Lost in her suffering in a town of despair,
Linda knows not how to release herself from here.
She gazes out at the big bright moon,
Knowing full well what it will bring soon.
THE DEAD GAME
Month: April 2020
TIME TICKS AWAY
Time is ticking away.
I fear I cannot stay.
Goodbyes must be fast,
And soon in the past.
My train waits on the track.
I don’t have time to pack.
So sad to leave today,
But what is there to say?
Goodbye, my dear for now
As I take my last bow.
THE NIGHTS COME ALIVE
Soulonfire
LIPSMACKIN’ GOOD
Waiting for the night to fall.
You’ll be mine once and for all.
THE DEAD GAME
SILENCE REIGNS SUPREME
Silence reigns supreme.
The sun hides its face.
Palm trees shake their leaves.
Winds quicken their pace.
The hotel’s deserted.
Flapping sounds fill the air.
Dark shadows join the fray
beneath his icy stare.
THE DEAD GAME
http://amzn.to/1lKvMrP
http://bit.ly/1lFdqNj
UNMASKED
I know he is here.
I hide from his face.
He’s coming for me.
Clouds quicken the pace.
His descent inspires awe and fear.
He’ll sweep into town like a dove.
His ire can move mountains.
For me, he moves the sky above.
PREY FOR THE DEAD
Welcome to Day 2 of the “EMPTY SEATS” Blog Tour! @EmptySeatsNovel @4WillsPub #RRBC #Baseball
GIVEAWAYS: During this tour, the author is giving away (1) $10 Amazon Gift Card, (2) $5 Amazon Gift Cards, (2) e-book copies of EMPTY SEATS & (1) copy of the author’s acclaimed “SINGING ALONG WITH THE RADIO” CD which features many prominent folk music singers (a $15 value)! For your chance to win, all you have to do is leave a comment below as well as leaving a comment on the author’s 4WillsPub tour page. GOOD LUCK!
Day Two (Empty Seats)
In 1965, I wanted to become a sportswriter. In those days, however, opportunities for women in that arena were almost non-existent. I was determined, even though my own mother told me I might as well be aiming to become the first female president or even the first female Pope.
My friends and I went to many games at Fenway Park that summer. Sometimes, when my friends weren’t available to go with me, I’d go by myself. The Red Sox’s own broadcaster at the time, Curt Gowdy, showed me how to keep score “the way we do in the booth” one day, when he was walking through the stands.
I always kept copious notes and used the “Gowdy method” to score every game. I wrote letters to the editor of The Boston Globe and Record American, as well as my hometown newspaper, The Quincy Patriot-Ledger. My goal was to one day have a by-line on the sports pages of The Patriot-Ledger. It was, after all, the newspaper whose sports pages I read every day.
In 1965, I even had the opportunity to watch the legendary Satchel Paige warm up in the bullpen at Fenway Park. He’d been brought there by Charlie Finley, the owner of the then-Kansas City Athletics (now the Oakland Athletics) as a publicity stunt. Satch was probably in his sixties; no one really knew how old he was. I saw him throwing, easy and slow, and walked up to the chain link fence that separated the people in the bleachers from the pitchers in the Athletics bullpen.
Since there were very few people at that game, the security guard didn’t bother me. Usually, they’ll tell you to get back to your seat and stop bothering them.
“Mr. Paige?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am.” (I was 15 years old and not used to being called “ma’am.”)
“Do you mind if I watch you for a while.”
“No, ma’am, that would be fine.”
I stood and watch him for about 20 minutes. He never got into that game, but he did pitch to a couple of batters the next day and even struck out Carl Yazstremzki, who would one day become a member of the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown—as did Satch himself.
My scorecard from that game is one of the few that I never completed; it stands blank after the sixth inning, which is when I began watching him warm up. I still have it, in a place of honor—the antique hutch my grandmother left me, where I keep my baseball memorabilia.
Sportswriter—Yes or No?
