The Game Ball

The ashes of Gregory Richard Tornatore being interned.

Being hit from the rear in a fender bender accident on the way to an internment has an unsteady way of moving one forward in life. Life is full of bumps and bruises. My dad's life was besieged with the kind of setbacks that can scar you for life.

Four years following his passing, my father's ashes were laid to rest in a military ceremony at the Gloucester County Veterans Cemetary on August 22, 2005. Immediate family paid their respects to a man who went by husband, father, and grandpa. Dad served his country as a veteran of the Korean War so he earned a military sendoff. Four volunteer riflemen shot three volleys into the air and over his ashes. It was a 21 gun salute on the shy side. I had nothing but buried emotions until Taps was played on a bugle. Taps embodies sadness and melancholy in a blend that is both haunting and soulful. It is a song of only 24 notes but its power lies in evoking emotions of the deceased. While Taps was being played, I had flashbacks of my father teaching me how to grip the seams of a baseball then some thirty years later my laying a baseball in his casket. A cruel parley of thoughts.

So I returned from the interment to re-read the eulogy I delivered at my father's funeral three years ago. Reading it filled me with the deeper emotions I was not able to resurrect during the internment. This I undoubtably wanted. I wish to reprint the eulogy to illustrate, if nothing else, that long before the Freudian Slips blog was created, I thought of life in terms of irony. Irony has always been on my playing field for me to derive meaning from.

******

The Eulogy for Gregory Richard Tornatore 1929-2001

Although his son, I was not born of Gregory Richard Tornatore. Rather, he took me under his wing when he married my mother in 1964. He adopted me, gave me his hard to pronounce last name, and raised me to the adult who stands before you. My relationship with him was no different than that of any of my brothers. He was...my father too.

The last time I saw my dad alive was at the hospital on Saturday. Hospitals...dad knew all too well. Bedside, we shared a few light moments talking baseball. Baseball dad knew too well. During a more somber moment of the visit, I asked my father, if reflecting back on his life, did he harbor any bitterness or regrets. His answer came forthright.

"No regrets. Sons galore, a wonderful wife, steady jobs, and nice homes all of my life."

There are common denominators in life that help define us as human beings. As children, my brothers and I benefited as recipients of dad's caregiving. As adults, our roles reversed. Faced with dad's declining health and physical limitations, we had the opportunity to return caregiving to him.

There are also sad ironies in death that leave the living to wonder. Besides it being Good Friday, today is the anniversary of the 1985 operation that went terribly wrong and left Dad partially paralyzed. In the end, Dad lived to be 71 years old, a long time considering the length and course of his medical problems. I trust he is at peace now.

When I think of my dad, I envision toughness and courage in the wake of adversity. But more often than not, my memories often return to the game of baseball. Many of you know, dad loved baseball. In 1948, he was signed by the Philadelphia Phillies before an arm injury ended his baseball career.

Baseball, like life, has a game plan for all of us. Selfishly, I hoped dad's life would go a few more extra innings to see me re-marry this August. This was not to be. On the night my dad died, it is no coincidence that his last breaths came watching a Phillies broadcast, the very same evening I played baseball with my stepson ten miles away. This is the circle of life.

On behalf of your family and friends, we love you. From me, dad, you get my game ball.

******

People enter our lives like a knock on the door. Some leave our lives to the sound of Taps.