El Gato, 1930 - 2013

Cd. Juarez, Chihuahua, Mexico -- Don Pedro "El Gato" Aguirre, 82, died peacefully at his home.  He loved three things: Baseball, his family and baseball.  Don Pedro “El Gato” Aguirre, a most outstanding citizen, a longtime veteran of his city’s police force passed away the 13th day of March, 2013, shortly after the white smoked was seen in Rome.

Mass of Christian Burial  was held at 7 a.m. last Friday at Casa de Jesus de Cuidad Juarez, where he was also in state on Thursday.  Interment followed on Friday at Recinto de la Oracion.  Family and the Sisters offered several rosaries and prayers for him.

What we never know about death is the day or the hour.  The faith of the Christian believer should give us – his survivors – peace that our loved one is now in the presence of God, free of imperfection, free of suffering and free of mortality.

If it could only be that simple.

For some, this fateful day comes only as the result of many, many years of suffering and pain.  For El Gato, it came with Alzhiemer’s and more than 12 years of steady decline, until the illness took with it every ounce of his being.

They are years and years my grandmother, mother and aunts toiled with day after day, giving him the care he needed. 

He is my maternal grandfather, but he made it clear he never wanted to be called, “grandpa” or “abuelo”.  He didn’t like the sound of that word, and in many ways, my childhood is filled with countless memories with him -- more as a friend -- than a grandson. 

Most importantly, he was a prominent member of the city’s baseball lore, inducted into Ciudad Juarez Hall of Fame some years ago.  He played when “peloteros” kept their athletic build with hot dogs and beer.  He played when salaries in baseball were nothing, and being part of the magical game was truly for love of the game.  The likes of Mickey Mantle and Jackie Robinson covered the airwaves in Major League Baseball in that era, but in his world the name "El Gato" made constant headlines as the city’s best catcher and clean-up hitter.

El Gato suffered a career ending injury during his playing years as a catcher, which led him to a 30-year career as a police officer.  However, during that time, baseball was never far away.  As he was enfrocing the law on the streets, he was also making his name known as an umpire on the weekends.  The blue uniform suited him well.  He was part of the umpire corps, who protected themselves from pitches with a large foam shield behind home plate.  God help those who disputed a call with El Gato!  He would become the president of the umpires association for the city.

He gave us many memories, memories riding in that brown four-door Ford LTD always on the way to a bullfight or a ballgame with the 1911 .45 under the seat.  His influence in the city was such that we never paid at any gate.  We always had choice seats, and it seemed everybody in town knew, El Gato.

He is one of the last from The Greatest Generation in my life.  He exemplified dedication, character, and a no-nonsense way of doing things, which has left a permanent impression to those of us who remain behind. 

The last time he recognized us was in 2001.  I can’t say when he stopped understanding baseball, but I sincerely hope it has come back to life for him in some way, somewhere.

He will be able to enjoy Opening Day in 2013 from the best seats in the house.  

He was preceded in death by his daughter, Martha Aguirre Felix in 1983.

He is survived by his wife, Amalia Aguirre Guevara; daughters, Agustina Aguirre Najera and husband Jose, Sister Aurora Aguirre and Dora Aguirre; grandchildren, Javier E. Najera and wife, Idaly, Jorge L. Najera and wife, Minerva and Monica Najera-Tellez and husband, Andy; great-grandchildren, Itzayana and Aytana Najera, Israel and Galilea Najera, and Ilianna Hernandez; and a host of extended family and friends.

Fireman Saves Our Vacation

**The following letter was sent to the fire chief of San Antonio.  We don't often acknowledge small acts of kindness, but in our case, a certain fireman in San Antonio made a huge difference at the end of our vacation.  It's a moment the girls and I will never forget.  I scanned the note left to us.  It'll make sense once you read the letter.

 

8 August 2012

Chief Hood,

We don’t always take the time to thank our heroes.  Often only great tragedies summon the courage and need to thank those who run towards danger to save those who run from it. 

