"Good morning Robert. At last spring has arrived with a flourish of colour and freshness after a long, wet, Wagga Wagga winter. This e-mail is being sent from home instead of my office as I have finally retired. Yes, I know it's about time you say! This mornings news has the European economy improving, at least the northern part, and China too. Our All Ord's is nearing 5,200 - a five year high - and there is a lot more green than red on my watch list. Our Reserve bank meets today but the expectation is that our benchmark rate will  stay at 2.50% especially given we go to the polls on Saturday to rid ourselves of Kevin Rudd. With a new government and renewed consumer confidence it is hoped, especially from a retiree's perspective, that further rate cuts will not be necessary. I see that my beloved METS failed to sweep the Nat's as they struggle to finish the year on a positive note. Let me know what you think about your mate's decision to 'flick the ball' to congress re Syria? I had better go. I think Hezz has jobs lined up for me. Retirement! Yea! Give my love to Rita and Bobby." 

Sadly, I know I will not get a response from my mate. But if I did, it would have been prompt, insightful, warm and witty. Since our return to Oz in 1986, Bob was the 'penfriend' I never had as a youngster. I greatly miss this contact.

In some ways, Bob was the 'big' brother I never had. I 'looked up' to him; enjoyed his missives; his trips to Oz; his interaction with my adult children and my grandchildren; his beautiful reflection of my only son, Peter; his pronunciation of 'gidday mate'; his dismissal of a handshake for a bear hug; sharing a cold beer whether it be a VB or a Bud; his choice of Italian restaurants; his Spanish; and his overwhelming generosity. I admit to not enjoying (the next morning) our sharing of a bottle of JD and a cigar.

Bob you are and will remain a good mate.
 

For those of you who only knew Bob as an adult you would easily recognize him as a youth.   Bob was a happy and confident boy, and if he wasn’t outright leading an activity, he was always involved in the leadership.  Summertime was the best.  I remember endless games of punchball, stickball, stoopball, skelzies, “Johnny on the pony”, ringolevio, and kick the can.  Bob always made sure I was included.  Of course, the touch football games in City Park were classic, as were the two full tackle football games he set up between the boys from St. James and St. Augustine in Memorial Park.  Most of us only had helmets and the hits were brutal, but so much fun.

I distinctly remember the happiness of being rewarded by Bob with an ice-cold Hires root beer after helping him with his extensive paper route one hot summer afternoon, and the excitement as he introduced me to his hideout in a subway tunnel which we accessed by scaling the granite abutment of the Manhattan Bridge on the corner of Sand and Jay streets and squeezing through some pulled back fencing under the walkway.  Bob was adventurous and courageous.  He was everything you wanted in a big brother

With the image of his smirk accompanied by a laugh frozen in my memory, it’s hard to imagine that this same person could be so intimidating to me as a child.  “Mr. Wittich” was that big scary guy… you know that one adult you remember as a kid that for some reason instilled you with a certain fear.  But I’ll never forget the time when the big scary guy delivered one of the all-time classic lines to end the Little League baseball game for the ages.

            With seven different pitchers, a marathon of walks, and darkness threatening to end a game that lasted so long nobody knew which team was winning; Geoff Berman threw the infamous pitch that would turn a semi-comatose crowd into frenzy.  In an instant, umpire Bob Wittich was given the not so good fortune of being at the center of the biggest controversy in the history of the Larchmont Little League.  Long story short, the pitch bounced before it reached home plate and the batter somehow managed to make contact and get a hit, seemingly defying the laws of physics.  Nobody had ever seen this before… a pitch being hit on a bounce.  Is it live? Should the kid run to first base? Is it a do over?  Faster than you can grab your cell phone, the familiar roar when someone gets a hit was heard throughout and what ensued was a 10-minute display of everything that is wrong with youth sports… parents on the field screaming at each other, fingers pointing. There was yelling, shouting, flailing arms, altercation, and total pandemonium… all while innocent nine-years-olds stood dumfounded.  Soon order was restored and the game ended prematurely on account of general ridiculousness. 

            During the proverbial insincere hand shake, the once silent Little Leaguers began to argue with one another while exhausted emotionless parents methodically began packing up for the night.  “No, we won,” said one child. “No we did, it was 8 to 7,” said another.  “No it was 7 to 6, we won,” added a third child.  As the volume of voices escalated with more kids from each team joining the debate, a new altercation began to emerge.  It was then that a stern, commanding, loud voice came over the Little Leaguers from the big scary Mr. Wittich that silenced all.  “Hey stop that right now… you guys are old enough to know not to act like your parents!”  A line that cut the tension completely and belongs in the Henny Youngman Hall of Fame. I can still hear the laughs from all the adults in the background.  Mr. Wittich, your sense of humor will be missed! 

--Andrew Hirschhorn