September 17, 2001 - We have all heard, felt and seen many things over the past week. Shortly after the attack at the World Trade Center I left Newport, RI and headed to New York City. The images and reports I had seen on television that morning had made it unbearable to remain, I had to do something. I felt an overwhelming pull to go to the World Trade Center, so I did.

The drive there was filled with reports on the radio. I listened the same way to the reports, only now with a purpose, I wanted to know all I could before I reached the city and faced the situation, in some way thinking that I would some how be better prepared to face the reality of it all.

About a half hour away from Manhattan I began passing emergency vehicles, ambulances, cranes and dump trucks, lots of dump trucks. Eventually the entire right lane on the freeway was a convoy of dump trucks with lights flashing and American flags flapping on every truck. It had the look of a parade but the atmosphere was all wrong as I could see the smoke filled sky between each truck as I passed.

Once I arrived on Canal Street I could immediately feel the bustle of the city. Police barricades and countless people all headed in the same direction, the Ground Zero. After parking the car I approached the first police barricade. Each street was guarded by no less than 10 police officers, 4 national guardsmen and what looked like a couple of FBI agents. I showed my military ID and said I would like to help if possible. I was denied access at that and 2 other barricades before finally being let in at a fourth entrance at Church and Canal.

Once I passed the barrier it seemed to become quiet, I walked past trash strewn all over the street, with businesses closed I could see in the window of a restaurant, there were still plates of food from Tuesday morning still left on the tables. I could see the darkening smoke in the distance which remained heavy close to the ground even with a steady rain falling. Fire, police and other volunteers strode past me headed in the opposite direction. They looked tired, haggard, with hard hats, gloves and surgeons masks. I wondered how long they had been there and what they had seen. Walking by them was very business like, only seeing their eyes was enough to know that they were sad to be leaving the site, but walked with purpose to get something to eat, change and maybe rest a bit before returning again later.

About 3 blocks away I passed the media area with news reporters lined up in front of the camera's bright lights and shoulder to shoulder with the smoke as a backdrop. All of them in deep concentration, desperately trying to convey the scene for viewers and shocked Americans looking from the outside in.

Upon reaching ground zero I could see thousands of workers among the twisted mass of steel through the still thick smoke with flames at Building 7 still burning in the background. The workers were on the move to clear the area as a siren had just sounded another alarm. It wasn't until hours later that I realized what the Siren or 3 horn blows meant…. to stop and listen. The feeling at the site was very calm but extremely nervous. It was loud from the cranes and dump trucks working to clear the large sections of steel. The visibility was hampered by smoke that continued to bellow from building 7 and the other piles that remained. The smell was intense as I tried to layer 4-5 surgeon masks for protection, but later traded for a respirator. Your eyes quickly filled with the irritants floating through the air and turned them red as you immediately were provided with a headache to suit the situation.

Standing next to the temporary NYPD headquarters which used to be a Burger King, I could see for the first time the true devastation that faced this multitude of humanity. Steel beams had pierced the street as they plunged into the concrete. Other sections of steel bigger than your house could be seen jetting out of the surrounding buildings, in some cases ripping through 10-15 floors before coming to rest high above the street. Windows and whole sections of buildings were missing, paper hurled from the blast were stuffed into the bars of an iron railing across the street. Bodies still hung from windows of nearby buildings which couldn't be reached safely. Account registers, call sheets, day planners, photos and parts of checks written for large amounts of money were littered all around the surrounding area.

I think I stood there for a better part of an hour taking it all in and trying to figure out who was in charge and what I should do next. Then out of nowhere with no conversation a line was setup from the Trauma center in the second floor of the headquarters. I just walked over and got in line as I passed boxes of bandages, alcohol, blankets, needles, IV bags, and tanks of something, probably oxygen, with fire, policemen, FBI, and other city employees and volunteers, one of whom was smoking a cigar as he worked beside me. Ken, who was a Mass Transit Authority employee, normally worked in the subway's repairing damaged equipment. He said he had been saving the cigar since he arrived and just couldn't wait any longer. Standing next to him even after removing the mask I couldn't distinguish the cigar smell in the air.

Long after the line began it just stopped, nothing else was being passed so people just walked away, again with no verbal communication. I next came upon hundreds of men shoveling debris from a park across the street form the South Tower. I grabbed a shovel and joined in as the area bigger than a football field was cleared quickly with help of bobcats. Everyone worked together and just got it done without a word, finished and then just moved on to the next task.

An American fighter jet streaked across the sky above the site, I can barely see the jet as it passes in and out of the smoke. The initial sound gets everyone's attention and we struggle to make sure it's one of ours. The feeling is still tense and everyone knows we are risking our life just to be in this place. A dropped shovel, a section of building falling up the street and the ever-present flames and sirens rising up throughout the day let you know that a moment is all it takes to change your situation....We are now all believers of that fact.

Eventually, we became part of what we had seen on television the "bucket brigade" as it's called by the media works fast and furious. Parts of rubble, window blinds, wires, pipes and long pieces of aluminum are moved one piece at a time. Once you are part of this group you work with a purpose of finding someone’s father, brother or mother alive under an impossible hulk of material. You just dig, pass, grab, listen, dig, pass, grab, and listen for any sign of life. Every so often those at the front will stop raise a hand high in the air and signal for quiet. All the workers then back out of their positions and the dogs are brought in to search.