Sometimes little acts of kindness make huge differences in the lives of others.  Our story is about how our vacation was saved.  It didn’t involve grave danger to our lives.  In fact, it was about a pile of plastic, glass and wires.  Amongst that finely tuned pile of replaceable items, however, was a priceless set of photographs. 

   

We had the opportunity for a vacation on the coast, visiting the beach at Padre Island and capping it off with a great two-day stay in San Antonio.  The vacation ended with a great lunch on the market on, Tuesday, August 7, and a stop was planned in San Marcos for a little back-to-school shopping.

In an instant of carelessness I went to the car for our checkbook, and somehow let our camera kit -- contained in a bag -- slip out and on the parking lot.  The boogie boards we used on the beach, which I kept fighting the entire trip to stay in car, where safe inside.  Somehow, though, I never saw the camera slip out.  I proceeded to the store and check out.  We headed back to the car.

As we loaded our bags with new purchases, I immediately noticed the camera bag was missing.  Panic rang through our bodies, and we literally yanked all our belongings onto the parking lot.  Tears began to flow down my wife and girls, and as much as I retraced our steps back in San Antonio (not even thinking it slipped out when I grabbed the check book), nothing but total defeat overwhelmed us.  We would only remember losing our camera, complete with some 400 pictures, on this great trip.

Cameras are replaceable.  Pictures? Priceless.  Our loss was most assuredly, some one else’s gain.

However, on this hot afternoon in San Marcos, and after my careless fumbling of boogie boards and checkbook, Eli was the man (we candidly call him fireman Eli at home now).  I’m still not sure if he saw it or his son, but divine intervention was meant to be.  The percentage of us ever seeing our camera again was so miniscule, except…

Eli placed it in his vehicle safely, and took the time to write a note on my windshield.

I’ll never forget the moment when all hope was lost, and I started to circle the car so the girls wouldn’t see how upset I was at myself.  I was sure I had left that camera in the last parking lot in San Antonio.  Then, I spotted a piece of paper on the windshield, which asked, “ If you have lost something, call this cell number and describe it.” 

Eli and his son came out.  They gave us the camera, and we gave them the most inadequate “thank you” probably in the history of thanking somebody.  At the moment we met them in that parking lot, we had a combination of emotional defeat and shock, that somebody would, not only return our camera, but also take the time to write a note and make sure we described it correctly, so they had the right owners.

Eli’s decision to rescue our camera saved our vacation.  There’s no doubt about it.  The trip back to Arlington and our home would have been very, very long and sad, had he not taken the time to do the right thing. 

It was a teaching moment of our kids, we have both agreed.  It was a moment in time, which reminded us of the goodness in people, in spite of all the bad we hear about.  Eli could have had no reason to do what he did, except that he did.  He brought his son with him to return our camera, so that he knows doing the right thing is the right thing. 

We will never forget that afternoon.

The City of San Antonio has a man of great character guarding its dangers.  I can’t express to you how much this small act of kindness meant to us.  Firemen were always my heroes as a kid.  They most certainly still are.

The Count is 2-0 (Technically, 3-0)

**The thought of publishing pictures of the victims crossed my mind. I do have them, however, I didn't want to "offend" anyone. If anyone actually reads this and offers any comments, I might re-think the crime scene pictures.

So, I thought I'd pen this tale (Do we still say that? Is "penning" kosher, since there is literally no pen involved?)

The strangest thing about the dead squirrel saga is how many people -- I learned -- admitted sort of letting the smell "take its course". It'll go away in a week or so, some told me.

Maybe. Maybe if I was a single dude, I could stay with a good friend and let the decomposition take its course. Remember folks, my world revolves women. And, my women, dog and I just could not bear the putrid stench.

(As a side note, I did go squirrel hunting circa 1994ish. A certain reader in my facebook list might remember that. It was at his house, and the decomposition on that squirrel was far more advanced than what happened at my house.)

The first hunt (though technically it was not a hunt at all. The squirrels were already dead. It was more like a search) was really inconsequential. I woke up early one Sunday morning, Father's Day, and went squirrel hunting. I started in the attic, which is not much of an attic. We have a ranch and there's only crawl space up there and 50-year-old insulation. And, not much of that, I found out!

