Father's Day memory---Courtesy of the movie Field of Dreams

This column was first printed in the pages of the now-defunct Hudson Dispatch on June 29, 1989. It ended up winning several different awards from the New Jersey Press Association, the North Jersey Press Club and the Garden State Society of Journalists. It was also reprinted in Reader’s Digest later that year (although I never got credit, the paper did).

For several years, the clipping sat in an old Avon box in my basement. We had a major flood two years ago that ruined a lot of my old clippings, including several of the old Dispatch articles. But somehow, this one survived. It’s very weather beaten and faded, but it survived.

I’m re-typing it today and posting it, because after all, it’s Fathers’ Day.

I ventured to the movie theater the other day. No, not to see “Batman” or even “Ghostbusters II.” I’m not a trendy type of guy. In fact, I’m a little behind the times. I saw “Field of Dreams.”

OK, so the rest of the western world has already plunked down the cash to see “Field of Dreams.” We’re in the midst of a blockbuster movie season. “Field of Dreams” is old news to movie freaks. After all, it was only released nine weeks ago.

But “Field of Dreams” is about baseball _ sort of. And besides, “Batman” is not about Don Mattingly. I am a sportswriter _ at last check. And I’m a movie fan. Just a tardy movie fan, that’s all. I had to go see it. Who cares if I’m late?

I heard so many things about the movie. It was supposed to be the best thing ever to happen to baseball movies _ which wouldn’t be a hard feat, considering that most baseball flicks flounder.

I went with an open mind, waiting to be disappointed. I left feeling wonderful, feeling alive, feeling good. “Field of Dreams” touched me more than any other movie. It was clearly the best picture I’ve ever witnessed.

And my strong feelings about “Field of Dreams” had nothing to do with baseball. It had to do with life. Or, for that matter, afterlife.

For those who have not had the chance to see “Field of Dreams” _ like all seven of you _ you can stop reading here. Take my word for it, the movie is excellent. It’s the best thing you’ll see all year.

Now, for you other fortunate folk.

Let’s face it. “Field of Dreams” has its flaws. I mean, Shoeless Joe Jackson batted left-handed in real life and threw right. In this movie, the exact opposite. He batted right and threw left.

Brings up a good question. Do your extremities become mirror images after death? Only Elvis can answer that one. Remind me to ask him the next time the King is spotted at a 7-11 in Michigan. Elvis probably shoots at TVs with his left these days.

Gil Hodges is mentioned to be on the “Field of Dreams.” But there were no Brooklyn Dodgers uniforms to be found.

Still, this movie was absolute perfection to me, because it was able to touch me in a way that some people can relate to _ but hopefully not many.

Because of one movie, I got in touch with the huge vacancy that has been dominating my life for the last 18 years _ namely the absence of my father.

I was 10 when cancer snuffed Jack Hague away from me. He was sick, dead and gone within one month’s time in 1971. He was my everything. He was my inspiration, my motivation, my life. He was my Little League manager, my friend. He taught me so much about life in 10 short years _ and then he was gone.

It left me with a brother who was 60 miles away with his own family, a sister who was maturing rapidly _ and a loving mother, who had to be both parents from that point on. It was not easy.

Especially because of my obsession with sports _ something I shared with my Dad. We would watch ball games together, talk baseball constantly, play catch in my backyard.

With no father, those times came to an abrupt halt. I longed for the days of playing catch in the yard. They were long gone.

“Stop throwing like a girl, James,” I could hear him saying. “Step and throw.”

There were so many times in 1972, the first year after my father’s death, that I would stand in the yard, hoping he would come back. I just kept standing there, smacking the ball into my empty glove.

Little League was no longer fun without my Dad. It was a struggle to play for some other manager.

That summer, my mother bought me a “Pitch-Back,” the net that snapped the ball back to you after you tossed it. However, the damn thing never offered advice. It never told me what I was doing wrong. It just stood there.