When the search is over and nothing is found, welders come in to cut the steel into manageable sections and cranes then lift the largest pieces off the pile and the dogs search again. If a body or body parts are found all personnel other than NYPD and firemen were evacuated from the site. Keep in mind that the enormity of the project had 3-4 separate base camps of workers, all doing the same job at different locations, in what seemed miles away.

Word spread at the break area that President Bush would visit the site that day. Conversations were held below a bowed out building being checked twice a day to see if it would remain standing, topics ranged from what the U.S. would do now and if the twin towers should be rebuilt, a monument maybe. How about making it harder to access the cockpit on commercial airlines? A Vietnam veteran sat in a circle of workers and discussed the importance of America working together all over the United States, just as we were there to overcome the recent events. He was probably in his fifties with long dread locks, glasses and a great spirit. He had been there since the beginning of the rescue effort. Working each day and then going home each night to rest and then return the next day. As darkness approached a new shift of volunteers came to join the effort. There was no time clock or effort to coordinate the workers schedules....it wasn't needed, because workers just kept coming.

Eventually the sun went down but I didn't notice. The desire to find somebody alive took over and I watched intently as a group of firemen rappelled into small openings in the rubble to search. One told me later that he had been in over 100 different holes, been trapped 3 times, and barely escaped another fire that he started by letting air into a previously sealed area.

Again a siren sounded as we quickly cleared the site due to a shift in the rubble or another possible building collapse. I didn't ask what was happening, I just ran out with the rest of the workers. As I ran from the sight I thought about my family, is my will up to date? No. Have I said everything I wanted to say to my wife, my children? No. My daughter turned 2 years old yesterday. What about her? Should I even be here? Yes............ No doubt about it. I should be here! It seemed like something big was discovered after this last retreat. The National Guard along with NYPD and Firemen walked into the site in 2 single file lines. They had all the dogs...

Did they find someone? Alive? Elation came over me. After more time passed rumors began that they found a black box from one of the planes or they found a large amount of bodies on a staircase....it wasn't depression, it was just a desire to get back in there and dig again.... But the delay grew even longer. We worked again at the park area across from the south tower. Thomas, an investigator from the Mayor's office said this is where everybody came to eat lunch and listen to Jazz music. Thank God the planes hit early in the day or more would have been lost.

It's now very late and I'm tired, I go for a bottle of water and think about taking a shower. The guys say there is a church up the road where I can shower and rest a bit. Then I see people running back to the site.....they found someone, I turn and rush back again to help in the effort to dig out a hook and ladder truck, this feels great, were going to find someone, that's why I'm here, that's why we're all here...

Hours pass as the buried truck is slowly uncovered, the dogs come in, more digging, dogs again, more digging....... two firemen are found, but it's too late....... Depression, disappointment… No. The workers are inspired and pushed to dig faster. They are encouraged by the knowledge that the loved ones of these brave men will know what happened to them. Seeing the enormous situation and the work ahead to try and find all the missing people makes you appreciate the fact that any little piece of success in the search is a victory. The President came and spoke to the world only a few feet from me. I met his father back in 1990 at flight school when he asked me to start a baseball team. His son said the same thing today that Bush senior told me 11 years ago. This job will go on for years and we better be ready to do what is necessary. I consider myself blessed to have been able to help and witness the human spirit in such a profound time in the history of our planet. It will take years and hard work by Americans.

As I left the site, headed for the church, I was one of the tired, dirty workers walking against the flow of still more volunteers coming to help. The church was filled with local residents who had been without water or power since the attack. Suddenly I felt out of place, an intruder to what had become their new home. Although the residents and volunteers welcomed me and offered a hot meal, I thanked them and headed for the Church and Canal Street barricade. I walked along with a Bronx firefighter as we exited the barrier, people were cheering as we left with candles lit and flags waving..... I was exhausted, but it was still quite a feeling...

I learned a lot about New Yorkers and Americans during my time spent at the site. I met a waiter named Joe who was there the last time the WTC had been under attack, he was back again and still working at a restaurant nearby. In the last 2 years I've driven through New York numerous times on my way to and from the Naval Academy and I agreed with him when he said, "I'm proud of this city. It makes me feel part of something special, something important."

I'm now back here at the Naval Academy Preparatory School (NAPS) in Rhode Island. We finally had Lauren's birthday cake last night and I came to work under Threat Condition Charlie...

After seeing New York, I must tell you I don't think any of us will be safe in this world for a very long time, if ever... To that end the "new religion" is patriotism. It's relatively new compared to the rest, but like Joe said, "it truly makes you feel a part of something special, something important." I recommend it highly...