Everyone agreed the stench was coming from somewhere near the dishwasher. So, I pulled the machine the women in my life NEVER use, hoping the poor little squirrel was belly up right behind it.

It was not. I mean, I don't know why I thought that would be the case, since there is no way for a squirrel to get behind the dishwasher, to be perfectly honest.

I guess I just hoped for an early Pop Day's gift.

I did, however, unscrew the outlet cover to the power source for the dishwasher, and the smell intensified. Bingo! I thought. The poor squirrel fell from the attic, down the interior wall (which I've learned -- the interior walls -- are never insulated), all the way down the bottom. And, that's where it lived its last hours.

One perfectly square hole in the drywall allowed me to stick a mirror in and see the fur about 5 inches away. I had a moment of silence and put on some latex gloves. With a long pair of pliers I grabbed the tail and pulled it out.

With my finest I-read-every-Patricia Cornwell-novel intuition, I tagged this rather large squirrel at about 3 days in necropolis.

I took a picture, showered and was at the office before 11 a.m. Happy Father's Day to me. And though some of the ladies still complained the smell lingered that evening, I knew it was fixed. I thought about a celebratory toast, but I don't drink that early and had to work anyway.

Then...

The smell came back about a week later. Squirrel hunt #2, or really, #3.

This time, the unequivocal scent came from the general are of the pantry/oven. Same intensity. Same displeased looks from the women.

(Insert selfish plug here) >> It was very convenient Idaly joined this at this juncture!

The fact that the furnace blast of summer came rather early this year didn't help at all.

The first hunt went so well, I didn't start the second hunt until about 2 p.m. on a Tuesday, "my day off." That's about the time the heat starts to make you hallucinate. Perfect time to go in an attic, right?

I'm not even going to lie. The first thing I did for this hunt was pop an ice-cold bottle of liquid bread, the light version.

Because sometimes pictures are much more powerful than words, the next picture will say (without saying) where I was 6 hours and a few cold liquid breads into the hunt...

It doesn't look like a huge mess, but that is my garage wall, the one on the other side of the kitchen. I guess the good news is the ten holes are in the garage, and not the kitchen.

Squirrel, though? No where to be found.

Cussed -- yes. But, only in my mind, since the girls were within an earshot. I did throw and punch some things. Absolutely.

The eleventh hour was rolling around for me (9ish p.m). I had to be at the office early and was about to give up when I had a thought.

The squirrel could have fallen in the interior wall, which divides the oven from the pantry. So, I went fishing. In the attic, which must have been about 190° by then.

I applied some duct tape backwards (sticky side up) to a fishing rod, and my neighbor let me have a few fish hooks. In a very weird angle in the attic (wish I had a picture of that yoga pose) I managed to get that fishing rod in that wall deep enough to feel the varmint. When I was certain that what I was poking was in fact animal tissue, I pulled up the rod (hoping the hooks would catch it). What I got was a glob of squirrel hair attached the duct tape. There was the confirmation I needed.

I didn't want to make a hole inside the house, but I was exhausted and didn't care. So, the picture here is the opening to the location where the second squirrel met its maker. Lodged in about mid-wall was a smaller squirrel, dead about the same amount of time. This hole is inside our pantry, on the other side is our oven.

The second hunt took exactly 9 hours, not counting clean-up. I was totally spent, but not dehydrated, thanks to a good supply of ice-cold refreshments.

I can't say with any degree of authority I am an expert now, but after three successful squirrel hunts/searches, why not?

Will I come help you find a dead animal within the annals of your home if you find yourself in my predicament?

I hope we never have to find out.

Plus, I want my undefeated record to stand.

I Thought You Were A Red Sox Fan?

I stopped caring about sports for a good long while, a good while ago.

You'd think I was full of it, if you've been to my office (adorned with sports memorabilia now), talked to my family, friends and our fantasy football league, or my old friends and teammates during my years playing Texas high school football.

I vividly remember the day Jimmy Johnson "quit." I remember it so well, it's ridiculous. I was a bartender at a local sports bar, trying to get through college, and manager rushed out to raise the volume on the television. Coach Johnson said, "After our discussions, we mutually decided I would no longer be the head coach of the Dallas Cowboys."