After a game between the then-California Angels and the Red Sox, I was walking over the bridge that spanned the Mass Pike and led to the train station at Kenmore Square. I recognized one of the players from the California Angels, Rick Reichardt. I introduced myself, and we talked about the game as he made his way to the Kenmore Hotel, where opposing teams always stayed. I casually mentioned to him that I was beginning to look at colleges with the aim of pursuing a career in sports writing.
He stopped walking.
“You seem like such a nice girl,” he said, “but I want to give you a sense of reality about professional sports. The guys don’t want women in the locker room or the clubhouse. They don’t want to answer questions from women, either. It’s just the truth.”
He must have seen the look on my face, because he tried to soften his statement. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up too high,” he said. “If you decide to go forward with this, you’ll have to develop a much thicker skin.”
I thanked him for his advice, as he went one way toward his hotel and I descended the steps toward the train station. During the long train-and-bus rides home, I thought about what he’d said, then did what we did back then: I wrote him a letter, again expressing my appreciation for his thoughtfulness. He sent me a note back, saying that he hoped he wasn’t too blunt, but he wanted me to know the truth.
The 1960s brought turbulent times, with the Vietnam War and Civil Rights, and I became involved in both of those intense social movements. I never did pursue sports writing, even though my passion for sports remains to this day.
I went on to a nearly 40-year career in public relations/marketing/media relations, with a couple of side trips in general radio broadcasting. I retired from my last job in that field in 2014, when I worked for New York State’s Office of Medicaid Inspector General.
Fifty-two years after the encounter with Rick Reichardt, I decided to act on my desire to write about sports by writing a novel about minor-league baseball. The result is Empty Seats, which focuses on the career paths and expectations of three very different young men as they seek that golden ring of baseball—making it into Major League Baseball, “The Show,” the big time.
As for Mr. Reichardt—I tracked him down on Facebook to let him know that his lengthy association with baseball didn’t only have an impact on young men, it also had great influence on a young woman who’s now in her eighth decade of life, who never forgot a chance encounter on the bridge that still goes over the Mass Pike near Fenway Park.
He seemed pleased. Every now and then, he sends me a picture on FB, such as one where he was in Little League and another of him and his family at a Major League Baseball game. I’m glad we’re friends now.
Book Blurb
What Little Leaguer doesn’t dream of walking from the dugout onto a Major League baseball field, facing his long-time idol and striking his out? Empty Seats follows three different minor-league baseball pitchers as they follow their dreams to climb the ladder from minor- to major-league ball, while facing challenges along the way—not always on the baseball diamond. This coming-of-age novel takes on success and failure in unexpected ways. One reviewer calls this book “a tragic version of ‘The Sandlot.’”
(Winner of the 2019 New Apple Award and 2019 Independent Publishing Award)
Author Bio
Following a successful 40-year career in public relations/marketing/media relations, Wanda Adams Fischer parlayed her love for baseball into her first novel, Empty Seats. She began writing poetry and short stories when she was in the second grade in her hometown of Weymouth, Massachusetts and has continued to write for more than six decades. In addition to her “day” job, she has been a folk music DJ on public radio for more than 40 years, including more than 37 at WAMC-FM, the Albany, New York-based National Public Radio affiliate. In 2019, Folk Alliance International inducted her into their Folk D-J Hall of Fame. A singer/songwriter in her own right, she’s produced one CD, “Singing Along with the Radio.” She’s also a competitive tennis player and has captained several United States Tennis Association senior teams that have secured berths at sectional and national events. She earned a bachelor’s degree in English from Northeastern University in Boston. She lives in Schenectady, NY, with her husband of 47 years, Bill, a retired family physician, whom she met at a coffeehouse in Boston in 1966; they have two grown children and six grandchildren.