Home and Away: An American Life in the 9-11 Generation

By LCDR Terry Allvord, USN (Ret.) Edited By Suzanne Turner (This work is protected by U.S. Copyright, All rights Reserved)

CHAPTER 1  - "Opening Day"

08 June 2002, Newport, Rhode Island - Perched on a ball bucket where legend Leroy "Satchel Paige" used to pass the time between innings on a rocking chair I could hear Joe going after the Mayor, "CARDINES FIELD is a historical landmark and needs renovating after this season Mayor." Joe Viau sits behind home plate with Mayor Sardella who's heard this conversation before.

"I know Joe." He said in a tired voice, straining to watch the game around Joe's frantic hand-waving. Joe's in his late 70's, but didn't look a day over fifty, with silver hair, tanned skin, and friendly blue eyes. He credited his health to long daily walks through the streets of historic Newport, regardless of the weather, wearing what he called "layering" beginning with thermals and working outwards to his all-weather Boathouse jacket, complete with a Rogers High School insignia on the left breast. At Rogers High, he taught the finer points of life: being a gentleman and the game of baseball. A retired truck driver and former electrician, Joe had a wife, seven children and a big house on Bush Street.

"You agree, but for some reason, like with everything else that matters around here, nothing ever gets done," Joe continued.

"Joe, you know as well as I do, New England politics are give and take. Take a lot of my time, and give you a lot of frustration."

"You bet I'm frustrated. How do you think I should feel? Takes you people all damn summer to fix the holes in the road, and I'm getting my car aligned every other week! How many meetings do you have at City Hall? Do the city fathers realize that the United States Olympic baseball team will be here in less than a month? Why can't this thing make it to the docket?"

"We know about Team USA. Now make up your mind, do you want me to install new drainage and re-grade the infield or fix the holes in the street?"

Joe, who held a walking cane more for effect than purpose, peeked back at the Mayor in disgust. "Well I ain't voting for you again."

On the field, another New England fall had given way to an abnormally wet winter of freezing rain that scooped up over the Narragansett Bay, helping to manufacture stiff winds that sliced through the wharf. The winter had given way to spring, which had given way to summer. It was early June, and the night air still felt damp as the defending New England Collegiate Baseball League Champions, the Newport Gulls, struggled to claw their way back into their 2002 home opener against Connecticut's Middletown Giants.

It had been a tightly fought 2-2 game until the Giants broke it open in the ninth inning. Gulls starter and local phenomenon, Jay "Hendu" Henderson, was known for his overhand curveball that rolled off the table and held the Giants to two runs on four hits, while striking out four men over six and a third. It was a solid opening day performance after Henderson's recent return to Newport from Georgia College. A consistent effort the Boston Red Sox expected to make use of when they selected him out of high school in the major league draft. Hendu sat in the same "hockey style" dugout that he sat in as a member of the Kingston High School team just three seasons ago. Now, he was returning home for his second season with the Gulls, just in time for an opening day start, but he would be forced to watch a game that he could no longer win or lose.

On in relief was another Newport local, Michel Bergeron, born in Canada and just back from a season pitching for St. Petersburg Junior College. Bergeron was 6-2 with 51 strikeouts and had a solid 1.84 ERA, while holding opposing batters swinging aluminum bats to a paltry .216 average. Bergeron had always been a starter and claimed the most victories in Middletown High School history. His father was a Captain in the Canadian Navy, currently stationed at the U.S. Naval War College and his family lived a few blocks away from millionaire Richard Hatch. The Bergeron's were a devoted, hard working Mormon family, and Michel's goal was to one day attend Brigham Young University on a baseball scholarship and earn a degree in medicine. He, like all the other players in the NECBL (and the many other summer leagues across the country) hoped the experience and challenge of playing 42 games in less than eight weeks against the top players in the nation would translate to a major league contract. If the players in the NECBL could stay healthy all year round, the exposure they receive could pay off by improving their chances of moving up in next June's professional draft, or at the very least, by impacting their remaining collegiate career.

Bergeron cast a similar toned 180-pound, six-foot-three and a half inch shadow decades after Satchel Paige entertained fans here. He inherited one out and a runner in scoring position. His mechanics were effortless and smooth as he glided to a perfect 3-0 record, leading the Gulls to a Championship in 2001. He hoped to keep that streak alive as he worked his way out of trouble and set the Giants down in order in the eighth. He was on and he knew it. He had made tremendous improvements over the past season, but after his first two pitches in the ninth, the Gulls found themselves down 3-2. By the time the inning was over, Michel had struck out the side, but not before the damage had been done: a lead-off triple, two singles, and a timely error by Gulls rookie third baseman Jason Delaney from Boston College, eventually putting the Giants up 5-2. 

Before the Gulls could hit in the bottom of the ninth, hundreds of kids of all ages rushed to perform a modified limbo. The limbo was played under a 33-inch Louisville Slugger professional model C243 autographed by the entire team and held by a member of the Gulls volunteer staff. The children lined up in front of the last section of nearly one hundred year-old wooden bleachers. The capacity crowd of more than two-thousand five hundred fans stood up and cheered the kids as they made their way through the bull pen and into the field.

