Play Ball . . . Again!
Her name was Branislava Krucz and she came to this country from Poland when she was sixteen. Depending on which family legend you believe, she either traveled here alone, or with her sister. Either way, she ended up working as a housekeeper at the rectory of a Catholic parish. She married a man whose last name was Dominick, and had three children. After her husband died, a man named John appeared at her door one day. He told her that he was the widower she’d heard about and asked if she wanted to marry him.
Her three children plus his three (John’s first wife died in childbirth and there was one child Branislava didn’t even know about until after the wedding), plus eight of their own, one of whom was my dad. For a long time, they lived on a farm in Colebrook, a tiny community in eastern Ohio, then moved to Cleveland, sometime around when Dad was in high school.
It couldn’t have been an easy life. Two immigrants, all those kids, the Depression. But the one thing that was consistent in Branislava’s life (they called her Bertha, though I doubt that’s the exact translation of the name) was baseball.
My grandmother loved baseball.
Turns out her boys did, too. My Uncle Ben once tried out for the St. Louis Cardinals. World War II interrupted his dream of the Bigs. My dad, too, was an avid player. He was the catcher for many a Cleveland Police sandlot team. The other uncles played, too.
I doubt Bertha ever attended a game in person. Like most grandmas back in the day, she was pretty much a homebody. Growing up, we lived down the street from the woman we called Busha (Polish for Grandma). I remember stopping in to see her and finding her in front of the black-and-white TV in the living room, watching the Indians.
No doubt, Busha remembered the glory days of the 40s and early 50s when the Cleveland Indians were world champs. Once I was old enough to learn what a fan she was, the team had already started its decline. Big time.
Still, there she was in front of the game, cheering on her team. I never remember her listening to the games on the radio, but maybe that’s because she didn’t speak much English. I’m sure it was easier for her to keep track of the action watching the game.
I thought of Busha at Progressive Field on Monday as I sat watching the Indians home opener. If I could tell her anything it would be dziekuja (that’s Polish for thank you) for passing her love of the game from one generation to the next.
So here’s to another season of wins and losses, bad stadium hot dogs, good seats, days in the sun and visits to our favorite little downtown bar before and after the games. Oh, and here’s to another season, and another chance for glory on behalf of all the true believers like Busha!