Social Media Links
@emptyseatsnovel
https://www.facebook.com/EmptySeatsNovel/
Amazon and Other Purchase Links
Book: http://amzn.to/2KzWPQf
Audio book: http://bit.ly/2TKo3UC
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/empty-seats-wanda-adams-fischer/1127282887?ean=9780999504901
http://wandafischer.com/buy-my-book/
In 1965, I wanted to become a sportswriter. In those days, however, opportunities for women in that arena were almost non-existent. I was determined, even though my own mother told me I might as well be aiming to become the first female president or even the first female Pope.
My friends and I went to many games at Fenway Park that summer. Sometimes, when my friends weren’t available to go with me, I’d go by myself. The Red Sox’s own broadcaster at the time, Curt Gowdy, showed me how to keep score “the way we do in the booth” one day, when he was walking through the stands.
I always kept copious notes and used the “Gowdy method” to score every game. I wrote letters to the editor of The Boston Globe and Record American, as well as my hometown newspaper, The Quincy Patriot-Ledger. My goal was to one day have a by-line on the sports pages of The Patriot-Ledger. It was, after all, the newspaper whose sports pages I read every day.
In 1965, I even had the opportunity to watch the legendary Satchel Paige warm up in the bullpen at Fenway Park. He’d been brought there by Charlie Finley, the owner of the then-Kansas City Athletics (now the Oakland Athletics) as a publicity stunt. Satch was probably in his sixties; no one really knew how old he was. I saw him throwing, easy and slow, and walked up to the chain link fence that separated the people in the bleachers from the pitchers in the Athletics bullpen.
Since there were very few people at that game, the security guard didn’t bother me. Usually, they’ll tell you to get back to your seat and stop bothering them.
“Mr. Paige?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am.” (I was 15 years old and not used to being called “ma’am.”)
“Do you mind if I watch you for a while.”
“No, ma’am, that would be fine.”
I stood and watch him for about 20 minutes. He never got into that game, but he did pitch to a couple of batters the next day and even struck out Carl Yazstremzki, who would one day become a member of the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown—as did Satch himself.
My scorecard from that game is one of the few that I never completed; it stands blank after the sixth inning, which is when I began watching him warm up. I still have it, in a place of honor—the antique hutch my grandmother left me, where I keep my baseball memorabilia.
Sportswriter—Yes or No?
After a game between the then-California Angels and the Red Sox, I was walking over the bridge that spanned the Mass Pike and led to the train station at Kenmore Square. I recognized one of the players from the California Angels, Rick Reichardt. I introduced myself, and we talked about the game as he made his way to the Kenmore Hotel, where opposing teams always stayed. I casually mentioned to him that I was beginning to look at colleges with the aim of pursuing a career in sports writing.
He stopped walking.
“You seem like such a nice girl,” he said, “but I want to give you a sense of reality about professional sports. The guys don’t want women in the locker room or the clubhouse. They don’t want to answer questions from women, either. It’s just the truth.”
He must have seen the look on my face, because he tried to soften his statement. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up too high,” he said. “If you decide to go forward with this, you’ll have to develop a much thicker skin.”
I thanked him for his advice, as he went one way toward his hotel and I descended the steps toward the train station. During the long train-and-bus rides home, I thought about what he’d said, then did what we did back then: I wrote him a letter, again expressing my appreciation for his thoughtfulness. He sent me a note back, saying that he hoped he wasn’t too blunt, but he wanted me to know the truth.
The 1960s brought turbulent times, with the Vietnam War and Civil Rights, and I became involved in both of those intense social movements. I never did pursue sports writing, even though my passion for sports remains to this day.
I went on to a nearly 40-year career in public relations/marketing/media relations, with a couple of side trips in general radio broadcasting. I retired from my last job in that field in 2014, when I worked for New York State’s Office of Medicaid Inspector General.
Fifty-two years after the encounter with Rick Reichardt, I decided to act on my desire to write about sports by writing a novel about minor-league baseball. The result is Empty Seats, which focuses on the career paths and expectations of three very different young men as they seek that golden ring of baseball—making it into Major League Baseball, “The Show,” the big time.