Since I was new to New England, many of the conversations in the stands were very interesting to me. The dugouts were close enough that one could hear the fans talking. On the way out to my position at the third base coaching box, I leaned on the backstop to say hello to the Mayor and Mr. Viau, and listened in while the chaos unfolded in the outfield. The Gulls mascot was a large white-feathered character wearing a black Gull's jersey with orange numbers that were trimmed in white and blue, the same color scheme as the New York Mets. He had an oversized head, beak, and enormous webbed-like feet, all shadowed by an even larger blue baseball cap. The man inside was a Gull's volunteer and Navy man, Chief Petty Officer Wesley Meeks who took his position in right center field as the visiting team warmed-up and watched the festivities. Middletown's left fielder Bobby Hosgood caught the last warm-up toss from the bullpen catcher and smiled as he moved aside, clearing a path for the mass of children to stampede through. He seemed relieved once the kids changed their focus from him and his teammates to the mascot as an obvious target. The Gulls Director of game day operations was also my brother, Todd Allvord, a special education teacher who arrived from Palm Springs last week to work with the Gulls for the summer. He stood in front of the kids with a battery pack in the pocket of his khaki shorts and a remote microphone clipped to his white Gulls polo shirt. He quickly explained the rules for the first "Tackle the Gull" contest.  Although the former Gulls ownership had initially been reluctant to implement the contest, it had achieved legendary status among fans and players alike, and the new ownership continued what was sure to become a benchmark in summer baseball entertainment across the nation. 

The kids got restless as Todd struggled to keep them behind the line, "On your beak, get set. GULL!" blared from the stadium's public address system and the pack was off. The familiar electric guitar riff and drums from the Beach Boys classic "Wipeout" blared overhead. The older and faster kids lead what looked like a swarm of bees. Unfortunately, the Gull uniform was not built to move quickly. The Gull nonetheless accepted his duty, turned, and attempted to run, which in the massive costume resulted in more of a frantic and clumsy plod. While struggling to keep his balance as the overzealous children rapidly closed in on him, he made a quick cut in the opposite direction, losing a huge orange flipper in the process. The crowd Oooohed and Aaaahed in unison. With the fence all around him, the chase could only have one ending. The mascot helplessly looked back and forth, and then disappeared under a sea of laughing children. Emerging, the mascot attempted another cut with his last burst of energy. Just when he got into a clearing, a dozen kids executing a perfect, simultaneous open field tackle broadsided him, almost knocking his oversized head clean off its perch. In the background, fans could see the Gull collapse motionless and exhausted. He would have made even the demanding Vince Lombardi proud as the last of the four and five year old children took turns jumping on him before they triumphantly waddled off into the distance, leaving the Gull as discarded road kill. Young Christopher Paiva, son of Chuck, the Gulls' General Manager, won the contest. The kids all gathered around him in the bullpen to see the prize and ask the pitchers for autographs. Soon the mascot was helped to his feet by the Middletown outfielders, Gulls staff members, and an umpire, while players from both teams quickly herded all the kids off the field.

Chasing three runs, the Gulls finally came to bat in the ninth. Rookie leftfielder Grant Alexander, a solid six-foot-two, 210-pound kid from Farmers Branch, Texas, who played while attending the U.S. Naval Academy Preparatory School (NAPS), was a superb athlete, who could easily dunk a basketball. He was recruited by Navy to play linebacker. The combination of a rigorous schedule and lofty academic requirements led to his disenchantment with attending the academy and pursuing a career in the military. He couldn't wait to prove that he belonged in the highly competitive NECBL, and he was a determined player. His youthful exuberance got the best of him when he tapped the first pitch to the right side, making the first out. Next up was first baseman Tristen Johnson, an imposing figure on a brick built 225-pound frame, who cast a robust six-foot-four shadow. Recently released from the Pittsburgh Pirates organization, he returned to college to finish his degree while working his way back into professional baseball. Johnson would serve as a temporary fill-in for the first couple weeks of the season until the remaining roster players arrived. If Johnson played well, he would be offered a contract with the Gulls for the season. He made a great first impression by turning on a belt high fastball and driving it out of the ballpark.

Unfortunately it went foul, landing on America's Cup Avenue. Middletown reliever Dan Farino, watched the ball disappear near the train station, along with his catcher Tim D'Aquila, convincing Farina to walk Johnson on four straight pitches. Next up was rookie second baseman Kevin Roberts from New York's Sienna College. With Farino paying no attention to Johnson on first, Roberts was quickly down 0-2. As the third straight fastball sailed in, he swung to fight it off and in the process broke his bat, which sailed directly towards the pitcher's kneecap. After dodging the shrapnel, Farino reached the ball in time to throw out the speedy infielder. Roberts crossed the bag and looked back to see if all were safe, bursting out a triumphant, "YEAH! Come on, Let's GO!" The fans sensed a Gulls comeback and the Cardines assumed a familiar feeling -- one that, mixed with the sea air that shrouded the stadium in light, resulted in the electricity that only this field could create.

The Giants manager asked for time as he strode to the mound to get his pitcher. The night sky filled with the theme from CBS' Survivor:

"Oh, E, Oh, E, Oh, E, Oh!!! Oh, E, Oh, E, Oh, E, Oh!!!"