And the “Pitch-Back” could never tell me what I was doing wrong in life. Of course, my mother did _ and worked hard at it. But living with two women and no man’s view of life certainly was no breeze for a moody kid who found his only release through sports.

As time went on, I tended to forget about my Dad. Not entirely, but enough that he wasn’t a major part of my life anymore. I lost his set of values, his standards. I forgot what Jack Hague stood for. I wanted to be independent, my own person. I couldn’t fill the shoes of a memory.

Sure, sports remained my one constant _ and still is today. Without it, I would be lost. But most of all the other values I thought I had disappeared.

People think I’ve lived a good life, an exciting life. But it’s been fairly shallow. I never realized that until recently _ and never more so until I saw “Field of Dreams.”

It was a total awakening for me. I knew how important my father was _ and still is. Sure, my father was gone, but I should never let him stop being my parent. I should have left his values live on in my life instead of being pigheaded and stubborn and wanting to be something and someone else.

“Field of Dreams” touched me so much that I wanted to build a field in my backyard, albeit a small patch of brown grass nestled in Jersey City. And all the greats of yesteryear who are now departed could come back. They wouldn’t even need an invitation.

Gil Hodges would wear a Met uniform and run the show. Thurman Munson would be behind the plate. Satchel Paige on the mound, Lou Gehrig at first _ and Jackie Robinson stealing bases all night.

And the players would leave a little spot where right field would be, just enough for a grey-haired man with a three-finger glove could throw some high hard ones to his son.

“Field of Dreams” did what it was supposed to do _ make us all dream. It made me dream _ of the days when my father taught me about baseball and life.

I almost took those days for granted. I look back now and cherish. I never realized how much I truly missed my father.

So this is somewhat of an open call to all our readers. Stop, take time out and realize how important your father is.

Sure, there may be some differences and there may be some strife, but the day may come when your father is suddenly not there _ and that vacant feeling of his loss almost gets a stranglehold of you.

I know what that feeling is like. I knew it 18 years ago _ and I rediscovered that huge gap 11 days ago. Yes, Fathers’ Day, the day I saw “Field of Dreams.” I had totally forgotten it was Fathers’ Day. It was so totally ironic I saw the movie on that day.

I’ll never forget Fathers’ Day again. That’s why I love the movies so much _ and why “Field of Dreams” is the best movie I’ve ever seen. I found my Dad. I’m grateful for Hollywood for that.

That’s why I’m asking all of you to find your fathers, too. While he’s still around.

Stick a fork in them. The Mets are dead

“A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.”– Winston Churchill

Obviously, the legendary prime minister from Great Britain never saw the New York Mets play baseball.

Well, Churchill died in 1965, so it was long before the Mets even conceived thoughts of being somewhat decent. In 1965, they were still the laughingstocks of the Great American Pastime.

But if Churchill was alive today, he would have very little to be optimistic about with the Mets.

Because as they prepare to face the cross-river rival Yankees tonight, the Mets are deader than Churchill ever was. Paraphrasing another great Brit John Cleese, the Mets are deceased, they’ve expired, they have moved on to meet their maker, they’re pushing up daisies, they cease to be, they are no longer, they are an ex-team.

Don’t give me that line about that it’s only June 8 and that there are 103 games left in the schedule. Don’t sell me a line that they are only 7.5 games out of first place in the NL East standings.  Don’t tell me that they’re going to improve immensely now that Yoenis Cespedes is closer to returning (is he really?) and that Todd Frazier is back. Don’t be like the moron we hired as a manager and spew crap that the pitching has been really good over the last couple of weeks.

Don’t do any of that, because the Mets are dead. They’re a dead team, a dead franchise, a dead organization from top to bottom. They’re also cursed, but that’s another matter for perhaps another day.

Right now, as the latest version of the Subway Series is only a few hours from beginning, can there be more of an unmitigated mismatch than what will transpire this weekend?

