Sometimes, It’s a Column Only a Mother Could Love

This will come as somewhat of a shock to some e-mailers, but I had a mother. She passed away more than 27 years ago, about one month after I started working for a newspaper.

There are doctors on record saying the two were not related.

I have now lived longer without a mother than with one, which puts to rest her prediction--that leaning back in a chair the way I did, the day was coming real soon when I was going to break my neck.

Come to think of it, I have also lived with my wife longer than my mother, which is amazing, because I have some say in that.

NOW THE THING about a Mother’s Day Sunday, of course, is what a great day it is. Just wish I still had one. Now those two sentences don’t make grammatical sense, but you know what I’m trying to say.

I hear athletes talk about missing the chance to play in the Super Bowl or make it to the World Series, and I can understand that, but I think about my children being born and having never met my mother, and I have trouble with that.

They should have had to eat those hamburger-stuffed bell peppers--my mother’s specialty--same as I did. (I believe when my daughters get married and have children they will tell them about their own mother’s revolting potato chip tuna casserole, which I might add is right there with the hamburger-stuffed green peppers).

Now I got to thinking about Mother’s Day while sitting in Dodger Stadium on Saturday night watching grumpy Kevin Brown pitch. How’s that for an unlikely combination?

For me to say anything about Kevin Brown’s mother at this point, of course, would be to invite a fastball to wherever I might be hiding in the Vin Scully Press Box. I’m sure if she’s still with us, she’s very proud of her son and his outstanding accomplishments, and like me, would probably like to see him smile more often. I’ll settle for once.

As an aside--I wonder how Kevin Brown might treat his mother on the day he pitches. Manager Jim Tracy says instead of saying “hi” to Brown, he waits a day and says it twice to Brown. Every time I see him, he looks as if he just ate some of my mother’s hamburger-stuffed green peppers.

THE THING IS, I think of baseball and I think of my mother. I know most men relate baseball to that special bond with their fathers and I have those feelings too, but my lingering image is my mother schlepping a lawn chair down the left-field line to encamp beyond the dugout and watch her son strike out with remarkable regularity.

Striking out never seemed to bother her. I remember her blaming it on the big boy who was pitching for the other team and saying it really wasn’t fair. I don’t recall arguing with her.

She was seriously ill much of her life, and yet I cannot recall a game where I didn’t take it for granted she would be sitting down the left-field line. I guess she was determined to sit there until her son hit the ball.

There is a fence now separating Edison Field and St. Michael’s Cemetery, and I find some comfort in knowing that on my best day I could hit a foul ball behind home plate and maybe hit her marker. I would like to think that heredity plays some role in my peculiar sense of humor, and she would laugh getting plunked like that. I know this--if she didn’t, she couldn’t send me to my room without supper.

I TELL THESE stories to my daughters, and they act as if I’m cutting into their shopping time. My mother never really existed, of course, as far as they are concerned. I know one girl in our family who wouldn’t be wearing such skimpy bathing suits if my mother had hung around all these years.

But I also know this. When they reflect some day on their own mother and their memories of childhood activities, the two will be tightly linked. She didn’t miss a basketball game, softball game, gymnastics meet or academic competition. She also doesn’t miss a chance to shop with them either.

For years now I have coached girls’ basketball teams, and I can always tell which youngsters have a parent in attendance and which ones do not.

The ones who do, accept it as a way of life, knowing no differently.

The kids who are continually twisting to look back over their shoulders are the ones who have doubts if their parents are going to be there. For some, knowing ahead of time their parents won’t be there is still not enough to keep them from looking toward the door.

I never had to experience that as a kid, which I’ll take as a happy Mother’s Day remembrance.

Neither did my daughters--because their own mother did good.

THE DODGERS ASKED this trivia question Saturday night: Who co-holds the National League record of most extra-base hits in one game? A. Steve Garvey; B. Ron Cey; C. Eric Karros.

I don’t know about you, but I find it odd that a team would pose such a question and then sabotage its own public relations by immediately putting a big X through the name of the only player presently in the park in Karros. The correct answer: A.

YOU CAN’T BLAME someone who has been called “Magic” much of life thinking he can pull the Trail Blazers out of the gutter. But what’s with Portland and this resume requirement that you must have coached the Lakers previously, and failed. Don’t they have to interview Del Harris too?

TOMMY LASORDA’S father was born in Tollo, Italy, so after a visit to the city, Lasorda sent officials a bunch of baseball equipment, and in due time they went on to the win a local championship--sending him a team picture to commemorate their achievement.

The name of the team: The Tom Lasordas--that’s 15 kids all lined up real proud with Tom Lasorda stitched across the front of each of their uniforms. I’m not sure “Tom Lasorda” has ever looked better in a uniform.

TODAY’S LAST WORD comes in an e-mail from Hans:

“I’ve been collecting a series of bons mots, but figured sending you one would be enough . . . “

I do not accept anything that’s ticking.

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T.J. Simers can be reached at his e-mail address: t.j.simers@latimes.com