Todd walked the stands from one section to the other with a flaming Tiki torch and a crowd of children in trail. Players and coaches stood in front of the dugouts and on the mound contemptuously watching as the song bellowed even louder, until precisely on cue, a youngster smothered out the flame at the last beat of the music. Just then, one of the young fans standing a few rows behind the group held up a sign that said, "The Tribe has Spoken," at that exact moment Farino left the mound, all to the cheers of Gulls' fans.

The Giants still had a comfortable three run lead, but the manager brought in closer Michael James to reverse the carnival atmosphere. Upon completing his warm up tosses, James looked for the sign while the Gulls catcher Greg Fater prepared to hit. It was Fater from Villanova, a reserve player for the Gulls, digging in. Fater was the player who had delivered the key hit and scored the run that was the final blow in the 2001 NECBL Championship series, which pushed the Gulls over the rival Keene Swamp Bats from New Hampshire. As Yogi Berra once commented, "It was déjà vu all over again" seeing Fater and the Gulls in an almost identical situation again was not lost on the reeling crowd who recognized it immediately. Johnson and Roberts took regular leads off first and second and were no threat to run in this situation.

On deck was second year Gull, right fielder Eddie Harper, from Lemoyne College in New York, concentrating on the pitcher as he massaged a wad of pine tar on to his glossy maple Tomcat model 10 and shouted encouragement to Fater, who battled every pitch. A series of four fastballs and four straight foul balls then followed. On the next pitch, the eleventh of the at bat, he topped the ball and sent it rolling weakly down the third baseline. It was the kind of hit that presented both little threat and unlimited potential for disaster. It looked as if Johnson's struggle to reach third base would surely result in an out and maybe an opportunity to double-up Fater, who ran like a catcher after all, to end the game. The pitcher reached the ball a step ahead of the charging third baseman Ron Accabo and quickly spun toward third. No throw. Spinning again toward first, he let it fly. Fater was safe by an instant and the stadium erupted again in joy and anticipation. After reminding Johnson of the situation and checking the defensive positioning the fans in the stands were on their feet chanting, "Here we go Gulls! Here we go!" Cardines was a magical place. We had all seen it before, many times even though it was just the beginning of my second season with the team and first as its head coach.

Harper stepped into the box with his confident smirk that expanded to reveal a bright, sharp smile. Eddie seemed to know that he could rip this guy, and the stadium seemed to sense his belligerence. The capacity crowd transformed the stadium into an uncompromising vessel, alive with noise that brimmed over into frenzy. James toed the rubber, and the players took their leads. Then it happened. The Newport Fire Department's fog horn blew right on schedule at 9:00 pm, startling players and fans who were new to Cardines, but more importantly, the loud blast made James flinch on the mound, and a balk was immediately called by the second base umpire moving all the runners up 90 feet, making it a 5-3 game. The Middletown manager leapt from the dugout and raced to home plate to shield his pitcher and argue the call, all the while the fans shouted colorful adjectives.

After ten minutes of argument, the umpires reversed the call and sent the runners back. It was my turn to enter the discussion, but to no avail the head umpire offered this explanation, "The horn startles everyone the first time they hear it." The umpire was right about the horn. It was loud, even to those who have heard it for years like Joe Viau.

That really didn't matter at this point. He needed to make the right call. I tried another approach as the fans grew restless. "The horn blew as it does each day at 6:00 p.m. as it did three hours ago during batting practice, and the team should have heard it then for the first time, and those players and coaches that had played at Cardines before should have let the other guys know that it would blow again."

Home plate umpire and New England local Bill Keys had a distorted frown on his face, ignoring my argument. He looked me in the eye and calmly asked, "I heard you're from California?"

"That's right, San Diego."

"So how long would you say it takes to drive from Newport to San Diego?"

"I don't know? Four or five days I guess. Why?"

"Well I was just wondering if I threw you out of the game now and the Gulls decided to fire you later tonight, would you make it home by the weekend?"

At that moment, I realized for the hundredth time that I was no longer on the west coast and this would indeed be authentic, east coast baseball ala New England style. Just days after arriving last March, I coached the Naval Academy Preparatory School team against a Division III program, Salve Regina University, in the freezing rain and snow, wearing shorts and a Navy Baseball T-shirt. Steve Cirella was the Salve head coach, and was also at the game tonight as the city representative for field security. His assistant coach at the time was Newport local, Danny Smith, an athletic man who was also present, thankfully as my first base coach. In less than a year I had moved from stranger, to Director of Game Day Operations, to General Manager, and finally to Vice Gull and Head Coach with the opportunity to own a part of the club, a fact that obviously wasn't lost on the umpire. I was, in short, an outsider. 

I still wasn't sure whether the umpire spoke for a majority of New Englanders, who perhaps didn't want to see a guy from California make permanent roots in Newport. People in New England were slow to accept new comers and not likely to smile at strangers as they pass them on the street. In San Diego, people were more apt to smile at strangers, while not as likely to slow down long enough to idly chat in front of their rows of identical stucco tract homes. Californians gave each other personal space to counteract the fact that each home was separated by mere inches. Apparently life is different where ever one goes, and I would need to adjust accordingly. Fortunately, I had made some great friends since arriving in New England, and many of them were in the stands that night. However, I didn't want to disappoint them or anyone else on opening night.