For the few in the place at that hour, the news was devastating, akin to learning a head of state or religious leader had just been murdered. The air left the room, and all of the sudden we found ourselves reaching for the top shelved spirits en masse.

After all, the Dallas Cowboys had just won their second straight Super Bowl -- fourth overall -- nine weeks earlier. They were poised to win a third without a doubt.

Opening Day for the Texas Rangers was looming, but nobody seemed to care. For that particular sports bar, the Rangers season brought in much welcomed business, as it sat a few blocks from the old Arlington Ballpark. We wondered, however, if anyone was going to come out after what was sure to be a long, long period of mourning after this shocking news.

After that, the Cowboys did win a fifth Super Bowl, under the direction of what Jerry Jones referred to as, "Any one of 500 coaches," the incomparable, Barry Switzer. Switzer got a ring, but really, those Cowboys didn't need a coach. Barry left soon after, and the mess that followed are years most fans don't like to remember.

I sorta stopped caring about the Cowboys and sports for a while. I had enough of the drama and directed my attention to other matters in my life. I went from being able to handicap games and rattle of stats, to not knowing who was in the NFC title game.

I didn't, however, stop caring about baseball altogether. My wife and I would catch a summer game here and there. After all, we could sit in the outfield bleachers for $2, drink a cold beer and a hot dog. Another memorable occasion my brother happened to be in town when Fernando Valenzuela pitched for the Orioles. He and I got to meet Valenzuela as a young man in Mexico, courtesy of my grandpa. Now, we got to see him pitch just before he retired for good.

In 1994 the Rangers built a gorgeous new park, and I was able to take my grandfather, brother and dad to very first exhibition game ever at the Ballpark in Arlington, home of the Texas Rangers. They hosted the Metropolitans of New York. My grandpa didn't like Arlington much, or the seats I was able to afford with my bar-tending tips. He really didn't understand what in God's name kept me living is this strange, strange city. The Rangers, he said, were no good. If there was any justice in my living here was simply this: I would get to see the Red Sox.

It's hard for me to be a passionate fan. I usually expect too much from players and teams. I have this fantasy that all professional athletes actually love what they do, but biographies like Agassi's confirm that a lot of players don't even like what they do, they just happen to be that gifted.

OK, for goodness sake, where is this going?

In 2001, at my brother's wedding, would mark the last time my grandfather recognized me. He has been suffering from Alzheimer's since then, being in the last if its stages now.

In the 2004 ALCS Game 4 between the Boston Red Sox and New York Yankees, Dave Roberts was called in to pinch-run for Kevin Millar, who was just walked by Mariano "Mo" Rivera in the 9th. The Red Sox were down 0-3 in the series, and losing this ball game 4-3. The Red Sox were clinically dead. Roberts stole second, and with a single from Mueller, Roberts turned third and tied the game.

That single stolen base can be seen as the turning point in one of the most historic events in baseball history. The Red Sox swept the rest of the ALCS and the World Series, on the way to wining their first title in 86 years.

My grandpa didn't understand it anymore. His brain was long gone. But, something happened...changed.

That night, the night Dave Roberts stole second base, things changed for me. All of the sudden caring about sports --again -- seemed OK. All of the sudden it was fun handicapping games again and remembering those blessed stats.

That night I celebrated by myself, as the women in my life were long asleep. Texting was not what it is today, so there was no one but the tube to celebrate with. Since then, I indoctrinated all the women in my life in the ways of sports. And, in honor of my grandfather and my inheritance of the Red Sox, they became our team.

We have, however, always had love for the Rangers, our hometown team.

I cannot deny it was hard for me to totally love them during the Tom Hicks era. I know it's not fair to drag the team along with Hicks, but I so despised his business ways! Then, like Roberts stealing second, here come the saviors: Jon Daniels, Nolan Ryan, and Chuck Greenberg, along with a magnificent group of players, mostly considered "kids" by A-Roid.

