to his car. Daddy said that was because of his bad knees. All I know is Mantle was a hero, but Daddy was my hero.
Since my father's death, I've had dreams of us at the stadium. Maybe it's because we spent so much time there. Maybe in some alternate consciousness we are there. I spent a lot of my childhood there. Whether we were running through the bleachers, or sitting next to Dad watching baseball, it was a great place to be a kid. I would love to have 1 more day, sitting in the bleachers of Yankee Stadium with Dad. Maybe someday in heaven.
Dad would also play ball with us. He would come home from a hard day's work, change his clothes, and play stickball with us. Sometimes we would play basketball too. Sports were a big part of our life in the projects. We had such a good time, we didn't even know we were poor. We thought we had it made. In some ways, we did. No matter what things were like outside, when we walked through the door, we knew there was love there.
The West Brighton projects started to get dangerous. There were gangs that tried to make our lives miserable. The longer we lived there, the worse it got. They didn't carry guns, but they could hurt you. It could be getting hit with a rock as you walked out of your building, spray paint under your window, or their favorite, ringing your doorbell, then running away.
The pranks could get serious. A dead cat was thrown through our kitchen window one night after we had gone to bed. There was a crash in the kitchen. Daddy and I ran from our bedrooms to find a dead cat on the kitchen table, and the window broken. We wrapped the table cloth around the animal and disposed of it. Mommy cleaned up the broken glass.
I think that was when Mom and Dad decided to get out of the projects. Dad was able to get a VA loan, and we bought a home in St. George. It felt great to leave there. It was going to be a new beginning for us.
We moved out on December 23, 1972. I remember the date because it was the same day Pittsburgh Steeler Franco Harris made his "immaculate reception." Everything was moved out of the house except my portable tv in my room. I was about to pull the plug when I saw Franco catch the deflected pass from Bradshaw, and run for a touchdown. Wow! What a game! No one else in my family saw it. I pulled the plug, and carried the tv out to the truck. We were ready to go. I hopped into the passenger side and started telling Daddy about the game. I noticed one of the project kids run behind the truck, as Daddy started the ignition. "Wait a minute, Dad." I said. I got out and walked behind the truck. They had attached a chain from the fence to the back of the truck. I unhooked the chain, throwing it to the ground. Then I smiled at them and gave the peace sign. We were gone.
That move was a right of passage for my family. We had our own home. I was almost 18 years old at the time. I remember the church bells ringing when the Vietnam war ended. I stood in front of my house and listened. It was the sound of freedom.
Daddy took me out for my 1st beer on Halloween night, 1973. It was my 18th birthday. We went to a quiet bar on Bay street. My father wasn't a drinking man, but he felt it was something he should do for his son. I'm glad he did. We had a beer, then came home. Daddy always took the time to do the little things. I was growing up, but he would always be there for me.
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My father and I both managed teams in the Snug Harbor Little League. Dad managed the major league, Bob Connors, while I managed the minor league, Colonial lanes team. Both Matty and Glenn played for us. I had a problem finding 8-10 year old pitchers who could reach home plate. My brother Glenn was 9 years old. Playing catch at home, I could tell he had a great arm for his age. We practiced his windup, worked out a little, and Colonial Lanes had a new pitcher.
The 1st game Glenn pitched was amazing. He just kept striking kids out. He had great control, and they couldn't keep up with his velocity. Daddy was so proud of him. He would now use a catcher's mitt when throwing the ball with Glenn. I was proud of my brother too. Glenn was quickly promoted to the major league, which was very unusual for his age. Glenn continued his success until a bone disease in his hip prevented him from playing anymore. Although it didn't last long, I know Glenn and Daddy enjoyed that time in the sun.
While we were young kids, Dad was still a very good athlete. He had played high school baseball, and flirted with a pro career. He served his country in the army instead of playing the game he loved. Now he had us, and we played ball.
On a hot summer day in 1970, there was a father/son softball game at public school 18. I was 15 years old. Sports were still the most important thing in my life. All my friends, and thier fathers played. It was an event. The school was right across the street from the projects. Dad came over. My best friend Doug and his Dad came over. Everything came together. It seemed like all the fathers in the neighborhood were free that day. The families came over. We had a crowd.
The all stars took the field. We were all stars because we were playing in front of our fathers. Adolescents on a concrete field of dreams. I played left field. I looked at the fathers standing along the 3rd base line. They were proud. Monte's first pitch was lined right at me. All I could do was catch it on one hop. Daddy was up next. Dad looped one over Louie's head in rightfield. He doubled in the run. I looked at my Dad as he stood on 2nd base. I was proud.
The game went back and forth. It was a great contest. In the 5th inning, I hit a blast to left center. I had rounded 1st base when I saw my Dad reach over the fence, and catch the ball. I couldn't believe it! I wanted him to do well, but not THAT WELL! I shook my finger at my father. Dad had to laugh. He had shook his finger at me many times. "Nice catch, Dad." I said. "Nice shot, son." he answered. It was a great day. One of so many I had with my Dad. I don't even remember who won the game. We all won. It was a summer day I'll never forget.
On rainy days we would play board games. We played Monopoly, Scrabble, and Password. When it came to Password, Daddy and I had great communication. He would look at me a certain way, and I knew what he was thinking. We never lost.
I think Dad was preparing me for the future. After Dad's second stroke, when he couldn't find the right words for the first time in his life. I was there to help with the communication.
Daddy couldn't put the words together to form a sentence, but he could sing. He sang, "Once in love with Amy" from his hospital bed. Near the end of the song, he looked in Amy's eyes. He saw tears. Daddy stopped singing. "What's wrong?" he asked. Amy just hugged her father. No one had an answer to his question.
We lost part of Daddy after that stroke. He had always loved to talk. That was taken from him. It was sad. Most of the time, I knew what he wanted to say. That old Password experience came in handy. I was so glad that we played. I was so glad he was my father.
Mom was able to help Dad maintain a comfortable lifestyle for the last years of his life. He ate, watched his Yankee games, and got back and forth to his doctors. He was happy. It seems strange, but I think Dad was happier after his stroke. Maybe he appreciated things more. He knew what he liked, and he did those things. Most of the time those things involved sitting in front of his tv with the Yankee game on. I would call and congratulate Dad when the Yankees won a big game. During the 1998 and 1999 World Series, both 4 game sweeps for the Yankees, I called before each game. "Is there anything on tv tonight, Dad?" He would laugh. "Oh, I think there might be a ball game on tonight." They kept winning, so I continued the ritual. Before each final game, Dad's response was, "Yes, the final game of the World Series!" I couldn't believe that worked for 2 years!
The Yankees won the World Series again in 2000. Daddy didn't make it through the season. He told me, "I'm worried about them this year." He was worried about them. I really missed being able to call Dad after the Yanks won. I've heard it said, a son doesn't become a man until his father dies. In that case, I would have preferred to remain a child.
The more my loved ones die, the less afraid of death I become.
One day I will be with my Dad again. Until then, he will always be in my heart. He was a great father. During my last visit before his death, I heard him talking to my Grandmother in the next room. "Art's a great son." he said. There are a lot of people more successfull than I who never heard that from their father. I'm glad he thought so. I learned a lot from him.
Life goes on for us now, but we will never forget him.
Thanks to everyone who came out for
Dad's last gathering.
People he hadn't seen for 20 years
came to Matthews.
Dad was loved by so many.
The easy smile.
The kind word.
The people he touched.
This is the way
Dad was remembered
on that day.
thanks from the family.
art
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