By far, the worst firework ever. Consumed by idiots wishing to watch flames and listen to a torturous sound, Piccolo Pete created chaos in a neighborhood filled with idiots. You lit it, it made a terrible sound, and burned cash.

Piccolo Pete ensued riots. Men, women and children would grasp their hands around their ears while running back and forth wishing for the insane music to stop on the fourth of July. They’d also bash a few windows on the way, for no reason at all.

Pete and my old man seemed to enjoy the chaos, other than the window bashing. Everyone would leave our backyard screaming after our father would light the flame.

They would always call him Mr. Gannon. It wasn’t anything he requested. He would just prefer Rodney.

Before I had a car, my old man was always kind to those who drove me to the ballpark or school. I couldn’t handle the busses. That was just fist fight Spokane Central Station. When friends arrived at our house to pick me up, he would offer them apple pie. There was never an apple pie prepared.

Jokingly , he would yell downstairs to our mother and say “Get that pie started!” He just wanted their keys.

As my friends were laughing, that was the distraction. Stealing their keys and cars, he’d drive off to fill their tanks.

Properly, you should ask why he didn’t drive me to school or the ballpark. The answer is simple. I was a punk kid and didn’t want my 60 year old father as a chauffeur.

By my Junior year of H.S., he did get a car for me to drive. I had to lease it.

This story just may be a nice dream. Without fabricating information, I always dream of my late father, mother and brother as though they belong in a blog. Weekly, they are alive and they seem the same as I remembered them. The saddest part of it all is I can’t hear their laughter in the dreams.

The light post in centerfield doesn’t just provide light to baseball players who can’t play when darkness arrives. It represents an idea when fathers and mothers can only watch them perform after closing time. Yes, baseball was meant to be a day game, but as long as the lighting is correct, and without the sun in your eyes, the ballplayers could see not only the players and fans in front of you, but also the folks behind you.

Having a nice chat with a friend the other day who loves and misses the game of baseball, we talked about it a bit. The chat reminded me of a story once told by my late brother, Steve, and even a later father, Rod.

Steve and our dad had a pretty good relationship when Steve was a youth…so I’m told. Steve and dad both loved baseball.

As all of us did, at some point, chose our own positions in society. In baseball, the positions were chosen for you. Some were outfielders, some infielders, some pitchers and some catchers. It didn’t really matter. We just wanted to play or perform. Our brother, Steve, only wanted to play when our father wasn’t at the game. He always thought dad gave him a baseball jinx. Baseball players love using that as an excuse for failure. If you know anything about baseball, you don’t need any excuses for failure. It’s just a law. You fail. Do the math. Then, you make adjustments and then fail again. It’s either, “this sport stinks..I quit”, or, you go to The Hall of Fame if you beat the odds.

Steve wanted to go to The Hall of Fame, but he couldn’t handle our old man at the Ballpark. Our old man was, in baseball, Steve’s only achilles heel. Steve would be positioned in centerfield watching the game in front of him. He was only looking for the old man. When he couldn’t find him in the stands, it shook him away from the proper game. Instinctively, Steve knew our dad couldn’t miss a game. Like a crossword puzzle, much like when you have to leave the coffee table for a break just to figure out the answer, Steve went to the dugout instead. It was then when he found our dad behind the light post. At the conclusion of the inning, Steve trotted back to centerfield. Dad remained camouflaged behind the brown light post wearing his bright blue cigarette stained jacket only Steve could identify and the other members of the community could identify.

With his back turned to him, Steve yelled, “I know you’re behind that post!.” Dad was caught watching his son play baseball.

Sometimes, what happened in our living room, would leave the living room, or just sprint out of it in shame.

As a spectator, and still a boy of maybe 12, I witnessed something spectacular. It was a wrestling match between by brother of 16 and a formidable opponent: one of his older brothers of roughly 25. The details are a bit sketchy, but the conclusion is definitive. My father was there not to officiate, but to time the massacre.