My head coaching debut had been a wash up to this point in the game, but Cardines Field provided the ultimate home field advantage by directly contributing to a run that was desperately needed. The fans showed their displeasure as everyone returned to their positions to resume the game, amidst a hail of boo's directed at the umpires. Harper was a tough five-foot-ten, 190-pound lefty outfielder with exceptional speed who was entering his third season in the NECBL. As usual, he remained focused throughout the long delay, and his wide smile disappeared when his face grew more determined. He dug in and unleashed all he had on the first pitch, blazing a line drive down the right field line. The fans screamed until his liner smashed into the corner of the stone building that was in fair territory.

"Foul Ball," yelled the umpire. The players returned to their positions, and the local fans quickly recovered from the disappointment. Once again, the crowd began to grow louder.

James wound and dealt, and this time Harper tagged it again. The Giant first baseman took another step toward the line between pitches, and it paid off as he dove to his left and speared the ball. Two outs, bases loaded, and still down 3 runs. Shortstop Rafael Lara from Valenzuela was next. A standout at Miami Dade Community College before transferring to Warner Southern, Raffy loved to play under pressure. Beginning his third season in Newport, he seemed determined to be a team leader. As Raffy walked to the plate, I looked again to the on deck circle. Following Raffy would be pitcher David Johnson from UCLA. The NECBL used the designated hitter per American league rules, but with the change in the NCAA College World Series format, six Gulls players were still with their school teams vying for the opportunity to play in Omaha. The recent Major League Baseball draft had already scooped up three other would-be Gulls. So with most NECBL rosters not yet completed, some teams were forced to use their available players in unfamiliar roles. David Johnson was a 19 year-old, six-foot-four, 195-pound freshman right-hander with a youthful face from Santa Monica, who hadn't swung a bat in game action for over a year.

Raffy was 0-for-3 that day, and nothing he hit broke the plane of the infield. A highly intelligent and gifted player who knew the game and how it should be played, he was a solid contact hitter with great speed and an absolute magician with the leather. He was one of those rare players who fans would pay admission just to marvel at his natural intensity, unbelievable work ethic, and a God given gift to field a ground ball and make it look effortless. The chances were that he would come through with a hit and drive in one, maybe two runs. Just about the time Raffy finished another practice swing, I met him at the plate. All I could think about was who I would pinch hit for Johnson on deck as Raffy said something in Spanish and waved me off. He was ready to hit. This could be our last shot. Unless…. Raffy could get on somehow and extend the game. He then proceeded to do what he had always done. He worked the count and the crowd to a full frenzy. They stood on their feet as Raffy sprayed a weak flare just over the outstretched diving shortstop. The score was 5-3, two-outs, bases loaded. A few minutes earlier, second year Gull and Georgia Southern catcher A.J. Zickgraf had arrived from New Castle, Delaware, about five hours later than expected.

Such situations of amazing irony seem to be built into the game of baseball. I loved watching the highlights on SportCenter, especially when players missed the beginning of games because they missed a bus, a plane, or better yet, were at the hospital with their wife having a baby only to later return triumphantly with a homerun to win the game. I believe that a major factor to an interesting game is the deep sense of irony, which has played out for generations. The curse of the Bambino has not been lost on the long-suffering Boston Red Sox. 1918 was a long, long, long time ago. It continued to plague the Fenway faithful until their most recent world championship. The Chicago Cubs have a completely different thing happening at Wrigley -- what can only be described as cruel and unusual punishment. 

Even the beloved Dodgers had been duped in a twist of fate that spanned nearly a decade. When Branch Rickey managed the Pittsburgh Pirates, he sent his son, Clyde Sukeforth, to evaluate an unknown prospect named Sandy Koufax. Later, when Rickey moved to the Dodgers organization, it was again Sukey who scouted Jackie Robinson. When Robinson played in his first major league game in April of 1947, Sukey managed him, while filling in for a suspended Leo Durocher. And five seasons later, it was Sukey that recommended Ralph Branca to face Bobby Thomson, who hit the "Shot heard round the world" in October of 1951.

On June 9, 1955, Tommy Lasorda was released to make room for Sandy Koufax. Sandy made his major league debut on June 24, in the fifth inning of a game in Milwaukee, with the Dodgers trailing 7-1. After allowing his first hit to Johnny Logan, he fielded his first bunt that he quickly threw into center field, after walking Hank Aaron on four pitches and then notched his first strikeout against Bobby Thomson. 

Most baseball enthusiasts are superstitious to a fault. Some believe in the irony of baseball, and as such, I truly believed in the curse, no doubt about it. Why do you think so many teams like the Cubs and Red Sox are considering building new stadiums? The financial rewards are obvious, but the chance to perform an exorcism of sorts is all the more tempting.   

I slid my arm around Johnson's shoulders and let him know my intention of pinch hitting him with Zickgraf. Johnson was understandably upset. He didn't know Zickgraf and wasted little time in demonstrating his competitive fire. A.J., still tucking in his shirt, grabbed a pine tar rag and made his way to the on deck circle to swing the heavy bat, Johnson let me have it. The fans seemed stunned by the outburst since most people considered Johnson a competitive but quiet young man. This was not something I wanted in my first game as manager.