The Yankees are absolutely rolling along. They have a young, vibrant, alive roster filled with this generation’s superstars. How can anyone not get excited by seeing Gleyber Torres play second base for that team? The kid has it all. He hits and hits for power. He runs. He fields his position and plays with a smile on his face. Torres is the real deal and then some.

And then there are the other youngsters. Miguel Andujar is getting miggy with it on the hot corner (I can’t say I invented that one—it was a John Sterling creation that almost made me spit out my Arnold Palmer Zero the other night when I heard it). We all know what Aaron Judge and Gary Sanchez can do. Greg Bird is back at first and if he stays healthy (which is a big IF right now), he’s scary. Austin Romine is hitting .373. Tyler Austin is a stud. We haven’t even mentioned Clint Frazier – because he’s in Scranton. There’s no room in the Bronx for his talents right now.

All of those aforementioned guys are under the age of 26 years old. All of them! They’re all good and they’re all superstars in the making.

And the Yankees are flirting on a daily basis with the Red Sox for both first place in the AL East standings and the best record overall in baseball.

The Mets? They currently have 11 players on the disabled list and that number was increased today, when Jeurys Familia was added to the DL with some sort of shoulder woes. Who do the Mets have as a closer right now? Who knows?

The old players on the Mets appear to have become even older as I write this. Someone obviously kidnapped Jay Bruce, because this is not the same guy who hit 36 homers and drove in 101 runs last year. I applauded the Mets for bringing Bruce back. I thought it might turn out to be as brilliant as what the Yankees did to get Gleyber and then bring back Chapman. But there’s only one problem with that. Bruce, owner of a $39 million contract, has three homers and 15 RBI and is hitting .220. It’s the second week of June and Bruce has 15 RBI. Are you kidding me?

We can go on. I understand Michael Conforto had major reconstructive surgery to his shoulder after hurting it last year on a swing. But Conforto has 16 RBI and is hitting .228 this season. He had 27 homers, 70 RBI and hit .280 in 109 games last year, earning a spot on the NL All-Star team. Tell me if you didn’t think this kid was our version of Judge. There was a tabloid backpage feature last year that compared the two. Can that even be considered now? No way.

The Mets thought they had the shortstop of the future with Amed Rosario. But the moron we hired as a manager (I can’t even mention his name, because I may start to laugh and cry simultaneously) continues to bat Rosario ninth and the pitcher eighth. Abner Doubleday is chuckling at the big ballpark in the sky with this daily disaster. Rosario is hitting .251 with three homers and 18 RBI. Yes, he has more RBI than Bruce and Conforto.

Need we go on? OK, let’s. Adrian Gonzalez was a pickup from the waste basket. You know when you walk by a garbage can and see a Bic ballpoint that has some life left in it, so you pick it out of the trash and give it a try. That’s what the Mets did with Gonzalez, once one of the most feared hitters in the game. Well, Gonzalez, who finished as high as fourth in the MVP voting three times in BOTH leagues, seemed to have a little bit of life in him and they weren’t paying his $22 million contract (the Atlanta Braves are), so it was worth the chance.

But lately, the Bic pen is not writing anymore and Gonzalez looks absolutely feeble. He’s hitting .244 with six homers and 26 RBI, but he didn’t get the ball out of the infield in two losses to the dreadful Orioles this week (yes, the Orioles with the worst record in the game beat the Mets twice, albeit 2-1 and 1-0).

The Mets did the same reclamation attempt with Jose Reyes after his domestic violence arrest and subsequent release by the Colorado Rockies. But the once-exciting Reyes has been relegated to a bench player and even there, Reyes can’t do a thing, batting a hideous .141 with one homer and three RBI. He appears finished, much like Gonzalez, but he’s not costing the Mets much, so he remains.

The Mets also scooped up another former All-Star in Jose Bautista, after Joey Bats was given the boot by the Atlanta Braves. Bautista isn’t costing the Mets hardly anything as well, as his $18 million contract is being paid by the Toronto Blue Jays. He’s another player who has finished among the top eight in the AL MVP voting four times in his life, but his career is also being held together with Elmer’s glue and rubber bands. Bautista has not been bad with the Mets, batting .280 with three RBI in 32 at-bats. But again, here’s a 37-year-old reclamation project.

