Mom deserves acclaim

Moms -- they're everywhere.
But when they're your own, they're special.
For 364 days a year, it's hard to think of someone better. The 365th -- Mother's Day -- is no different.
Mine has no particular claim to fame. She isn't a Pat Summitt (Tennessee women's basketball coach), a Vonda Ward (pro boxer) or a Picabo Street (skier).
But she did jump ball for her grade school basketball team in the 1920s.
Outside of that, her experiences with sports were limited, but memorable.
Being the wife of a shoemaker, tavern owner, baseball scout and welder had its moments. And raising three children, I know, wasn't easy.
No Ozzie and Harriet
It was no ordinary home. Ozzie and Harriet my parents weren't; Ralph and Alice Kramden of the Honeymooners was more like it.
My mom occasionally recalls the day my father's bar-sponsored baseball team was brought to our house to help canvass the neighborhood for my batboy brother who hid so he wouldn't have to make the trip to a game. Several players -- uniforms and all -- helped search inside and out.
That was one time I didn't want to be in his spikes.
My mother was also a victim of the nature of the beast. She was a forerunner of today's "sports widow."
What most families would look forward to is what she painfully looks back upon.
For example, during one of my father's many whirlwind trips to spring training camp in Fort Myers and Bradenton, Fla., my mother was left to fend for herself. While my dad spent his day at a ballpark, my mother had to find some diversion.
One of those "vacations" was enough.
If she did attend a sandlot ball game and the ending hung in the balance, she'd retreat under the bleachers until the outcome was decided.
Under wraps
Once, against my mother's wishes, my father put my brother in the Golden Gloves boxing tournament. To minimize the chance of any suspicion, my father managed to enter my brother under an alias: Frankie Baines.
It worked!
I helped accelerate her aging with an assortment of mischievous activities, like breaking furniture and wall fixtures while playing football with friends in our living room.
There were many times when she had to share her dining room floor space with baseball equipment -- bats, balls and catcher's equipment. For a few years, carbines from a rifle club were part of the inventory somewhere in the house.
Most mothers would scream. I think mine was on the verge many times.
At my sister's wedding, the mother of the bride should have shared top billing. For my father, I think Harold "Pie" Traynor took the cake that day.
She didn't complain living with in-laws during World War II. She didn't complain when her husband ran from one job to another, worked late, then got up early and did it again.
She was a stay-at-home mom. Why not? We were stay-at-home kids.
Her niche
To deal with the madness, she found her niche -- church and bingo.
For every Corinthians 3:16, there was a B-16.
When she did return to work, it wasn't at the expense of the household.
The meals, the noise, the junk cars, the laughs, the fights, the strappings, the lessons, the accidents, the visitors, the relatives, the way it was.
How did she do it? How do you repay someone that like?
She had a close call a few years ago, but, thankfully, she's still around.
At 90, she doesn't have the eyesight and hearing of the past and her surroundings are much quieter, but she's still getting around. There are visitors and radio keeps her in touch. Pictures on the wall are part of the story, but she's the best of the story.
XJohn Bassetti is a sports reporter for The Vindicator. Write to him at bassetti@vindy.com.