Slowly walking back to the coaching box, I looked back in time to watch Johnson remove his helmet and slam it into a light post on his way to the bench. Rafael Lara, standing on first base yelled encouragement to his teammates in Spanish and broken English. The deep contrast between the clean-cut defensive showman Lara and Zickgraf was immense. A.J. was big, strong, bald and intimidating, with an unruly goatee. He possessed singular dedication to hustle and an obsession to win. He was Pete Rose incarnate, minus one of the top ten worst haircuts in history. Anyone could easily observe and admire how A.J. played the game. He was a "Gamer." A.J. epitomized a chugging Pete Rose rounding third with the controversial winning run in Major League Baseball's All-Star Game back on July 14, 1970. Like Rose, Zickgraf did not possess the God given ability or natural talent rarely bestowed upon the chosen few. It was his invincible physique and calculating savvy combined with his maniacal ability to play every pitch like it was the bottom of the ninth in the seventh game of the World Series. There are obviously many differences between Rose and Zickgraf, a full mane of hair for one. However, the undeniable thirst to win was alive and well in A.J. 

The entire stadium was again on their feet cheering, clearly happy to see one of their heroes staring down James as he strode to the plate. The thick fog rolled in, spilling light onto the field, making it look almost spooky. The stadium bristled with excitement and more determined than it had been all evening. Giants closer Michael James wasn't impressed with the grand entry and came right at Zickgraf with his best letter high fastball and A.J. let his hands fly, just missing the pitch with a swing that was so tremendous that he had to catch his balance with one knee on the ground. At that moment I looked around the stadium, taking it all in. The excitement of the moment built like a wave of tingly nervousness inside me and eventually deposited itself as a crease on my face in the form of a wide smile. This is why I loved baseball; this exact space in time, this team, this league, this city, their Mayor, Joe Viau, and these fans. Hell, this was baseball…. drama baby!

In this case, it was James against Zickgraf, but it didn't feel completely right. It wasn't the natural progression of a great game to finally witness our clean-up hitter against the other side's closer. I had manipulated the flow of the game to place our best in a position to make a difference, but it felt wrong, tainted. I had to work to bury those feelings and urge A.J. to "get a good pitch to hit." A.J. went to work again and within a few seconds I saw the ball on a rapidly climbing arc zoom past me at third and watched A.J. raising his arms and exploding out of the box toward first…

Wow, what a rush of emotion. I can hear them now in the post game interview, "Great move coach, heck of a first game for you? I guess you made a good move as Vice President by hiring yourself as the manager of the Gulls."

"Yes well…."

"Foul Ball", boomed the umpire over the crowds rumbling. Those words brought me hurtling back to reality, along with the fans already spilling on to the field to share in the victory. They would feel cheated and drained by the emotional strain of the roller coaster ride this game had taken them on. The teams were all on their feet in front of the dugouts, along with everyone in the stands, cars next to the stadium slowed down to watch. James worked away from A.J. and soon the count reached 3-2, two outs, bases loaded, and I was not too happy with the possibility of James walking Zickgraf. The pitcher took a moment to loiter around the mound a bit before a short visit from his first baseman calmly exchanging a few words and the rosin bag before patting him on the backside and retreating.

Everyone in the stadium knew James didn't have to get him. He could work around him here and concentrate on the two pitchers turned position players on deck. I watched James, hoping he would look over so I could will him to throw his best fastball right down the middle. The pitcher looked down until he was ready to throw again. He did, and A.J. turned it around again. This one was a line drive but it definitely had a chance to clear the fence. Everyone leaned and groaned, but the ball didn't cooperate. He hit it too hard, and it curved over the wall and disappeared near the train station. The anticipation in the stands was even louder, as the chant rose up from the masses:

"A. - J. - Zickgraf - Clap, Clap… Clap, Clap, Clap, Let's GO - A - J - Clap, Clap… Clap, Clap, Clap."

No way would James throw a strike now. Why would he? He avoided looking into his own dugout as he scraped the front edge of the rubber with his foot and wiped the sweat from his brow as he readjusted his cap. He was ready again and so was the crowd… Another 92 mph fastball came hurling toward Zickgraf, A.J. utilized a fraction of the half-a-second available to decide. His body position was perfect as he watched the ball tumble through thirteen revolutions on its way to the plate, and the bat head screamed toward the ball once more…

The ball took flight in a towering arc toward left field. This one carried toward the playground with Middletown's Bobby Hosgood in hot pursuit. A.J. had done it again. As he rounded first base he heard the cheers and watched Hosgood launch his body against the outfield wall and miraculously come down with the drive to end the game. It wasn't to be as he kicked at the dirt like a disgusted Joe DiMaggio.

Gulls announcer Don O'Hanley's even-toned voice floated in the air now; tired and disappointed, he manages to expel, "The Newport Gulls. Thank you for attending the Newport Gulls opening day game. Tonight's final score: Giants 5 and your 2001 NECBL Champion Newport Gulls 3. Please drive safely." The Giants were leaping all over the field celebrating their hard fought victory. Some of the Gulls slowly packed up their gear, while still others moved toward home plate to sign autographs and to watch the kid's race around the bases and talk with fans.