The Yankees have youth, vim and vigor. The Mets basically have a dead roster.

We didn’t address the pitching situation, because in honesty, the pitching hasn’t been too bad. Jacob deGrom, tonight’s starter, has been lights out, pitching to a 4-0 record and a 1.54 ERA, after he hurt his pitching elbow swinging the bat. Steven Matz has a 2-4 record, but his ERA is a manageable 3.54 and has looked good in recent starts. Noah Syndergaard, who is currently on the DL like everyone else, but is scheduled to face the Yankees Sunday night, has a 4-1 record with a 3.06 ERA. But Thor really hasn’t been the dominating force that he was before he got hurt last year.

Zack Wheeler has a 2-4 record with a 4.57 ERA and he has also looked good in recent outings. He pitched seven scoreless innings Wednesday against the Orioles and appeared dominant. But the Mets once again failed to score for Zack and they lost 1-0 on a run fueled by Rosario’s fielding miscue.

Jason Vargas (2-4, 7.71 ERA) has been a disaster signing. He got $18 million for two years. That may be the biggest heist since the Lufthansa theft at JFK in the 1970s. Seth Lugo and Robert Gsellman have been solid. One of those two has to be the closer now that Familia is gone. Maybe it’s Anthony Swarzak. Who knows?

But at this point, who cares? Because Churchill, this team is dead in the water. They started off like gangbusters, posting an 11-1 record to start the year. It looked as if they were going to run away and hide from the rest of the division.

However, since that time, they are 16-31 and plummeting faster than Roseanne Barr’s approval ratings. Can they turn it around? Sure, they’ve proven me wrong before. I thought they were so totally dead in July of 2015, but they miraculously turned it all around, won the division and the National League pennant. God, that feels like so long ago.

But can they turn it around and win this time? It’s highly unlikely. I’m not one that says the Mets have to trade off their desirable commodities. In fact, I want them to lock up deGrom and Thor long term. I’d even throw Matz a contract and see if he bites. Will it happen? Not the way they operate. They allow the market dictate how they sign contracts. If some other team offers a solid contract, then the Mets might counter offer. They are never the aggressors. They allow the market determine how they approach contracts, which is a stupid approach.

I don’t think Sandy Alderson has been a bad general manager. His hands have been tied by the financial restraints laid down by the stingy ownership. But Alderson had a chance to make this team better in the offseason and really wasn’t aggressive enough to address the team’s needs, like depth in the bullpen.

But Alderson’s biggest blunder was hiring a new manager. I know it’s only 59 games, but Mickey Calloway (there, I finally got to him) is the biggest disaster the organization has ever made – and they’ve had their fair share of loser managers.

In fact, they haven’t had a decent manager since Bobby Valentine. I was never a Terry Collins fan at all, but the Gray Fox is light years ahead of Moron Mickey, who continues to make moves that make me scratch my head and shake that head faster than a Taylor Swift song.

I can’t even begin to put together the words to describe Moron Mickey, but he was supposed to be a pitcher’s manager and obviously the strength of the team was going to be pitching. But Calloway has no idea how to handle the pitching staff, taking out starters too soon, bringing in the wrong relievers, having a short leash on all of the pitchers. He parades Jerry Blevins out there regularly and he can’t get anyone out. The same for the atrocious Paul Sewald. I have always been a Hansel Robles fan, but he’s pitched 15 innings this year and given up six homers. Who does that?

And Calloway’s game strategy is just scary. It’s like he’s never watched a baseball game in his life. That Kumbaya attitude he displayed at his first press conference, when he was going to get everyone together in a group hug, is long gone. His ability to manage this team doesn’t exist.

So there we have it. First pitch awaits and we have two teams in the same Big Apple going in opposite directions. Do I dare say “Play Ball?”