Literature has its triangles — stories work when one party is at odds with the other two. The U.S. Constitution has its life, liberty and pursuit of happiness. Christianity has its Father, Son and Holy Spirit. In life, two is a coincidence and three embodies a pattern.
The rule of three struck again recently — I took possession of three separate books, all stirring memorable moments.
The first book was discovered while Mary and I were sorting items and condensing space for our church rummage sale.
“I need to show you what I found,’’ said my editor of 41 years, her voice bubbling with excitement. “I can’t tell you what it is. You have to come and look.’’
In a corner of the gym balcony, she pulled what appeared to be a Shutterfly book from a stack of donations. The cover contained a color photograph of our beloved, late parish priest celebrating the Eucharist over an inset portrait from his ordination. The picture book of the Rev. Bruce F. Ammering had been donated to the sale, but it truly belonged in a parish history showcase.
As I paged through the 8-inch square book, I spotted three pictures of our eldest daughter, Kathleen, another of our youngest, Claire Eileen, and a few snapshots of another beloved figure, Sister Margaret Rose Aungier. Each stirred memories about the thoughtfulness and grace of Fr. Ammering along with parish events.
On my first trip to Blessed Sacrament Church in the summer of 1984, he spotted a fresh face in the pews and welcomed me back to the sacristy for a chat. He asked about my job, my fiancé and my role at the morning newspaper.
When Katie was born two years later and Fr. Ammering heard the diagnosis of Down syndrome, he insisted on taking me out for ice cream. Awake for 36-plus hours and worrying about Katie’s condition, I was unwittingly undergoing a kind of spiritual welfare check.
Fr. Ammering practiced inclusion before most people knew the term. He invited Katie to become an altar server, definitely our parish’s first developmentally-challenged server. Years before, he gave Katie a prominent role in the annual children’s Christmas pageant. She became the Archangel Gabriel, bathed in a spotlight at the head of the altar, while the children of the parish marched in as shepherds, preceding Joseph, Mary and the Christ child. One parishioner was so touched he wrote a check on the spot for $5,000, and Father used it to upgrade the Christmas manger set.
When he baptized Liam — it was not a popular name in 1991 — he called him Leon, Lie-am, perhaps Leo and finally hit on Liam at the end of Mass. It mattered little; grace filled his voice.
On Easter Sunday in the mid-1990s, Fr. Ammering had invited the children of the parish and their parents over to the rectory after Mass for treats. When I looked across the kitchen to see Liam on his toes, reaching for the fire alarm on the wall, I think I completed the “N’’ of “N-o-o-o-o-o’’ when he pulled the white handle on the red box. Strobe lights flashed and a deafening klaxon-like warning sounded. I retain the image of Sr. Margaret Rose staggering and holding her hands over her head, hearing aids in both ears. When Liam finished crying outside in the parking lot, she came by and comforted him. After that, she always greeted him and engaged in banter. No need to cover her ears.
We’ve decided we need to preserve this photo book for historical purposes, either with the diocese or Blessed Sacrament. This man of great faith and kindness does not deserve to sit on a bookshelf with a 50-cent price tag.
The second book arrived in a trove of Christmas gifts from lifelong friend and mentor Larry Casey. My sister Anne Marie Holleran and her husband, Paul Spilman, brought them to a family gathering in Morristown.
I was supposed to wait until Dec. 25, but I couldn’t resist. I peeled open the gray paper to discover “Legends of the Tribe: An Illustrated History of the Cleveland Indians’’ by Morris Eckhouse. This coffee-table book documented the history of my beloved Guardians from their origins as the Forest Citys and Spiders between 1869-1900 through to the 2000 season.
I read the passages on the Indians from the early 1980s when I served briefly as sports editor of The News-Herald in Lake County, the eastern suburbs of Cleveland, but I couldn’t spot the name I sought. But at the rear of the book, in all-time list of Cleveland pro baseball players, was “Rhomberg, Kevin.’’
circa 1982
On Labor Day 1983, when the Indians would finish 70-92, 28 games out of first place, I covered the last game of a long weekend when the baseball writer took the day off. Kevin Rhomberg had a couple of hits and a run-scoring single, so I interviewed him in the clubhouse. I extended a hand when he reached out, shook, and he touched me on the arm. A few questions later, I thanked him and extended the same hand. When he shook again, he touched me on the arm twice. Strange, I thought.
It turned out he had a compulsion — if anyone touched Rhomberg, he had to touch them last. Pitcher Rick Sutcliffe once touched him on the toe while he was sitting in a bathroom stall, then hurried out of the clubhouse.
“An umpire once halted play during a game in New York to tell Yankees players to stop touching Rhomberg,” states his Wikipedia page. “If a person eluded his return touch, Rhomberg would send a letter that said, ‘This constitutes a touch.’ “Rhomberg went on to become a scout for the Indians and later a college baseball coach in Ohio.
Paul Spilman handed me the third book — a red-covered Spalding baseball scorebook with “Spilman’s’’ written in magic marker and “1968-9’’ across the bottom. When retrieving Casey’s gifts, he plucked it from a garage shelf because he thought I’d enjoy it.
I opened it up to peruse the first game and saw lineups for a Morristown youth baseball game between Spilman’s Fuel & Supply and St. Lawrence Insurance Agency. The lineups provoked instant time travel. Spilman’s lineup listed Ned Evans, Fred Barse, Billy Colburn, Gary Smith, Andy Colburn, Michael Spilman, Pat McCaffery, M. Mead. St. Lawrence held names such as Moquin, Gilmour, Woodside, Sayer, Haines, Sargent and Bertrand.
I flipped to the middle of the scorebook and by some act of God landed on one of my games for Perretta Packing vs. Spilman’s. Again, there was a roster of former MCS players in their formative years. Herbie Lake, David Johnson, Harlow Hockey, Bruce Hubbard. Plus Norman Roach, Bob LaClair, Frank Perretta and Greg Sargent.
That’s when the sad reality of my youth career struck me like a fastball to the helmet. I was pitching and leading off, facing my best friend, Andy Colburn. “J. Hollera … K …K …K.’’ First inning, third inning and fifth inning. “K’’ is the universal scoring term for strikeout, and in some circles it’s known as a “hat trick.’’ Others dub it the “Truman Show.’’
“Hey Jim,’’ Paul Spilman called out. “We could go through that scorebook and figure out your batting average!’’
No thanks. I was humbled enough.
Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/
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