When I was a kid all I wanted to do was sketch on any piece of paper I could find. To this day I find myself making scribble art on post-its while working at the computer. I have been toying with a line of “Post-It” art pieces and sell them framed. That’s another project.
While a boy, my dear Mother, who battled as a single Mom all of our lives came home one day and proclaimed I was going to be a little leaguer. She had signed me up, procured a Red Sox uniform and I was dragged to the local park kickin’ and screamin’ to play ball. I was to do the things that men do… sports. Every week a confrontation would ensue as I demanded my “rights” to stay home a sketch. She insisted I quit “doodling” and join the guys at the game.
We sucked, I sucked, we were the worst team on the league and I had zero desire to win or be there anyway. To make matters worst, my estranged Dad would come sit up in the bleachers with his little ice chest full of beers and drink. Talk about embarrassed, wasn’t the humiliation of being a lousy ball player enough for one kid with out drunken Dad hangin’ around. Wow! I do give him some credit for having been there at all to support me in his way. I guess everybody has parent baggage to deal with. On the upside, Mom finally caved and I was able to get back to my drawings and creativity. Funny, later I would have a stint as middle school sports photographer before expanding my interest in music and poems.
It would be a long time before I played baseball again. This time for Chrysalis Records, a music label I was involved with, but in the bleachers this time round to see my one and only Grand Slam would be none other than vocal dynamo Pat Benatar. Hell, even her husband Neil Geraldo was on the team. Now, that’s a home run!
David Lear 