I recently received the sad news that an old friend of
mine’s father was gone. “I wanted to let you know that Jumpin’ Joe Mason passed
away on Saturday night,” said the text message from his oldest son, Mark. “He
had a heart attack last week and fought a good fight.” And with that, my mind
spun into a myriad of memories from when we were kids. I had not seen Joe Mason
in over thirty years, but I would be remiss if I said that I did not think of
him often. In a kind of lifelong déjà vu, I am constantly driving by tucked
away baseball fields on the South Shore that I only recognize because Mr. Mason
had driven us to a game there at one point, fields in places that I would have
trouble finding today even with the assistance of GPS. Joe Mason was one of
those people that you assume will always quietly be there, but as we seem to be
repeatedly reminded in life, no one can be there forever.
Joe Mason drove a faded mid-1970s four-door Torino with
black leather seats that was equipped with an AM radio only, perfect for
listening to sports exclusively – just the way he liked it. Although he worked
nights at the Patriot Ledger in the printing department, he could just as
easily have passed for an Oscar Madison-like sports writer. Of significant
mention, if you were attending a Red Sox game with Mr. Mason, you would
invariably be watching him carefully keeping score in his program for all nine
innings.
Mr. Mason’s finished basement had what I still think of as
the original New England Sports Museum – pictures of Boston sports figures from
every team as well as early wrestling heroes like Bruno Sammartino adorning the
walls surrounding a pool table. If you were shooting pool there, in fact, you
had to be careful not to have the back of your pool cue ram into a framed
photograph of Steve Grogan or Jo Jo White. In the three decades that have
passed since I left the town of East Bridgewater, I have miraculously managed
to keep an early photograph of Carl Yastrzemski from that room in its original
frame after the Mason’s basement was transformed into a family den.
Joe Mason was an old-school, dedicated dad who knew exactly
where the line was between experiential growth and parental intervention. Never
confrontational in any way, Mr. Mason was always there, always supportive, and
always quietly watching over us. In what became a familiar pattern, Mr. Mason
would offer to alleviate our boredom by suggesting he drive us over to Bundy’s in West Bridgewater, to which
Mark would always have to predictably reply saying, “It’s called Buncey’s, Dad,”
- both of us knowing full well that he had made the suggestion only so he could
bungle the name of the place to make us laugh. While Mark and I once sat
horrified trying to get through a viewing of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Mr.
Mason joined us, picking a particularly tense moment to give us pointers as to
why it is always a bad idea to run while carrying a chain saw.
The wake was a reunion of sorts. The ability to rekindle relationships with
Mark’s mother, Gerry, and his little brother Jamie (who is no longer so little),
along with heavy questioning about a framed synopsis of Mark’s early little
league career that his dad put together at the Patriot Ledger long ago that
proudly stood by the funeral home entrance posting stats that were more
reminiscent of a young Babe Ruth than the Mark Mason that we all remembered at
the age of eleven.
In a well-spoken eulogy at the funeral service the next
morning, Mark described his dad as being fair, carefully making sure that both
of his sons, despite their different interests and talents, were always treated
equally as both children and adults.
Joe Mason was buried with military honors, fitting for a man
who demonstratively taught us through blue-collar example, a man who exhibited
strong, quiet, mid-western values and never promoted himself in any way. On the
other side of the casket draped with the American flag, Mark Mason and Cary
Whitmore stood on opposite sides of Gerry Mason, clearly in position to make
sure that she was supported both physically and emotionally. During the entire
service, Mark’s hand never left his mother’s shoulder.
Following Joe Mason’s funeral, there was a customary
gathering at Mark Mason’s home in East Bridgewater. As we walked slowly onto
the back deck attempting to emotionally digest the events of the past week as the
sun began to peer out from the clouds beginning what would turn out to be a
spectacular day, Mark and I leaned over the railing and, without skipping a
beat, began planning the potential dimensions of a wiffle-ball field down in
the back yard below. It’s good to know
that some things never change between old friends no matter how old they get. And
on this day, it was the conversation that I think Joe Mason would have been
most happy to hear.
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