A World Series comes to Arlington, to the Yard so close to my house, it's uncanny.

Here we go again.

The Cowboys have broken my heart the last few seasons, especially this one.

But, I'm not the guy I used to be. I don't see it as I once did. I won't be retiring from sports, again.

Game One of the World Series will begin in about 17 hours in the San Francisco. The Texas Rangers will feature one of the greatest pitchers of this era, possible of all time, alongside a like-hurler they call, "The Freak".

My grandfather will no more know about this Fall Classic than the man in the moon.

It's OK, though. Grown men will cry this time, too. And, that includes me.

Oh, and those chants at Cowboys Stadium last night were, "Let's Go Rangers!"

Let's Go!, indeed.

"Here comes the 1-2! Swing and a miss!"

Can you believe it?

If there is justice in the Jock Kingdom, I suspect my grandfather is closer to the realm of Babe Ruth and Mickey Mantle, than he is to ours.

Sleep well.

A.L.C.S. -- Can You Believe It!

This picture was taken on the day of Cliff Lee's first start as a Texas Ranger. The Orioles killed him and the Rangers that day. The picture even made this publication.

However...

...

I knew something was right when I could not find any Rangers merchandise on sale or clearance the other day. Usually, in October, one can find pretty sweet deals on stuff, in preparation for next year.

And, I further knew something was right in October when the Red Sox Nation brotherhood sent mail raving the Rangers, especially since the foes blocking the way to the Fall Classic are the New York Yankees. Talks about a Rangers/Red Sox Opening Day in 2011 have subsided, substituted with cheers and praise from Beantown.

It is October, folks. And, not a word one about the Dallas Cowboys on the airwaves, save a mention about a roster move.

No more exhaustion from analyzing the Cowboys, and why they are 1-3.

No more predictions about the Mavericks and Stars.

This is the A.L.C.S. In Arlington. Less than 4 miles from my front door.

CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?

At the beginning of the football season, I had to make a flag decision. I fly two flags at my home, and usually upon the Rangers ending their season, I continue to fly my Red Sox flag, and add my Cowboys flag.

I re-read this, and the decision was easy. To storage went my Red Sox flag, and I kept the Rangers flag flying high and mighty. I also had the opportunity to meet Chuck Greenberg at an event hosted by Jamey Newberg, and he posed with my girls.

Chuck -- wow -- what a cool guy. We continually call him the hero, who saved Rangers baseball, but fans know he's not the only one. Mr. Ryan, thank you, too.

We are preparing to enjoy the A.L.C.S. against that hated Yankees. And, how much s-w-e-e-t-e-r [sic] can it be: WE HAVE HOME FIELD ADVANTAGE!

For baseball lovers, these Rangers are a phenomenal story. How can you not love it.

And, to the only faithful Rangers fan in El Paso, this is for you, brother.

My Brother, Tom Hicks, and Jamey Newberg

I keep saying baseball is the official sport of the Najera Compound in Arlington, though it can be said it doesn't seem that way.

The tradition started started because of this man, but in my life the admiration for the beauty of the game took many years to bloom.

This year, at the beginning of Spring Training, I hung my Red Sox flag on the pole at the front of our house, as usual. It's a beginning. Spring is in the air, and you can almost hear the bats, smell the hot dogs, taste the cold beer.

Something is different at the pole area, though. Next to the Red Sox flag flies a Texas Rangers flag. I live less than five miles from the Texas Rangers ballpark, and could probably be a season ticket holder, if I really wanted.

I declare myself to be a Red Sox fan first and foremost, but I have become a certified Texas Rangers fan, too. Can that be possible? Sure, given what's been happening in Arlington of late.

First, ownership of the Texas Rangers took a turn for the worst. Tom Hicks, the man who also owns the Dallas Stars and half of the Liverpool FC, took the Rangers here. English futbol is no laughing matter. They are serious about their team. Hicks, like he seemingly has done with the Texas Rangers, loaded the Liverpool club with debt, and it now faces challenges it never did before a "Yank" owned the team.