The wrestlers were two of my six older brothers. Although siblings, they maintained different styles of athleticism. The elder, Aaron, was an excellent high school baseball player, which was the only sport he participated in while in high school. His love and talent for the game was natural, however, it couldn’t match his lackluster attitude, which we decided he did only to drive our father crazy. He could have been a terrific football player…..no, too much “rah rah!” B.S. Wasn’t his style. He would have been an excellent basketball player……nah, too much work. While he seldom wrestled, when he did, Aaron seemed to allow his opponent to gain a quick and large lead, before pinning his opponent with ease. This drove his coaches and my father nuts. It seemed deliberate. Perhaps it was his interesting sense of humor, which remains to this day, or perhaps he just didn’t give a damn. Aaron’s ability and his elite speed was no match for his disinterest, or what he would maintain as arrogance.

Tom, his living room opponent, was a little different. Great attitude, and impeccable work ethic. Having superior athleticism, Tom acquired All-State awards in both football and wrestling, and would eventually earn him the school’s best athlete award, not to mention a college football scholarship. When he was 16, he was a man.

Verbally sparring in the living room, Tom and Aaron were not interested in the riveting golf game our father was trying to watch. They were arguing about who was the best wrestler. Dad told them to take it out on the lawn. Evidently they agreed that someone must be there to officiate. Now, there was no way in Hell the old man was going to get out of his comfort zone, walk outside and officiate this mess. So, Aaron proposed a solution. Aaron bet Tom he could take him down ten times in thirty seconds. In order to speed things up, Dad agreed to be the timer. He even chuckled at the thought of what may happen, knowing Tom was a little too big for his Buster Browns. I stared at Tom, knowing he had never been beaten. If I had any cash, I may have even put that cash on Tom.

They both positioned themselves, Tom with a look of determination, and Aaron smirking. Dad, waiting for this pissing contest to be over, quickly said, “Ok, lets get this started. Ready…..Go.” By the time I could get nervous for Tom, Aaron had taken him down eight times in less than twenty seconds leaving only ten more seconds for him to survive. While Tom seemed a little tired, the only breathing Aaron was doing was out of laughter. Tom had met his match, and he knew it. Tom then took the matter into his own hands, literally, when they entered the center of the living room for the last ten seconds. With abject surprise, Dad and I watched as Tom punched Aaron in his stomach, or I think it was his stomach. Aaron dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes with the wind knocked completely out of him. Knowing it was an illegal wrestling move, and fearing reprisal, Tom quickly fled the scene of the bet. It was over, just like that.

While the old man and I sat laughing at Aaron wheezing on the floor, Tom was no where to be found. While still wheezing, Aaron chuckled at Tom’s keen sense of how to conclude a battle less than royal. After catching his breath, Aaron asked, “Where’s Tom?” Dad merely stated, “Probably close to the Idaho Border by now.” (That’s a half hour away from our house….driving.)

Although Tom was disqualified, upon his return he seemed a little satisfied. Not as satisfied as Dad who was back to watching a golf game with softly spoken commentators. This was a well deserved nap for the old man.

I respect the need to wear masks. However, personally, I do have one issue with them.

By the way, why am I writing about masks as though they are living creatures similar to annoying neighbors?

“The best money I ever spent.” That’s how my old man described giving money to a ne’er-do-well he wished to not see again. When someone was in need, my father would happily give cash away, no questions asked. He taught me a helpful lesson when he used one of his C-Notes (one hundred dollars to non-gamblers) to keep a neighborhood thief from storing his stolen tires in our garage while we were on a vacation. This fellow was shady, and after discovering the stolen tires, my father deduced who the culprit was. Dad floated him a hundred bucks after he expressed his hard times, and Dad knew he wouldn’t be repaid. That was actually Dad’s plan . . the neighbor avoided us from then on, and never returned to Locust Road. Perhaps. he was just avoiding the house with thirteen children … we’ll never know. I think expecting the shady neighbor to avoid contact with someone he owned money was a clever bet on the old man’s part, though. Thank God our father was a semi pacifist.