The Gulls had lost the home opener. Meanwhile, in the dugout Johnson and A.J. passed each other with faces filled with rage, which quickly gave way to wide smiles and laughter as Eddie Harper looked at a tense A.J. and chimed in with, "Stupid Bat!" 

We found out early the next morning that 1,483 miles away at nearly the same time, A.J. was stepping into the box at Cardines Field, Vito Chiaravalloti belted his 23rd home run of the season for Richmond. If Vito was capable of leading the Spiders over Nebraska, the Gulls stood a good chance of losing their four Spiders: Bryan Pritz, Vito Chiaravalloti, Adam Tidball and David Reaver. I was wishing the best for them in their hunt for an NCAA Championship. I was also hoping to welcome them to Newport soon, and more importantly putting them in the Gulls lineup. 

When the post-game duties ended, the players milled around the dugout waiting for me to say something. Over the years, I had developed a style of never talking about the game to players immediately following a game. In most cases, especially after a loss, the last place anyone wants to be is in a huddle talking about what could have been done better and what went wrong. Many players would be angry, and that's good: It proves they are competitive and focused on getting to the next level. In most cases, it's better to let everyone go home with their own feelings and make their own observations on individual and team performance. 

This method often encourages players to talk with each other or in groups about game situations and helps the players grow as a team. It is best when they are forced to dissect the game on their own, rather than being supplied with the answers. In the end, they all want to be professional baseball players, so we treated them that way. When was the last time anyone saw the Yankees huddle down the right field line after a game? So I sent them on their way with a simple, "Get some rest, and we'll see you tomorrow. The bus leaves for Willimantic at noon." 

Newport Daily News reporter Rick McGowen made his way to the field from the press box area decked out in his usual topsiders, jeans, navy blue sport coat and pressed shirt, complete with a blue and gold ascot. McGowen was a likable guy and one could usually see him during the week enjoying a light meal and drink at the Mudville Pub located adjacent to Cardines. He wasted little time getting to the heart of the matter and asked, "What made you decide to hit for Johnson?"

"You know Rick, I was wondering that myself."

"And?" he said.

"It felt right."

As I answered Rick's questions, I thought back to the previous season. We volunteered as a host family for two pitchers from California's Los Angeles Pierce College, left handed starter Joel Kirsten who was a 25th round pick and signed with the Texas Rangers in the 2002 draft, and closer Brian Jacobsen who accepted a full scholarship to the University of Pittsburgh. I remembered that both of them couldn't wait to see what the coach had said in the paper about them and the team. It really meant a lot to them, so I wanted to make sure to say the right things to the team this year through the media. 

Still talking to McGowen and his tape recorder, I heard my answers in short bursts; "It felt right," "We have a team full of Gamers," "The Gulls continued to make Newport proud." Any of those comments could end up a headline, and I wanted what I said to be positive.

McGowen wasn't satisfied with my answers and attempted to drive me in a different direction by asking, "At your press conference you guaranteed back-to-back Championships, how are you going to manage that?"

"Rick, although it may seem that in some games, even tonight's, that the entire contest is won or lost on one pitch or one play, it's never the case. Thousands of decisions go into every game that will affect the final outcome. The intangible ‘little things' combine to produce the end result. We have a simple mantra, HUSTLE, THINK, WIN!  Every so often when we need to refocus our goals, we'll use carefully designed statistics to discuss our strengths and weaknesses to analyze how we can improve. We use our opponents and our team averages in certain categories like hits, walks, runs, etc. to determine a baseline amount that if achieved will produce wins. This illustrates a viable number or average for the team to achieve. It provides focus on the areas of interest in all aspects of our performance, and it is measurable and quantifiable to the entire club." 

"Newport is known as the best place to play in the NECBL. With all the distractions, how will you keep the players focused on winning?"

"Newport is the best place to play in America! Why should we spend time at practice after a long collegiate season? We play almost every day in this league by design, and with the quality of players we recruit, extra practices are not likely to make a positive impact. I'd rather give them all the time off and work toward making our time spent together fun and rewarding. Make no mistake, rewarding means winning!  Everything we do has a purpose and focus towards winning, even the smallest detail no matter how obscure. It's hard, demanding work and there can be no wasted effort. In baseball the only thing that will take care of itself is losing." 

Eventually he asked his final question as I watched Christopher Paiva in the background, still basking in the glory of his first victory in two summers of competing in the "Tackle the Gull" contest. He flashed the bright smile that would no doubt still be on his face the following morning as the sun spilled through his window waking him up in the only bed he had ever slept in, on the second floor of his traditional New England style yellow and white trimmed home. By his side, he would cling tightly to that Gulls bat. And why not be happy? He had the bat, his fame, and he knew at 6:35 p.m. that evening he'd be right back at Cardines ready to race again.

McGowen's last question caught my attention. "Not as easy as you thought - making split second decisions under the pressure of this City and our fans, is it?