So, in keeping with my disdain for overly greedy corporate overlords, I have been reading and reading about this bankruptcy -- by Tom Hicks -- to force a sale and walk, not only unscathed with the financial mess he created for his sports clubs, but also with a reported $80-$90 million. How do you like that for financial maneuvering?

The more I have read about the Hicks mess, the more I want to support the Texas Rangers in hopes that day soon ownership is transferred to the Greenberg-Ryan group.

There's also this fantastic online reporting venue, The Newberg Report, which is usually in my Blackberry before I hit the bathroom early in the morning. Jamey Newberg, an attorney by trade, writes and reports about our Texas Rangers brilliantly. Not only is the news the quickest through his site, but his writing style is fantastic. I met Mr. Newberg at a book signing last December, as he compiles his "best of" into book for sale after every season. Any serious Texas Rangers fan needs to be subscribed to The Newberg Report, for sure.

Last and not least, there is my brother. I took him to his first Rangers game shortly after I moved to Arlington from the homeland in 1992. In fact, we got to see Fernando Valenzuela, when he came to the old Arlington park with the Baltimore Orioles. That was his and my first encounter with professional baseball and secured his loyalty to the other Texas Team in the American League.

Short of switching gears to World Cup action, I have really enjoyed watching the Rangers live and on TV.

And, I really, really, really hope the team is taken from the greedy hands of Hicks.

Moms -- A Pretty Powerful Force

Mom's are usually not associated with the word force, necessarily. When you think of mom's you think of love, tenderness, safety -- words more in tune with what is a very special relationship as a human being.

However...

Today, the word I thought about was power and force. Why? Let me tell you a little story...

So, I awoke early and headed to the office.

Yes, I work on days like Mother's Day and Christmas.

I stopped at the local grocery store to buy the paper, and that's when I had this thought.

Parked a few spaces from me, was a vintage Chevy Caprice. It was a poster car for what we want to refer as, "gangster car or cholo car" -- you get the idea. It was resting on hydraulics and mounted on superior, expensive wheels. The paint job screamed in metallic blue, and I could almost hear the base blaring, where it not empty of a driver. Limo grade tinting on the windows, and lots of chrome everywhere.

No stereotyping here...wow.

I ogled at the car for a minute, 'cause whatever it may inspire in people, it really is a remarkable makeover for a car that's not worth its weight in scrap metal otherwise. To invest thousands of dollars on a vehicle always amazes me, but alas.

So, I made my mental impressions and started for the front door of the store. In perfect unison, here comes a kid (I can say that now at my age), carrying a beautiful arrangement of white roses, complete with balloons and other items.

The kid was inked, but wearing his "Sunday's best". He was well groomed and showed no sign of anything other giddy anticipation of delivering happiness to his momma. I followed his path (visually) to the Caprice. He fired it up (optimal engine timing, by the way) and, yes, the base started to blare. He spent quite some time making sure the roses would not tip and the balloon would not pop. Then, he was off.

I walked in the store thinking of those two words -- power and force. For the sake of this story, let's assume said kid is up to no good, most of the time. One would be tempted to assume he's ready to attack on a moment's call, or maybe his business ventures are more on the dark side than not. We could assume the worse, or maybe he just likes low riders.

Whatever we judge him to be, on this morning, this kid was groomed, dressed well and ready to offer his momma the best of him, I'm sure. It wasn't 8 a.m. -- yet --, an hour foreign to kids his age, after a Saturday night. But, within minutes his momma would receive love in several forms from her son.

I felt ashamed, for one. I didn't prepare myself for my momma as well as he did. But, I had just called my momma minutes before this story, and woke her up. Wished her a happy Mother's Day for sure.

Momma's have this effect on their sons. The fiercest of men will be tamed by their mothers. I cant' recall in my lifetime any man who did not honor his mother, his lifestyle -- however dark or bright -- notwithstanding.

It was a good way to start Mother's Day. I am married to a wonderful momma. I have my momma, a sister-momma, a momma-in-law, several grandmoms, a sister-in-law momma and for those who know me personally, most of the women in my life are mommas.


Bravo, to this kid who took care of business today.

Happy Mother's Day, mums.