Thomas Porky McDonald
Ostensibly the story of a boy and his father, this look back at the late 1960's, through the decade
of the 1970's, recalls a time when a sense of loyalty reigned, certainly in the world of the two
main characters. Where the Angels Bow to the Grass, A Boy's Memoir, told through the eyes and
the heart of a man who was indeed a boy at the time, gives the reader some genuine insight into
what shaped the later writings of Thomas Porky McDonald. The importance of the game of
baseball in the lives of McDonald and his father, Bill "The Chief" McDonald, is constantly
present, as is the deep and enduring connection that they share to this day.
They called Bill McDonald "The Chief" because he had been most clearly defined as a respected
Chief Petty Officer during a thirty year career – twenty active, ten reserves – in the United States
Navy. Where the Angels Bow to the Grass tells of the many joys he shared with his youngest
child and only son, Thomas Porky McDonald. That boy, who would become a poet and writer,
paints a loving portrait of life with his father, from the earliest moments of sharing ballgames
together, through "The Chief's" final, unsettling days. Chick full of heartfelt and thought
provoking anecdotes, this book more than explains "The Chief" as the main catalyst for
McDonald's three volume "Irishman's Tribute" series, as well as most of his baseball related
poetry. McDonald also credits his mother, Marie and his older sisters, Patti, Ruthie and Nancy,
for allowing him, as a young boy, to have such a special relationship with his father, without ever
begrudging him or seeming envious or jealous. But it is fundamentally their story, that of the
father and the son, which is told here in a most unique way, with representative poems about their
time dressing up the chapters along the way.
Though there have been other stories of fathers and sons, with and without a baseball connection,
Where the Angles Bow to the Grass, A Boy's Memoir, is one that tries to honestly tell how a boy's
ultimate bond with his father can grow, and become even stronger and more spiritual as the years
go by. When all is said and done, it is strikingly apparent that the game of baseball helped both
Bill "The Chief" and Thomas Porky clearly define what the game of life is really all about.
Thomas Porky McDonald is a poet and writer who often uses baseball and the ballpark venue as a
backdrop for his otherwise diverse scrawlings. He has previously published a pair of so-called
"Irishman's Tributes" which pay homage to heroes of the past. An Irishman's Tribute to the
Negro Leagues and Over the Shoulder and Plant on One: An Irishman's Tribute to Willie Mays
each contain short stories and factual material, as well as a small dose of McDonald's trademark
baseball poetry. A third volume, Hit Sign, Win Suit: An Irishman's Tribute to Ebbets Field, will
soon be released, thus rounding out a unique three book homage to the National Pastime. Born
and still living in Astoria, Queens, McDonald has also published a book of short stories, Paradise
Oval and the first of four poetry collections, Ground Pork: Poems 1989-1994. He plans on
releasing the other three volumes of this set, which span the 1990's and into the 21st Century, in
the very near future. Downtown Revival: Poems 1994-1997, Closer to Rona: Poems 1997-1999
and Still Chuckin'' Poems 1999-2002, will take the reader from the poet's Astoria roots of the late
1960's, straight on into the new Millennium.
Top of the 1st
Mays and Koufax
The year was 1965. I knew as much about, and cared as much about politics as I do today. That is, little and not at all. Now it’s a matter of choice; then it was a matter of uncalculated ignorance, and a willful effort by my father to introduce me to something more joyous and yes, fundamentally more important. You see, I was four years old that February, and two months later (or thereabouts) I was consciously linked to the one thing that would remain constant for the rest of my life: baseball.
Some people question how much one can actually retain from such a formative age as four years old. Well, I can’t speak for anyone else, and I’m not a psychiatrist or psychologist or in whichever of these gray-area professions that might assume to dissect this topic with any tangible accuracy. But I certainly remember one time in and around this age when I accidentally hit my mother in the face while sitting in her lap. I’m certain this happened before I was five, because from the time I went to school in September of 1966 (kindergarten), I don’t believe I sat on her lap anymore. In any case, that moment, and the sight of my mother crying due to something I did has always haunted me, and may well be why I never got into fights, and never saw a point to raising a hand to another human being. So that event, ingrained from an extremely early age, had a definite effect. I like to think that I didn’t make my mother cry again (in pain or disappointment) for more than two decades, until a few adulthood indiscretions unquestionably hurt her. For that I will always be sorry and ashamed, yet that earliest memory of actually striking her in the face, while playing or not, remains one of the most chilling of my life.
On the flip side of this isolated and disturbing moment was the bond that took wing, on a conscious level, with my father. In 1965, right in the midst of a most turbulent decade, all I knew was baseball. There may have been a President recently shot, and a number of other keynote speakers of the day (Malcolm X, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Robert Kennedy) may have an assassin’s bullet in their near future, but I was too young to care or understand about such worldly things. I could grasp baseball, however, and I would be guided by as worldly a guy as I would ever know.