As for Mr. Reichardt—I tracked him down on Facebook to let him know that his lengthy association with baseball didn’t only have an impact on young men, it also had great influence on a young woman who’s now in her eighth decade of life, who never forgot a chance encounter on the bridge that still goes over the Mass Pike near Fenway Park.
He seemed pleased. Every now and then, he sends me a picture on FB, such as one where he was in Little League and another of him and his family at a Major League Baseball game. I’m glad we’re friends now.
Book Blurb
What Little Leaguer doesn’t dream of walking from the dugout onto a Major League baseball field, facing his long-time idol and striking his out? Empty Seats follows three different minor-league baseball pitchers as they follow their dreams to climb the ladder from minor- to major-league ball, while facing challenges along the way—not always on the baseball diamond. This coming-of-age novel takes on success and failure in unexpected ways. One reviewer calls this book “a tragic version of ‘The Sandlot.’”
(Winner of the 2019 New Apple Award and 2019 Independent Publishing Award)
Author Bio
Following a successful 40-year career in public relations/marketing/media relations, Wanda Adams Fischer parlayed her love for baseball into her first novel, Empty Seats. She began writing poetry and short stories when she was in the second grade in her hometown of Weymouth, Massachusetts and has continued to write for more than six decades. In addition to her “day” job, she has been a folk music DJ on public radio for more than 40 years, including more than 37 at WAMC-FM, the Albany, New York-based National Public Radio affiliate. In 2019, Folk Alliance International inducted her into their Folk D-J Hall of Fame. A singer/songwriter in her own right, she’s produced one CD, “Singing Along with the Radio.” She’s also a competitive tennis player and has captained several United States Tennis Association senior teams that have secured berths at sectional and national events. She earned a bachelor’s degree in English from Northeastern University in Boston. She lives in Schenectady, NY, with her husband of 47 years, Bill, a retired family physician, whom she met at a coffeehouse in Boston in 1966; they have two grown children and six grandchildren.
Social Media Links
@emptyseatsnovel
https://www.facebook.com/EmptySeatsNovel/
Amazon and Other Purchase Links
Book: http://amzn.to/2KzWPQf
Audio book: http://bit.ly/2TKo3UC
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/empty-seats-wanda-adams-fischer/1127282887?ean=9780999504901
http://wandafischer.com/buy-my-book/
Thank you for supporting this author and her tour. To follow along with the rest of the tour, please drop in on the author’s 4WillsPub tour page.
If you’d like to schedule your own 4WillsPub blog tour to promote your book(s), you may do so by clicking HERE.
DARK BLUE SEA
I come from the deep sea.
I come only for thee.
There is nowhere I’d rather be
but with you by the dark blue sea.
THE DEAD GAME SERIES
Hell hath no fury like a vampire’s wrath.
They plow down whoever is in their path.
We must kill the creatures of hell,
Then we’ll have a story to tell
Of how we survived an apocalypse.
A sad but true story from our own lips.
THE DEAD GAME SERIES
I’LL READ YOU A STORY
I’ll read you a story.
It might be too gory
For you to understand,
But I’ll give you a hand.
A blight falls on a town
that will cause you to frown.
Residents disappear.
I want to make this clear.
This isn’t a regular place.
Do not give me that morbid face.
A place of evil creatures
with dark and creepy features.
Dark shadows walk the night,
Giving tourists a fright.
Florida is a scary place.
I will quicken the poem’s pace.
No reason to fear.
The end is near.
THE DEAD GAME
THE BOOK
Please take a closer look.
Something’s wrong with this book.
The words have come alive,
Breaking free to survive.
They are bursting forth with pride.
Smoke is pouring forth from inside.
Words need to be loved and shared
And not forced alone and scared.
Let the stories escape and play.
They will serve to brighten your day.
SUSANNE LEIST 