In 1971 the legendary singer/songwriter Bill Withers
released the song “Grandmas Hands”.
I was listening to the song over the weekend and a whole
raft of memories of my Grandmother came rushing back. I wrote last year that I hadn’t yet figured out how to process her death and I still don’t
think I have. But there have been small steps in that direction and they’ve
come from a place I didn’t expect. Sports.
My Grandmother, Elanor Turretto, was an athlete as a young
lady. She loved the game of tennis and played in High School and through her 20’s.
I remember that she never missed watching Wimbledon,
The US Open and thought the French Open was silly and that it was held in too
high a regard given that the clay court was so different from the surface that
players usually trained and played on.
She loved team sports too especially the 49ers and Giants.
I was in 1st or 2nd grade when I was
surprised one morning at school by the appearance of my Grandmother at my
classroom door. I don’t recall how she’d gotten them, probably from her boss at
Tarlow’s Furriers in Santa Clara,
but she had a pair of tickets for a “Businessman’s Special” at Candlestick. She
was taking me to my first Baseball Game and it was to be a secret. It’s a secret
we shared without anyone ever finding out until…well…now. So if either of my
parents happen to read this, now you know.
I remember every detail of the first game I ever listened to
on the radio as chronicled ( HERE ) but I can't recall a single thing about this
game. I have no idea who the opposing team was, who pitched or even if the
Giants won. All I remember is how special it felt to be getting away with something
by playing hookey with Grandma. I remember Grandma’s hands on the wheel of her
1968 Camaro (which I now own). I remember Grandma’s hands handing me my first
ballpark hotdog. I remember Grandma’s hands zipping up my jacket against the
chill at the park. I remember Grandmas’s hands holding mine as we dodged cars
in the lot at Candlestick.
She was sitting in her wingback chair and I was sitting on
the floor leaning against her knees in on a Sunday afternoon in 1982. With my
entire family in the room, only she and I were paying attention to Vin Scully
and Hank Stram calling a playoff game between the 49ers and Cowboys. Joe
Montana rolled right, pump-faked and then slung the ball high and deep into the
end zone and I remember, more than anything else the feeling of anticipation
and anxiety being transmitted to me through Grandmas hands grasping my shoulders.
I was running off the field with the rest of the team after
a game and I remember Grandma’s hands grabbing the sleeve of my jersey to
congratulate me and the joy on her face when she’d watched me score my first
touchdown in High School.
I remember Grandma’s hands touching mine as she told me how
proud she was of me when I joined the Military.
I remember Grandma's hands touching my wife Kathy's the first time they met.